Page 31 of The Falcon Laird
In the cold,windy hour before dawn, Gavin climbed the stone steps that led to the parapet. Standing on the wall walk in the faint gray light, he surveyed the ruin of Kilglassie. While the others still slept inside the broken shelter of the largest tower, he woke restless and had gone outside. Now, standing high above the courtyard looking out across the devastation, he felt overwhelming frustration.
Earlier, using torches made from cloth wrapped around resinous pine branches, he and John had explored the castle. The original structure had been impressive, but fire had gutted three of the four round towers and the gatehouse, rendering them roofless with wide cracks in the stone walls. The courtyard was filled with haphazard piles of charred rubble, the remains of outbuildings that had clustered against the curtain wall. Everywhere the walls bore the blackened stains of ferocious heat and smoke.
They had found shelter and stable space on the ground floor of the tower that had sustained the least damage. Its main entrance was on the second level, but the wooden floors and ceilings had collapsed. One narrow entrance seemed accessible to a storage area tucked beneath the tower.
Kicking at a broken stone, Gavin watched it skitter over the edge of the parapet to land in the bailey below. He leaned against the crenellated wall and looked out over the loch stretching away in the distance, surrounded by high, dark forested hills, the whole blanketed in a chilly mist.
The castle sat on a massive promontory that thrust up from the loch supporting curtain wall. One corner tower perched on a dizzying drop near flush with the rock base. A deep ditch surrounded the castle on three sides, its back to the loch, its gatehouse facing thick forest.
Water, rock, and forest had protected Kilglassie for centuries. The castle had been a formidable place once, Gavin thought, resistant to almost any invasion except fire. But now, because of that, it was a useless ruin. Gavin picked up a pebble and flung it to clatter away in the cold darkness.
Anger rolled through him to realize the extent of the betrayal the king had handed him. Had Edward known Kilglassie was a ruin? Gavin had been promised a castle and lands in return for years of service, but he was always wary of the king’s word; even a signed charter could be temporary in Edward’s eyes. He had waited years for a grant of an English castle. His French lands, acquired through his first marriage, had filled his coffers with gold, from grapes grown for wine, and from wool. He had coin enough to finance the building of any stronghold. What he had wanted was good English land where he could settle down someday, after the war, when there might be peace.
What he had now was unexpected—a Scottish wife, a ruined Scottish castle, an uncertain future. He gazed out at the loch and saw dawn lightening the sky above the black shoulders of distant mountains.
Yet there was a feeling here he had not anticipated. Though he had been here only hours, these charred walls, the loch, those craggy mountains, felt oddly like home, certainly more than his French property ever had. A deft stroke or two of Fate’s sure hand had placed him here.
And suddenly, decisively, he knew that he would stay here. He would rebuild. No one, English or Scots, would take Kilglassie from him. He had a wife and a home again, and hewould do his utmost to protect both and see that both grew stronger.
Hearing the crunch of boots on stone, he looked through the shadows to see John reaching the parapet level. Gavin nodded as his uncle joined him. “The others are asleep?” Gavin asked.
“All three snoring like bairns. I could not sleep. Then I saw you up here, watching for invaders.”
“Hah. A child could invade this place.” Gavin threw down another pebble. “Look there. The portcullis is stuck open, the gatehouse is a ruin, the drawbridge is down. Anyone could walk in here. We have no weapons. Though not a place anyone would want to take from us.”
“Nor a place to garrison an army.”
Gavin gave a hard laugh. “We few could find space here, but a garrison would crowd us.” He pushed back his hair as a breeze caught it. “Some repairs must be attempted right away. With the gate open, we are vulnerable.” He pointed toward the massive oak doors that hung loose and charred on iron hinges.
“Aye. The portcullis is jammed halfway down. That fire roared like a blacksmith’s forge in here. Inside the winch room above the entrance arch, the iron chains for the portcullis are melted to the pulleys. Melted!” John shook his silvery head in amazement. “The floor is collapsed. The whole looks like a Yule log after Twelfth Day.”
Gavin nodded. “The king must have known through his man Hastings that Kilglassie was in this condition and could not be garrisoned—or even inhabited.”
“I would wager Longshanks knew that when he gave you the place. A ruined castle in return for years o’ service. A sound betrayal, seems like.”
“And I know why. He has a long memory. Payment for my opinion at Berwick, ten years late.”
“Likely Hastings never let the king forget it, either. And now Edward expects you to clean up this mess so he can send more soldiers here.”
“He ordered me to meet Hastings to discuss provisions. We need timber and nails even more than weapons and supplies.”
“What will ye do? Stay? Or return to France?”
“Edward would have my head if I left.”
“Well, that threat has not stopped you before.” John looked around. “But this is a poor trick Edward has played. He owes you good land.”
Gavin tossed another stone into the darkness, hearing a plop into water this time. “That debt does not bother him. Edward’s blood feud with Scotland takes precedence over everything in his mind. He will say his promise to me has been kept. But these walls are still stout. Look there.” Gavin gestured. “Thick and high. Capable of withstanding a great fire and still strong.”
“Where there are strong walls and good land, a man may find what he needs.”
Gavin stared at the tower where his new wife slept. “Christian burned Kilglassie with her own hand.”
“Scots practice from generations back. Burn a stronghold so the enemy cannot take it. The Scots return, sometimes years later, and rebuild. I hear Robert Bruce is scorching good Scottish earth and Scottish walls to prevent the English from taking over. He may have ordered her to do this.”
“A woman would need a strong will to set her own home ablaze.” He remembered Christian’s face when she had seen the castle again—infinitely sad. She had loved the place well.
“Whatever a Scotsman will do, a Scotswoman may try, and match him much o’ the time.”
