The Forest Laird(164)

“If he survives this war.”

I glanced at my cousin in surprise. “Of course he will survive. Edward does not make war on clerics.”

“Hmm. Edward has not made war on clerics yet. But it seems Edward is breaking new ground everywhere he goes these days, and he does not enjoy being crossed. I would not like to cross him in person. Mind you, I’m no bishop.”

As he said the words, we heard Mirren calling his name, and we turned as one to see her watching us, her body tilted to hold her son on her hip as she beckoned.

“Is she not grand, Jamie? Look at her, the stance and the pride of her. Truthfully, I have to thank God I’m no bishop … and to thank Him even more that I’m no saint. Let’s find out what she wants.”

The following day brought word of English troop movements in the fringes of the forest to the south of us, between the towns of Selkirk and Wark and Coldstream, and Will summoned his three appointed leaders to his camp to discuss what they would do to intercept and harass the Englishmen. Within days Will’s men were involved in hostilities, provoked by a seemingly unwarranted attack on a village no more than five miles from his main camp. Word of it came to us from one of the villagers, who had escaped into the woods for long enough to watch the brutality escalate to the point where women and children were being slaughtered as they tried to flee, shot down by bowmen who bet among themselves over how each running target would be hit—in the arm, leg, torso, or head. I was appalled, not so much by the attack itself as by the borderless abyss I sensed yawning ahead of all of us.

Will questioned the man closely for some time, searching for anything that might provide a reason for the attack. But once he had satisfied himself that it was brigandage and murder, pure and simple, he called in Long John and the others and sent a contingent of forty archers off towards the village with orders to bring back as many of the raiders as they could find. Two injured prisoners, both of them English, were brought back within a matter of days; their party of five men, three of whom had died rather than surrender, had been the only people found. There had to have been many more involved in the raid, but they had obviously been under orders to scatter widely after the attack.

The two prisoners had been questioned extensively before they were brought in, and so we knew who had employed them. They were truculent and they were afraid, and the booty they had been carrying when they were taken was enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were guilty.

The case against them was laid out by one of our own, Alan Crawford of Nithsdale, and the elder of the pair was identified under oath by Walter Armstrong, the survivor who had brought the tale to us. He recognized the archer as the man he had seen shoot two arrows into his cousin Willie, the village blacksmith. The two were judged by a quartet of judges and found guilty, after which the judges met together to determine their punishment. The deliberations were short and the judgment unanimous. Each man had the middle finger of his right hand severed with a single chisel blow. They retained their lives but lost their livelihood, since neither of them would ever again be able to draw a nocked arrow. Their wounds were cauterized roughly, and they were set free.

As soon as they were gone, Will called his leaders into conference again and set them to organizing patrols, morning and evening, to ensure that all traffic moving through the greenwood for a twenty-mile radius would be tracked.

Later that day, when Mirren was called away by one of the women, she left Will and me alone with the baby for a few minutes. He was eight months old by then, as burly and agile as a badger and almost impossible to restrain, even for his father. Will finally hoisted the boy high into the air, then held him out to me.

“Here, then. Away and see your holy Uncle Jamie.”

I caught the child under the arms, instantly aware as I always was nowadays of the weighty, solid, squirming bulk of him and the speed with which his hands moved to whatever he identified as worthy of examination. This time it was my nether lip, and his tiny fingers grasped it before I could avoid them. I winced in anticipation of the pain, but before he could tighten his killing grip, I was saved by the sudden swoop of one of the women who doted on the boy. She whipped him up and away from me, carrying him off towards the women’s quarters, doubtless to be fed something warm and delicious.

“I thought he was going to rip that bottom lip of yours right off,” Will said, and his grin spread wider. “I don’t know what the reason for it is, but my son seems fascinated by your mouth.”

“Aye, as I am by yours.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”