Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,54
or patience for this,” Edward snarled, turning on his commander. “Our battering ram should have breached the gates by now—like it did last time—why hasn’t it?”
“They’ve reinforced the gates somehow,” Hugh admitted. “The steep approach makes it impossible to raise siege towers … and so far, they’ve repelled all our ladders. Their archers have taken every one down.”
“Then put up more,” Edward bit the words out. He was trying hard to keep a leash on the fury that roared in his veins. He’d always been cursed with a terrible temper, one that had gotten him into trouble in the past. As such, he preferred to let intellect rule him.
However, after five days of laying siege to Dunnottar, he’d had enough.
They’d torn chunks off the castle’s massive curtain walls and blackened its towers with fire, yet the heavy gates remained intact.
Impatience seethed within Edward, and he started to pace before the entrance to his tent. Age hadn’t granted him forbearance it seemed—if anything, his advancing years made him even more restless. His chainmail clinked, his longsword’s scabbard banging against his thigh with every stride. He longed to draw the blade and sink it into Wallace’s neck. The outlaw had evaded him for too long, had whipped the Scots up into a patriotic frenzy.
He had to be dealt with.
Dusk was settling around them, painting the sky with ribbons of purple and gold. It was a warm evening, following a hot day. The air reeked of smoke and death. He’d seen a number of men fall on the walls, and one or two topple off it. But Dunnottar still wasn’t his.
“This is taking too long,” he snarled. “Stirling can’t remain with just a garrison to defend it … I need to get back there.”
It was true. While his focus was on Dunnottar, Lord knew what the likes of Comyn would get up to. The baron had pledged fealty to Edward, but he didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust any of them.
Foolishly, he’d thought they’d have breached the gates of Dunnottar by now. The castle would fall eventually, but he didn’t have the patience to wait the bastards out.
He wanted William Wallace now.
“Your Highness … men approach from the north!”
The shout made Edward cease his pacing. Swiveling on his heel, he fixed Hugh De Burgh with a gimlet stare. “Scots coming to Dunnottar’s aid?”
The knight’s lantern jaw tensed. “We’ll deal with this, sire.”
Edward glared back at him, his temper still simmering. “See that you do.”
“They’re carrying a white banner, sire.” The man who’d shouted the news now elbowed his way through the crowd toward the king. “They’re here for a parley.”
Edward went still at this, his frustration momentarily forgotten as he considered what it might mean. His allies were few this far north, and his son was busy keeping hold of the south-west—he wouldn’t be riding to his aid.
“Well then,” he said, motioning for Hugh to follow him as he turned and cut north through the crowd, his long legs eating up the ground. “Let’s see what they have to say.”
A heavyset man with a bald head and a short white-blond beard came forward to talk to Edward. He led a force of around one hundred men. Many of them, including their leader, wore sashes of bright green and blue.
The plaids of the clans of Scotland were many, and Edward only knew the most prominent of them—these colors and the design were new to him.
Swinging down from his horse, the leader swaggered toward Edward, chainmail jangling and leather creaking. He had a pugnacious face and bright-blue eyes that gleamed as they met Edward’s gaze.
Edward watched the man approach, impressed by his arrogance. Even surrounded by his warriors, the Scot was greatly outnumbered. But either the fact had escaped him, or he didn’t seem to care.
“Edward of England, I take it?” the man greeted him in French.
Edward inclined his head. He stood before this Scot in a glittering hauberk, wearing a blood-red surcoat, and with a crown atop his coifed head. He was hardly a squire and wasn’t about to dignify this cur with an answer.
“And you are?” he asked after a pause.
The Scot grinned. “Shaw Irvine, clan-chief and laird of Drum Castle … at your service.”
“My service?” The Irvines were a neighboring clan, Edward knew that much. “You aren’t here to aid your neighbors?”
Shaw Irvine’s grin slipped, his gaze narrowing. “The De Keiths are no friends of mine,” he replied. “Long have I waited for a chance to strike them where it hurts.”