Countenance of War: A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Black Douglas Trilogy Book 2) by J. R. Tomlin

Author:J. R. Tomlin [Tomlin, J. R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Albannach Publishing
Published: 2016-04-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The rain had eased to nothing more than a gray drizzle. Dark clouds hung low and thick, threatening another downpour. Mud splattered up to James's knees as his horse sloshed through the muck. A patter of raindrops on the wet ground accompanied the sucking sound of hooves pulling free of the mud. Weeks of unseasonable summer rains had made the ground treacherous, all bogs and hidden rocks. The packhorse he was leading reared on the lead and whinnied; it jerked him half out of the saddle. He wrestled his horse into a circle. The pack animal snorted as it splashed and scrambled in a hole it had stepped into beneath the water. They were lucky more hadn't done the same.

Wat, riding behind James, wiped dripping water from his cheeks. “Feels like Angus has dropped us into the sea.”

“That might be drier.” James forced a laugh.

Half a dozen of his men were strung out behind him, each leading a packhorse loaded with bags of barley. James shook his head, wondering how much of it would be ruined before they reached the village. He jumped from the saddle and led the snorting animal free. It limped, its right forefoot well off the ground. James cursed as he bent to run his hand down its leg. It would never make it to Douglas village.

The other horses were too heavily laden to take more weight. He jerked the ropes that held the sacks in place. Peat-stinking mucky water splashed to his chest when they hit. “Devil take this rain.”

He pulled his dirk from his belt. “Easy, boy.” Wat climbed from the saddle and grabbed the harness. James gripped the halter and shoved the dirk hard into the vee at the base of the throat. The beast screamed as it thrashed for a moment. Blood splashed into the mud and unfurled like smoke in the pool of rainwater. It went down. He remounted as Wat stripped the tack.

They'd only take another half hour to Douglas village, if they were lucky. He prayed to Saint Bride they didn't lose more horses and barley on the way. It was the only grain the village would see. James squinted upwards through the mist wondering when they'd see some blue instead of the murky gray that had graced them these past months. A hacking cough rattled behind him. He should have left Richert behind at the camp, but lying out wet had half his men as bad and Richert could help if any of the villagers were ill.

Smoke from the houses wrapped itself into the mist as they rode between the stone cots. Up the hill, mist twisted around the ruins of the castle. A single scrawny dog barked before it turned tail and fled. Ragged children ran from every corner of the village, splashing through puddles, muddy to the thigh, laughing and squealing with excitement. A thin-faced woman opened a door, stepped out, and waved. Two men strode in from the woods, carrying bows. Iain Smythe shouted a hallo from the open front of the smithy.

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