The Second Portcullis: A Medieval Tale

By K.L. Butters

Meet the author!

On August 31, 2014, K.L. Butters will be signing "The Second Portcullis: A Medieval Tale". Through its pages, charge with Sir Malcolm Drummond into mystery, murder, and medieval conflict of conscience. A fun venue just blocks from the beach, come by, meet and chat, get some freebies, and buy a great read with personalized signing! Apostrophe Bookstore, 5229 E 2nd St., Belmont Shore, CA. Please see Book Page for description or visit http://www.thesecondportcullis.com

“Except you be gifted with some divine insight I utterly lack, I shall be executed six days hence. In the days between, I am prisoner of Tanglewick and his sport. Unless your alchemist father can bring a corpse to life with greater success than he can change lead to gold... cannot be your man... Whatever you ask within my power, if it be honorable, I am for you.”

In the late summer of 1352,Sir Malcolm Drummond, knight of Scotland, stands in place of his lord against charges of murder and theft of treasure. Though innocent, to save his lord and friends, he surrenders to imprisonment, torture, and promised execution to an enemy who has long had a taste for his blood. Only one person might help — peculiar lady with arcane knowledge. The favorite of his captor, her meddling could greatly worsen the knight´s treatment. More murders follow, and Drummond must unmask treason, quell rebellion, recover treasure, and save the woman he loves. With fourteenth-century vocabulary and period details, this easy read will quicken your pulse and leave you gasping for more.

The Earl challenged in amazement and reproof, “You mean to depart without even learning the fate of your own man?”... Tanglewick ... trembled with the effort to restrain himself from violence upon his departing guest... Tanglewick growled, “Get you gone from here in all haste. Long have you over stayed your welcome. Fly, for as your man’s blood soils my hands, every drop shall I extract from your own hide if I find you on my land by nightfall!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493110506

K.L. Butters

K. L. Butters’s writing vibrates with believability from personal experience as rich and exciting as the tales told. Butters learned to spin a yarn from a grandfather who spent his life at sea and in logging camps. Strong interest in maritime and medieval history, defines the author’s eclectic studies, adventurous pursuits, skills, and life experiences that assure intimate understanding of many aspects of medieval life. K. L. enjoyed years of working with a destrier, a great horse trained to carry armoured knights for jousting and swordplay. Butters’s unique perspective gives stories of medieval life vivid realism that pulls you irresistibly into the tales.

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Copyright © 2013 by K.L. Butters.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/28/2021

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CONTENTS

Ireland: Cahir Castle

Photo Credit:

Kevin Lawver / Foter / CC BY-SA

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kplawver/4466956/

http://foter.com/photo/ireland-cahir-castle-1/

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Bodiam in the late afternoon

Photo credit:

renrut / Foter / CC BY

http://foter.com/photo/bodiam-in-the-late-afternoon/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/treborrenrut/4481585336/

http://.com/re/4ff9dd

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Dedication

For my best friend,

LaZor Beam

To The Reader

In keeping with the period, all dialogue is restricted to the known vocabulary of the time and, where practical, flavored with some style and expressions of Middle English. This will help immerse you into everyday life in mid fourteenth century England and Scotland. The language is vivid and easy to understand. Have a great visit!

Acknowledgments

M any years of research and life experience went into accumulating the historical background and vital understanding for this book and the others in this series to follow. I deeply appreciate my family’s willingness to share my time with this endeavor. Without their support and encouragement, I could never have completed this story. They have my love and deepest thanks.

Chapter One

Barbican and Banquet

L ong shadows fingered patches of waning sunlight as the small mounted party left the winding road and achieved their own straight course through the wood at determined pace. Ahead, thrusting up above all were the weathered battlements of Tanglewick Castle, aflame with the last throes of westering light and defying the purple black squall line just beyond. The clopping of the horses’ hooves, jangle of metal, and creak of leather were the only heartening constant against the rising wind in their faces. All knew it would be a close thing to make their goal before heavy weather broke upon them.

They had no need of that threat to hasten their pace. After three harsh days and nights, their deliberately obscure course had taken them through repeated squalls, flooded streams, roads slippery with mud, and stony paths treacherous to both horse and rider. With constant menace from border reivers or enemy warbands, caution had denied them the warmth of fire or hot food. Beneath their burdensome armor, their sodden clothes chilled and chafed with every move. Even so, with their need for rest and refuge they cast aside worries over their welcome and hurried to end their journey. Some of their number even admitted a lightened spirit with their goal in view.

Their young leader, the baron of Somerfurd Castle, turned to his appointed riding companion in renewed good humor and questioned him, Sir Malcolm, very quiet have you been these last few leagues. What ails your heart? Doubt you the wisdom of our plan?

The knight answered in serious concern, My lord, as you have now asked of me my opinion of this endeavor, I must confess ’tis my fear that you place yourself at great hazard in this duty. Success depends upon maintaining the enemy’s false belief in Somerfurd’s strong warband. Should it become known how many of our own people fell to the plague, our enemy is like to seize the generous gift we bring, slay us outright, and then attack our demesne.

Ah, Sir Malcolm, you call to my mind why I so like your service, the baron answered broadly. Always may I rely upon your merry admonition.

The baron thought a bit, turned to his companion, and added grimly, Can it be, Mal, that you know so little of me? Do you think my heart yearns for peace with my lifelong enemy? Have you not fought and bled at my side against this self same foe? I tell you, sir, this is a bitter thing! Well do I know the danger we face. We dare not wait longer. Our spy could not determine the size of the Earl’s forces, but was certain that he prepares for battle. ’Tis none but desperation forces this mission.

Aye, my lord, agreed the knight. Certain it is that we cannot withstand another attack. I wish only that we might achieve our goal of peace with our neighbor without so great a threat to your own person.

Cameron smiled at him, but added proudly, My presence, it is, that lends credence to our proposed alliance. Sure, it is not beyond reason to believe that after two years this loss of men to the plague extends to our enemies as well as ourselves.

Drummond looked ahead, but his mind saw only harsh memories, and he heaved a sigh. Aye, my lord, that is sound logic. Few have remained unscathed from the Great Mortality. Only of late does it seem the worst of it is finally over. God’s Mercy, may it be so!

Drummond stopped speaking and swallowed hard with his own memory of how his fiancée had nursed so many of the stricken until she caught the pestilence and paid for her kindness with her life. He said a silent prayer for her.

You grow quiet, Sir Malcolm, Cameron complained. You worry overmuch. ’Tis the product of too much learning. Stir yourself up, man. If we must face our enemy, let it be boldly and with confidence in our victory.

The knight gave a cynical smile, allowed it to crook up at one corner, and answered, As you say . . . my Lord Cameron. Yet since you have finally asked my view of our mission, I am in duty bound to call to your attention another possibility. Even though Tanglewick’s forces may now be as limited as our own, he may have followed King Edward’s policy against the French and hired mercenaries to bolster his forces. For my part, weight I give to facts we know, not those for which we simply hope.

Drummond looked toward their goal and added, It matters little now. There can be no doubt our approach is seen by those in the castle. Your father, my liege lord, charged me to be your counselor and your champion, none else, my lord.

The handsome baron smirked at the knight, spurred his horse into a trot, pulled ahead, and called back over his shoulder, I take you to mean you are unwilling to divine or even guess the outcome of our little adventure, Mal?

Aye, my lord. Verily! returned the knight loudly.

Drummond eased his weight a little forward, raised erect in his saddle, and his sensitive courser stepped out at fast walk.

Cameron slowed his own mount, allowed the knight and his horse to come abreast, and said, We both know why my father required you to come. Your duty it is to rein me in when I threaten to run ahead with my wild plans.

Just so, my lord, the knight agreed quietly.

Sir Malcolm Drummond rode and carried himself as one well used to his harness of armor. Signs of wear on man and beast clearly bespoke his modest means and long experience as knight.

A thought crossed his face and tugged at the corner of his mouth as he added, Good I am with horses, my lord, but never would I attempt to ‘rein in’ a noble heir. I know my place . . . and my limitations. I am no alchemist to strive for the impossible.

Ha, Mal! Take not away your rightful due. Ever have you chastened my bold ways. His lord bragged, Never again shall you best me at swords’ points, but you can draw blood with your honed tongue! Like a two edged sword, in one stroke you submit with respect and challenge with reproof.

The knight bowed to his lord, but betrayed a wicked grin and dimples as he said, Ever has it been my pleasure . . . to serve you, Lord Cameron.

Humph! his lord finished with a frown and perturbed tone. Let us hope you never overreach your station and make me regret my patience toward you.

The baron again surveyed the approaching storm and added with a shiver, Best we make haste. Give me your leather gauntlets, Mal. Mine are in the saddlebags. Take my squire, Harry, along with your man and a yeoman, and ride point for us.

The knight pulled off his gloves, at once, and passed them to his lord.

Lord Cameron put them on and observed, Um, these are still warm from the heat of your body. Rather fine they are for your customary garb. How so?

A gift they were . . . from my lady, Drummond answered quietly. They were his last tangible remembrance of her and despite his unhesitating obedience, a hard thing to relinquish.

Your lady?

The Lady Kerr . . . my fiancée, Drummond answered in measured tone.

The baron frowned and finished quietly, She was a fine lady. When I spoke of the losses from the plague, I forgot your own. You shall receive these back, my word upon it.

Sir Malcolm inclined his head in deference to his lord, though he put no confidence in Cameron’s promise. He twisted in the saddle; delicately eased his spurs in gentle nudge to his cherished blue roan; and wheeled his mount back to pick up the baron’s second squire, Harry, his own squire, Ross, and the yeoman, Tom, as bidden. Soon, they were riding far ahead to take upon themselves any threat to their lord, or the remainder of the company consisting of the other knight, two squires, the last yeoman, three men-at-arms, and three servants.

Drummond’s little advance guard rounded the tower marking the end of the west-facing curtain wall and paced along the south face. Too soon, the overpowering black sky defeated the last of twilight. Static energy raised the hairs upon the men’s arms and back of their necks as they breathed in the crisp burn of ozone. Well they knew, it meant lightning. Experience had taught them that it was not a good time to be clad in metal. From the look of the sky and tension in the air, Drummond judged that the strikes would be close among them. Heavy overcast swallowed moon and stars, and nearly all light. A bolt—a blinding flash—rent the heavens with a searing crackle. As the knight struggled to regain his sight and manage his frightened horse, his mind provided the image lightning had revealed.

It was Drummond’s first close view of the great fortress. He knew the castle had weathered storm and assault for three generations and was one of very few on the east coast of Scotland that had never been taken by the English. However, to his dismay, he found they had rebuilt the entrance after the latest military advance with a large and formidable barbican gateway. His stomach turned.

A massive gatehouse five stories high loomed over them with darkness that he could feel—baleful and sinister. Drummond’s skin prickled in apprehension. Twin towers extended forward from the barbican, flanking either side like giant guards menacing all comers. Arrow loops in the towers could bristle with arrow shafts or crossbow bolts against any who dared breach the gate. Above, a breastwork of machicolations under the corbelled battlements threatened a painful rain of frightening missiles or deadly fluids hurled down upon the unwanted. Malice oozed from the great barbican as though it were a living foe.

The knight reckoned their chances as he pieced the vision together in his mind. The first obstacle was the drawbridge. It appeared to him to be much older than the gatehouse. He guessed that it was near to original with the castle construction. At least, he remembered, it showed no modern steep rise that would prove impossible to navigate at fast pace. The moat would be frothing and swollen with the latest rains. Still, he thought, if the bridge were down, they could make it to the next obstacle.

The first portcullis was a heavy grated door braced with iron and having sharpened points at its base to impale any adversaries beneath its fall. Malcolm Drummond knew such doors were hauled up with a mechanism, through slots, to a waiting position in the upper floors. When desired, it dropped rapidly—very rapidly. Behind the portcullis would be a foot-thick heavy oak door with iron bracing.

Drummond had not seen much beyond the barbican’s gaping maw in the flash of lightning, but knew well what to expect. Inside the throat of the gatehouse, the walls on either side were surely broken with more arrow loops, and in the upper corners, there should be oilettes—openings to pour liquids. The overhead was a barrel-shaped vault, with murder holes to drop down stones, arrows, or anything lethal on the prey below. At the far end, a massive oak door was preceded by another portcullis . . . The second portcullis that trapped him and his fellow victims. Drummond gritted his teeth and set his jaw. He was remembering again. He shuddered and tried desperately not to imagine beyond what lightning had just revealed.

Their entire group united before the moat and drawbridge of Tanglewick Castle. The advance party would hail the watch and test their welcome before the remainder of the company was caught in peril they could not escape. A second bolt crashed overhead. The flash blinded the horses and riders with a threatening sizzle that seemed to rip right through their bodies and thunder that stopped their ears. When they had managed their mounts, they grasped that no one was visible upon the battlements. Drummond guessed they were huddled within the guards’ quarters of the great gatehouse.

Sir Malcolm stroked and gave a pat to his horse’s withers and shushed him ere he sounded his horn to alert the watch. His great blue roan nervously pawed the ground and pranced in excitement. The knight quieted him with his relaxed posture and soothing tone.

Upon his second blast, the head of a guard appeared at the battlements and hollered down, Who goes there? State your number and business!

Drummond answered in strong voice, Tell your lord we are fifteen . . . envoys from Castle Braebreich on a mission of peace. We bring tribute for the Earl of Tanglewick!

The head disappeared, and long minutes passed with little sound but the groan of wind. At last, the main portcullis rose to the loud rhythmic clack of winched chain and its metal scrape. Upon the bridge, the gathered party awaited Drummond’s signal to advance. He called to Harry and Tom to hold their position. Grimly, he slung his shield to his back and told his squire, Ross, to do the same and to follow his every move. Drummond controlled his courser with practiced ease. The knight deliberately reined him in until he would see the second portcullis on the inward side of the barbican fully raised. Despite all efforts, Drummond’s memories engulfed him, and he lived again his hard experience four years earlier when on a similar mission of peace to a southern castle.

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They had a bright sunny day and a warm welcome. The seneschal at the battlements graciously urged his party to enter the great gatehouse. Just before they were through, the earth shook with a heavy percussive thud as the inner portcullis suddenly dropped in Drummond’s face, nearly impaling his horse. He was stunned, but his horse’s scream spurred him to action. In the fore, he instantly raised a cry of alarm to his companions and wheeled his mount around toward the front entrance. Yet before those behind him, the last to enter, could respond and turn back themselves, the main gate portcullis suddenly dropped with a menacing thud that reverberated through their souls. Drummond and three of his fellow mounted warriors were trapped.

Upon that instant, horrible confusion reigned; and there began a blur of motion, color, and sound. After the noisy fall of the portcullises came the deceptively quiet death. Drummond heard the disarmingly soft whoosh of arrows shot at them through the loopholes along the sides of the barbican. They were so close that he could hear the twang of the bowstrings in release and the staccato either of metallic strikes on armor or of muffled thumps as the arrows found their targets. He and his fellows shouted in anger and defiance, yet their cries soon turned to desperation and pain—the screams of dying men and beasts. It was then that their attackers began to dump down all manner of deadly substances through the murder holes and oilettes above. The smell filled his nostrils with the dropped flaming wood, hot sand, boiling water, and buckets of urine, and stronger than all that . . . the stench of burning flesh.

Drummond’s skin throbbed with the shock of pain when the boiling water seeped through the gap in his armor at his right shoulder and soaked the padding of his arming jacket, retaining the heat and scalding his bare skin beneath. As he lost consciousness, he knew he would never survive the murderous assault save that he was partially shielded by the carcass of his dead horse and the body of a fallen friend. There was no escape.

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At the sound of Tanglewick Castle’s second portcullis scraping up to its highest position, Drummond shocked back to the present. Upon that instant, he spurred his large warhorse forward to full career, shadowed by his own mounted squire. Knight and squire did not stop until fully within the bailey.

They found it deserted save for the guards who had opened the gates. Thereupon, Drummond drew a deep breath of relief, welcomed the cold air that braced his return to the moment, and blew again upon his horn to signal the waiting party that it was safe to proceed. Soon the entire group had entered, crossed the bailey toward the light of several ensconced torches, and assembled before the entrance of the great hall.

The large double doors squealed open, and two men-at-arms took up guard to either side. From the clamor, light, and, most of all, from the aroma drifting toward them from within, they guessed their arrival was at the beginning of an evening feast. A herald appeared to inquire of their nobility, rank, and lastly to confirm their purpose and quickly left to report to his lord. In moments, the herald, two knights, and some others came out to meet their new guests. The faces of the weary travelers reflected their relief at the unexpected welcome. They quickly stabled their mounts, gave instructions to the grooms, and hurried to wash hands and faces outside at the washing trough.

With hot food before them, none wanted to give the new guests time to repair their travel worn appearance. The laird did not even demand surrender of their weapons. They learned they must dine as they arrived in their muddied armor. However, for the reward of welcome, warm shelter, and good food, they gladly accepted the minor discomfort.

The heralds seated them at proper locations. Earl Tanglewick was centrally enthroned along the far side of a large rectangular table raised upon the dais near the back of the hall. To honor them, Somerfurd’s baron and two knights and their newly chosen dinner companions were seated at high table, to Tanglewick’s right side. Two very long tables flanked either side of the great hall extending from the dais end nearly its full length. Aligned along the wall side of the table to the Earl’s right, the visiting squires sat above the salt, and the yeomen, men-at-arms, and servants below it. The Earl’s other visitors and own household were positioned to his left and along the wall side of the other opposite table. The horseshoe-shaped arrangement allowed full freedom of movement between the tables for the pages and servants waiting upon them.

When the Earl of Tanglewick learned the quality of his guests and their peaceful purpose, he determined to lavish them with his best dishes, loveliest ladies, and finest entertainments. Down the center of the hall, two fires roared in their pits and gave warmth and comforting amber glow to everything within. Above them, suspended along the walls from the massive beams of the trusses, colorful banners rippled in the drafts coming in the louvers above opened to vent smoke. Boldly colored shields and some arms were displayed along the walls.

The storm broke upon them shortly after the feast began, but their reveling nearly drowned out the moan and wail of fierce weather. Only the sudden claps of thunder overhead shook the concentration of the company from their merrymaking.

Drummond guarded all his responses. It was strange to him to receive the hospitality of the old enemy he so often fought against over the last decade. He stole glimpses of the Earl upon his throne. Though they had long battled at a distance with their respective warbands, it was the first time the knight observed his foe closely enough to behold his features.

Lord Tanglewick, he thought, was a bear of a man—broad in shoulder and chest with massive limbs and well-defined muscles. Grizzled at his temples, his wild thick hair still showed the deep red of his fame. It frizzed about his head and joined his great beard and braided mustache. A diagonal scar crossed the bridge of his nose and deeply creased his right cheek in downward stroke across the sharp planes of his features that were still appealing and strong. His dark eyes were bright and piercing as a hawk’s, swift to take in all about him, and his movements were quick and easy. Drummond gauged that neither warfare nor illness nor age had taken a toll upon the Earl of Tanglewick. He looked a vigorous man.

Drummond keenly observed all their surroundings. He could judge that Lord Cameron had been correct when he had calculated that the plague had cost as many lives among his foes as among his friends. It appeared that no mercenaries inflated the numbers of the company. Even the unexpected addition of fifteen visitors failed to fill the great hall. It seemed, after all, a smart gamble to sue for peace. Despite the report they had heard of battle preparations, the Earl of Tanglewick appeared as eager as his counterpart to avoid warfare with numbers so reduced that they barely had enough people to maintain their way of life.

The laird proved a generous host. The feast was a welcome diversion for all. Even though shared between the new guests, the portions of food were liberal and varied with many choice dishes. The leftovers would feed the poor very well. There was a fine mixed consort playing strings—a harp, a lute, and a psaltery—with crumhorns and recorders and lots of percussion with tambourine, nakers, drums, bones, and bells. The tunes were lively and the singers in good voice.

Lord Cameron was favored with the youngest daughter and last living child of the widowed Tanglewick as dinner companion. Iona was very pretty, with bright blue eyes and pursed rosebud lips. Splendidly dressed in velvet and satin of white, rose, and gold, she styled her fair yellow hair after the fashion of maidens, with long braids. Iona wore hers entwined with gold threads, small ornaments, and dried rosebuds. She was innocent, biddable, and unaware of the effect of her open friendliness. When her esteemed dinner companion took her manner for flirting, she seemed delighted with his attentions.

Secretive glances and nods among their observers showed that few at table missed the special attraction between the two. Drummond knew the baron of Somerfurd considered himself a tempting catch for any young lady. Cameron often expressed his pride at being from a long noble line, baron of his own estate, and heir to the powerful Earl of Braebreich. He could offer much wealth to a lady he favored. The knight had never seen any doubt in his lord’s expectation of conquest of any woman he might choose. Yet for all that, he thought that Lord Cameron’s most compelling asset to young ladies was his winsome manner and looks that often stole their breath away. The young lord had mischievous turquoise eyes, a dimpled smile that flashed perfect white teeth, and a shock of golden curls that tumbled about his head like an aura of light. The knight shook his head at his young lord’s apparent success with the lady, Iona.

At Cameron’s left and the Earl’s right, a striking young beauty separated them. Lady Blair wore green silk with silver camlet and a bejeweled headdress with red ringlets of hair teasing out of it. Her rapt attention upon Tanglewick showed her delight that he had selected her as his dinner companion. Pride determined the lady’s effort, and she even coaxed an occasional smile from the fierce laird.

Along the table on Tanglewick’s left side was another lady of means and a handsome, dashing knight. He seemed a dark counterpart to the blonde and ruddy baron. His lady companion, apparently flattered by his company, tried to keep his attention with profuse and giggling bursts of babble and frequent caresses. Whenever they drew close, he would look over her shoulder. Not a lady at table missed his daring eye contact, inviting smile, or bold winks. More than once, he shot black looks at the young baron of Somerfurd and, beyond that, to Drummond and his fellow knight.

Sir Malcolm knew there were good reasons for many of the household to resent their presence. Certainly, there were those who had suffered personal loss in the many battles between the warring neighbors. Then again, he thought, Lady Iona Fraser was a fine prize that many in the household would covet. Few would be content to see her attached to a former enemy—a rival in both war and love.

Beyond the bold knight was a handsome woman in dark blue velvet and pearls. She was refined and lofty in her manner—the dinner companion of another visitor, Sir Ian Gunn, of Lachlann Castle. The knight represented an old ally of Tanglewick, to the north. His finery, though costly, was subdued. Tall and lean, with short-cropped black hair, mustache, and goatee, his cold blue eyes betrayed nothing of his sentiments.

Gunn was Drummond’s own age, and Sir Malcolm knew his face well. The two had met in battle, and Drummond, who had been the best swordsman in both Braebreich and Somerfurd Castles, had come off the worse in their close engagement. Sir Malcolm bore the scar of his defeat in his upper swordarm, and the damage hindered some of his movements so that Lord Cameron now bested his previous mentor at swordplay. With the foul weather about them, Drummond could feel the old wound throbbing, as though the presence of its maker excited it to life.

As for his foe, Sir Ian’s cold stare revealed his like recognition of Drummond. He thought Gunn’s expression was not unlike what he wore as his blade sliced his arm when Gunn was certain that he had no defense. With that familiarity, Drummond