by Amy Jarecki
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author’s Note
Also by Amy Jarecki
About the Author
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Amy Jarecki, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020, Amy Jarecki
Edited by: Scott Moreland
Book Cover Design by: Dar Albert
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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Foreword
The King’s Outlaws is a romantic series based upon the heroes who supported Robert the Bruce during his rise to greatness. It was an era of brutal unrest, which is often misunderstood. The following foreword summarizes the political climate and historical events leading up to the opening of Chapter One.
A great deal is unknown about Robert the Bruce’s early life. It is a fact that the Bruce Clan had divided loyalties because of their land holdings on either side of the Scottish/English border as was the case with many noble families. However, Robert the Bruce’s actions even as a young man demonstrated a leaning of patriotism for his beloved Scotland. He was a loyal son, a dedicated father, and a nobleman caught amid the turmoil of his time.
Robert the Bruce was only eleven years of age when King Alexander III died in March of 1286. Indeed, Robert would have still been a lad at his father’s table when in 1290 he received news of the death of Alexander’s only heir, the Maid of Norway. With no clear successor, Edward I of England, who was also Alexander’s father-in-law, was invited by Scottish magnates to select the next king. Several families stepped forward as competitors for the crown, but those with the strongest claims were the Balliols and the Bruces. Edward, who later earned the moniker, “Hammer of the Scots”, immediately seized the opportunity to declare himself suzerain, or overlord of Scotland. The Bruces were considered too powerful for Edward’s interests and, thus, in November of 1292 he selected the weaker competitor, John Balliol, as king.
Afterward, to protect his family’s claim to the throne, in 1295 Robert de Brus, 6th Lord of Annandale, resigned the earldom of Carrick to his eldest son, Robert the Bruce, now a twenty-one-year-old man.
During Balliol’s four-year reign, Edward required the Scottish king to repeatedly submit to humiliating subjugation. In 1296, Balliol retaliated, was defeated, and eventually sent into exile in France. Of course, Edward saw fit to retaliate and flex his muscle against the Scots. Most memorable in this rising was the sack of Berwick in the spring of 1296 where, for three days, Edward’s army slaughtered men, women, and children in one of the most savage acts of war ever committed. Further rubbing salt into the wound, at Wark the Scottish nobles, including the elder Bruce and his son, were required to sign the Ragman Roll declaring fealty to Edward, after which, the patriarch of the Bruce Clan decided to withdraw from the political scene. No matter what the new Earl of Carrick felt or how much he desired revenge, Robert was bound by a familial duty to obey his father.
But he eventually acted on his conscience. On the 7th of July1297, Robert the Bruce took part in a failed rising at Irvine. As a result, he was nearly forced to surrender his daughter, Marjorie, to Edward. But when Robert refused, three sureties were accepted on his behalf, that of Bishop Wishart, the Stewart, and Sir Alexander Lindsay. Needless to say, Bruce then came under a great deal of English scrutiny. Also in 1297, William Wallace joined forces with Andrew de Moray and defeated the English at the Battle of Stirling Bridge. In June of 1298, Wallace was retained as Guardian of Scotland and, as legend has it, was knighted by the Earl of Carrick. This act was a key indication that the Bruces, as with many nobles, had finally endured enough of Edward’s tyranny and had begun subtle activities to support the Scottish cause.
When Wallace left for the Continent to seek help from the pope, it is important to note that Robert the Bruce was appointed guardian along with Bishop Lamberton, and John Comyn, nephew of John Balliol (yet another contender for the throne). Bruce and Comyn did not get along, possibly because of Robert’s radical leanings toward independence, but his fervor ended up seeing him edged out of the guardianship.
By 1300, there was once again one Guardian of Scotland, Sir John de Soules. At this time, Edward was still conducting raids into Scotland and, in 1301 after skirmishes led by Robert the Bruce, Edward captured Turnberry, Robert’s ancestral castle. In a political ploy to regain his lands, he surrendered in January of 1302, six months before his twenty-eighth birthday. With the restoration of his estates, he was hamstringed by the determination to stay alive and stay free. It is said the ensuing years were the most difficult of his life. He was called upon many times to act in the service of Edward and prove his loyalty. But Bruce wasn’t entirely convincing. For example, when Edward asked Robert to supply siege engines for the 1304 attack on Stirling Castle, Bruce complied, sending the trebuchets without an essential component which rendered them useless.
Following the death of his father and the execution of William Wallace, Bruce became more daring in his pursuit of the throne. He propositioned John Comyn (the only other viable contender for the crown at this time) and asked John to choose one of two alternatives—either John reign as king and grant Robert all his lands and possessions, or Robert assume the throne, granting John the likewise property rights. John accepted the second proposition which was formalized by sealed indentures and oaths of good faith.
But Comyn immediately broke his oath by writing to Edward and revealing Robert’s “treasonous” acts. Robert the Bruce was then summoned to London where he was presented with the evidence and told he would be put to death. Assisted by the Earl of Gloucester, Robert immediately fled back to Scotland and arranged a rendezvous with John Comyn at the Church of the Grey Friars in Dumfries. On the 10th of February 1306, the two men were unable to reconcile, Robert wanted to avoid violence but as their quarrel escalated, he stabbed Comyn, an act that gravely disturbed the future king. With haste, he rode to Glasgow, made a confession to Bishop Wishart, and received absolution for his sin.
Now, time was of the essence. There could be no more waiting. Bruce and his retinue raced for Scone, the traditional place of inauguration. Many supporters joined him on his ride northward, including James Douglas, a man who had ample cause to hate the English clear to his very soul.
1
Scotland, 23 March 1306. The Road to Scone.
The orange glow of dawn skimmed tufts of striated clouds in the eastern sky. But James Douglas hardly noticed. Neither did he pay heed to the icy breeze cutting through his mail and the quilted weave of the aketon beneath. Even the chausses covering his thighs were stiff from the cold. Surely the skies threatened a late snow, though James preferred to be nowhere else this day.
From a ridge overlooking the Glasgow road, he sat atop a fine palfry, his breaths billowing a steamy grey. If only the horse were his and not a loan from Bishop Lamberton. But these were dark times and the name of Douglas had all but been smote from the nobility. One day, James intended to own a herd of gallant warhorses. Just as his father had before the wars.
Intently, he watched the road for movement. At last, his chance had come. And no matter how hot his impatient blood thrummed through his loins, he vowed to maintain his vigil and remain patient. Soon he would right the wrongs against his father and regain his lands.
And the time was nigh.
At last, a robust contender had come forward to claim the throne of Scotland, a man with cods enough to pull together this great nation and send the English back across the border once and for all. And James fully intended to be at the center of the maelstrom.
After daylight had spread across the glen, a flicker of metal caught James’ eye first, followed by the white blaze on the nose of a bay horse. He counted thirty riders creeping through the trees with a wagon and sentry in diamond formation at the rear. Not an impressive number for a king or even an earl, for that matter, but perhaps the small retinue would not attract as much attention as an army of five hundred or more.
Before he picked up his reins, James closed his eyes and turned his face to the heavens. Dear God, I am not gifted with the silken eloquence of a holy man, but in my hour of need, please grant me the words to convey the strength of my fealty and the depth of my desire to ride at this man’s side.
Taking an earnest breath, he cued the palfry down the incline and onto the road while the approach of horses thundered from around the bend. James dropped his reins and raised his hands, driving his mount with his knees.
At fifty paces, the retinue came into view. James grinned at the sight of Robert the Bruce in the lead—he would have assumed no less. By his reputation, the contender was no coward. And what a sight to behold. Clearly a warrior, Bruce presented an imposing image, his armor immaculate, a surcoat emblazoned with the rampant lion, a cloak of black, his shoulders broad. And to add to the picture, the nostrils of his enormous steed flared.
The men flanking Bruce drew their swords. “Halt!” bellowed one.
James relaxed his knees and let his horse amble to a stop. “James Douglas, son of William, Lord of Douglas, come to pledge my fealty to a worthy man who would be king.”
“The lad’s father surrendered at Berwick,” growled the man on the right.
A shot of ire flared up James’ neck, but he bit his tongue. Damnation, he was no lad.
The Bruce brushed his beard with gauntleted fingers. “I kent his father well. Lord Douglas surrendered the burgh and his life in good faith, intending to spare those within his garrison.”
The man-at-arms smirked. “Little good that did.”
Grinding his molars, James slid from his horse. Now was not the time to debate the errs of his da. “I was but ten years of age when my father died in the Tower, his lands given to Clifford by a foreign king. My lands. My birthright.”
“I, too, have lost much at the hand of the usurper.” The Bruce urged his mount forward, though one of the men-at-arms followed. “Tell me, what news brought you to this place on this day at this time?”
James dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “My liege, since my father left this world, I have been an apprentice to Bishop Lamberton. Upon receiving your missive, he urged me to ride ahead and pledge my sword.”
“I don’t trust him,” growled the man-at-arms.
“Wheesht, Neil.” The Bruce dismounted, handed the naysayer his reins, and returned his attention to James. “You must forgive my brother. He is only looking out for my welfare.”
Giving a nod, James eyed the man before he returned his attention to His Lordship. “Very well. Though judging by his girth, I can easily best him in a battle of swords.”
“Strong words from an unproven pup. Perhaps a match can be arranged.” Bruce sauntered forward, cocking his head to one side. “Your beard is thick, though your face is that of an unblemished canvas. Pray tell, what is your age?”
As a sharp spike roiled in his gut, James clenched his fists. “I am a man of one and twenty, trained to wield a sword. I’ve not been bested by any knight in Lamberton’s court.”
“Indeed? And your claim can be substantiated by the bishop?”
“It can.” James rose. “I—”
“Watch yourself,” warned Neil.
The Bruce sliced his palm through the air but kept his eyes on James and one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Clearly, you were aware that I am headed for Scone. Why did you not wait to approach me there?”
Again demonstrating his vassalage, James spread his hands to his sides, though he didn’t kneel this time. “When news was received of Comyn’s death by your hand and the absolution granted to you by Bishop Wishart in Glasgow, I felt you needed my sword now whilst you are most vulnerable.”
“I assure you, my vulnerability will endure for months, possibly years to come.”
“Aye, until the English are expunged from Scotland once and for all.”
“I appreciate your verve, Douglas. Tell me, have you earned your spurs?”
“Not as of yet. I rather hoped being knighted would be an honor bestowed by my king.”
Chuckling, the Bruce turned toward his men. “Did you hear that? I’m liking this young man more by the moment.” He then placed a hand on James’ shoulder. “I should enjoy witnessing this sword of yours in action.”
“If I ride at your side, I pray to God you will see it raised often against our foe.”
“Then come.” The Bruce turned up his palm to catch a snowflake. “We have tarried here long enough.”
“If you squeeze your hands any tighter, your fingers will fall off,” said Coira in a sharp and stilted whisper.
Ailish arched an eyebrow and leveled her gaze upon her overly protective lady’s maid. Well, at one time, Coira had been Ailish’s nursemaid, but that didn’t allay the fact that Ailish was entrusted with the leadership of her clan and had been for quite some time. “My hands are fine.”
Her anxiety ratcheted up a notch as she watched yet another man exit the chamber in Scone Abbey where Robert the Bruce was hearing supplications. This morning, the vestibule had been packed shoulder to shoulder with men. Now, aside from the two women, the hall was completely empty. “I should be next.”
Ailish sat forward when the steward stepped through the door and headed across the floor without even giving her a glance. She immediately sprang to her feet. “I beg your pardon, m’lord, but I have waited this entire day for an audience with His Grace.”
The man stopped, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “And you are?”
“Lady Ailish Maxwell.” She gestured to the scroll in his fist. “I signed my name to the roll just like everyone else. It is of grave import that I see His Grace at once.”
“You must not refer to His Lordship as His Grace until after the crowning this eve.” Huffing, the steward unrolled the vellum. “Must I warn you that women have no place within these walls?”
“Is there a problem?” asked a man, his voice resounding from the doorway. He was tall, broad shouldered, and the look in his eyes was as sharp as a well-honed dirk. If Ailish had ever set eyes upon any king before, this would be he.
Bless the saints!
She hastened forward, stopped before the man, and dipped into a deep curtsey, bowing her head. “I am Lady Ailish, daughter of Johann Maxwell, Earl of Caerlaverock and I have come to pledge fealty in my brother’s stead.” She pulled her ruby pendant ou
t from under her bodice. “This was my mother’s. It is all I have to prove I am Johann Maxwell’s daughter.”
“You simply must hear her, m’lord,” said Coira bustling to Ailish’s side. “M’lady took a great risk to be meet with you.”
Ailish gave the maid a purse-lipped leer. As the eldest Maxwell, she could stand up for herself.
Robert the Bruce examined the necklace. “It is a fine piece, indeed.” He stepped back, pushed open the door, and gestured inside. “Is that so?”
“It is.” Ailish held up her palm, telling Coira to stay put, then stepped into the chamber. “I’ve come to support you as king and lay claim to Maxwell lands.”
He skirted behind a table and sat in an enormous chair, steepling his fingers against his lips. “You said your brother is still alive?”
Ailish clasped her hands tightly to allay their trembling. “Harris—he is only nine years of age, but Earl of Caerlaverock and chieftain of Clan Maxwell all the same. I would have brought him with me, had it been safe to do so. But I do not trust my uncle. If he learns Harris still lives, I ken in my bones, he’ll try to kill the lad.”
“Ah, yes, it is all coming back to me now. Edward sacked Caerlaverock in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred. I recall at the time, Herbert’s rise to the earldom was cause for unease.”
“The man is vile. He dishonors the Maxwell Clan as well as the title of earl. He joined with Edward in the attack on my home. After days of pummeling the castle with siege engines, captured my father and hung him from the bailey walls.”
