Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  Robert pulled from him and walked away three strides. He stared at Turnberry, a mile down the shoreline. His chin dropped. He kicked at the sand. “Who holds the castle, Cuthbert? How many are there?”

  “Henry Percy, my lord. A hundred inside. Another two hundred without.”

  Edward swept up beside his brother. “Not impossible odds. We can take the castle if we attack now.”

  Robert, appearing less certain than his brother, looked at me. “James?”

  “Impossible odds, no,” I said. “But improbable? Most definitely.”

  Hands thrown wide, Edward scoffed. “What – so you, too, think we should creep away with our tails tucked up?”

  “No, I don’t. Far from it. But we must stop thinking in terms of all or nothing. Wound them. Steal their goods. Kill stragglers and brave fools, like we did on Arran. In short, harass them till they’re driven to madness. Tonight, we leap upon those in the town while they sleep. Then fall back before they can rally and we suffer too many losses. Do damage, but preserve ourselves. And then we do it again – some other place, some other time.”

  “Edward?” Robert said.

  Edward mulled it over. He wrapped his fingers one by one about the hilt of the sword at his hip and gripped it hard. “Done.”

  Robert split us into four groups: his, Edward’s, Gil’s and mine. Experienced hunters, the Highlanders crept without a sound behind me. We took the far path to the furthest side, that closest to the castle itself. The misplaced trill of a songbird cut the night air – Robert’s signal. I put an arrow through the back of a sentry on the town walls as he turned to look toward the sound. Seconds later, the next signal came and my men and I were upon the stockade walls and scrambling over them.

  Not a single English soldier from the town was left that night to tell how the Scots leapt upon them in the cold and dark as they sprang from their sleep. Percy never came out of the sanctuary of Turnberry Castle to rescue his forces as they were murdered in their masses. Too uncertain of his chances. Too unprepared. We took their horses and arms and fled before dawn. To find a lair in the hills.

  Ch. 9

  James Douglas – Castle Douglas, 1307

  My father, Sir William Douglas, died in the Tower of London when I was still a boy. He had been sent there because he broke an oath of fealty to Longshanks – an oath made under duress to spare not only his own life, but his family’s, as well. For my protection, I was sent to Paris to study. But I learned more of cutting purses from belts in a crowded market and pilfering warm loaves of bread than I did of Latin or liturgy. When finally I returned home as Bishop Lamberton’s squire, I discovered I had no lands and no inheritance. The Englishman, Sir Robert Clifford, was now governor of Douglas Castle. It was a bone in my throat that I vowed to dislodge.

  With Robert’s blessing, I left for Douglas, taking only Cuthbert and Torquil so as not to arouse suspicion. Dressed in peasants’ rags, we stacked crates full of squawking chickens onto the back of a cart and rumbled through the town. It had been ten years since I had walked that ground and no one from the town or castle recognized me. How odd that was, because I remembered so many of them.

  Finally, I saw old Thomas Dickson haggling with the butcher’s wife over a goose.

  “Two pence – for that?” With a gnarled finger, he poked at it to send the gaunt carcass swinging. Flies stirred from the shop window to buzz about Dickson’s face. He swatted them away, his tongue flicking over cracked lips. “A gosling, it is. I’ll give you a halfpenny.”

  “Ha’penny would not buy you two eggs. Away with you.”

  “A penny then.”

  “Away!” The wart-faced hag grabbed a broom from behind the door, smacked him in the shins and slammed the door shut.

  Cursing, he hobbled backward. I tossed a pebble at the door to get his attention. “Over here, old man. On my honor, I’ll not rob you.”

  Defeated, Dickson ambled toward me cautiously, one hand rubbing at a concave belly. “That’s what the last thief said.”

  I flipped open a crate, grabbed a plump white hen by the neck and thrust it at him.

  He grabbed it by the wings to send feathers flying, then held it at arm’s length. His lip curled, revealing two broken teeth. “You’ll take a halfpenny? It’s all I have.”

  “You’re a poor liar,” I told him, securing the latch on the crate. Torquil and Cuthbert sat crouched against a wall further down the street, where they watched beneath the drooping brims of their hats for soldiers. “Take it. Keep your penny.”

  Clutching the hen close, Dickson cocked his head at me. Stringy hanks of white hair fell across bloodshot gray eyes. “Who are you?”

  “You lost those teeth at Sanqhuar fighting alongside William Wallace,” I said lowly, winking. “You were my father’s messenger.”

  He gawped at me, then took a step back. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, mumbling. “M-m’lord.”

  A pair of older, barefooted lads clad in rags scurried from around the corner and began down the street.

  I gave Dickson a swift kick in the shoulder. He let out a yelp. The hen squawked in his arms.

  “A penny, you beggar!” I shouted at him. Touching a hand to the knife at my belt, I scowled at the boys coming toward us. They both stopped, shared a frightened glance and hastened away, arms flailing.

  Dickson groped inside his shirt for a coin and dropped it at my feet. I bent to retrieve it, then gave him my hand and pulled him up, pressing the coin into his palm.

  Lowly, I said, “I heard that Clifford tossed you from your home, as well, Thomas. The thieving magpie should learn not to take what isn’t his. Do you live far from here?”

  He shook his head, one hand rubbing his shoulder, the other crushing the wide-eyed fowl to his chest. “This edge of town, my lord. In clear sight of the castle.”

  “Good.” I motioned Torquil and Cuthbert to their feet. “You’ll take us there? We can roast a chicken or two while I share my plan with you, aye?”

  Dickson nodded, a grin slowly splitting his mouth. He laughed then and inclined his head toward the end of the alley as he set off for his home.

  For days, men came and went from Dickson’s cramped hovel, where we hid with his aged wife, daughter and her two young children. Dickson’s daughter, Mariota, had no husband and by the fourth night Torquil was sharing a blanket with her. By the time the children were all soundly asleep, Torquil was grunting softly as he swived the lass. Between Mariota’s drawn-out groans, Cuthbert’s snores and the mice scampering across the floor, I do not think I slept at all. Just as well. I had important matters on my mind. Revenge being foremost.

  The next morning, Palm Sunday, the castle garrison stumbled groggily through the town on their way to church. I sat hunched on the seat of my farmer’s cart, counting them. By Dickson’s count, there could not be many left, if any at all, at Douglas Castle. As the last of them passed by, a square-jawed soldier with hollow eyes spat in my face. I looked away, but not before I memorized his face.

  When the soldiers were all inside, Cuthbert, Torquil and I shuffled into little St. Bride’s Church after them and stood quietly to the rear. The handle of Cuthbert’s knife peeked from the top of his boot. I nudged him, pointing to it, and he deftly stooped over to flick a dab of mud from his boot and slide his weapon further down. Dickson and the others filed in by ones and twos. Not even the priest seemed to notice that the women and children had been left at home that day.

  I slipped my fingers beneath my cloak and wrapped them around the length of steel pressed against my ribs. Dickson glanced at me. As I brought my sword out, I gave the cry:

  “Douglas! A Douglas!”

  The soldier who had spat at me spun about, already reaching across his torso. He grasped the hilt of his weapon, drew it halfway and grunted as I plunged my blade deep in his belly. Blood gushed from the hole. His fingers fell away from his sword. He crumpled forward, clutching my blade.

  “I gave you a sporting chance,” I said with a g
rin. “I could have run you through from behind without ever having said a word.”

  I shoved my sword deeper and twisted, then spat in his face. His eyes rolled up into his head. With a jerk, I heaved my weapon free and he fell to the floor in a lifeless heap.

  One less Englishman in the world.

  Carrick, 1307

  I returned to our camp with more than twenty men, our horses laden with the spoils from Douglas Castle.

  From the back of the bone-thin nag I had used to pull the cart, I lifted a clanking sack and heaved it to the ground. I untied it, reached inside and drew out a short sword and a mail coif. Torquil and Cuthbert were handing out other treasures to the cheers and adulation of everyone.

  “And what did you do then?” Boyd asked.

  I flipped a coin in the air, then tossed it to Boyd. “Not only did we have ourselves a fine feast, but they left both their treasury and their armory unguarded.”

  “Perhaps they knew you were coming, good James,” Robert said, “and wished to express their generosity.”

  “I should like to think. Unfortunately, though, Clifford was not there.” My mouth twitched with a smile. “But at least he has no castle to govern now. And as long as they keep coming and trying to steal my home, I’ll keep reminding them that Englishmen are not welcome there.”

  “A Douglas!” one of the men bellowed. Soon it was an uproarious chant. I grasped handful after handful of coins from the ground and flung them in sweeping arcs until the mound was gone.

  “So tell,” Edward said, as he weighed a sword in his hands, dug at the nicks in the blade with his fingernail, then dropped it at his feet, “what ruin did you inflict that left your men in such a giddy air?”

  I fingered the last coin. “I will allow our faithful Cuthbert to relay the tale.”

  “Well, Cuthbert?” Edward slammed his foot down on the blade just as Cuthbert reached for it. “What wondrous feat did your good and noble knight perform?”

  Cuthbert shrank away. He studied his feet. “Burnt it. Every last timber. Every sack of grain. Piled all the dead bodies on top of the corn in the cellar, hacked open the wine casks and set it all ablaze. Gone. Like that.” He fluttered his hands above his head and blew a short burst of air between his lips. Slowly then, he bent to reach again for the sword. “And we poisoned the well with salt. Stuffed it with dead horses, too.”

  “One less fortress to be of any use to us. Not as if we needed it.” Edward withdrew his foot. “We’re doing quite splendidly in our cozy little cavern. A castle is always in need of such repair. So many tedious, daily tasks – tables to be set, beds to be made. The bother of it all.”

  Cuthbert nabbed the sword and ducked away from Edward. Then he hobbled off, flailing his prize in broad, swooshing arcs before him as he battled an imaginary foe.

  “One less for the English, as well,” Robert added as he stepped through the celebratory crowd.

  “Oh, come, brother.” Edward threw his hands wide. “Are we to go about destroying our own? I fail to see the wisdom in such vengeful folly.”

  “We all might learn a lesson from James.” Robert tilted his head thoughtfully. “Unorthodox, that I’ll grant you. But we cannot battle Longshanks on Longshanks’ terms. We must make our own.”

  Had he been within arm’s length, I wager he would have felt the impact of Edward’s fist to his mouth. With a sneer, Edward turned on his heel and stalked off.

  In the early spring slop, the English were bogged down like overloaded boats on a rapid river. From the forest’s edge we watched them. They dared not venture inside the murky tangle with their unwieldy columns and rumbling wagons. We lurked and struck at night and were gone again. The great armies we let pass by, taking only stragglers or detachments sent off to steal provisions. Often we drove the cattle up into the hills, so by the time they arrived there was nothing for them to take.

  Nearly every day, Robert ordered our camp moved. Being less than a hundred men, we could cover twice the distance in a day that the hulking English were capable of. We had no wagons, few horses, and only the armor we had taken on Arran and at Turnberry. Our greatest hardship was not being hunted or homeless, but that the people, even Robert’s own Carrick tenants, were afraid to offer us succor. If it was discovered that they had given us aid, it could well cost them their homes, their crops, even their lives.

  Springtime brought little more to fill our bellies than winter had. Occasionally, we stole a cow or two. Sometimes a herd, although that was not often. When we had a single cow, it was always a great debate whether to milk it or slaughter it. We were encamped in the wilds of Galloway, some of us sharing the comfort of a cave as our ‘home’ when such a debate raged. A ring of pines stood sentry and beyond them the green hills opened up, broad and surging. April’s rains had abated and the breeze carried the first soothing warmth of summer as May passed. Gil had stolen a ruddy dun cow, far past her best calving days. A few of us were gathered in a clearing a hundred feet from the mouth of the cave, eyeing the moon-eyed, intractable cow that Gil led with obvious difficulty by a rope, tugging and cursing, into our starving midst.

  Boyd poked at the cow’s ribs. “You going to hoist her on your back or cradle her like a helpless bairn over the mountains while we run from the English?”

  Gil settled on his haunches beside the cow, his fingers kneading the udders as he aimed and caught the milk in a bowl on the ground. The cow stamped a front hoof, then calmed as Gil began to hum to her. Boyd probed her bony hips with both hands.

  “Keep your hands off her.” Gil shoved his gaunt, pockmarked cheek up against her muddy, brown hide. “We’ll get more from this one cow over the course this way.”

  “Ach, dry as a stone, I say. Douglas, meat or milk?” Boyd lifted up his shirt and scratched at his hairy paunch.

  Just beyond our circle of trees, Robert shot arrows at a target marked in a stripped tree trunk with some of the other men. I was the only one among us who could better him – although sometimes I think he missed the bull’s eye just to foster rivalry between us. He flicked the fingers on his bowstring and another arrow twanged dead center.

  I pushed my tongue around a bone-dry mouth. My belly grumbled and flopped. “Meat.”

  Torquil dragged a forearm across his mouth and nodded. Boyd whipped out his knife. As he moved to the cow’s throat, Gil shot to his feet so fast the bowl of milk overturned and splattered over Boyd’s shins. Gil drew his fist back. I stepped between them and caught his forearm.

  Boyd’s mouth twisted within the dark red mat of his beard. He plowed his bulging chest against me. “What now? Soft over a cow, Douglas? Is that your pleasure, seeing as how I’ve never seen you with a lass beneath you? Let him go. We’ll have this out and then we’ll all eat well tonight.”

  “No.” I nudged Gil aside and peered at the horizon. “Someone’s coming.”

  Boyd drew his chest up and looked about. “There’s no one.”

  “There,” I said.

  Riding double with Cuthbert, who had been on picket, was a lady I had never seen. Twenty mounted men accompanied her, some wearing mail and others only padded jackets. Both Robert and Edward were there to greet her, almost trying to crowd each other out. Robert yielded as Edward lifted her from the saddle.

  “Aithne!” Edward cried, swinging her around in his arms. Her cloak sailed out behind her, circling them both. “Ah, my eyes are glad indeed.”

  When Edward finally put her down, he kissed her on the lips. She received him stiffly, then pulled back from his embrace. Edward let go of her, one hand lingering on the swell of her hips. Her hair was the color of a summer sunset after a storm, her eyes the azure of a cloudless sky.

  “Sire. My lords.” She beckoned a young boy to her side.

  “Aithne of Carrick, welcome,” Robert said kindly. “Who’s this?”

  “Niall. My son.” She looked from Edward to Robert, and back again. Her cheeks creased with dimples as she smiled nervously. “He is seven now.”

&
nbsp; “A fine soldier he’ll make someday.” Edward tousled the boy’s hair. “I’ll show you about later, Niall. I have a fine horse. A stallion taken from an English knight at Turnberry. I’ll let you sit on him. Would you like that?”

  There was a glitter in Niall’s eyes, though faint, like the first stars at night. His head bobbed.

  “Likens to his father, does he?” Robert asked courteously. The boy had shining dark hair and eyes as rich as the tilled earth of a deep valley – both very unlike hers.

  Her arms went around her son. “Some might say so.”

  “And how is Sir Gilbert? Any word of your husband since he gave up Loch Doon? I heard he fled to England.”

  Her eyes met Robert’s once more. “He did... tried. He was killed before he ever got there.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

  “You assumed he was a coward or a traitor, did you – or both?” she said bluntly. “I reckon everyone did, and they always will. The truth of it is that when he heard of your loss at Methven and the English came, he was... unprepared. We abandoned the castle before they could lay siege to it. I went to Arran while he headed south, where he had kin. He meant to send for Niall and me when he knew that it was safe. He never made it. Anyway, it is done, in the past.” She held her hand out to him, a sad smile barely lifting the corners of her mouth. “I have grave news.”

  A moment passed before Robert took her hand.

  “My lord,” she began huskily, “Kildrummy was taken and Nigel captured.”

  “We know that much,” Robert said. “The manner of his death, as well.”

  Softly, Aithne brushed the back of her fingers across Robert’s cheek as she gathered breath. “Then you know that before the English arrived to besiege Kildrummy, Nigel sent the Earl of Atholl north with your wife and daughter?”