Games of Otterburn 1388

by Charles Randolph Bruce

  NOVEL

  PUBLISHED BY

  HANGMAN BOOKS

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Charles Randolph Bruce

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published and Distributed in the United States

  PO Box 64007 Virginia Beach, VA 23467-4007

  otterburn1388.com

  Manufactured Entirely in the United States of America

  Cover design by Charles Randolph Bruce

  Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews and articles.

  This work is fictional. Almost all of the characters’ names and the events depicted in this novel have been extracted from historical records, however, neither these characters nor the descriptions of events are held to accurately represent real people or their conduct. Every effort has been made to present readers an exciting, interesting story set in a reasonably authentic environment. No other purpose than entertainment was intended or should be implied.

  Dedication

  .

  To Carolyn who always inspires me to do better.

  .

  Background from Google Maps

  White Labels and Arrows are Applied by the Author

  August 5

  Castle Dundonald in Ayrshire,

  Scotland

  It was early morning when the old man rolled to the edge of his pallet and put his booted feet on the flagstone floor. He coughed a time or two, grunted to complain over the general discomfiture of his sickly seventy-one year old body then awkwardly dragged his slop pot from under his footed pallet, set it betwixt his spraddled legs, loosed his trews and began to stream the piss, that had forced him from his slumber, into the pot.

  On the wall above the old man’s head hung a battle-scared shield with the arms of the King of Scots carefully painted on it.

  “Ye a’right, Yer Majesty?” questioned the valet through the heavy wooden door.

  “Ye can have the stinkin’ pot when I’m done,” grumped Robert in a graveled voice just loud enough to get the words through the door as he harnessed his still spitting self back into his trews.

  “Aye yer Majesty,” Fitzhugh replied back through the door. “Have yer bread and ale fixed directly.”

  The old man didn’t bother to answer but Fitzhugh was well accustomed to not getting an answer and so went about his duties in the upper hall of the king’s private third floor quarters.

  Robert wiped the wetness from his hands on the coverlets of his pallet, put his elbows on his knees and parked his dizzy head atop his upturned palms and wondered if the day was at hand when God was going to take him to heaven and rid him of his terrible plight.

  His leg began to hurt again. He rubbed the ache hoping it would be abated by the massage. He stretched his leg and continued pampering the swollen area with his hands. Soon he stood and stretched his arms upward. He limped to the window with an abbreviated sway and pulled the shutters back into the small room until they were arrested by the inner wall. He then swung wide the mullioned windows made of green tinted translucent glass that were hinged from the sides of the window frame.

  The sun was already well above the horizon making the quaint village below the castle into a shimmering mosaic of activity as the villagers were well within the throes of their daily tending the surrounding fields of growing plants and noisy livestock.

  The crisp air filled his lungs as much as he could catch his breath through the security bars on the window. He coughed more. He breathed deeper as if trying to draw in the strength of nature to get him animated. He grasped the window bars to steady himself then suddenly wondered if he was a prisoner. He laughed a bit at the absurdity of the thought. How could he be? He was the King of Scots. He was the grandson of the great Bruce. It was not possible for him to be a prisoner. All of those things in turn were what he thought while standing at the open barred window.

  Robert turned when he realized Fitzhugh was again knocking on his door.

  “What ye a’wantin’?he roughly replied.

  “Yer mornin’ victuals, Yer Majesty,” said Fitzhugh still through the door.

  “Come!” was the single word command.

  Fitzhugh opened the door and an older woman than Fitzhugh’s thirty years stood behind him holding the tray with fresh made bread still warm from the ovens on the laigh level of the castle, jam for the spreading and a cup of ale.

  Robert watched the woman with a careful eye as she came into the room. Her eyes were averted certainly from the king’s eyes and from his person as well.

  Fitzhugh jockeyed the small table into juxtaposition with the soft tufted chair and Marie placed the contents of the tray onto the table, bowed and left the small room.

  “Be all, Yer Majesty?” asked the valet as he bowed a bit.

  “How long syne my Euphemia passed?” asked Robert still standing at the window.

  Fitzhugh paused to figure the time. “Nigh two years, I reckon, Yer Majesty,” he said.

  “Like to get married again… maybe,” returned King Robert glancing back out the window to the village below.

  Fitzhugh was taken aback by the old man’s confession but held his reserved countenance for a moment then timidly asked, “Married?”

  Robert sighed and mused on his erratic say. “Reckon I’d like the smell of a woman in my bed again… that might be it… might be,” he trailed off.

  There was a silence hanging between the two men.

  “Shall I…” started Fitzhugh.

  “Nay!” interrupted Robert suddenly realizing his rambling mind had gone too far, “We’ll speak of this nay more.”

  “Aye, Yer Majesty,” replied Fitzhugh appreciative of his liege’s intermission.

  “Ye may go!” barked Robert trying to regain control of the room.

  Fitzhugh paused in his exit, “Nigh forgot, Yer Majesty,”

  Robert was making his way toward the smell of the hot bread. “What?”

  “Yer son,” he said hoping the king would remember.

  “What about my son?” asked Robert as he fell into the chair and drew himself close to the table of waiting food. “And which son?”

  “Carrick, Yer Majesty, Carrick is due here this day,” Fitzhugh said.

  “What ye reckon that wee prig would be a’wantin’?” asked Robert as he pulled a pinch of bread from the loaf and began to eat.

  “Message ne’er said what he wanted just that he was a’comin’ today,” reported the valet.

  Robert continued to chew as he thought then said, “Do what ye must to receive him, naught more, ye ken?”

  Aye, Yer Majesty… naught more,” came back Fitzhugh with a nod and a closing of the door.

  It was along about mid-afternoon that James, King Robert’s tutor, had finished reading a classic tale of Greek poetry aloud and nodded off. Robert was staring at his long time confidant who was the first to suggest commissioning the poet Archdeacon John Barbour to create his epic poem about King Robert the Bruce to give creditability to the fledgling royal Stewart line. Certainly the Bruce lineage had played out with father then son David but there were in those days many more claimants sticking their ugly fingers into the pie of the Scottish monarchy that it made being king a messy business at best.

  His dazed musings were interrupted by the appearance of Fitzhugh coming to the king’s chamber. The door was ajar so he merely announced his presence. “Yer Majesty?”

  Robert turned to see through the opening.

  “Fitzhugh?” said Robert. “What do ye want?”

  “Carrick this way arrives,” announced the valet. �
��Be comin’ in the bailey gate ‘bout now.”

  Robert who was dressed in the same clothing he had slept in nodded his approval. “Meet him in here, I will,” he added.

  Fitzhugh glanced to the sleeping man.

  “Let him sleep!” commanded the king.

  The king’s guards threw wide the double gates to the castle’s bailey and fifty-one year old John the Stewart, Earl of Carrick and Guardian of the Kingdom sallied through with ten knights of his household entourage in tow. The craftspeople of the castle were lined to the task of welcoming the son of their liege to his home and cheered appropriately.

  Fitzhugh bowed deeply as Carrick approached.

  The king’s household staff bowed deeply, too.

  John dismounted his great destrier and hobbled up the few steps to where Fitzhugh et al stood. His one leg was lame and stiff at the knee from a horse kick not long back.

  “I presume my father is within,” said John abruptly.

  “Indeed, Milord,” groveled Fitzhugh. “He awaits ye in the family quarters… I will escort ye up the steps.”

  “I know my way,” said the Stewart pushing Fitzhugh aside and boldly walking into the vestibule of the familiar castle and up the two flights of stairs to the upper floor with the valet at his heels nervously nattering and inwardly worrying the king was going to punish him for letting the situation get beyond his hand.

  At the top of the stairs John abruptly stopped and looked down at Fitzhugh.

  “In his ‘quarters’, is he?”

  Fitzhugh was wide eyes and swallowed hard. He paused to calculate the consequences of his possible answers then carefully lied, “The king sleeps.”

  “And not to be disturbed, reckons me?” Stewart asked knowing the faithful servant was lying.

  “Allow me to awaken my king, Milord… if ye would so please,” begged Fitzhugh looking for a way to get past the Stewart.

  “Tell him I shan’t wait,” said John.

  “I will tell him, Milord,” replied Fitzhugh, “please to gi’e him time to bathe the sleep from his eyes, Milord.”

  John moved into the hall a bit to allow the valet to pass.

  Fitzhugh squeezed through and went across the upper hall to the king’s room and knocked on the still ajar door.

  “Come!” ordered the king as he could easily see his valet through the opening in the door from where he again stood by the open window.

  Fitzhugh entered and bowed.

  “Carrick here?” asked Robert abruptly.

  “He is, Yer Majesty. Rude about his comin’, too, I might add,” he spouted quickly in a whisper hoping to not be blamed for the mishandling of John’s entrance. “Wants to see ye right away, he does… Right!… away!”

  Robert grumped then asked, “Got him coolin’ his heels below?”

  Fitzhugh panicked. “He is here… At the top of the stairs, he awaits, Yer Majesty!”

  With that the wooden door creaked opened wide and John stood brashly betwixt its jambs. “Not asleep at all I see,” he said with a slight smile showing through his whiskers.

  “Ye not wait to be announced these days… Guardian?” questioned Robert still at the barred window.

  “Waited long enough, I did, father. No time for more,” was the reply.

  “Mighty big hurry, I reckon,” said Robert.

  Fitzhugh slipped past the two men and out.

  John saw James the tutor drowsing comfortably in his chair, the book resting on his knees just beyond his gnarled fingertips.

  “Reckon he’s the one yer man knew to be sleepin’,” he said sarcastically.

  “I see yer army bivouacking yon along my burn,” said Robert peering out the window at the army of four hundred more or less knights, squires and followers pitching tents and building cook fires. “‘Ppears ye got plenty of time.”

  “Leavin’ at first light,” said John as he hobbled deeper into the small room. “Stinks,” he commented.

  “Slop pot in the corner, ‘tis,” replied Robert then adding, “Still crippled I see.”

  John fell into the chair close to the table where the remains of Robert’s breakfast sat.

  “Eatin’ regular?” remarked John.

  “Come to inspect my eatin’ habits, have ye?” said Robert shuffling to his pallet against the wall and sat under the king’s shield… “Or is there somethin’ more to the upper part of yer mind ye want to tell me... son?”

  John paused and cleared his throat.

  Robert inwardly braced himself for bad news.

  “I did not renew the treaty we had with the English,” said John at last. “Too costly.”

  Robert was silent for a while.

  John waited for his father to give him a hint as to the next direction the talk would go.

  Soon Robert soberly asked, “Ye declarin’ war on England, son?”

  “Reckon,” remarked John. “Reckon that’s exactly what I’m doin’.”

  James the tutor grunted and turned fitfully in his sleep but did not rouse to wake.

  “Ye’re disturbin’ the dead,” said Robert pointing to his sleeping friend but intending something far more meaningful.

  “Fife is agreein’ with me. This hain’t somethin’ I’ve taken on by myself!” said John defensively.

  “Aye, ye’re brother likes war but ye’re the Guardian. Ye should have better sense than to stir in war when it hain’t called for,” Robert advised.

  “And what would ye have done, father? Ye who went to war at Neville’s Cross with Uncle David and ran off when the English showed up.” asked John moving aggressively to the edge of his chair.

  “What do ye care what I think?” barked Robert ignoring John’s accusation regarding Neville’s Cross. “Ye who took open rebellion against me, yer own father, and have ripped my kingdom from my grasp.”

  “We took it because…” John paused to gather his reasons.

  “Don’t know the whys of it now, do ye?… My son,” interjected Robert spitefully.

  John badly wanted to turn the conversation back onto the original reason he came and so announced, “Fife said we need to raid into northern England so as to get London to recognize Scotland as an independent nation… as it once was.”

  “Ye back to believin’ the old tales about why the Bruce raided northern England?” asked Robert.

  “Tales?” asked John.

  “He raided because he got ransoms,” replied Robert. “He never got those damned English bastards in London to do anything they did not already want to do.”

  “But they finally ga’e him peace and recognized him as king?” said John.

  “One year ere his untimely death! One year he was at peace with the English,” growled the old king, “then they snatched it back like they were playin’ a young’uns game.”

  “I know that,” lied John.

  “Then ye know the English are far more powerful than the Scotch. Ye should get on yer knees and beg for the return of that treaty ye shat on,” argued Robert with passion.

  “We know what we’re doin’ father… We’ve had a talk with yer John Barbour in Aberdeen and he told us what yer own grandfather had done,” smirked John. “The Bruce was successful!”

  Robert blew out a long sigh and threw up his hands in desperation then slapping them back on his thighs.

  “Ye know… yer as crippled as I am… don’t ye?” said Robert as he put his still booted feet onto the coverlets and laid his head on the straw pillow.

  John did not know how to take the king’s say. He was purely baffled.

  “Ye have Douglas to back ye,” continued Robert as he put his hands together appearing to be prayerful and tucked them betwixt his head and the pillow. “Without his political muscle yer brother would’a been Guardian.”

  “Hain’t true!” protested John forcefully. “Douglas is fixed to go with me!”

  “And at whose behest has all this been planned? Fife’s?”

  John stirred uncomfortably but did not know how to answer his
father to his advantage.

  “Ye, my son… are pulled at the tails of two opposin’ horses. Take that from the old man who ye figure is already done from this world,” said the king from his prone position on his pallet. “If I were ye I’d keep my brother ahead of me in any battle lest he will be king and not ye… when I am gone to my reward.” Robert cunningly smiled and closed his eyes to illustrate his say.

  John was in shock. The old man had gotten him good. He was confused. A part of him knew it to be true but his ego would not let him believe that he was to be done in by his overly ambitious younger brother. And yet, his timidity led him to renewed fear and suspicion.

  King Robert pretended to fall asleep and began a feigned snore. John knew he was being dismissed. He got from his chair, went out the door and hobbled across the hall, down the stairs and rejoined his awaiting knights in the bailey without so much as a hospitality cup or supper in the offering.

  August 9

  The Forest of Jedburgh,

  Scotland

  John Stewart drew rein as he saw his scout coming back through the trees of the Jedburgh Forest toward him. His knights and following men-at-arms halted in queue. A few of his men took advantage of the stop, got from their mounts to stand on the ground, rest their weary crotches and relieve their tortured bladders.

  The scout came to the earl and pulled rein. “I know where Douglas and Fife are a’waitin’ for ye… Milord,” he excitedly said as he gasped between harsh breaths.

  “Ease ye and yer horse, lad,” said the earl. “How far ye reckon?”

  “‘Tain’t far,” said the scout. “Ye could holler at ‘em if ye were a wee bit closer.”

  “After a hundred or more miles ‘‘tain’t far’ sure sounds close to me,” opined the earl with a broad smile.

  Earl John kicked his horse to move ahead. “Come on, laddie. Show me the way.”

  The knights bumbled back to a tight queue within moments following Carrick.

  The proud scout wheeled his little horse and kicked it to guide Lord John through the forest to the bivouacking army commanded primarily by his brother, Robert, the Earl of Fife.