by J. R. Tomlin
Thanks be to St. Bride. It looked to be whole. They'd scuttled it on the MacDougall's orders, most like. James took the edge and heaved it sideways, spilling out most of the water. It floated. He thumped his thigh with a fist in triumph. It would hold three at most, but three would do.
Such a small thing to mean their lives. He had to get the king. Dear God, he had to get the king.
Turning, he realized that whilst he'd worked over the boat, a bank of white fog had finished drifting down from the mountain. So much the better. James grabbed up his cloak, slinging it around his shoulders. Hunched over, he ran back towards their meeting place.
Panting, James dashed up the slope and into the crevasse.
"You're late, Jamie," Bruce said flatly, squatting with the other men. "We found nothing."
"Mayhap you'll forgive my lateness since I did find something." James grinned. "It's small, but it floats. And it has oars."
"What?" Bruce jumped to his feet. "Where?"
"A good way south. Come on." James wanted to shout at them to hurry but he clamped his jaws shut. Motioning for them to follow, he hurried back the way he had come. The others came after, all silent ghosts in the drifting mist. Skirting into the hillocks and well around the cot-house through stands of shadowy birches, at length, he emerged just above the reeds where the boat awaited. He led them down.
"Here," James whispered and squatted next to his find.
"God a'mercy," Edward Bruce said, "that thing?"
"That thing is a boat. And it will save us." The king patted James's shoulder. "Who has a good hand with oars? Someone will have to row back and forth and take us two at a time."
"I fished wi' my father before I took to arms," Wat Bunnok said. "I can row."
"Fifteen trips," Bruce said. "A mile or more each way. That will be a goodly time."
"Especially in this," Wat prodded the boat with a foot. "It'll be slow and take on water wi' three. But if someone bails, we can make it."
With no time to waste, Bruce climbed in. He insisted that James make the first crossing. James was none too sure it was an honor. He'd have sooner swum clinging onto the boat as Gilbert de la Haye was talking about doing. But the king made it a command so he stepped in and took his place beside Bruce. The rickety thing swayed. Water sloshed around his feet. Wat took the oars, and they started.
More water sloshed in. Soon it was up to his ankles so James began dashing it out as fast as he could. The only sound within the veil of white was the splash of the oars. The king was soon bailing, too. The water was almost up to the gunwales. "This wasn't such a good idea," James said as he frantically sloshed water back into the loch.
"No, we're there." The king pointed ahead. A low rocky shore and a bulk of dark trees had crept into view as the curtain of fog parted. As soon as Bruce and James clambered out, Wat pulled the boat ashore. They all grabbed an edge to tip out the water. Wat assured them that with only one, he wouldn't take on enough water to be a problem and started back. Soon all they could hear was the splash of his oars, and then nothing.
Robert de Bruce looked around at the woods behind, mostly birch mixed in with yew. He grinned at James. "Now I have to admit this is a relief." He scanned the loch-side and then pointed at a huge old yew tree a little way from the water on the edge of a dark stand of trees.
"Look." He walked around it, touching its trunk that was two men's arm span around. "Think, lad, how old it must be and how strong to have survived for so long. Yet, once it must have been small and weak."
"I suppose that's true, my lord." James craned to see the tree's top but it was invisible in the dark and fog. "I've never seen one that big."
Bruce nodded towards a sapling nearer the shore. "It started like that. I could snap it off with one hand. Now a hundred men couldn't do that task." He scratched his chin through his beard. "It makes me think. Do you suppose if a little thing like that grew into such a giant, mayhap our own strength might yet grow?"
James smiled. "Have I ever questioned it, my lord?"
"No, I don't think you have." Bruce settled on the soft carpet of leaves under the towering tree and leaned back. "What shall we do whilst we wait? Do you know the tale of Fierabras?"
When he heard the splash of oars, James jerked around, his hand on his hilt. Edward and Alexander Bruce jumped into the water and helped haul the boat ashore. Once the water was tipped out, Wat started back once again.
"Come," Bruce called. "I've found this mighty yew and think it's a sign of good things to come. But I was about to recite a tale as we await the others."
"My brother always liked a good story," Alexander said with a laugh in his voice.
Strange after so long and so much misery for any of them to sound happy. James sat cross-legged near the king. The other two followed. A wind whispered through the trees, creaking branches overhead.
With a distant expression, Bruce began, "In the days of King Charlemagne, the great knight Fierabras..."
Chapter Ten
Lennox, Scotland: September 1306
For two days, they'd traveled south along the loch out of the high hills and mountains and into the marshy flatlands of Lennox. Their only food had been six rabbits James had managed to shoot and a few squirrels Wat had trapped. At least, they'd dared light a fire. The MacDougalls would not venture after them into Lennox. Now further from their pursuers, the king had allowed that James might hunt and taken a few men to do so himself.
James shoved his way through the dark mass of hawthorns. He snagged his hand on a thorn and sucked off the blood. Ahead, something moved. A reddish-brown body flashed, bounding. A roe deer. He waved Thomas Bruce to the side to circle around to the left over grassy ground. Wat was already running the other way. They had no beaters for a proper hunt and no time for traps. If the two could spook the animal and send it back his way, James could bring it down. Not the first time he'd done so since Methven.
"Hie!" Thomas shouted. "Coming your way."
James froze, waiting for it to spring into view. He had only two arrows left. Suddenly, he heard a snarling yap and then a hound's baying.
"James. Run." Thomas yelled. "I'm..." Thomas's shout was cut off.
Cursing under his breath, James tossed away his bow to draw his sword as he ran. What the devil? He burst through the brush. Thomas lay on the ground. A leather-clad man had a knee on his chest and a dirk at his throat. Another man stood nearby with a deerhound snarling as he hauled back on its leash. A second hound leapt towards James. He backpedaled, sword raised.
Three more men exploded through the brush, one with a bow. The archer skidded to a halt and nocked an arrow. Now the hound was snarling, crouched in front of James. Taking another step back, James let his sword drop. He slowly raised his hands. He cursed inside to be so easily taken.
"More of those Comyns, you think?" said the man holding down Thomas.
Thrashing came from the brush and two men dragged Wat through with his arms twisted behind his back.
"No," Thomas choked out.
"Nay. Too ragged-arsed. Poachers, looks to me like, after his lordship's deer."
"His lordship?" James gasped. "What lord?
"This be the earl of Lennox's land, you idiot."
"Lennox? Lennox is here? Alive?"
Finally, the man holding Thomas down grabbed him by the arm and dragged him up, but Thomas was struggling to his feet anyway, a look of wonder on his face. "Holy Mary. Lord Maol? You're Maol's people?"
One of them scratched his head. "Odd poachers. Aye, his lordship'll decide what to do wi' you."
The one with the wolfhound stalked over to jerk James's dirk from his belt. "You'll see him soon enough," he snarled grabbing James's arm. James jerked away, but then let the man pull his arm behind his back. He didn't care as long as they were taken to Lord of Lennox.
"Don't forget to bring my sword," James told the man. It was a gift from the king and he'd rue losing it.
The three of them were shoved through the scrub and
brush to tramp across open turf. Eventually, a mass of dark woodland loomed ahead. Their captors turned onto a narrow path. Dense pines cut off the sunlight except for an occasional golden beam that thrust its way through the murk.
They stepped into a clearing. Armed men and barking, snarling deerhounds boiled around them. James looked, open-mouthed, at the busy encampment. A huge fire in front of a large pavilion was in the center of smaller tents and crude huts made of leafy branches.
A tall, slender man, his dark hair streaked with gray, ducked out of the pavilion, "What goes?"
The man holding him twisted James's arm hard to force him to his knees, but he dropped to one willingly enough. "Found poachers for you, my lord."
James waited for Thomas to say something, but apparently, the situation had stolen the more senior knight's tongue. After a moment, James shoved back against the man still twisting his arm. "You'd begrudge a deer to the King of the Scots?"
Lennox grasped the sword at his side. "Shut up. I saw the king die. And I'll hear no word against him."
"That you did not, my lord," said Thomas, finally finding his voice. "My brother lives. And not far from here."
"What? Your brother?" He stepped close to Thomas, his voice shaking. "Thomas? By the saints, Thomas Bruce?" He shook his head, mouth moving but no sound coming. "Holy Mary, I didn't know you. Let him up. All of them."
James stood, working his shoulders. They'd been well twisted but this was worth more than a strained arm. Lennox well and alive and with armed followers.
"We're none so fine as when last we met, my lord," James said. "Let me go get the king and bring him to you."
"Bring the king to me?" Lennox laughed. "What are you thinking? It's for me to go to him and right gladly. More than gladly."
James frowned. Getting the king to even so slight a refuge was what he'd longed for. "Let me bring the king here. These weeks past, we've been hunted like beasts, and he's in no state to stand on ceremony."
"Mayhaps you're right," Lennox said with a growl in his voice. "The Comyns hold my every castle. I'm a fugitive in my own lands, but we're safe enough here amongst my people. Bring the king to me, then. I'll receive him as he should be."
Bruce would want to know as soon as could be that they'd been found by his good friend. James couldn't help his grin as he ran back the way they had come. The meeting place for the hunters had been set as the River Endrick where it splashed its way over rocks into Loch Lomond. The king would again complain that James was late in his return. He laughed as he ran. This would be even better news than a boat.
When Bruce heard that not only was Lennox alive but near at hand, he clapped James on the shoulder before he prodded him to lead the way back. James led him to the friend he had been convinced was dead along with so many others. By the time they returned, spits of ducks sizzled over the fire and tables had been set out for a feast. James's mouth watered at the smell. Here was luxurious flight indeed compared to their own. But then Lennox was in his own lands and with his own people, obviously loyal.
Maol of Lennox paced up and down in front of his pavilion. When he saw the king, he stopped and stared then took a stumbling step forward. "Your Grace--" his voice choked. "I saw you fall... Thought you dead." Tears ran down his cheeks but he just shook his head. "Even when they said you lived, I couldn't believe it." He held his arms out and Bruce embraced him. For a moment, they stood, arms clasped around each other.
"Forgive me." The earl stepped back and wiped his face with a forearm. "Sniveling bairn, you'd think. But I grieved--for all of us."
"Forgive you, Maol? For loving me?" Bruce gripped the Earl of Lennox's shoulders and gave him a shake. "I've missed you. And grieved. I feared you were lost with so many others."
Lennox cleared his throat and gestured around. "From your lean look, this will do you all good. After you eat, then we'll talk."
They sat around the tables with no ceremony although Lennox made sure that the king had the place of honor at the head. The earl sat at Bruce's right hand, watching him as though he might disappear into a puff of smoke. James threw himself down on a bench amongst the others. They tore into the steaming ducks. Lennox's people brought out bannocks and honeycombs. They passed flagons of wine to wash the food down. For the first time in weeks, James's stomach was full and some of the knots of tension eased from his shoulders at having swords at the king's back. Protection for his lord, even if only small. James licked the grease mixed with the gooey sweetness of the honey from his fingers. He closed his eyes. Odd that he'd never known how good a full belly felt.
At last, the king stood, tearing the meat off a duck's leg with his teeth and tossing the bone into the fire that roared behind them. "So. Your castles are in the hands of whom? Comyns? The English?"
"Some of both. Good luck to them finding me in my own lands, but winter sets in." Lennox gestured around the camp. "Staying here soon won't be possible. I'd thought to flee for my lands in Ireland. Those aren't yet taken."
The king stopped his pacing. "Not altogether a bad plan, my friend. Niall Campbell has gone ahead to the Firth of Clyde to bespeak galleys of his clan, but I'm not for Ireland. I'm to Dunaverty Castle and then to the Isles to raise men. The MacRauris are kinsmen of a sort and the MacDonalds." He crossed his arms and looked at his friend. "Will you come?"
"Need you ask, my liege? Of course, I'll come."
* * *
A few weeks later, a steady drumbeat led the cadence and the MacDonald caterans sang a chantie of some sort, loud and enthusiastic. James understood not one of the lilting Gaelic words. The air smelt of salt spray, and a sharp tang of sweat from the laboring oarsmen hung over the galley, twenty to each side.
At least Angus Og MacDonald had given them men for their galleys. The MacDonald had never admitted the King of the Scots was his lord before and wasn't likely to do so now. Still his aid however small was a welcome respite. On the way to Dunaverty Castle, even the king had taken a turn at the oar. But Angus of the Isles had been unwilling to spare more men than this. As usual, he was at war in Ireland. Yet the king had accepted even so little aid with gracious thanks.
The early winter sun turned the sea into dazzling rays of blue and green that shimmered like jewels. To the east, breakers dashed onto white sands below heather covered cliffs turned a bloodstained red in the changing seasons.
They were sailing northward to Moidart and the Castle of Tioram. The MacDonald had said that Christina MacRauri of the Isles was holding her winter court there.
A shout came from Cuiren MacDonald as he shaded his eyes and pointed ahead into the glare. James stepped onto the bow deck. Cuiren, given them to captain the galleys by Angus Og, spilled out a quick spurt of liquid-sounding words.
The king, standing next to him with Lennox, squinted in that direction. "Ma's àil leibh." He glanced to the others.
James always felt strange at the Gaelic of Highlanders, which the king spoke well-enough. The king's mother had been of the old blood. James could seem to make out not a word of it. He'd always spoken every language he heard whether English or French or Latin. This Gaelic, how had he not learned it?
"See you, two galleys. And he's not happy to see the red and gold of the Ross in MacDonald waters."
James shaded his eyes and strained his eyes through the glare. "Ross. What think you, my lord? Friend or foe?"
"He's taken no oath to me. Cuiden?"
Cuiden was capable of speaking understandably if he so chose. He grinned at James, eyes gleaming before he replied. "'Tis no doubt they're heading this way. Now why would that be? Already the English king harries the southron waters for you, King of the Scots. I'd nae put it past the Ross to bend a knee to England. Especially if he could steal control of these waters from my own lord."
"I don't like the sound of that," Maol of Lennox said, frowning. "I'm no seaman for battles on the water."
Cuiden shrugged. "It's all the same. You kill them or they kill you."
James leaned over t
he rail, gripping it as the galley slapped its way through the waves, splashing icy water in his face. In the eye-burning glitter of the reflected sunlight, he managed to make out two shapes that themselves seemed to be gleaming. "How he can make out the device is beyond me, but they're cutting this way."
"Ross would attack Angus in his own waters? Bold indeed," Bruce said.
Cuiden shouted to the helmsman and the oarsmen. Their second galley cut towards them to coordinate their actions. More shouts led to an adjustment in their course. Each veered to intercept the intruders. The boom of the drum picked up pace. Oarsmen strained, their long sweeps churning the blue water into froth up the sides of the galley. The grunt of the laboring oarsmen made a savage counterpoint to the splash of the oars. The relief oarsmen were taking up swords and the small round shields the Islesmen preferred.
James's hand twitched on his hilt. Surely, they were honor bound to assist the MacDonald in return for his aid. After the fleeing and hiding of the past months, a fight man-to-man would clear a foul taste from his mouth. But it was for the king to say.
The galleys drove straight for each other. Cuiden shouted and the helmsman made another adjustment. The galley turned and the sail-boom cracked overhead. It adjusted again. They drove in towards the stern of the ship. The Rossmen in the oncoming galleys could be seen at the sides, armed for a fight. Along the edge of their own galleys, the caterans waited with grappling hooks.
"Cuiden," the king said, "we're your guests. Would you have our aid or no?"
"You're welcome to join in the fight if it pleases you. Never say that a MacDonald would not share with a guest. But 'tis up to you. If you'd bide in safety..."
"No. You're our hosts and we'll pay our guests' duty." He turned to the others. "Follow their lead in this. It's their style of fighting. We'll do what we may to their aid."
The oncoming galley was adjusting, the oarsmen backing water, but Cuiden's galley and its sister drove in. The two flanked the leading ship. The oarsmen rowed in a frenzy of effort. At a shout, they raised their sweeps.
