A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  Two gaolers stood in the opening, one holding shackles.

  "What's happened?" Lamberton asked, forcing down terror, his racing heart.

  The one with the shackles, short and stout, smirked as he came in and grabbed Lamberton's hand.

  "Behind his back, my lord said," the other told him. He was frowning though, not enjoying himself.

  Mayhap he had an ounce of mercy.

  "What's happened?" Lamberton asked again trying to keep the panic from his voice, but the man shook his head. His fellow jerked Lamberton's hands into chained shackles behind his back.

  At least, they left his feet free. He walked steadily between them down the worn stone steps. Shoved through the narrow doorway, he blinked, blinded by daylight, eyes tearing.

  One of the gaolers put a hand on his shoulder to halt him. Over the castle’s eastern wall, the sun's harsh light cast shadows of the tall merlons across the stony ground, a maw of lion's teeth. The cold, wet air was filled with the half-forgotten smells of horses and rain.

  Squinting, he saw a knot of knights around the entry of the keep. King Edward stood a few feet ahead of them, his clothing all crimson and gold, patterned with a leopard on his chest and a gold crown on his head. Then Lamberton saw why they'd brought him down. He took a stumbling step.

  Thomas Bruce knelt dripping blood into the dirt. Beside him lay a man Lamberton didn't recognize until Alexander Bruce turned his head. Purple bruises covered his face, his eyes, swollen shut. Beyond them, the scaffold stood ready, a fire sending up a thread of smoke from a brazier.

  An executioner in black leather held his terrible knives.

  "No," Lamberton whispered.

  "Bishop," Thomas croaked to him, raising his hands, "forgive-"

  A man-at-arms ran at Thomas and kicked him sprawling into the dirt.

  Men were shouting and laughing but Lamberton never heard them.

  "Ego te--" Fingers thrust through his hair, jerking Lamberton's head back. The gaoler had a cloth in his hand. Lamberton threw himself sideways, wrenching his head to the away. "--te--" His scalp ripped and blood trickled down his neck. The gag cut off his words.

  One man-at-arms pulled Alexander with each arm; his feet thudded on the edge of the steps as they dragged him onto the scaffold. Supported between two more, Thomas stumbled his way up.

  King Edward strode to the middle of the bailey. "My son begged my mercy on his dear friend, Alexander Bruce." He looked into Lamberton's face and smiled. "But treason shall not go unpunished." He motioned to the executioner. "When you are done with them, bring me their heads."

  Behind him, the gaoler twisted Lamberton's arm. The joint tore. "Be still," the man snarled in Lamberton's ear. Sour wine scented his breath. "If you fight me, I'll make you sorry."

  The executioner hauled on the rope and Alexander's limp body swung, twisting. The body thumped onto the ground and the executioner bent over it. He straightened. "My lord, this one is dead already."

  King Edward stared deep into Lamberton's eyes, though his smile wavered. "His head will grace the castle gate. Now the other."

  The executioner repeated the process and quickly lowered Thomas back onto the platform. Thomas groaned when a man-at-arms dashed a bucket of water over his head to revive him.

  De profundis clamavi ad te domine. Tears ran down Lamberton's face. They soaked into the gag, and he tasted their salt. He threw himself forward. The gaoler wrenched Lamberton's arm up behind him. He screamed into the cloth. Only the force of the hold, hard as steel, digging into his arm kept him on his feet.

  Men-at-arms lifted Thomas onto a table and held him. The executioner lifted a blade. He slashed down at Thomas'sgroin. Blood gushed and splattered across the tormenter's hands.

  Dimly, as if from far away, Thomas screamed, "Robert!"

  The blood-soaked execution threw flesh into the fire. Again, the man bent to his task, blood puddling around Thomas as his belly was ripped open. A shriek. Then all was silence.

  The executioner walked to the edge of the scaffold and dropped to a knee. "I'm sorry, your Grace."

  "A poor job that he died so fast," King Edward barked. "Do better next time or you'll join them."

  The gaoler spat. "They're done.

  The knot of nobles parted and the king passed through them. Numb, Lamberton let the gaoler drag him into the darkness. He didn't remember the man unfastening the shackles, but they were gone. A shove landed him into the corner of his dungeon. The door crashed closed.

  He lay in a shuddering heap where he'd landed, sucking in gulps of air. At last, he rolled onto his back. He moaned at the pain that shot through he torn shoulder, but it must be born. Inching his hands up the slimy wall, he crawled onto his knees. He leaned his head against one of the rough stones and shuddered. God in heaven, how could even Edward be so cruel?

  "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum--"

  He never knew how long he had prayed or even all that he had said, but at last, calmness washed over him. Holding his throbbing arm to his chest, he climbed to his feet.

  He stumbled to the cot and sat down. The bowl of gruel still sat where he'd left it. Sticking the spoon into it, he gave the cold mess a stir and then put some in his mouth. He choked it down. For a moment, his stomach rebelled. He leaned forward, hand over his mouth. It burned, surging back into his throat. He forced it down and waited until he could manage another bite. Then another.

  Edward Longshanks would not destroy him.

  * * *

  The next day was another long walk. James and Wat passed nothing that looked likely for getting more food. They made do at noonday with another bannock cooked beside the road. As they started to leave, James heard the clank of harness. He held up a hand. A horse whinnied. They might have hidden, but they were just two men-at-arms being sent for reinforcements. Hiding would look suspicious.

  Six riders crested the rise in the road, jingling towards them. Six all in chainmail. One was a knight in a shining breastplate with a blue lion rampant on a shield that hung from his saddle. Percy men this far east? James's face closed.

  "Ho." The knight called as he reined in, his big charger stamping and snorting as they drew up. "Just who are you two?"

  Horses long away from their stable in need of grooming. That shield had a splatter of blood on it. James bowed and kept his eyes down. The bishop had always said his eyes showed too much. "Sir, I'm Jim. My lord ordered us to Castle Douglas."

  "Scruffy looking pair. Two men-at-arms the best Lord Clifford can do?"

  Douglas scratched his beard. "Been on the road awhile, sir. Don't know about my lord. Just do what I'm told like."

  The knight nudged the horse closer to them. James examined the animal's hair fetlocks. Keep still, he told himself, and don't reach for your sword. "I'll let you go then. Don't want to interfere with his lordship. We've cleared the Scots from the area. Orders to make sure they don't try rising for King Hob." A couple of the men laughed.

  "Ah. King Hob. Yes." James chewed that over but there was too much wrong with it to think on whilst the knight was sneering down at him.

  The man spat at his feet. "Dumb as dirt. Bloody Scots." He jammed his heels into the horse's flanks and cantered away, the others following after.

  James waited until they were out of sight beyond a bend in the road. "Let's go. I'd as soon not meet up with them again. There wasn't a word of that I liked the sound of."

  "Mayhap we should leave the road--James."

  James licked at his sore lip. "No. I need to see what they meant about clearing the Scots."

  So they started northeast again on the rutted road. Where were the travelers? Merchants? People on their way to market? They kept trudging. Once in the middle of a dark stand of pine, they came face-to-face with two men laboring to pull a cart of firewood. As soon as the men saw them, they dropped it, backing away. Then the two turned and ran. James looked after them and Wat made a sound in his throat.

  "Dead frightened," he said.

 
It was a long day's walk. They passed under the limbs of a dense stand of oaks, the ground littered with brown leaves and rotted acorns. Through the trunks, James saw a village or the smoke that rose from it. There was something wrong with that, rising in a thick column. Not wisps from a chimney.

  It was the first village they had approached since leaving the king's hiding place. James skirted it to the right whilst he sent Wat the other way to make sure no one lurked in what was left. Sliding in and out amongst the beeches and oaks, sword in hand, he startled a hind that leapt away and bound through the gorse. James watched after it for a moment. Wat waved to him, so he turned and went in. No one was in the village but they hadn't been gone long. Three of the houses were still smoldering, their roofs fallen in, a column of smoke drifting in the breeze. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and death.

  The huge oak in the middle of the village was full of bodies. The crows had started on them and one flew away, squawking when James neared. Flies buzzed in a dense black cloud. Rope cut deep into the swollen flesh of their throats. They twisted and turned as the air stirred. In front of one of the cottages, a dog growled over a man's sprawled body, his belly ripped open. A string of gut hung from its mouth.

  Wat shouted a curse at it and it ran.

  "Nine." James spat a mouthful of bile on the ground and cleared his throat. "Surely that wasn't the whole village. No children. Thanks be to God."

  Wat turned in a circle, scanning. "Some must have run--gotten away."

  James plunged his hands into his hair. Madness. "What sense does this make? These weren't fighters."

  Wat squatted, looking up at the bodies that swayed in the breeze. "Do you know why your father surrendered Berwick Castle?"

  James started to say because they were under siege, but then he thought about it. He remembered standing on the walls as people were cut down--thousands of them--in the city outwith the castle. The screams had gone on until he had thought they would never stop. But it had been worse when they did.

  "He could have held the castle longer, couldn't he? He could have held it a lot longer." James had never thought of that before.

  Wat nodded. "Now mind, I'm not saying Longshanks wouldn't have taken it and that played into the thing. He bargained himself to save the garrison. But some will tell you that this--" he motioned to the bodies "will only work on womenfolk. Don't you believe it. Any men still alive will think hard before they risk their village and family rising against the Sassenach."

  "I suppose. But there's the other side too, Wat. They'll never forgive it. So if we can show we can win, then they'll rise. They'll follow the king."

  "Well, now, showing that will take some doing." Wat scratched the back of his neck. "Are these your Douglasdale people?"

  "I don't remember this village, but, yes, we're in Douglasdale. But why here? Where there's been no fighting?"

  Wat shrugged.

  James crossed his arms over his chest tucking his hands into his armpits. He wouldn't shame himself by Wat seeing his hands shake. "We can cut them down. But we have no way to bury them." James nodded towards a stone kirk at the side of the village, still whole and unburned. "Mayhap at the kirk."

  "Do we have time for burying, James?"

  "No, but I can't leave them for the crows and the dogs. These are my own people. It's up to me to care for them." He gritted his teeth to steady himself and strode towards it. He came to a halt when he got to the front. The man nailed spread-eagle to the door of the building wore a priest's robe.

  "Mother of God." Blood had dribbled down the wood from his hands and his feet.

  "Wat," he shouted and ran to lift the priest's head. "He still lives."

  Wat loped towards him and then broke into a run. "How do we get him down?"

  "God damn them." James pulled out his dirk and began trying to lever out one of the spikes driven through the priest's hand. "See if you can find something better to use. I'll do what I can." He cursed. The spike held against the thin blade.

  After what must have only been a few minutes but had seemed like days, Wat ran back with a thin bar. "He has a bothy in back." He went to work on the other hand. By the time James pulled on the one spike, Wat was pulling out the one driven through the priest's feet. James grabbed him around the chest and they lowered him to the ground as blood dripped to sink into the dirt. The man moaned. James realized that his hands were shaking as he grabbed off his cloak. He used it to cover the priest.

  Telling Wat to go cut down the corpses, James lifted the priest gently. He carried the man around back to kick open the door to the hut, leaving drops of blood in the dirt.

  The place held nothing more than a cot and table. James settled the priest under a blanket. Wat was right, for a certainty, that they had no time for burying and they couldn't give rites as should be. But they could lay the bodies safely in the kirk. The question was how badly was this priest hurt? Some of his villagers would creep back when they thought it safe. James grabbed the table and dragged it closer. There was a flagon of water. He filled a wooden cup that sat there. He looked at the wounds, bleeding but not so bad that the priest was like to bleed to death. Wound rot and fever was more a problem. Using his dirk, James cut strips from the bedcovering. He wrapped them tightly around the bloody holes.

  The priest's eyes fluttered open. "What..." His tongue was thick and he couldn't seem to get words out.

  James sat beside him and lifted his head to let him drink. "You're all right, Father. The Sassenach are gone."

  Water dribbled from the man's lips as he gulped thirstily. "You're-- You're--"

  "No southron, Father." James let the man's head down and refilled the cup. At least, they'd leave him with water and he could only hope that would be enough. "What happened here?"

  The priest rolled his head back and forth. "I had a message from the Bishop of Moray. Saying to preach to rise for Bruce. But there are no fighters here. Not even a lord. All gone. I--I didn't. But they came anyway." A tear rolled down his face. "They came anyway."

  "I think some of the people ran away. They'll be back."

  The priest's eyes opened and widened. "Who are you?"

  "Just say I know the Bishop of Moray and leave it. I'll not bring more troubles on you. We'll move the bodies safely into the kirk before we go. There's no more I can do." He patted the priest's shoulder. "There's water here. Rest."

  But the man's eyes had closed, his face went flaccid. James put a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief to feel it rise and fall. He itched to leave and to reach Douglas Castle. If this was done in such a small village, his stomach knotted to think what might have happened there. He'd help Wat move the bodies into the kirk. Then they'd be off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Douglasdale, Scotland: March 1307

  James crawled through the drizzling rain. The brown carpet of dried leaves squished under him, wet oozing into his jack. Huge bare oaks and tall pines cast dark shadows. On a slight hill above them was Castle Douglas, old and solid, with faint light shining out of the slit windows. On the wall, the silhouette of a man-at-arms moved as he walked his watch.

  James' stomach lurched. From a tree beside the keep, two bodies hung, swaying in the rising wind. He ground his teeth. The truth was he'd wanted a sight of the castle. Home. A home he couldn't hold. But if he couldn't hold it, he could still see the English burning in hell for what they'd done. He tried not to remember which of these trees he'd climbed as a lad.

  By the time he made his way back to the glen where he was meeting Wat, darkness had fallen. The black clouds hid the moon. Thunder crashed and lightning slashed the sky, lighting the night like daylight.

  "This is going to get worse," Wat said. "Looks like a good storm."

  James had to agree with him. The village of Douglas was only two miles away and Thomas's farm just beyond that. They needed to find shelter. The rain had turned to sleet slashing at him by the time they passed east of the village. When the lightning flashed, the s
mall timbered house was a welcome sight at the end of the muddy path. A glimmer of light shone through the shutters.

  Wat crept ahead to scout whilst James crouched in the driving sleet, his cloak flapping around him. He grabbed it close more to still it than for warmth and listened. The howl of the wind and crack of branches was all he could hear. Wat was back after a few minutes and tapped his arm to give him the all clear. They'd already agreed James would go in alone in case something went wrong.

  James wondered why his heart was hammering so hard. He was just going to talk to one of his father's men. It shouldn't make him feel like a nervous lad. So he stood up and strode to the door. As he hammered on it, another crash of lightning lit up the sky.

  "Who is it?" a voice shouted from inside.

  "An old friend." James hoped. He couldn't recognize the voice from the muffled shout over the sound of the storm.

  "What old friend?"

  "Thomas Dickson, is it? Open the door." Thunder crack again. "Thomas, you knew my father."

  The door opened halfway and Thomas Dickson looked out. His father's man had a craggy face. His nose was hooked and he had a beard down to his chest though now it was streaked with gray, but there had always been a hint of laughter in his blue eyes. James stood with his hand on the doorway, his hair crusted with ice.

  "Thomas," James said.

  The man looked him up and down, no smile in his eyes now. He frowned in puzzlement.

  "It's Jamie."

  Thomas's eyes widened. "By the rood." He grabbed James's arm and pulled him inside. First, he took a quick glance into the darkness and then he slammed the door.

  "Jamie." He threw his arms around James, pounding his back and laughing. "Lad, you're alive."

  James laughed and pounded back. "Unless you break something, pounding on me."

  "We have to talk, lad." Thomas shook his head. "It's my lord now. That's hard to remember. I still think you an imp following your father about."