A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  James ran in the direction Mowbray had ridden, onward out of the trap. He stepped on the green banner in the sodden muck. One of James's men grabbed Mowbray's stirrup. Mowbray hacked down on his shoulder. He gave a bubbling shriek.

  Mowbray hit his horse's flank with the flat of his sword. The animal gathered its haunches and lunged to a gallop. An arrow whistled past him. James ran a step in that direct and then stopped, cursing. No chance to catch him.

  The air was full of the stink of blood and shit. He found Pym dead. Another corpse lay in the muck and James cursed again. He'd forgotten the man's name. How could they trust him if he didn't even know their names? Iain lay stuffing a rag on a slash in his leg, pale and bloody but still alive. An English man-at-arms groaned with his arm slashed open.

  "Leave him be," James said to one of his men standing over him. He gave a twisted grin. "No harm for the Mowbray to find out who did the dead."

  At every step, there was a dead horse and a dead enemy. Not so many--he counted as he walked. Only seventy enemies dead but they'd turned them. There would be no reinforcements for Valence. Not now. Even if he hadn't crossed swords with Mowbray, the man had run like the craven he was.

  Wat ran up, sweat rolling down his grizzled face. "My lord--" He stopped to gulp down a breath of air. "Should we try to follow? Harry them?"

  "No. Back to camp." He gestured. "Loot the bodies but make it fast in case some of them find courage in their bellies for a fight."

  Wat laughed. "Not likely. They'll not stop running before Bothwell."

  James rolled a corpse over with his foot. He looked down at a face no older than his own and now wouldn't be. Why couldn't these people stay in their own land? They had a kingdom that was big--rich. Once England had been enough for seven kings it was said, and now they wanted Scotland, too. Why?

  "We'll leave no weapons or armor. We need all we can get." His smile was grim. "The English can pay for our war now."

  That afternoon, James paced the camp. He crouched beside Iain. The man was too badly injured to ride with them to the king. Anyway, he'd need someone to carry messages and reports from his spies so they'd leave a handful of men here.

  When he returned, he would meet with the spies. He would know all of the men and women, too, who risked so much. Even though it wasn't really for him, he owed them that.

  He'd given the king his word he would return in good time. And with battle looming, with the king he must be.

  Chapter Twenty

  Near Loudon Hill, Scotland: May 1307

  The light mellowed as the sun sank to the top of distant mountains. Ahead at the top of a heather covered hill rose a small square keep. Beyond it, stretched out under trees was a camp with smoke rising from dozens of fires. Tracking down the king had taken James two days. He'd moved further into Ayr from since he'd fought at Glen Trool, but, for a certainty, of that James approved. Staying several steps ahead of their enemies was likely to keep them alive.

  A handful of men stood in front of the keep, and James strained to make them out. "Wat," he yelled back, "I'm riding ahead." He clapped his spurs to the big stallion he was riding as a gift for the king. It gathered its haunches and sprang into a gallop. James leaned forward over its neck, wind whipping his hair and he laughed.

  A man swung out the door, blond hair touched with a few strands of gray, red-lion surcoat over his armor. A knot in James's stomach untied. He'd not been truly quite sure that he'd see the king ever again. He pulled up hard on the reins and the horse came to a rearing halt a few feet from where Robert de Bruce smiled up at him.

  James froze for a moment. It had only been a month since he'd seen the king, yet it seemed more than a lifetime. Then James realized he was sitting his horse in the king's presence. He threw himself down and took two running steps to drop to a knee and reach for the king's hand. "My liege."

  "Jamie." The king smiled and there was a hint of relief in his face. He motioned towards the stallion. "Tell me how you acquired this animal you galloped in on. You're looking fine indeed, my Lord of Douglas."

  James's band of men clattered up and Wat shouted for them to dismount.

  James gathered the reins and handed them to the king. "Lord Clifford no longer had need of the horse it seems. I brought him to you for your use--and my loyal men of Douglasdale I promised you."

  Bruce took the reins, laughing and looped them to a post. "So you did, Jamie." He put his arm around James's shoulder and nodded towards the keep only three stories and the gray stone crumbling, James realized now that he was closer. "I want you to tell me this tale of how you got a horse of Lord Clifford."

  "More the horse of his commander, but as close as I could get to the miscreant."

  This was a tale that would be ill telling, he feared. Over his shoulder, he ordered Wat to see to the men and went with the king towards the door of the keep. Sir Niall Campbell and Robbie Boyd both were waiting inside in the musty-smelling hall. Sir Edward stood next to a slot window looking out.

  Bruce looked around at the place. "Not fine, but mine own for the moment and better than a cave, I mark me."

  "It's time and past time that you had a roof over your head, my lord." He went to the tiny fire that burned in the hearth at the end of the hall. The reeds on the floor were pounded flat and smelled of droppings. Squatting he held his hands out to the flames although it wasn't cold.

  The king turned a chair and sat, facing James with a thoughtful expression. "I've reports that Mowbray is moving to join his forces with Pembroke's. We were making plans--"

  "Oh, well, as to that," James said and then clamped his teeth. His manners had apparently gone somewhere else to lodge that he'd interrupt the king. He inclined his head, coloring, "Forgive me."

  Bruce waved a hand. "No, Jamie, speak."

  "Two days back Mowbray found it wise to turn back to Bothwell. We laid an ambushed for him at the Edryford. Killed not so many. Less than a hundred by my count, but Mowbray fled." He laughed as he stood. "And left with his troops running in the other direction."

  "With the men you have with you now? So few?"

  "I lost two men, but for the most part, yes, my lord." James smiled. "They're good men."

  "And the horse--from Lord Clifford's commander?"

  James paused and felt his face go stiff. "That--may not please you so well." James sucked in a long breath and watched the king's face as he told him the whole story of the attack on Douglas Castle. Even Edward Bruce had turned to stare at him. "My spies tell me people call it the Douglas Larder. But it was a fine fire. I know not how long it took to wash the blood from the floor of the kirk." He stared out the window at the tint that covered the hills as if the setting sun had shed its own blood. "And that's the tale, my liege."

  The king was silent for a long moment. "God's wounds, James." He shook his head. "That's a grim story."

  James felt himself flare at the king's words. "Grimmer than Sir Thomas, or Nigel, or Alexander, my king?"

  Bruce sprang to his feet and strode around the room. "Revenge? I--I want it. But--" He swung around. "Can I kill every man who's sided with the English this year past? Every English who's held a castle in our land?"

  "No." James rubbed his beard. "Not revenge in truth, though I want it. Yet, if those men had lived, my people of Douglasdale would have been killed. I couldn't let the English know who had aided me and let Clifford take his revenge on them." He gave a hard sigh. "So I killed the prisoners instead--after they surrendered their swords to me. There've been days when I've felt I'd never be rid of the blood. But I did what I had to do."

  Boyd hammered his fist down on a table in the middle of the room so hard that a map bounced. "Who raised the dragon? It wasn't you, my lord. Or Jamie. Edward Longshanks still offers no quarter to any man he captures."

  "I tell myself that. I found my people raped and abused by those men. It was justice to kill them, but..." It would be weakness to tell them that he'd his reached his nineteenth year the day before and had wakene
d from dreams of killing. So he kept the thought in his head.

  "You're right, both of you. We've little choice if we're to live and the people we have a duty to protect. You did what had to be done. The kirk--attacking in the kirk was a hard thing, but I'll say nothing about it. And Valence won't have Mowbray's men when he meets us." Bruce nodded. "Well done, lad."

  James swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He remembered stories his father had read to him about Roman soldiers who fell on their swords. That had to have been easier. And he couldn't do it. The words to say he'd killed the woman who set a crown on his king's head would not come.

  Edward swaggered to the table and thumped a finger on the map that lay in the middle. "It seems to me we've spent enough time on boyish problems. We have a battle to plan."

  James' face flushed. After everything, he would not take Edward's jibes. "My lord." He swung around on the man, hand on his hilt and face scalding with heat.

  "Enough, Edward. You too, Jamie." Bruce looked from one to the other. "I'll have no words between you."

  James ground his teeth but held his peace. One day the man would get himself or the king killed with his high-handed ways.

  "As for planning the battle, that I have ideas on." Bruce pointed to the map. "See you here where the road runs under the Loudoun Hill. What this doesn't show but I remember well, there are bogs on both sides. It's why I chose the place." He looked up at Niall Campbell. "You remember that?"

  Campbell turned the map so he could look at it.

  Crossing his arms across his broad chest, Boyd said, "The bogs get close thereabouts, if I mind me."

  Bruce's smile was grim. "I owe Valence a turn or two for Methven."

  "I don't question that, my lord," Campbell said. "But we'll be badly outnumbered again. At least three to one, mayhaps more. I'd be for retiraling. Refusing the battle."

  "A set battle?" James asked with a frown. "When I heard you agreed to it and couldn't believe you'd do so. They'll have ample cavalry even without Mowbray. And what of archers? Can we hold against them?"

  "Skulking. I've always known you were good at that, Douglas," Edward said. "But I'm a Bruce and it's time we stood up and fought like men."

  The king hammered on the table with his fist. "I said no words between you two." The king glared at first one and then the other. Bruce's voice turned to steel. "I mean there to be peace between you. That is your king's command."

  "As you will, my liege." James and Edward locked gazes. Peace didn't mean he had to like the man, king's brother or not. But he still offered Sir Edward his hand. They gripped forearms and Sir Edward looked no happier than James felt.

  "Do you see what I mean, Robbie?" the king continued as though he'd never been interrupted. "My people have been flocking to me and I mean to keep on as we have. But I have to show that in the field, I can stand. Else how will they truly believe? So--I'll take his challenge. This once."

  "Oh, aye, I see it. We'll need to look the ground over, but if we can break their charge, then mayhap--just mayhap we can hold against them. We need to know whether they bring archers. If they have archers--" He grinned his deadly grin. "Well, they shouldn't reach the battle."

  "Another thing. I had a message from Bishop Moray that he's within an hour's ride. If I know the good bishop, he'll have Moray troops at his back ready for the battle. Then we'll move and prepare."

  The next hour Bishop Moray with a hundred men-at-arms arrived. The Bishop was one of the few men in Scotland who had never spent time in King Edward's peace. Even the mention of the English king brought a look to his face that chilled. James had no doubt he'd consign the English monarch to hell or to worse if he could think of worse.

  As usual, the bishop wore armor with a cross painted on his surcoat, a priest militant if ever there had been. James thought about going to him, asking to make confession. He'd never been religious in spite of the training Lamberton had tried to drum into him. But the fact was he'd rather not die with what he'd done unconfessed. If he'd never been religious, he'd never before been sure that God had abandoned him. He watched the Bishop and waited. It was too hard. Coward, he told himself. He'd never thought he was a coward before.

  From a distance, he watched the Bishop talk to the others and go through the camp blessing men who sought it. He watched and stood apart. Twice the bishop caught him watching and paused. James turned away.

  It was near dark and James sought the king. If he would permit, James would take his own men ahead to harry strays or small groups and to scout the enemy as they marched. The king must know if Valence had archers. This would suit James better than marching with the van.

  He walked through the camp. The men lay at ease about their campfires, mostly lowland men-at-arms who had joined the king these last months. But there was a good scattering of highlanders in their saffron tunics. Some were sharpening weapons whilst others talked. The strains of a song drifted from one of the fires.

  Mayhap the king had retired to the keep. James turned his steps that way and pushed open the battered door. The Bishop swished a whetstone along the edge of his sword and looked up.

  James froze. Heat flooded his face.

  Bishop Moray carefully placed his sword on the table. "Come in," he said.

  James's heart hammered, but he felt a strange relief when he knelt beside the bold-faced cleric. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to it. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he recited.

  The words came slowly, the story a bit at a time. If the door opened in the course of that hard half-hour, James didn't see it or hear it. Twice he stopped, his head bowed, what he was telling too much in front of his eyes to continue. His face grim, the bishop gave James penance and absolution as he made the sign of the cross.

  The room fell silent. "Go in peace," the Bishop said.

  Any priest would say he was forgiven. The bishop said he was forgiven. Was it yet another sin that he felt as condemned as ever? "Thank you, my lord. I'll pray for her as you command." He mustn't wonder if God would hear him.

  "There's another thing." The bishop stood up and looked James in the face. "You have to tell the king. I couldn't require it. But you must."

  James looked out the narrow slot window at the darkness beyond. "I know. It's how he'll look at me when I tell him that stops me--how much it will hurt him."

  The king's right of justice wasn't what worried him. He would understand. They'd suffered too much together for them both not to know what sometimes had to be done. But it would pain him. Another death, worse in its way than the others. James had killed the woman who'd put a crown on his head.

  * * *

  James had ridden hard with Wat and two of his men the night before. It had taken two changes of horse, but they'd found Valence and crept in close as the Englishman led his glittering mass of soldier. Two thousand at least but surely no more than three. And no archers.

  As the English marched, their armor glimmering like a second sun. Hundreds of banners waved in the wind over the whole host, Valence's starling, the English Cross of St. George, the Plantagenet leopard, and more--too many to count. James shook his head. No doubt the man thought to ride them down, knowing how outnumbered the Scots were. They thought to destroy Robert de Bruce and the six hundred men with him like a worm squashed underfoot.

  James let the gallop back the way that they'd come, cutting across country on their light garrons. They passed through bog and moor where the heavy English horse dare not go. Loudoun Hill came into view, a hump that rose a thousand feet into the air. In the dark moors, James led his men towards the road that ran past it, the road that Valence would be forced to follow. On each side of the road, men labored digging ditches. On the heather-covered slope of the hill spread cook fires and tents in ragged array. The king's gold and red banner flew on the crest beside the blue saltire of Scotland. James nudged his lathered horse's flanks to kick clods out of the dirt as it scrambled and labored.

  The king, clad in mai
l covered by a surcoat of gold with the red lion on its breast, stood surrounded by his lieutenants.

  "Your grace," James exclaimed as he jumped from the saddle, "we found them."

  "And?"

  "No archers, my lord. Mostly medium cavalry. Two thousand at least. Another five hundred heavy destriers. We have today to prepare. That's all."

  Bruce grunted. "He thinks to catch me unawares by a fast march. Let him come."

  Boyd pointed down to the bogs that bordered the road a hundred feet out, not close enough to keep the English cavalry from charging, as James well knew. "The first ditch is dug up to the edge of the road and hidden by peat. They've just started on the second."

  "That will slow them down. But not stop them." James chewed his lip. "What if I take my men and we start the third? A bowshot from the second. That would bring the trap right to the edge of the bluff. If we run out of time, at least all three would be partially dug. We'll dig the part that's closest to the road."

  The king nodded. "Go ahead." Edward Bruce looked down his nose as James signaled to Wat to pull his men from the ranks of those laboring in the bright sun. Half dug on one side of the road and half on the other. James grabbed a shove and thrust into the mucky ground. Sweat ran down his face as he dug up the heavy stuff. It stuck to his legs and coated his arms.

  Further out, the moor was its own trap ready built. It was only here, close to the road, that they had to make their own trap for oncoming destruction.

  Wat grunted when they had it a three feet deep. James said to extend it to the side. "This is deep enough, my lord?"

  "Deep enough to stop a charging war horse." He gave a grim laugh. "And do its rider no good. The only question is will we stop enough of them."

  Sweat dripped down his bare arms streaking dirt from digging. The heavy, wet muck was hard to dig and slow to move. It couldn't be piled where the English would see it and that meant men carrying it away. Peat had to be cut to cover the ditches to hide the trap. By night, the second ditch was finished and the third halfway to the bog where it narrowed close to the road.