A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  * * *

  A lark trilled overhead. James looked up at it in the pale blue of the morning sky. He'd said he preferred to hear the lark sing so here was his chance.

  He had walked the field during the night, checking for anything they'd missed. His sword and dirk were sharpened. In the dark, he'd donned a surcoat with his blue chief and three white stars. As with the king, let the English see whom they fought this day. If nothing else, he'd be finely dressed to die. A sudden wind cracked his pennant. He'd honor Thomas who'd given it to him and his father who'd fought beneath it before him.

  The stack of fifteen-foot long pikes came nearly as high as his waist. One of his man grabbed one and James gave an encouraging thump on his shoulder as he trotted past to take his place. Already the square of James's schiltron was half-formed, the men shoulder-to-shoulder.

  "Wat," James called, "finish here." His sergeant ran up and James picked up his horse's reins and led the animal into the rapidly forming schiltron. He walked up behind one of the men. Grasping the pike, James gave it a shake. "Plant your pike hard, men," he yelled. "When the horse hit, it must be braced." He chewed his lip. They didn't have enough men to pack them in more than one line. His men would have to close any gaps when one went down before the coming assault. It took both hands to hold the pikes. Their only protection was the line of blades, like a hedgehog's spines, thrust out ten feet in every direction in a bristling hedge. Unbroken, no horse could pass. If it broke... James paced the rest of the way around, leading his mount, speaking a low word now and then.

  His banner snapped in the breeze, its pole planted in the earth. With the last man to take his place and close the square, Wat ran in and jerked the banner free to raise it aloft.

  Wat waved it over his head. "A Douglas! A Douglas!"

  James swung into his saddle as his men joined the shout. He wheeled his horse in a tight circle. On one side, Robbie Boyd stood in the midst of a half-formed schiltron, his men forming a huge square. On the other side, Gilbert de la Haye was talking to his men as they formed another and braced their pikes into the dirt.

  His men had never held a schiltron before although he'd practiced it with them. Watching a fully armed knight gallop at you and not break yourself--it was much to ask of a man. But close packed in a square they could hold. Mayhaps. Wallace and Moray had done it--once. His heart was thudding and sweat dripped down his ribs. But his men must not see that he feared.

  King Robert's trumpets sounded and he cantered down the hill. James smiled wryly to see the king on the black stallion he had gifted him with from Douglas Castle. The big animal snorted as it took the steep slope, skidding in the small rocks. The king stopped just up the rise from them so all could see and hear him.

  The king stood in his stirrups and shouted, "My people." He waited until the murmur of voices ceased. "Today we must send a message to all those who long to join us. They must see that we can win. Make no mistake. If we fall today, so falls Scotland. The fate of our nation hangs on our deeds. We must stand against the foe that would destroy us. I need not ask you if you have the heart to die for Scotland. You've shown me your hearts. You've fought beside me when our enemies harried us like deer. No more. Today we stand."

  The king hoisted his battleaxe above his head. "Today we win or we die. For Scotland!"

  "Scotland! Scotland!" the men shouted.

  A glint of light caught James's eye and he stood in his stirrups. Drawing his sword, he pointed. Around the shoulder of the hill, sunlight glared off mail and arms, a thousand--more, the English van. The cross of St. George and Valence's starling banner caught the breeze and whipped over their heads.

  "My liege," he yelled.

  "We know our enemy," the king shouted. "Now we do our duty. For Scotland!"

  Cheers went up. "Scotland! A Bruce! A Bruce!"

  Wat gestured to the pennant that he held aloft, that James had unfolded during the night, flying from the pole in Wat's hand. "You're sure you want me holding this and not a pike? Your bannerman should be a lord."

  "Another pike won't make any difference, Wat. You'll be my bannerman this day. There's no other man I'd want at my back."

  James put on the pot helm that rested on his saddle in front of him. Donning full armor instead of playing spy seemed like a game after such a time. And wearing a helm made him sweat like a sow, but if they were going to do this, the king said they'd do it aright. The king regained the peak of the hill where there awaited a hundred horsemen, a full half of all they had. On the slim strand of firm ground opposite waited the rest with Sir Edward--all light cavalry with no chance to stand against ten times their number in full armor on murderously heavy destriers.

  A trumpet sounded one long call. The English horse came to a canter and spread out from the road in both directions. Shouts drifted to them, battle cries James couldn't make out. A long line galloped towards them. He paced his horse around the inside of the square.

  "Steady," he said. "Steady. Keep solid now."

  The ground shook. The beat of hooves was like thunder.

  "Hold," James said. Above his men's heads, he watched an ocean wave of steel-clad knights and men-at-arms.

  They hit the first ditch.

  Horses crashed headfirst. Riders pitched flailing, launched into the air to crash flat on the ground. Horses went over, knights crushed beneath the weight. Others smashed into them. Screams of men and horses rose under the thunder. A horn blew twice and again. The riders hurtled forward, kicking as they jerked and sawed at reins. On the edge, some went into the bog up to their hocks, rearing and fighting the sludge that sucked them down.

  Never taking his eyes from the growing chaos, James paced his horse back and forth within the schiltron, heart hammering. He shifted his sword in his hand and rolled his shoulders. How many would reach them? The English cavalry rode over their downed men, using their bodies as a bridge. More than half still stormed ahead. Screams.

  Three blasts sounded and the riders jerked to turn. They streamed towards the road. Hundreds now not thousands, they on-rushed. The second pit was a hell of thrashing horses and struggling men. James watched as one man flew or his horse's head to crash face first in the muck. A knight rolled like a rag doll under trampling hooves.

  "Here they come." He kept his voice even, calm.

  The third pit claimed some, but James had no more time to look. All around them, men shouted and horses trumpeted. James could see nothing beyond the line of horsemen that slammed into the pikes. Men died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. The horses plunged, reared and screamed. He spun his horse in a fast circle, ready for a gap in their line.

  A pike splintered as a horse impaled itself on the point. The horse went down, snorting blood. The shattering pike speared his man. A knight in a red surcoat burst through before the gap could close.

  "A Douglas!" He swept his sword and buried it deep in the knight's chest. He wrestled the blade free and the corpse slid off the horse. It bounced.

  The trumpet blew two long blasts, calling to hold their position. "Steady," James yelled. "Close up!"

  A man-at-arms jumped over a body and thrust at him. James lashed out, knocking the blade aside. The man darted back for another try.

  James dodged. "Shoulder to shoulder," he shouted.

  He heard a shout, "England!" Another knight thundered at him from the other direction. Another gap. Wat shouted at the men, cursing them to close ranks. James raked his spurs over his horse's flanks and rode over the first man. The skull burst under his hooves. The other swung a sword around his head. Their horses slammed together; James's light animal went back on its haunches.

  A battering ram blow hit his shoulder. It exploded in pain. He flew face first into the ground, but he rolled and came up on his knees. The horse reared over his head. Lurching, he jammed his sword upward into the horse's belly. A flood of blood and guts spewed. The horse came down like a boulder, he and the screaming rider trapped under it.

  Wat grabbe
d his arm, pulling him free. James stumbled to his feet, scraping gore off his helm with the back of his sword hand. A thrust silenced the knight's screams. Excruciating pain shot through his shoulder. He stumbled in a haze.

  He turned looking for another opponent through a mist--tried to grab his horse's reins but his arm wouldn't work. His shoulder hammered in red agony.

  He was on a knee propping himself up with his sword, not sure how he got there. The battle had moved on. No one was outwith the circle of bloodied men and pikes, except a deep bloody pile of men and horses. A downed horse, pike through its chest, screamed as it struggled to rise and screamed again when it fell. The rest were silent.

  A long single trumpet sounded a charge from high on the hill. Again, the roll of hoofbeats, not so loud this time. The king and his horsemen flew past at a gallop, pursuing the English, the gold and red lion banner whipping over Bruce's head. The remnants of the English charge shattered like thin ice.

  Competing horns blew, in the distance a long and a short blast. Repeated. Then again. Blowing retiral.

  Dizzy, James fumbled to sheath his sword. It seemed strangely hard. He missed and tried again.

  "My lord." Wat had him around his waist, lifting him.

  James groaned at the pain that stabbed from his neck to his fingers when he tried to stand. Blood dripped from his hand to the ground. Someone was yelling his name and kneeling beside him. He tried to answer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Somewhere in Scotland: June 1307

  Smoke rose from castle walls, horses crashed on pikes, a lady sobbed. Men groaned and screamed. James hurt. When James moved, pain hacked at his shoulder and he moaned. But he mustn't let anyone hear. He was the Douglas of Douglasdale, son of his father. Nearby, someone started cursing but soon stopped, and James wondered if the man had died.

  From the top of Loudoun Hill, he walked down the heather covered slope. Crows billowed from feasting on bodies in clouds so thick he couldn't see the sky. Corpses sprawled all over the field. The sun was a watch fire that shone upon headless bodies. Where are my men? Please, no. Did I let them die?

  The caw of the crows was the only sound, but then he began to hear the voices of the dead. Isabella wept and begged for mercy. Thomas's voice called for his brother and ended on a scream. A voice begged for help, and another cried out his mother. James's mother had died birthing him. He would have called out for Alycie, but she should not come to this place of death.

  He walked through a field of bodies. Did I kill them all or only let them die? The king. If only he could find the king, he would ask. But the royal lion standard stood at the top of the hill. Tattered and windblown. Abandoned.

  He awoke in a tent with light shining in. He saw the shape of an upright and the droop of the canvas over his head. He was on a cot with blankets piled on him and a pillow under his head.

  The blankets made him swelter, and his body dripped with sweat. He felt dizzy and his shoulder stabbed when he struggled to sit up. No matter how hard he tried to push himself erect, his arms were too weak to hold him.

  The battle came back to him in fragments. The horses on the pikes screaming, a shattered skull, the knight swinging his sword. But they must have won, or he'd be in chains or dead. If the king didn't live, they would have lost. He felt pleased that he'd winkled that much out. His mind wasn't totally fogged.

  He blinked up when a he saw a face leaning over him, scraggly beard barely sprouted on a young chin. Once more, James struggled to sit up. "Wine," he croaked.

  "Sir James," the boy stuttered. "The king--Lord Boyd. They've ordered to know when you awaken." He scurried away.

  James thrashed his legs to rid himself of the blankets. His fever must have broken, he thought dimly, because he felt like to smother. He ran his hand across his chest but it was wrapped in bandages, his arm strapped down. God's wounds, his mouth and tongue felt like old leather.

  The king bent to enter the tent and inside his head brushed the roof. He knelt next to James.

  "My liege," James croaked.

  "What are you thinking?" the king snapped at the boy dithering in the entrance. "Wine for him. Poppy in it."

  The boy scurried over and scooted around the king to kneel next to James so he could lift him a little and held the cup to his mouth. It went down cool, stinging the splits in his lips. James tried to lift the hand he wasn't leaning on before he remembered he couldn't.

  The king waved the boy away and himself supported James as he laid back. "Wound fever. Keep still, lad."

  James's lips were cracked and dry so it hurt when he gave a wry laugh. "No. Set. Battles."

  "Aye, but it went well. And by the Rood of St. Margaret, you're with us again." The king's face hardened in a mask for a second. "I feared to lose you, too."

  "My men. How many?"

  "Not so bad. Ten of yours. Forty in the whole battle. Valence lost four times that number and the rest fled. I harried them well on their way. Gloucester was a day behind encamped. I sent them both back to their master." He gave a grim laugh. "They should be joyful Edward Longshanks is still at Carlisle, or he'd do Valence even more harm as we did."

  The tent spun around James, and he wondered if he was dying. He thought to ask, but Isabella's voice stopped him. She whispered words in his ear. He couldn't die without telling. He grabbed Bruce's wrist. "I killed Isabel." He struggled against the king's hands, pressing him down into the blankets. "Your grace, what could I do?" He felt tears running down his face and a sob he couldn't stop wracked his body. He clutched onto Bruce's arm. "I sneaked to her--in the castle. She begged me. To end it. I couldn't get her out." His words were strangely muffled. "I couldn't get her out. They hurt her. I had to."

  He could hear the king's voice, but he didn't understand the words. They buzzed in his ears like midges on a hot night.

  Through a haze of sleep, he felt someone raise him. He remembered where he was and looked for the king, but the face was the wrong one, not the king but a grizzled face with a short beard. How long had it been?

  "Do you thirst, my lord?" Wat said.

  He put a cup of water to James's mouth, and he gulped it down.

  He managed to scoot back and, with Wat helping him, sat up. He ran his hand over his face. It was sweaty but the fever seemed gone. His beard had grown. How long had he been ill? "Bad bout of wound fever, Wat?"

  He'd told the king about Isabel. Or mayhap it had only been another fever dream. Had they given him poppy? He frowned, trying to remember.

  "Bad enough. I'll get you some broth."

  "Wait." James jerked at the edge of the bandage and cursed. He was too weak to dislodge it. "I want to see. How bad is it?"

  "Ripped open your shoulder good. Broke the bone. The horse falling on you didn't help."

  When James twitched the shoulder, it was like someone drove a sword into it again. Sweating, he held out his hand. "Give me your dirk. I'll see it."

  Wat looked over his shoulder. "The king will have my head if I make you worse." But he reached behind James to loosen the linen strip, slowly unwinding it. It stuck. Wat grimaced as he jerked to get it free.

  As the bandage pulled loose, James felt cool air on the wound and a jolt of pain. He clamped his teeth and ignored it. Wat tossed aside the bandage, smelling of myrrh and vinegar.

  James strained to see over his shoulder. Even that was agony, but he had to know. A shoulder wound could mean losing use of your arm. At least, it was his shield arm. He lifted it carefully. Where it had been laid open was a long gash that went from his neck to his arm, red and swollen and oozing pus. If it was better, he didn't want to think how bad it had been.

  James slid his feet from the cot onto the floor. His legs wobbled under him when he stood, and the tent spun. He had to grab Wat's arm to keep from plunging face down onto the ground. "Where are my clothes?" Pain gnawed his shoulder like a hound on a bone. The pain and the not knowing made him fume. "Get me my clothes."

  "My lord, the king ordered..."<
br />
  How Wat could be so good in battle and not understand about getting dressed was more than James could understand. "Get. My. Clothes." Wat dug through a pack and pulled out a shirt whilst James swayed on his feet.

  In the end, James settled for breeches and a linen shirt that hung loose about his shoulder over the red, oozing flesh. Wat pulled on James's boots whilst he sat and downed a goblet of wine to strengthen himself.

  Even so, he was dizzy by the time he pushed aside the flap of the tent. Across the camp, crowded with men, the king stood under a spreading oak, talking to Sir Niall Campbell. Wat wrapped an arm around James's waist to steady him. Woozily, James realized they weren't at Loudoun Hill any more. He hadn't known when the camp was moved. The walk towards the king made James's legs tremble.

  The king turned to watch his approach, waving Campbell away.

  "Let me go," James croaked to Wat. "Leave me."

  A stillness in the king's face told him. The words had been truth and no dream. Near the king, he reached up and grasped a branch to steady himself, clinging to it. Sweat beaded his face. His stomach coiled and writhed like a snake. "My liege," He licked his cracked lips. "What I told you. . ."

  The king lifted his chin and his lips formed a stern line. "You told me an ill dream, James. You'll not speak of it again."

  James shook his head. Now that it was out, the king had to know. It had been no fever dream. He'd not lie. "It was. . ."

  "No," Bruce barked out the word. "It's your king's command. Had such a thing happened, think. How many are the lady's kin? Can we afford another blood feud?"

  James felt cold whilst sweat ran down his face. Finally, he said, "No."

  "It never happened. It was a dream. Now, you'll never speak of it again."

  James' lips moved, trying to form a protest that his muzzy head wouldn't make for him.

  "I command you, James, Lord of Douglas."

  Tears prickled in James eyes but he forced them back. She deserved more than weak tears. He'd never speak of it again. Yet, he would pray for her. That he could do. "As you command, my king."