The Black Douglas Trilogy
Page 1
The Black Douglas Trilogy
By J. R. Tomlin
The Black Douglas Trilogy
Copyright © 2014 by J. R. Tomlin
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
A KINGDOM'S COST
Book I of The Douglas Trilogy
PROLOGUE
Paris: September, 1300
CHAPTER ONE
Stirling, Scotland: July 1304
CHAPTER TWO
London, England: August 1305
CHAPTER THREE
St Andrews, Scotland: March 1306
CHAPTER FOUR
Scone, Scotland: March 1306
CHAPTER FIVE
Perth, Scotland: June 1306
CHAPTER SIX
Carlisle Castle, England: July 1306
CHAPTER SEVEN
Glendochart, Scotland: July 1306
CHAPTER EIGHT
Near Dail Righ, Scotland: August 1306
CHAPTER NINE
Near Loch Lomond, Scotland: September 1306
CHAPTER TEN
Lennox, Scotland: September 1306
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Arran, Scotland: February 1307
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carrick, Scotland: March 1307
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Douglasdale, Scotland: March 1307
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Douglasdale, Scotland: March 1307
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Douglas Castle, Scotland: March 1307
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ettrick Forest, Scotland: April 1307
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Douglasdale, Scotland: April 1307
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Douglasdale, Scotland: April 1307
CHAPTER TWENTY
Near Loudon Hill, Scotland: May 1307
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Somewhere in Scotland: June 1307
Historical Notes
List of Historical Characters
Author's Notes / Scottish and Archaic Words
COUNTENANCE OF WAR -
Book II of The Douglas Trilogy
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
Two months later
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Spring, 1309
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
August, 1311
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
June, 1312
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
February 1314
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
June 23, 1314
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Historical Notes
List of Historical Characters
Author's Notes / Scottish and Archaic Words
NOT FOR GLORY
Book III of The Douglas Trilogy
June 24, 1314
Bannockburn, Scotland
July, 1314
One Week Later
August, 1314
Durham, England
Late July, 1315
Carlisle, England
March 1316
Annandale, Scotland
October 1316
Douglasdale, Scotland
April, 1317
Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
April 1318
Stirling, Scotland
April, 1318
Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
October 1318
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
December, 1318
Scone, Scotland
September 1319
Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
Four days later
Near Myton-upon-Swale in Yorkshire, England
December, 1319
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
March 1320
Newbattle Abbey, Near Edinburgh, Scotland
July 1320
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
Two Days Later
August, 1320
Scone, Scotland
July, 1322
Near Carlisle, England
September 1322
Edinburgh, Scotland
October, 1322
Hambleton Hills, England
January 3, 1323
Lochmaben Castle, Ayrshire, Scotland
April, 1323
Lintalee, Scotland
March, 1327
Cardross, Scotland
July, 1327
Stanhope Park, England
September, 1327
Norham Castle, England
September 1327
Cardross, Scotland
June, 1329
Cardross, Scotland, the Royal Manor
List of Historical Characters
Author's Notes / Scottish and Archaic Words
Books by J. R. Tomlin & C . R. Daems
Map of Scotland – Castle Locations
It is in truth not for glory,
nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting,
but for freedom--for that alone,
which no honest man gives up but with life itself.
Declaration of Arbroath (1320)
PROLOGUE
Paris: September, 1300
"Putain de merde!"
Dazed, knocked to his knees by the merchant's blow, James Douglas leaned against the brick wall. He turned his head towards the River Seine. He might escape in that direction. The market square smelled of the stench of the river a few feet away.
Blood ran down the back of James Douglas' neck. He grabbed the merchant's club as the man took another swing at him. "I'm no thief! It was an accident."
The barrel-chested man ripped his weapon loose from James's hand. "Look at what you did!" The merchant kicked one of the pears that had fallen from his stall.
James slid forward on his knees trying to get far enough to make a dash for the river. His old deerhound, MacAilpín, barked at the merchant's side. Snarling, he snapped at the man's leg.
"Etienne, get this dog off me." The merchant backed up a step.
The merchant's friend ran up and kicked James's hound to send it flying.
Oh, St. Bride, he's all I have left. James gathered his legs and flung himself at Etienne's knees. The man stumbled back. Across the market, MacAilpín whined. The merchant's friend clouted James on the side of the head, making his ears ring. The man kicked him in the belly. He landed flat on the stone cobbles. His head bounced with a thud.
A woman
yelled that she needed to buy a melon for her mistress's dinner.
"Almost made me miss a customer," the merchant said. He stomped a few feet away, grumbling. "They're in that basket. All fresh this morning."
James clenched his teeth. He rolled once towards the river. "MacAilpín, come," he called. A whine answered. Blood from the back of James's head plopped onto the cobbles.
"Where do you think you're going?" the merchant shouted. "Knocking down my fruit. Losing me money. You'll pay."
The man ran towards him. James gave himself a desperate shove against the ground. As he rolled, the merchant's foot connected with his face. Blood gushed from his nose. Across the square, his hound yelped.
"Mange de la merde, pute," the merchant growled.
The ground disappeared from under James. He plunged into a dark cold as the Seine enveloped him. Rank water filled his nose and mouth. You're going to die. He drifted off altogether.
* * *
When he came back, it was quiet. He didn't know where he was, except that he was lying face down in stinking mud. His hair lay in dripping, black strings across his face. He dug his fingers into the muck. In a dim way, he wondered if he should be attending his father.
He drifted off again.
No, the letter said my lord father died in a dungeon.
Nothing hurt. Shouldn't it hurt? Mayhap something had broken inside. He tried to move to find out. Dire mistake. His belly cramped and bent him like a bow. He gasped with the crushing agony of it. Holy Virgin Mary, what did he do to me?
After a long time, the cramp passed, and he lay in the sunlight, too weak to do anything but pant in relief. He was too shattered to move. Thoughts drifted like blowing leaves. That he'd seen thieves die from such beatings. That mayhap he was so hurt he'd never be able to move.
He lay still in the mud as the shadows lengthened in the waning afternoon. His face felt like a pillow stuffed with lumps of coal. He managed to breathe through his mouth, his nose clogged with blood.
Ages passed.
Eventually, he lifted his head and took heart that his body didn't cramp. He wasn't getting worse.
He knew from the practice yard that the best way to deal with being knocked flat was to take your time. The daylight had dimmed as shadows crawled towards the riverbank. A breeze chilled him, and he shivered. Dark was good. It would hide him. Mayhap if he moved carefully, cautiously, he could get to his feet.
He tried moving, dreading the pain. He moved his arms, his legs, tried to sit up. Couldn't do it. His muscles trembled. Lifting his head, he considered a spreading chestnut tree a few feet from the riverbank. He crept across the ground, crawling, as far as the trunk and propped himself against it, panting.
He rested there for a while, hurting but alive. Increasingly, he thought he would stay that way. Strength returned, no longer a distant memory. He could stand if he tried. He grasped the rough trunk of the tree and pulled himself upright.
Tottery, he held onto a drooping branch. It wasn't so bad. He ached all over, but he could move.
Limping through the dark streets, he kept to the shadows against the buildings, using the slimy walls to stay on his feet. He hid in the dark whenever anyone walked his way.
The half-moon hung high in the black velvet sky when he stood propped in the kitchen doorway of the Auberge du Grand Cerf. Heat from the fire in the hearth bathed his face. The serving girl, Ysabeau turned from the tun of wine with a full pitcher in her hand. Her mouth dropped open. "Mon dieu! Your face..."
He held up a hand.
"Madame Jehannette," she yelled for her mistress. She banged the pitcher down on a table.
He was trembling and feared he might spew all over the floor.
"Did they catch you hunting in the king's forest?"
He shook his head no and pain shot through his head. The room revolved. Legs wobbling, he leaned against the wall.
"You're about to fall over." She grabbed him around the waist and lowered him to the ground. He wanted to tell her that he could stand, but the words didn't seem to come.
"Why are you bawling, girl?" Madame Jehannette stalked in, hands on her ample hips, her skirts swishing.
"He's hurt. I'll get water and a cloth." She left him propped against the whitewashed wall as she leapt to her feet and scurried away.
"Someone beat him." Madame pursed her lips. "I told you not to take up with un Écossois." She pulled a cloth from her sleeve and dropped it next to James's hand. "Don't get blood on my clean floor, boy."
"I'm sorry, Madame," he mumbled around his stiff tongue. He wiped at the crusted blood on his face.
She shook her head. "Eh, well... You've been a good boy selling me meat for the stew pot. I won't complain as long as you don't make a mess."
Ysabeau squatted beside him. She dipped a cloth in water and, pushing his hand away, stroked the wet cloth across his face. Her breath caught with a little sob. "Shhhh..." she said although he hadn't made a sound. He closed his eyes over gray mists that floated around him, sparkling with diamond-bright pin stars. Ysabeau stroked his hair back.
He would have liked to put his arms around her and rest his head on her small breasts as he had the times she'd let him lie with her. She'd said he was too young, even though she was only a little older, but he hadn't been. The memory helped. He was grateful she was there--that she would help him. He tried to tell her, but what came out was her name.
Madame clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I suppose he may have a cup of wine."
Wine sizzled when Madame put a poker in the flagon to warm it. Even through his stuffed nose, he smelled the pinch of cloves she added.
"You don't want to get his blood on your gown," Ysabeau said. "Let me do it, Madame." Ysabeau pressed the cup to his lips and he took a sip. "Who did this to you? I've never known you beaten in a fight."
James shook his head and rainbows sparkled behind his eyes, red and purple and green. "It wasn't a fight. I knocked fruit off his stand. He hit me from behind." He shut his eyes to stop the sparks. "The Abbot gave me a letter. From England. That no more money would come for my schooling. The money my father sent with me is long since used. He said to go."
"They never even fed you proper." She made a sound in her throat. "If there was money, they never used it for you."
He wanted to tell her what else had been in the letter, but his head was too muzzy. He heard Madame talking about foolish boys who knock into a merchant's stall and cause damage. That it was his own fault he was hurt, but she took the cup and was refilling it. He had to agree with her that it was his own fault. He'd run crying for his father like a bairn, not watching where he was going.
"Anyway," said Madame, "why is there no more money? Your father's a baron, no?"
"He's dead." The short sentence was all he could manage.
"Ah, your wars with the English King. That Edward! He thinks to take part of our kingdom, too."
He gave a quick nod that made the room spin. "He took everything."
"Let him stay, Madame," Ysabeau said. "He can sleep by the fire. He's strong. He'll hunt and work."
Madame shook her head. "No, there's not work for another. My Pierre and you are enough. He'd cost too much to feed, still growing the way he is."
After Ysabeau finished cleaning his face and the split in the back of his head, Madame said he could rest for an hour or two beside the hearth. What am I going to do? As he tried to decide, the kitchen faded into gray half-sleep. He ran through the forest with a brace of rabbits, dodging the French king's huntsmen. If they caught him, they'd hang him of a certainty. A shout made him open his eyes and he tried to decide if it was real.
Voices came from the other side of the kitchen. Madame saying again: No, he couldn't stay. Ysabeau worrying that the merchant who'd beaten him might be looking for him.
His face throbbed with heat. He moved his arms, stretched his legs. Stiff. Nothing was broken even though his shoulder was too sore for him to use his left arm. He could manage.
"Thank you for helping me." He tried to speak clearly through his swollen mouth. "I'll be on my way."
Madame smiled, pleased that he wouldn't beg. "Where will you go?"
"You're too hurt." Ysabeau looked at her mistress. "Madame, let him stay for the night."
"I'll get back to Scotland, somehow." His voice was muffled from his nose being stopped with blood. He gently felt the bridge. It was fat but seemed straight. With his hawk nose, he had to be glad. If it were crooked as well, it would be hideous.
Ysabeau looked pained, but he knew she couldn't contradict her mistress. "You don't have money for a horse--or a ship once you get to the sea."
"I can work my way. Once, I get to Scotland..." He narrowed his eyes. He'd have to think about that. What then when he got back? But it was his home. The only one he had, and somewhere was the king who had killed his father and stolen everything.
Madame took out her purse. She put a single coin into James's hand. "You've brought me many rabbits for the pot and that haunch of venison. And you'll fight the horrible English king." She sighed. "Ysabeau, get Pierre's old cloak. He can't take to the road without one."
Ysabeau turned and went to get it from the hallway. She sniffled, crying.
James flexed his shoulders. Every inch of him hurt, but not as badly as it would tomorrow. At least he would be on the road, and no one would know he didn't usually limp along like a beggar. He fastened the wool cloak around his shoulders. "Merci, Madame. Ysabeau, je tu reverrai un jour, je l'espère." But would he ever return? Only God knew.
Ysabeau kissed his cheek and he tried not to wince.
"Bonne chance," Madame said.
He went back out into the night. He'd work his way to the sea, but first he had to find MacAilpín. The thought that the dog might lay suffering, waiting for James to come help him was like a rock in his belly.
He'd been running blind when he'd smashed into the merchant's table. It took an hour of wandering in the dark to find the edge of the market where he'd been beaten. In a corner, he stumbled over the hound's body. His legs were stretched out stiff and his rough coat still sticky with blood. "Devil take them," James said through gritted teeth. "God damn them to hell."