The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  James hadn't broken his fast when the others had, his stomach all knotted with nerves. He passed one of the braziers where a man turned sausages over a flame. Fragrant smoke of pork and sage rose from the dripping fat. His stomach rumbled. It was no good having a belly so empty that his hand was unsteady, so he bought a sausage and swallowed it down. He licked the grease off his fingers.

  The merchant gave him a friendly smile. "Luck, young sir."

  "I'm no sir yet. But if I please the king--" James waved as he went on.

  He came within sight of the lists and the temporary galleries packed with people. At the end in their own stand, sat the king and queen surrounded by their familiars. The king's three younger brothers, Edward, Alexander, and Thomas, stood about talking. Near the queen sat Isabella MacDuff, slender, full-breasted in her tightly-laced gown, graceful as she leaned to whisper to the queen, a honey-colored braid falling over a shoulder to her waist. He'd heard whispers that she'd never return to her husband, who'd sworn to kill the king for the death of his cousin at Greyfriars Church. James caught his breath but grunted softly. This was no time to be thinking of a woman. Winning to show the king what he could do should be what he thought of this day.

  He walked along the edge of the field, leading his charger, smaller than the destriers some rode. He liked one light enough to wheel when he needed. The monstrous destriers, once started, were lumbering oxen that took yards to change direction.

  The lists were torn from the pounding hooves of the huge beasts. A servant ran out and raked at the ground to smooth it, but it wouldn't last. James walked down the line of lances, now only a quarter filled, running his finger up one here and there. At last, he took one and hefted it.

  The purse for the squire who won wouldn't match that of the knights, but winning it would still be a braw thing. The king had forbidden forfeiting armor or horses. They rode for gold and glory.

  At the other end of the field, Thomas Randolph paced. He was a year older and heavier through the shoulders, the king's nephew. His armor gleamed silver in the sunlight. Mayhap later, they'd tilt against each other.

  At the end of the field, all a-dazzle in gold, Sir Nigel de Bruce raised a hand to the cheers and screams of delight from the gallery. He kicked his horse to a thunderous gallop, lance couched. Sir Niall Campbell leaned sideways adjusting his aim. Nigel shifted and kicked his horse to an even faster gallop. They crashed together. Nigel's lance exploded from the impact. Sir Niall Campbell seemed to fly from the saddle and land flat with a jarring thud. The gallery erupted in cheers. Sir Niall's squire ran out to him to unfasten his helm and lift his head. Nigel rode a victory circuit of the field bowing as he went, stopping to bend down and kiss one of the women. Finally, he stopped in front of his brother. As the queen gave him the champion's purse, Sir Niall limped off the field.

  Now the squires had their turn, and James's heart was thumping in his chest. Only a score had entered the lists. Many didn't have the armor or mount for it, but this was James's first chance to show the king his mettle. He wouldn't waste it.

  James jumped into the saddle, shoving his feet into the irons and glancing towards his opponent, Sir Nigel's own squire. Riding a caparisoned destrier, much heavier than James's charger, the squire couched his lance and nudged his horse to walk to the end of the field.

  James settled into the high-backed saddle. On that beast, his opponent could hit like thunder but once started it couldn't swerve. If his opponent landed a good blow... James laughed. He'd see that didn't happen. A trumpet blew. James kicked his lighter steed to a gallop. Steady, letting him get a good aim, James rode straight ahead. At the last second, James jerked the reins, and his horse danced aside. With every bit of his strength, he turned his lance to land a blow. It slammed into his opponent's shield and lifted him out of the saddle. The squire landed on the ground with a crash.

  The gallery yelled and screamed their approval as James slowed his horse to a trot. He bowed to the king and queen. Isabella met his eyes and smiled. He thought his heart had stopped.

  Thomas Randolph rode next and easily unhorsed his opponent. James stood letting his mount cool and sending glances towards Isabella. Once she cut her eyes his way and smiled at him. He bowed to cover his flush. Hopefully, she hadn't seen it. But she was watching him.

  A score more courses were run, squires unhorsing each other one after another. James rode to tilt again against young Walter, heir of the Stewart. The lad seemed too young for it. James unhorsed him on their first pass. He was a cousin, and James breathed a sigh of relief when he hopped to his feet and caught his horse's reins.

  Finally, it came down to Thomas Randolph.

  Randolph leaned forward as he rode, his lance solid. James shifted away in his seat and Randolph's lance only grazed his shield. James's lance shattered. Randolph rocked, tilting sideways from the impact. He managed to right himself, and a cheer went up. James stole a glance towards Isabella. She leaned towards the queen, saying something into her ear.

  James tossed down his broken lance, and someone handed him a fresh one. Randolph spurred forward at a gallop. This time James only feigned a shift. Randolph followed then tried to recover as James straightened. His lance missed. James's own smashed into his shield with a jolt that nearly tore his arm off. Randolph's horse went onto its haunches. A clear miss to his hit. The match was his.

  Everyone was screaming, and James grinned. Randolph threw his lance down, cursing. Then he shook his head and sketched a bow. James waved to him and rode at a prancing gait around the field. Isabella clapped and smiled. His heart thudded. The gallery shook with cheers.

  It was as good as the coronation itself. He jumped from his horse. The king bent over the wooden rail to put a purse of silver into his hand. The king's smile made his heart hammer. The smile from Isabella was even better.

  Horse stabled, he dashed to the tent he shared with half a score other squires. Thomas Randolph, red-haired and tall, came in. With a rueful laugh, he congratulated James on his win. James shed his heavy mail and flexed his shoulders. He'd soon be accustomed to the stuff, but the fact was he'd never had to wear mail much, except in the practice yard or when the bishop traveled. But now the king had gifted him with this. It was the finest he'd ever touched.

  He'd used part of the bishop's purse to buy a woolen tunic of the same blue as the Douglas colors. He dumped a bucket of cold water over his head and shook, water flying. After he slicked back his hair, he donned the new clothes.

  Twilight had faded into darkness. The lists were quiet and abandoned as James made his way up the long hill. His breath fogged in the chilly night air. The sound of laughter and of a tinkling harp drifted down. Light shone through the windows. He stopped and looked long at the stars above in the black night sky. It seemed so quiet. Eternal. Yet everything was changing. Moving.

  Tomorrow the king would lead his men away, James amongst them. To war. But not tonight.

  He ran up the hill, and a man-at-arms threw open the door. Color, laughter, and ease filled the room. Two minstrels played a tune. A dwarf leapt into the air for a flip. Bruce sat at the high table laughing at the performer's antics, but the queen looked subdued beside him, her eyes downcast.

  The roaring fireplace warmed the vast room. On a staff behind the king, the great tressured banner rippled in a draft as though the red lion would leap off into the company.

  "Jamie Douglas." Boyd slapped James on the back. A twinge darted through his arm from nearly tearing it off when he unhorsed Randolph. "Well fought in the tourney."

  James laughed. "My first. I was pleased not to shame myself before the king. Everyone knows that he's a champion in the lists."

  Boyd upended his wine cup, finishing the last drop. "There's fine wine tonight." He snagged a flagon from a passing server. "May as well take advantage of it whilst we can. The king is off tomorrow, and I'll follow."

  "As will I, Robbie." James took a cup from the long table and let Boyd fill it for him. The rich red wine warm
ed him inside, and he maneuvered closer to the high table.

  The dwarf did another flip, rolled across the floor, and then bowed his way out of the room to applause and tossed coins.

  The king stood. "I'd dance with my fair queen this night."

  Servants pushed the benches against the walls, and the musicians tuned their instruments. High-pitched laughter came from the ladies. The queen leaned on Robert de Bruce's arm, a smile easing her look as he whispered to her.

  Bruce led the way onto the floor with his queen. James frowned when Sir Edward bowed over Isabella's hand and led her out. Soon much of the company joined the king in a raucous circle dance, twining in and out in a complex pattern. James's eyes followed Isabella as she glided through the figure, skirts moving about her legs. He was sure her eyes slid his way.

  The scent of a roasted boar caught his attention, and he speared a slice with his knife to chew as he watched. She'd been next to the queen so she'd pass this way when the dance was over. He smiled in anticipation.

  The dance ended. Bruce led the queen off the floor, back towards their place on the dais. As a harp player struck up a slow tinkling tune that would give the dancers a chance to catch their breaths, the king made his way through the press of his guests, pausing to speak as he received greetings. James bowed low when Bruce and the queen came even with him.

  "Ah, Jamie Douglas." The king tucked his wife's hand more securely on his arm. Sir Edward and Isabella came to a stop behind him as he blocked their way.

  James had heard stories of Bruce's fondness for his beautiful wife. He'd never had a chance before to see how true they were. She smiled up at the king with a look that made James blush with envy.

  Bruce turned to his brother and Isabella standing behind him. "See you," he continued, "he did well in the lists today. I thought Tom Randolph would win amongst the squires. Yet Douglas here landed him right on his rump." Bruce threw back his head and laughed.

  James felt himself color. "Nothing compared to Sir Nigel's victory."

  "Oh, my brother is a hard man to beat in the lists, though I did so a year past. Edward here as well, but I said they shouldn't ride against each other. Two Bruces in the list seemed hardly fair." He smiled down at Sir Edward's companion. "Lady Isabella, do you know Squire James de Douglas here?" He took the lady's hand and pulled her away from his brother. Sir Edward shrugged and bowed as he moved towards one of the Campbell ladies on the other side of the room.

  Isabella curtseyed and her blue and gold skirts swayed about her.

  "I've seen him on the lists from a distance, my lord."

  "An oversight. James, here's a lady for you to practice your graces upon. If it weren't for my Elizabeth, I'd be right tempted."

  The queen shook her head and gave a low laugh. "Sire."

  "It's true, my dear, I swear it. A lady who'd ride four hundred miles to place a crown on my head and so fair a lady at that. What king's heart wouldn't be won? Or what squire's?" He grinned at James, teeth gleaming.

  Isabella extended a long-fingered hand towards James. Her eyes sparkled. "Squire, I was quite thrilled watching you in the lists today. You did nobly."

  "My lady." He pressed her fingers as he bowed. "I've never known of a woman so brave--to ride so far with only your men-at-arms, even for the king. And barring her grace, none so fair. The king speaks the truth."

  She slipped her hand onto his arm and raised her eyebrows as she turned to the king. "Why, Your Grace, I believe the squire wields his tongue as fairly as his lance on the field."

  James ran a finger along his moustache, still shorter than he would have liked. "I've nothing of Sir Edward's charm with the ladies. But mayhap you'd allow me this dance? If their Graces permit?"

  Bruce waved them away. "You children go enjoy yourselves. My lady queen and I will watch for a while."

  As the musicians struck up a livelier tune, James led Isabella out onto the floor. Sir Edward joined them with the Campbell lady and to James's surprise scowled in his direction. Isabella curtsied, and they began the pattern, whirling and weaving their way through the steps of the dance.

  When Sir Edward gave James a hard jab of the elbow, James eased away. Obviously, the man wasn't happy with someone else getting a fair lass's attention. James decided to ignore it. He had no taste for a quarrel with the king's brother. At the last strum of the harp, James grasped Isabella's hand to lead her from the floor. It was soft in his and his heart was beating harder than it should from a dance.

  "A goblet of wine?"

  Her eyes were laughing when she looked up. "You can't."

  "Can't what?"

  "Can't kiss me."

  He'd wanted to and she'd seen it, unmistakably.

  "If you walk with me along the river bank, I can." He snatched a flagon from a server and poured a goblet of red wine.

  "What they'll say about me is bad enough. I'll not make it worse."

  "They'll say you're the bravest woman in Scotland."

  She took the wine. "They'll say I did it for him. For the king. They'll call me a harlot, I suspect."

  James frowned in the direction of the king. He was talking to Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, the standard-bearer, a thin gray-haired man who'd served Wallace, and the queen leaned forward to listen.

  James hesitated. He could hardly ask if she was the king's mistress, but he'd seen no hint of lust between them. It seemed a foolish question. "But that's not why you did it," he said finally.

  "I did it because a MacDuff should. For my father, partly, because he would have been here to do his duty. They've turned my brother into an English lapdog. Not his fault, I suppose, but what else could I do?" She bit her lip. "I grew up in Fife. It's my country as much as any man's. I couldn't just--not do anything."

  He shook his head. "You're wrong."

  "About what?"

  "That I can't kiss you." He maneuvered to the side, so he was between her and most of the room and took her face gently between his hands. His lips brushed hers. They were sweet beyond measure.

  "No couth. I'm hardly surprised." From behind him, Sir Edward's voice had a sting of venom.

  James tucked Isabella's hand on his arm as he turned to bow slightly to the man. "I'm sure I have much to learn from you, sir."

  Sir Edward scowled as though to decipher whether that was sarcasm.

  James smiled at Isabella with regret. "I'd best return you to the queen's side."

  * * *

  The bright morning sun lit up the refectory of the Abbey.

  William de Lamberton crossed his arms over his chest frowning as Robert de Bruce looked out the window. "We need him, but--I wish he'd go to safety in France," Lamberton said. He glanced at the elderly Bishop Wishart where he stood talking to his master-at-arms. The man had already given too much for Scotland's freedom. Now he was aged and frail, his back stooped, his hands thin and spotted with age. The risk was too great.

  "I suggested he go to the pope to plead our case." The king gave a heavy sigh. "He saw through that ruse."

  "Not so much of a ruse. You'll be excommunicated soon enough for what happened at Greyfriars and probably all of us with you. But I fear..."

  The king raised his eyebrows.

  "I fear no plea will help."

  Bruce leaned a hand against the edge of the window, squinting into the bright sunlight. "William, you know that I meant to kill the Comyn."

  "Wishart gave you absolution." Lamberton looked around to be sure no one could hear and lowered his voice. "Robert, why? In a church?"

  The king slowly shook his head. "I meant it to be outside and not at the altar. But he was going to die after he betrayed us to Edward." He whirled to face Lamberton. "Think, William. How long before Longshanks had you in chains and me on the scaffold, joining Wallace? Comyn thought that he would be given the throne for his betrayal of us--the more fool him. Then he raised his hand to me. Struck me as he did the day you stepped between us."

  Lamberton let out a long breath, for a moment at a l
oss. "It's done." He looked out the window where everything was noise and chaos. Men were shouting; horses were being led from the stables and saddled; pavilions were being struck. The morning had grown warm and everyone was in an uproar to be off.

  Alex Seton was in the middle of it, arguing with Edward Bruce.

  The king snorted. "Edward would try a saint, which Alex is not. But he'll return with troops once the women are safe."

  The thin Englishman didn't look fierce, but he could shout with the best of them, it seemed. The man whirled and stormed towards the door, banging it open.

  "Happen my good-brother is an idiot." He came to a halt and jammed his fists on his hips. "Mayhap he thinks I can't take care of your sister."

  Lamberton bit his lip. The lilting Yorkshire speech always made him smile, and he shared a glance with the king.

  Bruce stepped to throw an arm around his good-brother's shoulder. "Of course not. He's just prickly as a hedgehog and you know it. You and Nigel ready to be off?"

  The young knight shook his head. "Waiting for our ladies to join us."

  Lamberton raised his hand to interrupt them. "And Your Grace will want to tell your lady farewell, so with your leave, I'll be off as well."

  Seton gave him an embarrassed-looking smile. "I'm sorry, my lord. I forgot what manners my father beat into me. Put me with Edward and I'm sure to lose my temper."

  Lamberton had to laugh. "He's driven his brother to do the same. Always was a hotheaded lad. I'm to St. Andrews to see to raising men. God keep you both." He signed a cross in blessing and farewell.

  * * *

  James walked slowly through the noise and chaos, feeling strangely alone. A wind swirled through the trees and around corners as though to blow them on their way. He patted the neck of one of the horses hitched to a wagon as servants threw cases into the rear.

  Edward Bruce was in the middle of it all, shouting angry commands. "Robert Boyd was looking for you, Squire," he said to James. "He wants to be off within the hour."