by J. R. Tomlin
"I know," James said. "I'll find him." He looked around at all the noise and confusion and tried to make himself a part of it. Past the men, horses, wagons, and noise, a woman stood amongst the trees. Her dark blue gown blew around her legs, and her veil streamed behind her.
James left Edward standing there and heard him shout at his men to hurry their saddling. He wended through the confusion towards the trees. Isabella caught her veil with a hand and held it against the tugging wind. He thought that she shivered.
Isabella looked behind her, saw James, and smiled. She held out a hand. "I didn't think I would see you again before I left."
James took her hand and ran a forefinger over the back of it, wondering at the silken feel. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." He smiled wryly. "If I embarrassed you last night."
"Did you hear me protest?" Something sad moved in her eyes as she took her hand back and looked back to where the sea licked up onto the rocks far below. "I feel very alone even with all these people around me, you see. My lord husband and I..." She held her veil against another gust of wind. "We have never had a fondness for each other, but I tried to be a good wife. And he was kind enough. Now, I'm his blood enemy. He would kill me if he could, you may be sure of it. My home is closed to me. Even my brother will be my enemy." She laughed a little. "You may say it was my doing, but I feel strangely grieved."
"I understand feeling alone only too well." His face heated at the admission.
She looked at him, and a wry smile curved the corners of her mouth. "Forgive me. Of course, you've felt alone." She tilted her head, regarding him silently with her dark blue eyes. "How old were you when they killed your father?"
"That was long ago. There is nothing to forgive."
The wind whipped her veil again, and she reached up, unpinning it with a frown, and folded the wisp of silk. Uncovered, her hair corn-silk hair was braided and pinned into a heavy knot at the back of her neck. "I have no right to complain. I'll be with the queen and Lord Robert's sisters. And his daughter." She laughed. "And the child is a handful."
James found himself grinning like an idiot. "So I will see you again. The king will rejoin them, and I'll be with him."
Suddenly her face tightened as though she kept back tears. "Here." She put the silky cloth into his hands. "You'll see battle before then. So you'll carry my favor."
He swallowed hard against tightness in his throat. "It's too great an honor."
She gave his hand a last squeeze and the memory of it warmed him as he strode through the confusion to find Robbie Boyd.
CHAPTER FIVE
Perth, Scotland: June 1306
The dark walls of the city of Perth hunched above the banks of the frothing River Tay and the wide dusty road that went past its gate. The gate had closed like dragon's teeth. At the top of the tallest tower, the leopard banner of England flapped and cracked in the wind. Near it flew the starling banner of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, holding the city with his army of thousands. Beyond the stone merlons, the parapets bristled with crossbowmen, lining the walls.
James had been riding with Boyd as part of that man's command and happy enough for it. A good man to learn from, he thought. Boyd motioned with his chin for James to come up beside him. He was lucky in his father's friends. They'd been ever loyal.
James shifted in his saddle, and Boyd grinned. "Aye, it's all boring nine days out of ten, and the tenth someone is trying to gut you."
Around James, armor creaked and horses stamped, restless in the heat. He could smell his own sweat, sharp, amid the competing odors of horseshit and leather and pine trees. King Robert sat his charger only a rank ahead, the battle-axe he favored resting across the saddle in front of him.
Black storm clouds crouching on the horizon meant rain during the night. But mayhap they would fight before the rain came.
James chewed his lip. The English had captured Bishop Lamberton only the week before. Bishop Wishart had been captured in Fife while besieging Cupar Castle. Mayhap Valence had the churchmen within Perth if he hadn't already sent them south to King Edward for punishment. Surely, they wouldn't hurt the bishops. Not men of God and the Pope would take such as offense. When they defeated Valence, they'd take the city. At least, there might be a chance to rescue Lamberton.
Overhead, his own three-starred pennant snapped. Ahead, the king's lion banner flew and all around dozens blew and rustled in the rising breeze. Along with Boyd, James had ridden with Sir Edward and a party south to raise men from the lands of Carrick. At the same time, the king raced north to Kildrummy Castle where he raised more men and the ladies rode to safety with his brother Nigel holding Lochmaben Castle.
Now the king said they must face the army King Edward had sent north. Trumpets blared and Bruce's herald rode towards the barred gates of the city.
Weeks in the saddle and never out of armor had accustomed James to the weight of mail, but the heat of summer made it a miserable, itching business. Sweat trickled down James's face and his ribs. The approaching rain made it muggy under the summer sun. Again the trumpet sounded. Words of the herald drifted back to the awaiting army, although James couldn't make out what they said.
Overhead, a hawk shrieked. James would have liked to wipe the sweat that dripped into his eyes and pooled in his beard, but his gauntlets prevented it. He gave a wry laugh. Why did men wear beards to do nothing but catch sweat and dirt? But Isabella had stroked it when he kissed her.
He shifted his weight in the saddle. God's wounds, but he wished they could do something. No one had ever mentioned how much waiting was a part of war.
At last, the herald galloped back towards the king. King Robert had sent the challenge to Valence to fight or surrender the town. The man was said to be proud and stiff-necked, but enough to take such a dare?
The king's brothers with the Earls of Atholl and Lennox and Sir Niall Campbell all in polished mail that gleamed in the sunlight rode to the king's side. James would have loved to hear what was said. If he had been his father--
But he wasn't, and they gave him little account. Well, he'd prove himself soon enough. He was lucky Boyd wanted him.
Scowling, King Robert made an emphatic gesture and pointed down the road.
Sir Philip de Mowbray, beside a bannerman carrying his griffon banner, rode to the king and motioned to the east. Bruce dismissed him with a frown.
"That doesn't look good," James said.
Niall Campbell turned his horse and rode back to them, pulling up beside Boyd. "Robbie, take a score of men to patrol the road. We'll camp for the night on that ridge by the river south of Methven Castle. Valence has agreed to battle tomorrow." He made a clicking sound as he thought. "Watch for any English movement. And be careful. I trust Valence like I trust a dog with a bitch."
"The king goes to Methven Castle?" James kneed his horse to come up beside Campbell.
Campbell shook his head. "Mowbray suggested it and King Robert said no. He stays with the army though I'd sooner have him safe within walls. Robbie, if you don't mind, I'll send James with the king. I'll leave Sir Gilbert de la Haye with a score to guard him and James amongst them."
James waved to Boyd as he shouted to men behind him to join in the patrol. Nudging his heels to his horse's flank, James rode to the king. It was an honor to guard the king, even if riding patrol might be less boring.
The king signaled the trumpets to sound their move. The long train of horse and infantry left the road and started up the slow slope to a ridge dotted with pines. Startled, from every thicket and from beneath the boughs of the hawthorns, birds fluttered. The muggy air shrilled with birdsong, whistles and trills and angry twitters, adding a strange counterpoint to the sound of the moving army.
James grunted when the first drop of rain hit his face. At least, it would mean no biting midges to add to the misery. His stomach grumbled as he dismounted. Taking off his gauntlets to wipe the sweat and rain from his face, he wondered what they might have left for dinner. Not much, he
feared. The army had moved far and fast with no chance to replenish their stores, and the noise would have chased away any game.
The king and Sir Christopher Seton, his good-brother by his marriage to the king's sister, a slender blond Englishman, stood, heads together, talking, whilst their horses cropped at a bush. James shrugged and bent, picking up sticks for a fire. The other men scattered beneath the trees. James grimaced when he realized that most of the wood was half-sodden. It would have to do. The king needed a fire and food. It would be an uncomfortable night.
He kicked a spot clear and knelt, laying the fire and struck flint to steel. The fire sputtered in the light rain, but he struck again and again until the tender caught. The king's voice at his back made him start. "You're a practical lad, Jamie."
James smiled up at him. "Even more practical would be some dinner for my liege lord."
Bruce pulled his cloth-of-gold tabard over his head, and his mail hauberk followed. "It won't be the first time I've fought on an empty belly. Not much left in the larder. We'll have to do something about that, but Valence first."
The fire sputtered to a low flame, the best James could do. He took the king's mail and shook it slightly. "This could use cleaning, Your Grace." Then he looked down at the sputtering fire, nearly out.
Christopher Seton rode towards them on his big roan. "The men are foraging. I've ordered them not to stray from the ridge though."
The king nodded and Seton rode past. "May as well give up on the fire, Jamie," the king said. He pulled his red cloak close around himself in his light tunic and sank down to sit with his back propped against a large hawthorn, a few white petals fluttering down. "I'm going to sleep. We'll need to be ready for battle. My axe is sharp, and I'm not worried about my mail shining."
Nevertheless, James laid the armor out carefully near where the king sat staring into the gathering shadows. It wasn't so dark or so cold they needed a fire anyway. James pulled out his own sword and tested the edge with his thumb. He snorted. As though riding around the country raising levies would have dulled its edge, but when they fought tomorrow, he wanted to be sure. He loosened his dirk in its sheath.
He walked a little way from where the king rested. Looping his horse's reins to a branch, he leaned back against a pine. The snick of his whetstone as he drew it along the blade was a comforting, homey sound. A warm, stray wind carried the scent of rain as it spattered. It smelt green and fresh and was warm on his face. Then it stopped. One last time, he glanced towards the king through the growing gloom, still awake but his mind obviously elsewhere. Worrying about the battle? About prisoners the English might have already sent south?
James closed his eyes and felt under his hauberk where Isabella's favor was tucked. He'd tie it around his arm for battle. He had kissed her. Just that once, her lips soft against his. He'd stroked her yellow hair, silky under his calloused hand. She moved against him, fingers caressing his face. Her breath was sweet when she murmured against his mouth. He pulled her against him.
James jerked awake. He leapt to his feet, heart hammering, not sure what that sound had been. Someone shrieked. Gulping in a breath, he strained to see through the murk. In the darkness somewhere, steel screamed on steel. James spun trying to tell where it came from.
"To arms! Attack." A voice came out of the darkness.
"Blow the alarm." The king's voice came from his left.
The trumpet sounded--two long blasts, the call to arms. Another horn answered. Someone darted across the clearing, James couldn't tell whom in the dark, just a figure running.
Cursing, James grabbed the reins of his horse and ran towards where Bruce had rested. Where was everyone? The clouds cut off all light from the moon.
In the dimness, he saw the dark bulk of the king struggling into his mail. James helped him jerk it into place and knelt to fasten his sword belt.
"My horse." The rumble of hooves was clear now. The ground trembled. "Mount up," the king shouted. A figure ran up out of the darkness with the king's destrier, and he vaulted into the saddle.
James sprang onto his mount, drawing his sword and thanking the saints he hadn't unarmored before he fell asleep. His eyes darted in every direction. Where was Gilbert de la Haye? He should be leading the king's guard.
The Maol Choluim, Earl of Lennox thundered up, horse rearing. "They're almost on us."
"Lennox, take the right flank." The king raised his voice to a shout. "Edward! Left flank. Campbell. Where in Hades is Gilbert? Haye. To me!" He kicked his mount and spun it in a tight circle.
"Here, Your Grace," Haye galloped up. "Campbell is trying to rally the men. But they're scattered." His sword scraped as he drew it and pointed downward from where they sat.
English knights charged out of the darkness. They covered the entire lower ridge, hooves thundering. Shouts of "England! Valence!" carried on the air. Trumpets blared.
Bruce said, "We'll have to break through. Form a wedge." He hefted his battle-axe in his hand. The king jerked his reins and gave his horse a savage kick. Clods flew. He charged towards the oncoming line. James dug in his spurs. His horse snorted, plunging to a gallop. The king was just ahead and to his right, the point of a wedge to punch through the onrushing English line. James dug in his spurs even harder. On the other side of the king pounded Alexander Scrymgeour, the royal banner raised high over his head.
The king slashed his axe as he galloped. A man-at-arms fell, belly laid open under a blow. James concentrated on staying at the king's side, shield raised to protect his flank.
A knight in a blue surcoat swung at Bruce on the other side. The king leaned, dodging. The blow hacked into his horse's neck. The animal gave a hideous scream. It fell like a boulder.
The king tumbled over his horse's head, rolling in the dirt in front of James. He jumped his horse over the king, barely missing him. The English knight turned for another strike. James managed to catch the blow on his sword. Their blades screeched as they scraped. James leaned in hard. From behind, Scrymgeour drove his blade deep into the man's back.
Their wedge had crumbled with the king's fall.
James jumped from the saddle to straddle the fallen king, shield raised. The entire wood was chaos. Knight hacked at knight on each side of him. Screams and shouts came through the shadows. Two knights turned their charge, hooves kicking up clods of dirt, to ride at him.
"To the king," James shouted, desperate. Bruce moaned and rolled onto his side.
Scrymgeour turned his rearing mount, sword flashing. But a bannerman carries no shield. "A Bruce! A Bruce!"
Out of the darkness, a horse galloped, lance couched. James raised his shield, but it would be useless--the mounted knights against the two of them. They had no chance. He sagged with relief when the lance took one of the English knights in the side. It shattered.
The second Englishman swerved to meet the threat. Before their rescuer could get his sword out, his opponent swung a mace, smashing his helm in. Blood and flesh splattered.
The victorious knight reared his horse to turn it towards them. As he galloped, James dashed at him. Bringing down the horse was their only hope. He ducked a blow of the mace and dropped to his knees, slashing up into the horse's belly. Hot guts and blood gushed over his arms as the animal went down. James rolled out of the way. On the other side, Sir Alexander leaned down and struck a killing blow.
"To the king!" His shout would bring more English, but they had to have aid. Where were the others in this madness?
The king scrambled to his hands and knees. Scrymgeour grabbed a downed knight's horse. Bruce held onto the saddle, swaying, as James boosted him up. James grabbed his own reins and vaulted into the saddle. Campbell drew up, horse snorting and dancing.
Gilbert de la Haye and a score of his men hacked down the last of their opponents. "They flanked us with another division. They'll hit again. We have to get the king out of here."
Bruce straightened in the saddle, giving his head a hard shake. "Where's Thomas? Edward?"
>
"I don't know. I don't know where anyone is. We're scattered."
The king pointed eastward where the woods sloped thickly down towards the river. "That way then. It's the direction my brothers were. We must find them."
A trumpet blared nearby. "There. It's Bruce," a black shape in the lesser darkness yelled.
Bruce whipped his horse to a gallop, weaving back and forth between the trees. "To me!" Bruce had a battlefield voice. It carried like a trumpet. "A Bruce! A Bruce!"
James tried to stay by the king's side but weaving through the woods made it impossible. Still he kept the king in sight. They had to get away before it was light. The only thing that had kept them alive so far was that most of the English hadn't recognized the king without his tabard or crown.
From behind them, shouts to swing to the east followed from English voices.
Sir Edward shouted and rode towards them with a dozen of his men around him and Thomas and Alexander behind. James sucked in a breath. Two hundred men should have been with those brothers. Another knight joined the flight. The shouts and horns behind them were closer. Ahead, James saw a score of knights and men-at-arms riding at them under a fluttering griffon banner--Mowbray.
"It's Bruce. On him," Mowbray yelled. They charged.
James went cold. The only chance was to break free. Otherwise, they were dead men. All of the attention was on the king as the knights charged straight at him. James crowded in, raising his shield and trying to protect Bruce's flank as they slashed their way through the line of attackers. One hacked at the king. James caught the blade with his shield, thrusting under to send the man reeling from his saddle.
The king jerked his reins and kicked his stallion to the right. As the animal turned, rearing, Bruce stood in his stirrups. He reached high and slammed his battle-axe down on the helm of an English knight. The helm crushed, a bloody mess.
James saw another circle behind the king and yelled a warning. Ducking low, Bruce rode straight at a sword-wielder who'd reared his horse to get above him. The king slashed through his throat. The man slid to the ground under the horses' hooves. The one behind swung hard across Bruce's back as he wheeled. The fierce blow threw the king over his horse's withers. He slumped in the saddle.
