by J. R. Tomlin
"Faster," the king shouted. "Ride."
Boyd shouted, "For Scotland," in James's ear. He feared if he shouted he'd use breath he needed to stay a-mount. He swung his sword. They were everywhere. No need to aim.
A high pitch voice shouted, "MacDuff! MacDuff!"
Behind a war horn sounded and then another. They rounded a bend as though cleaving through a last wave of the ocean. A slope, unimpeded, led down. They raced, hooves scoring deep scars in the scree. Rocks flew. An opening beside a high crag gaped before them. Beyond stood towered hills dotted with woodlands in the distance.
The king kept them at a gallop out into the open and towards the birch forest. Past the trap, only screams and shouted insults followed them--for now. Long ululating war horns sounded and James prayed it was a retiral.
The king slowed to a canter and soon they were within the thin scattering of trees, a handful of horsemen with the women and child.
Bruce stood in his stirrups searching behind them and shook his head before he climbed from the saddle.
Boyd jumped down. James threw his leg over to slide off, gripping the horse's mane as he tried his legs. But the worst of the shock from the wound had passed, and they were steady under him. The Earl of Atholl, gray-haired and the oldest of the knights, squatted by a tree, head in his shaking hands.
Boyd squeezed James's shoulder. "You shouldn't have done that, but I thank you for my life." Then Boyd sat down, blood dripping from the slashes in his armor.
Isabella was already flying towards James. "Holy Mary." She jerked the covering from her head and wiped at the blood on his side.
"It's nothing," he said.
"Take off your hauberk. I must staunch that bleeding." She tugged at his sword belt.
James looked down to realize his red-smeared sword was still in his hand. "Wait. I'm all right. In a moment."
The king looked out at the hills behind, grim-faced and jaw knotted. James sheathed the weapon and, holding his side, walked to the king. In the midst of the men, the queen was helping Princess Marjorie from her saddle, the girl sobbing and hiccupping.
The king shook his head and turned to the survivors. "Let her come to me." He squatted as his daughter ran into his arms. He patted her back, but over her head, he was looking at his men. James knew he was counting. Clinging to James's arm, Isabella made a choking sound. When he met her eyes, they were wide, and he could see the terror in them--and terrified she should well be.
"Thank God." A shout came from the top of a hillock. Campbell ran towards them with four men-at-arms beside him. Four. James stifled a moan.
"Thanks be to God, indeed," Bruce said. "I thought you were lost, man."
Campbell gained the trees and leaned back against a trunk, face and armor blood smeared. The men-at-arms collapsed onto the ground around him. "It was near enough. Your plunge through drew away enough that we could fight our way out."
"God a'mercy," the queen said as she pulled her stepdaughter away from her father and held the child close. "Those were no English."
Campbell gave a grim bark of laughter. "No, those were Highland warriors. MacDougall's caterans. He's a cousin to the Comyn, I mind me. Devil take them--Lame John's men."
"I've made a bloody mess of things," the king said. He stood and turned in a circle as he looked at what was left of an army that had been two thousand before Methven.
Now--James looked around. A hundred, mayhap.
"We're in a desperate case." The king chewed his lip, eyes narrowed. "I have no room for more mistakes. They’ve already cost us too dear. We must reach Angus MacDonald, and it can't be done with women and a child. And--I won't endanger them any more than they are."
He looked towards Boyd and James heard him blow out a long breath. "Robbie, how bad is that leg?"
"Once it's bandaged, I can ride." Boyd laughed. "Or walk come to that since the curst MacDougalls gutted my horse."
"James? That side looks a nasty wound."
"Nothing," James pulled his mail hauberk over his head so he could let Isabella bandage it. "A shallow slash. Hurts like the very devil, my lord. But it's my first. A man needs a few scars."
A grim laugh went up from the men, but Isabella didn't laugh. She was wrapping the cloth around the slash in his side that still oozed blood. He took it from her to jerk as tight as he could. Then he squeezed her hands and felt them cold as winter and shaking.
Atholl looked up. His face was as gray as his hair. "I can't go on. Robert, my lord, I'm sorry. But it's the truth. I'm spent."
The king paced around them, rubbing his face. "God's wounds, what am I to do?" He looked at them and shook his head. "This is my decision. The women under such guard as we can manage will race for Kildrummy Castle and thence to Norway and my sister's protection. I can't risk Edward laying hands on them. But I can't protect them with us either."
The queen said, "Robert..."
The king held up a hand. "No. No arguments. This is what has to be. Nigel, you'll take all of the horses that are left sound, you, Robbie and my lord of Atholl." His voice was low and considering. "Any others too wounded to travel on foot will go with you." He nodded towards Sir Alexander Lindsay and Sir John de Cambo, both bandaging dripping wounds. "And as many men as there are horses to protect the women."
Nigel turned, looking at what was left to them. "With the women, we can mount three score men, Robert. But Kildrummy? Edward is bound to lay siege to it."
"Of a certainty. It's well stocked and prepared for an attack, but I don't want Elizabeth or the others there. The castle should hold out for at least a year whilst I raise a new army. Atholl must get the ladies safely out of the country once they rest and have fresh horses. I charge you and Robbie both with holding the castle whilst they flee."
"The king's right," Boyd said. "And no time to waste. Come dark the traitorous MacDougalls will be down on us like foxes on a rabbit."
"Ride northwest as fast as you can for the Mamlorn Pass and through the mountains east to my strong castle," the king ordered. "Now. Whilst you can."
Isabella's hands gripped James's arm. Her whole body trembled.
He pulled her against him and tried not to limp as he walked her to her horse. He put his mouth to her ear. "Remember, my lady, I love you." Hands around her waist, he lifted her into the saddle. He could have said that his wound was too bad to go afoot, but that would have been cowardice. And he was sworn to the king--first. Nothing else could be as important. Not even Isabella. Closing his eyes for a moment, he relished the pain in his side, let it wash through him. It hid the other that he couldn't think about.
"I love you, James Douglas." Tears ran down her cheeks. "Don't forget."
Her tears hurt. But there was nothing he could do. He squeezed her hand one last time and kissed her fingers.
The king lifted his daughter into the saddle, loosening her slender hands that clung to him. The queen motioned for them to gather around her. She seemed calm to James, but she was a de Burgh--the daughter of warlords. Grimly, James watched the guard form around them.
"Let's move," Nigel yelled and they rode into the trees. It seemed only a heartbeat, and they were gone.
"James," the king said.
He stood upright. "I'll keep up, Sire. I give you my word."
"Then come help me out of this armor. We're caterans now ourselves. It's the only way." The king gripped his tabard at the neck, its cloth-of-gold dyed red and black with half-dried blood. He ripped it down the front. "All of you. Out of your armor."
James knelt to unfasten the king's belt. Bruce fastened the scabbard for his great sword over his bare back.
"We'll move further into the woods here, but once it's dark we go down to the pass. Mayhap for once we'll have some luck. If there are bodies to loot, we will."
"Loot caterans?" James stared up at him. What could the highlanders have that he would want?
"They were in better case than we are. Brogans we need for our feet. Sheepskins for cloaks if we get so luck
y. Even some of those plaids they sling about their shoulders. And, God a'mercy, food."
James choked back a reply. A king reduced to this. It wasn't right. But if it was what it took to keep his king alive, so be it.
Bruce tossed away his gauntlets. "Niall, think you that you could make it through to your own lands?"
"Alone?" The muscular knight threw down his mail shirt and scratched at his beard. "I'd have a good chance of it. This is my kind of country, even if it belongs to the foul MacDougalls. It would be a sad day that a MacDougall could lay hands on a Campbell."
"We'll need galleys. I have family ties enough in the Isles, especially with the MacDonalds and the MacRauries, and they give a snap or less for the king of the English. But we must have ships."
"I can get them." Niall Campbell laughed grimly. "I commanded my cousins to remain in King Edward's peace for just such a possibility. But you, my lord?" Campbell sounded doubtful about the whole idea.
"The rest of us have a better chance of getting through Balquhidder and across Loch Lomond into Lennox. Even now..." Bruce shook his head. "Even though the earl was lost at Methven, they aren't enemies. It's our best route."
"I still think that Lennox may have gotten away," Campbell said. "No one reported his being captured or that the English found his body."
"He may be alive, and that would be the first good news in a month, but I can't count on it. Still, through Lennox we will go."
James had stripped the rest of the armor from the king. He tossed away the mail chausses from his own legs. Soon he was down to his trews and a sword belt. "You think they won't take away the bodies, my lord?"
Campbell sat, back propped against a tree trunk as he tied up a shallow gash in his arm. "We killed a goodly number, and the bodies are scattered through the pass. I'm thinking it will take some time." He grinned up at them, white teeth gleaming in contrast to his red beard. "And if we run into one or two MacDougalls recovering the bodies, I won't mind."
"Oh, that wouldn't be bad, now would it?" James tested the edge of his dirk on his thumb. "But we'll have to make it quiet killing. I'd as soon not meet the whole clan again this night."
The king nodded. "You have the right of it, Jamie. Now, come. Let's further into the woods. We'll rest whilst we may. And once dark comes, we're off."
It was a sorry remains of an army that followed Robert de Bruce deeper into the shadows of the forest. James hung back behind the others, sword in his hand to keep rear guard, but following a defeated king. No one murmured or questioned his determination. Mayhap it was that--the King's determination. That he seemed with every defeat to grow stronger within himself. His resolve to defeat their conquerors grew deeper with each day. Whatever it was, James could see it in his companions' faces. They would follow Robert de Bruce to the death. And the truth was that he would, as well.
CHAPTER NINE
Near Loch Lomond, Scotland: September 1306
James slid on his belly over the icy cold rocks in the darkness. Snow flurries made an icy coating on his sheepskin cloak. They had to get through to Loch Lomond, and the bastard MacDougalls had every way guarded. James knew they wouldn't survive out here much longer with winter coming on fast. James's ribs made hills and valleys up his sides. That didn't worry him nearly so much as the king's gaunt face. Not that Bruce was so very old, in his thirties. But that was too old for living like this, even though at times it was fun.
James lay flat and peered over the edge of the crag. A good ten feet below, a fire glowed. One of the three men huddled over it slid a griddle in the fire. Muttering curses under his breath, James wriggled his way backwards. They'd known this way would be guarded, too. Once away from the edge, he rose to a crouch, making sure he stayed well below the horizon. Even the dark, he wouldn't chance being outlined against the sky.
He trotted to the overhang where the others awaited--now only thirty survivors of the king's entire army. He silently held up three fingers.
James pointed to Thomas de Bruce, lean as a weasel, and the man-at-arms, Wat Bunnok, a wiry campaigner who'd been with Wallace and could move silently as a wolf. James pulled his dirk out from his belt behind his back. Thomas made a patting motion towards the others to stay where they were.
"I'll go," Edward Bruce whispered. He stood.
"No," the king said in a low voice that brooked no argument. "I left this to Jamie." The king's quelling tone silenced the man. Edward Bruce was a good fighter, but when it came to sneaking, he'd be sure to rush in and give them away. They couldn't afford to lose any more men. Just last night Giles Ledoub died, mostly from no way to tend a slash to the shoulder bone he got a week past in a fight, but no food or warmth had sped his death.
Finally, after dodging and killing their pursuers, they were nearly to the loch. Across it might be help, mayhap even some safety. James's stomach grumbled.
"Your belly gives us away, you'll get a good clout," Thomas de Bruce whispered.
"You'd have to wait your turn after the MacDougalls." He crouched and motioned them to follow. James trusted Thomas to do what needed to be done. He liked the way the man thought. Risks were fine when you had to take them, but throwing lives away was stupid.
When James flattened himself on the ground, Thomas and Wat followed suit. Sticking his dirk between his teeth to free his hands, he slithered his way to the edge.
James pointed towards Thomas and the cateran on the right. He'd take the one in the middle. He motioned Wat to the left. James gripped his dirk and scooted a bit to the side so he'd drop behind his man. He held up a hand. One by one, he folded a finger down. On the fifth, James leapt off the edge.
The man started to his feet with a wordless cry. Before he'd come half way up, James grabbed his chin and jerked it back, dragging him off balance. A hard slice of the dirk slit his throat. James jumped backwards, pulling the man with him so that he didn't fall into the fire and onto the food. The man flopped and gurgled. His blood squirted twice over James's hands. James whirled to see if the others needed help. They had already done their work. Two more bodies lay in eddies of snow.
"Wat, run back and shout up to the others," James ordered.
It was a long run to the narrow path they'd found to the top, but a yell from nearby would bring the king. Whilst they waited, James flipped the body over. The man had worn a better sheepskin cloak than the one James had, but now it was blood soaked. A bag of oats tied to his belt was a welcome find.
Thomas used a stick to pull the cooked bannock off the fire. The oat scent made James's stomach gurgle again, and Thomas gave the back of his head a slap.
"Hey, now. It didn't give us away." He stood up and grabbed the dead man's limp arms, dragging him into the dry gorse.
By the time he'd dragged all three away, Thomas had another oat bannock on the fire. He handed James half of the first flat oatcake. The two squatted by the fire breaking off pieces to eat and soaking up the faint heat. James absently scratched at the itching, half-healed scab that stretched across his side. They generally didn't risk a fire, hadn't had a one in days. Suddenly, the others were jumping down from the crag.
"A fire." Gilbert de la Haye moaned with pleasure as he handed the two men the swords they'd left behind to depend on their dirks. A sword rattling in its sheath would have been a disaster.
"And oats," James added pulling another steaming hot bannock away out of the fire. He handed the whole thing to the king. "More shortly. Should be some for everyone. Then we'd better move on."
Bruce looked doubtfully at the bannock in his hand. "Someone should have half."
"Eat," James said as he shoved another into the fire.
The king squatted and broke it in two to eat it. After a bite, he was shoveling it down. They all crowded close around the fire pulling their sheepskin cloaks tight on their shoulders, hands over the flames as James doled out halves of the bannocks.
"We need to look for a way across the loch," the king said after he swallowed the last of it. "We can skirt B
en Lomond from here, stay up a little way up on its slopes."
"We should spread out. Find crevasse at least. Rest for the day and once it's dark again, we'll have to find a boat," Gilbert de la Haye said.
"Waiting is dangerous. And I'm tired of it," Edward snarled. "We should find a boat tonight. Get across the loch and head for Castle Dunaverty. Start acting like knights again."
Bruce rose and glared down at his brother. "Knights? We're outlaws until we have an army at our backs and don't forget it. King Edward would hang, draw, and quarter us in a trice--no different than he did Wallace or poor Chris. You can forget your knightly honor, Brother. Surviving and building a new army is all that counts."
The king dropped his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Yelling at each other will just bring our enemies down on us. We'll do as Gilbert says. There has to be somewhere to shelter. There's not enough time before daylight to search for a way across."
Edward looked glum but finally nodded in agreement. "Then let's move."
James kicked rocks over the fire until it was completely covered. There was no point in helping the MacDougalls find the bodies and realize the king had been this way. They'd know soon enough. Then they started down the slope of the mountain towards Loch Lomond, clambering over the boulders that covered the foot of the great mountain. As they neared the loch, a break in the clouds let slivers of moonlight filter through. The waters caught glimmers of light like darting fireflies.
Climbing and scrambling kept James warm, and a bead of sweat ran down his cheek and froze. He brushed a sprinkle of snow out of his hair. They had spread out to look for anything that would hide them for the day. He vaulted over a big rock hoping for something behind it, a cave, crevasse, something. Nothing.
Then the king shouted from the distance, "Here."
It must be a good find for Bruce to chance giving away their location but in the dark and the snow, no MacDougall caterans were likely to be out searching yet. Soon enough they'd be once again sweeping the land by the hundreds. James climbed towards the king's voice.
