by J. R. Tomlin
"In part, my lord. I'd like the chance to learn, but I talked the idea over with Robbie." He nodded towards Boyd whom he'd avoided looking at. Boyd had said James should present the idea since he'd thought of it. James took it as a kindness to have the chance to put himself forward. Boyd had fought with Wallace and knew the ways of secret warfare. "I think he would be willing to lead with me. I'd defer to his experience in all things."
A smile broke over Bruce's face. "You have the makings of a good leader, Jamie. And I like your idea." He turned to Boyd. "You agree with his plan, Robbie?"
"Indeed, I do. He's right that we need supplies, and if the English can give them to us, so much the better. I know Arran well. It's a workable plan."
Edward Bruce was still giving James another of his cold looks. James wasn't sure why the man had taken against him. Jealousy? But Edward and his brother argued most of the time, so that didn't seem to make sense. Anyway, at least the king looked pleased, and that was what counted.
"You have my permission," the king said.
"Thank you, my lord." He grinned and Boyd winked.
"Very well, then. Tomorrow, we split in three directions. Arran, Ireland and I for Kintail. We assemble on Arran in two weeks’ time. It's understood?" The king looked around his council waiting for a response. When they'd all agreed, he rose and climbed the steep stairs to the chambers above.
"Robbie," James said.
Boyd rose from his place. "You did well. I agree with you that we've had enough being cooped up. Time to show the English that there's a King of the Scots."
"Which men should we take with us?"
"What do you think?" Boyd gave him a blank look and James knew he was being tested. Well, how did you choose men for a job like this?
He crossed his arms and thought for a few seconds. "I think I'd ask Wat to choose. He knows the men-at-arms and even the caterans better than I do. Eats with them. Practices with them. And I trust him. I'd like him as our sergeant, and he speaks some of their Gaelic. You know I barely twist my tongue around it."
"Good. You take care of it. You'll learn by doing, lad." The man grinned again as he left.
By the next afternoon, Wat had their forty men ready to sail, the lightly armored highland caterans, many clothed in a saffron tunics and some with a plaid slung over their shoulders and their toughened leather jerkins. They all carried small round shields and claymores and dirks. Along with that, they were tough and agile, as James had seen far too often as the king had fled from the MacDougall's fighters.
Dark clouds scurried across the sky before a high wind that snapped at their cloaks and faces. Waves rocked the galley. Water slashed into their faces over the side. Boyd set two of the rowers to bailing. James, peering into the dark, heard the sea crashing on the breakers. Boyd joined him as the oarsmen eased them towards the sound.
"There." James pointed towards a faint cluster of light that had to be Brodrick Castle.
"There's a good beach for landing to the south. We can pull the galley up into the broom there," Boyd said.
Even through the dark, James could see the shimmer of the white beach as they skirted the island. Another mile and they were able to turn in around the eastern point of land. Boyd pointed towards a place where the water was dark, but more sheltered from the wind. The heavy seas eased. At Boyd's order, they slowed, the oars dipping lightly. Soon they crunched their way onto the pebbly beach. James jumped over the side into the icy, knee-deep water. Boyd followed. Another sweep of the oars had it as beached as they could make it. Their men scrambled out. With all forty shoving, the light-hulled vessel slid slowly up onto the beach.
Brush massed darkly on the rise. Boyd took an axe to a small tree that blocked their way and then another, pulling them onto the beach to use as cover. A full hour of struggle got the galley into the thicket. James examined their work from the beach. He'd check it again tomorrow, but for now, it looked good. He took a deep breath. Action, at last. Boyd pointed them inland and led the way over the beach and the sea-grass into the dense woods.
They made a long march in the biting cold wind with occasional quiet curses as someone stumbled over roots or rocks. Pine needles and blown leaves littered the ground and squashed under their feet, wet from recent rains. They passed hosts of tall pines and giant oaks with bare branches waving in the wind. Boyd led them to a wooded hill with a clearing at the top ringed by weathered stones where they could set up their camp. The caterans made a couple of small fires. Boyd left, saying he'd be back with someone he trusted from nearby.
James walked the perimeter of the camp speaking to the sentries one by one. Mostly they chuckled at his tries at Gaelic, but in a friendly way. Near the fires, the others were already wrapped in their plaids. A snorting snore broke the silence.
Wat poked up the flame of a fire and James squatted beside him.
"Sentries are in good order," James said.
"I could have done that for you, my lord." Wat sounded a bit put out.
"I know you could, but I like to see to the sentries. I'll never been taken by surprise again, that I swear to you."
A branch cracked and Boyd speaking to a sentry brought James to his feet. Behind him walked a man in rough homespun and a short mantle. "My lord of Douglas here has some questions for you," Boyd said. "It's Lowrens Fullerton, James. A good man. Was with Sir William and he can be trusted."
James offered his hand over the fire. He'd learned long ago in France that there was no good in acting like you were better than someone you were asking for help. The priests and most lords said they were--but he wondered. James returned the hard man's hard grip on his forearm. "We need what news we can get. How many English hold the castle?"
"Not too goodly a number, my lord. Mayhap fifty. It's a smallish place but strong. That Sir John Hastings as commands rides out of a morning every few days. They hunt for game though there be little enough. And take our grain and hay when they run short. Galleys bring supplies but sometimes they want more."
"Rides out, does he?" James caught Boyd's eye. This sounded hopeful. "How many does he ride with?"
"Takes a score of men-at-arms wi' him." He looked around at the camp. "Nothing you couldn't handle wi' a good ambush."
"Takes the road south from the castle until it branches off?" asked Boyd.
"Aye."
"We owe you a debt," James said. "We'll see that you're rewarded."
"Aye, well. Ridding us of the English wi' go a good way." He gave James a long look. "You're Sir William le Hardi's lad, Boyd said."
James nodded. "That I am."
"Don't look much like him. You're a dark one. But he was a braw fighter." The man turned and stomped away. Wat was quietly laughing.
James raised his eyebrows and grinned at Boyd. "Was that good or bad?"
"Don't expect any bootlicking from these people. But they'll fight the English when it comes down to it. They don't like anyone coming in and telling them what to do--their lords are their own. That's different."
"We don't need bootlicking," James said. "Just fighters--and information. Tomorrow, we'll see if Sir John Hastings takes himself a ride. Is there a hidden spot overlooking the road, Robbie?"
Boyd agreed that there was, a sharp slope, heavily tree covered above the road only just out of sight of the Castle as the road skirted the loch. James wrapped himself in his sheepskin cloak and stretched out under a tree, assuring Boyd as he did that he'd seen to the sentries. There was yet time for a rest. A wind sighed through the trees, rich with the scent of heather and pine needles, tugging at his cloak. Instead of sleep, he'd think of his arms wrapped around Isabella under the pines.
By dawn, James and Boyd stood above a single narrow path tracing its way near the water. James looked it over and nodded in satisfaction. Boyd was right. They would be hidden from anyone on the lower ground. And the view down the road was excellent; he could even see the highest tower of the Castle thrusting above the trees. Leaving Boyd to command the camp, James slip
ped through the woods. He hurried from trunk to trunk as he scouted for any sign of the English.
At the point where the road a made a turn, James crouched and began the hard part. Sitting there, he strained his eyes down the valley in the light that came and went. Rain clouds raced across the sun. It was a perfect spot. They'd set a sentry here to signal if the English rode out.
Then something caught his eye-- a ship's mast poking into the sky passing the breakers. Then two more. St. Bride. It had to be supplies for the castle. Supplies that would have to be landed on the beach.
James dashed back to his camp where the men lounged amongst the trees. Boyd jumped up and James grabbed him by the arm, pointing towards water. The tips of masts were just coming into view.
"God's wounds," Boyd said. "If it's as I suspect, they'll start unloading supplies. Then we'll hit them."
"We need to move to be close to the moorings." James motioned to Wat. "Get them up--quickly and quietly. And we'll see action soon." James loosened his sword, flexing his hand as he watched the approaching masts growing higher. These weren't his Douglasdale men--and not fighting for his own lands. But he had leadership with Boyd and against the English. He'd take it and happily. "Come, I saw a good place. Not as hidden as the spot overlooking the road, but the wait won't be long, I think. It'll serve."
He could have flown through the oaks and ash trees, he was so anxious to get to the spot. Already the ships threw ropes down and lashed them to the moorings. His men hunkered behind tall gorse and the trees that thinned as the brae cut down towards the rocky beach.
Flat on his belly, James crawled to the edge of the leafy cover under a small rowan tree. A flash of light on a weapon came from the castle and soon he made out a line of men scurrying along the road. He counted. Fifty men-at-arms but only in boiled leather armor. It must be the almost entire garrison of the castle from what they'd been told. But then this Sir John had no reason to expect an attack. They passed only a few strides from where he lay under the low branches.
Waiting--the hard part. The crew of the ship was stacking barrels on the white sands. Waves licked at their heels. Barrel after barrel. Kegs. Wooden boxes. Chests. Oh, this could be a prize indeed.
The men-at-arms reached the growing piles of supplies. One hoisted a barrel on his shoulder. Some grabbed a box or chest to carry. Before the last had his load, the first started the plodding trip back, slogging through the sand under the weight of his burden. Let them get closer. He held up a hand high enough for Boyd behind to see and waved it back and forth. Almost ready. When the first had passed him, he leapt to his feet.
"Now! A Douglas!" he shouted as he ran.
Behind him ululating war cries mixed with Boyd's answering, "Scotland. Scotland."
James slashed. A man-at-arms tossed a barrel at James, and he ducked as it hurtled past his shoulder. He swung through the man's legs. Whirling, a thrust brought down another. Around him, chaos reigned as the half-naked caterans hacked with their long claymores. They screamed musical Gaelic challenges and taunts. The unprepared men-at-arms went down like wheat being scythed. A dozen still on their feet tossed away their loads. They ran frantically towards the castle gate.
"Hold." James yelled as his highlanders ran after them. One swung his claymore and left another man-at-arms twitching on the ground. James counted quickly. Twenty English dead, their blood soaking into the sand.
"Back!" He motioned. "Wat, get those men back. We can't take the castle." An arrow whistled their way from the parapet, but fell well short. James bent to wipe the blood from his blade on a tussock of grass. Nearby a wounded man-at-arms, face down, moaned. One of James's men kicked him over and plunged a dagger into his throat. A distance away, another crawled into the heathery broom, leaving a trail of red.
Wat shouted, running ahead to call back the men who were only yards from the castle already, slapping their backs and grinning.
"Look you." James said to Boyd, pointing with his sword to the ships where men were hacking at the lines in a frenzy and shoving away from the wharf with oars.
"Ah, well. We have a good haul here. But we aren't yet through with this day's work," Boyd said. "Wat. Get those men back on the slope. Here comes company."
A knight rode out the gate armored in mail, a boar on his shield, riding a heavy charger. Behind him formed four rows of men-at-arms.
"Back." James pointed with his sword. "Make them come to us."
Wat hustled the men onto the slope as James and Boyd dashed into the trees. The knight probably thought it was nothing more than local raiders. Let him think so.
A horn blew and the men-at-arms ran towards the beach with a shout.
"Wait. Hold," Boyd ordered.
The English would have to run up a slope to reach them, and it was poor footing for the single knight's horse. He held back and seemed to want his men to do all the work. Forty men-at-arms. If they could finish these off, it would leave the castle almost unmanned.
They'd have no worry about a counterattack. James caught Boyd's eye. Boyd nodded.
"At them." James yelled. "A Douglas!"
They smashed into the English. Claymores swinging, screaming. They were outnumbered nearly two to one. But on that rocky slope, the force of the charge hit the English hard. The line of English stopped, faltered. The highlander next to James swung his claymore two-handed slashing open an Englishman's throat. Within seconds, half the English were already bleeding on the ground. James skidded on the bloody rocks as he dashed towards the Hastings.
The man shouted something James couldn't make out over the caterwauling and screaming. The horse reared and then danced as the man raked it with his spurs. It bunched on its haunches and plunged to a gallop.
A single knight only but could make a difference, possibly turning the tide. The pebbles skittered from its digging hooves as it hit the slope. James crouched. The horse was on top of him as he rolled to the side. Hasting's sword swished by his ear. A hack took the animal's rear leg off at the hock. It screamed as James rolled the rest of the way down the slope. He came up sword in both hands. Hastings had thrown himself clear. He scrambled to his feet and skidded in the scree as he ran at James.
Hastings swept his blade hard and level at James's belly. James sidestepped, sweeping his sword up and around. Hastings met the scything stroke with a block that sent sparks flying. They both swung and the guards locked, James, nose to nose with Hastings, staring into the man's desperate eyes. "Yield you," James said.
Hastings broke away. He swept his sword toward James's chest, but James had his blade there to block. As Hastings stepped back to try a swing from the other side, James swept his own sword in to leave a crimson grin across Hasting's throat.
His men's shout of triumph nearly deafened him.
Hastings tried to raise his sword again, but it slipped from his hand and a blank look spread over his face. He dropped to his knees and then face down into the dirt.
James shook his head as he kicked Hasting's sword away. He would have let the man yield though it would have been foolish. Boyd was clapping him on the shoulder and his men were laughing and drumming their swords on their shields.
"Fine job here, Jamie."
"Wish we could take the castle." James frowned at the closed gate. Crossbows still showed in the embrasures.
Boyd shrugged. "We couldn't hold it and we'd lose men doing it."
James knew he'd spoken truly. They couldn't take the castle. Even with most of the garrison dead, there were tall walls and at least some archers upon them. But it was too bad.
"We lose any?" James scanned the English bodies that littered the ground. Partway down the slope, one of their highlanders lay, belly rent open. One man sat on a chest whilst a fellow bandaged a bloody rip in his arm. Further up the beach a couple more were bandaging wounds. Already there was a stink of blood and loosened bowels in the air--the same stink as when he'd looted the bodies in the dark at Dail-Righ. "They broke easily. Would all battles cost so us littl
e."
The English could hold the Castle. They couldn't possibly have enough left to attack.
A wind whirled dry leaves around them. Even his heavy sheepskin cloak flapped like a flag. Over the water, a bank of black clouds boiled towards the beach.
"We'd better get these supplies moving," Boyd said. "Half our men to carry and half to guard."
James nodded and Boyd had Wat divide the men up. They quickly began carting the scattered supplies. James was anxious to get back and go through their haul. Much of it was barrels, certainly food. But the cases and chests would hold arms and armor, which they could sorely use, as well. Some of it was still stacked along the beach and he ordered that moved first with the breakers swelling in front the rising wind. Frothing surf ate at the sand near the stacks of supplies.
"Ho. Sir James." Wat pointed at the mouth of the bay where the dark foamy waves had begun washing over the ships. James frowned out at them. They foundered and wallowed, tossed by dark, foam-edged waves. Water dashed over the decks.
"Are they mad? Why don't they put out to sea?" As he spoke, one of the ships rolled over. Men jumped clear.
Wat squinted to make out the wreck. "Seems to me the wind has turned against them. Probably can't get past the breakers. And most like they're afraid to come back."
James shook his head in bafflement. But mayhap facing drowning was better than facing these highlanders. He remembered feeling not so different from that himself at Dail-Righ. Crates and barrels dashed about on the heaving seas. At least some would wash ashore.
Soon they had all the barrels and crates moved to the hill where they'd hold until the king came. James left a dozen men to salvage anything that washed ashore. Yet another ship had capsized, but one had finally made it past the breakers and was wallowing away.
Cloak whipping around him, James started for camp. A victory. A small one, true. Very small. But they'd won. Now to wait for the arrival of the king. He set a couple of men prying open some of the barrels. Soon they were passing apples around and slicing off chunks of sharp, yellow cheese. They'd hunt tomorrow and mayhap see if they could buy supplies from the farmers. Tonight his men deserved a celebration.
