The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  With little worry about an attack from the castle, he had a bonfire built in the middle of the hill. Boyd broached a keg of ale. It was two weeks until the king arrived, but they'd spend it in comfort. He'd keep sentries out, of course, but at least here on this little island and for a few days, the English were defeated.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Arran, Scotland: February 1307

  Eight days later, James stood at the top of the hill. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, wine they'd taken from the English, dark and tart on his tongue. The morning wind blew in his face and he breathed it in, savoring it. The sun had risen, covered with streaky dark clouds. Yet the entire sky was dyed shades of gold and rose. By the rood, but it was the most beautiful morning he'd seen since Scone.

  The English still skulked in their castle afraid to venture out. He and his men had enjoyed what they needed of the spoils, most of it still in crates and barrels stacked high around the camp.

  A wailing horn sounded. Boyd stood up from where he had hunkered by a fire.

  "The king." James threw down his cup. He ran down the hill. The horn blew again. He loped through the oaks and pines towards the sound. Bursting through the brush where they'd left their galley, he saw the king standing on the beach surrounded by a dozen of his men, Edward, Campbell, and some others.

  "Your Grace." He raced down the beach and dropped to a knee in front of Bruce.

  "Jamie Douglas." The king smiled. "Get up and tell me what goes with you and Boyd."

  Boyd thrust his way through the gorse. "We have a goodly store of food and arms for you. Jamie did well."

  Bruce smiled. "You both did well. Jamie, I'm pleased. And the supplies are much needed."

  The sea behind the king teemed with slender galleys like a pack of deerhounds on the hunt, their masts a forest thrusting into the sky. "Your Grace, how many galleys did the MacDonald send?" James asked in wonder.

  "We have thirty-three including four from Lady Christina. And more with Alexander and Thomas in Kintyre."

  "How so? I thought they were to meet us here," Boyd said.

  "That's changed. I'm hoping for a two-pronged attack. If things appear ripe for it, we'll attack Turnberry whilst they attack with their gallowglasses in Galloway. That way Percy will be forced to divide his forces." The king motioned south. "Further down the island we're within sight of my earldom. I've sent a spy to see if a landing is wise. I need to know how many men Percy has there. If it's too strongly held, we'll hie ourselves down to my brothers and join forces though it will be a harder fight."

  Wat soon had the men pushing the hidden galley into the water and a line of them loading their booty.

  James and Boyd boarded the king's galley. They sped through the dashing seas towards Angus Macdonald's tiny keep of Kildonan. It was so small that probably it was thought not worth taking by the English. James stood at the narrow curving prow as it plowed through the swell, cold spray blowing into his face. On days like this, it seemed fine to have been a sea lord like the MacDonald.

  Soon the four stories of the weathered keep came into view. The oarsmen took the galley scrunching up into the shallows. James jumped off, wading through the icy surf.

  Only a handful of MacDonald's men held the place, expecting Bruce and his men. The keep was cold and dank and smelled of mold. A roaring fire in the hearth and an opened tun of wine had it seeming less drear after a bit. The king set a lookout on the top of the keep and sentries about. The caterans spilled out of the galleys to fill every corner of the little place, sharpening their dirks and claymores. Blasts of wind buffeted the shutters that groaned and banged.

  The spy the king had sent across was to light a fire in the night if the English forces in Carrick were few enough for them to defeat. The sentries had orders to watch for it. They could only wait.

  Bruce spent most of the night staring into the fire. Every hour or so he got up to pace upstairs and check the sentry. James was awake, feet propped on a stool as he checked the edge on his sword, too restless to sleep, when the king came down. The only sounds were the howl of the wind and the king's footsteps on the stone stairs. He waved James back to his seat when he jumped to his feet. No matter how long they lived rough, James couldn't feel convinced that sitting before the king was right. Bruce took a corner and seemed to sleep. At last, James drifted off. When he awoke in the early dawn, he went seeking the king. Bruce was watching from the roof of the keep again. He stared across the sea towards his home.

  "No sign, my lord?" James asked. The wind had dropped, but the sea was still a green, broken bed of choppy waves and swells.

  "No. Nothing. We will wait two more days." Bruce shook his head, his jaw knotted. "I was born there--grew up there, you know. My mother brought it with her marriage. She was of the old blood. Those are the hills I climbed as a boy."

  From here, Carrick was a dark hump on the horizon.

  "And Nigel with me," the king muttered and James suspected it wasn't really to him. "Following me wherever I went like a pup at my heels."

  The king never said, but they all knew that Nigel had to be dead, that he had died under the knives and torture of an English execution. His own brothers, thank God, were hidden in England and too young for even the English king to hunt them. Or so James had to hope. A wind caught James's cloak and it snapped around him. "Will you come in, Sire?"

  "I like the fresh air. You go. Break your fast. It may be a long wait." He didn't turn from his vigil, staring towards the mass of Carrick in the distance.

  James stomach grumbled and the king gave him an amused look. James rubbed his flat stomach. Hungry again.

  Bruce finally came down and was in a corner, talking to his brother Edward when the watch shouted, "A light." The sentry clattered down the narrow stairs, but the king was already dashing towards them and pushed past the man. The men watched, but some began checking their weapons, muttering to each other. James and Campbell dashed up the stairs after the king.

  Dense clouds hid the sun. In the dimness, a dancing point of light was clearly visible, a blot of yellow against the blackness of the hills.

  Campbell stroked his red beard. "It'll be a rough trip with the cross current and ill winds. By the time we man the galleys and reach Carrick, it'll be dark if we leave now."

  "So it will." The king stepped to the stairs and bellowed, "To the galleys."

  Below, there was a clattering dash for the door. Men whooped eagerly as they ran. For the Islemen and highlanders, war was a sport they savored.

  In an hour, the galleys were loaded with men. The king stood in the prow, staring ahead. The ships tossed, waves dashing over the sides, as they fought the tide towards the opposite shore. Ahead the flames of the fire arose then fell, yellow and orange. They headed straight for it. James balanced at the prow as wind and spume lashed his face. The blanket of night dropped over the sea. They swung hard around the white reef where savage waves dashed higher than the masts. Oarsmen pulled hard to the beat of a drum, fighting the sea that pulled them towards the rocks. Then they were around it. The breakers smoothed. Ahead, the fire burned on a long stretch of beach that gleamed white under a dark cliff. The galley's prow slid onto the sandy beach with a splash.

  James was already soaked through, armor and face dripping from the sea spray. He jumped off into the shallows and splashed ashore towards the fire that had burned down to a smoldering pile.

  Against the sky, on a cliff top in the distance, loomed Turnberry Castle.

  "That's a hut," he said, puzzled. He turned to the king who was splashing ashore a couple of steps behind. "Your man burnt a hut?"

  A figure ran out of the darkness from behind the smoking ruins. James's sword scraped metal as he jerked it free.

  "Sire." The man threw himself down on both knees a few feet back, out of sword's reach. "Sire, I swear I didn't set it."

  "Put away the sword, James." He motioned to the man, stocky in plain jacks and a helm. "Up with you, Cuthbert. What goes here?"

 
Cuthbert sidled closer with an uneasy glance towards James. "It was the English. They seized a man who lived there. Said he was a rebel and fired the hut."

  "Called here by accident?" Edward exclaimed.

  "Wait." Bruce held up a hand. "But you scouted? Found what?"

  "There's a large force under Lord Percy. Hundreds."

  "How many hundreds though? What kind of force? Knights? Men-at-arms?"

  Cuthbert shook his head. "I didn't dare enter the castle. I'm not sure. But four or five hundred at least."

  "How fare the people here? Will they rise for me?"

  The man's Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed. "You can see what's been happening, my lord." He motioned to the burned hut. "A priest was killed when he was caught preaching your cause. Other houses burned. Women raped. They're afraid. Some will come to you. A few men with no wives or children to be harmed like me. But-- No."

  Bruce pounded a fist on his thigh. "It's what I feared."

  Maol of Lennox pushed past Edward Bruce. "There's no way we can take the castle with that many. It's impossible." He held up a shaking hand. "We have to turn back. Join your brothers in Galloway."

  "No, my lord," James said. "We're here. We have a strong force. We should use it." No more running. It was time for action.

  "He's right." Edward Bruce gripped the hilt of his sword and glared. James had to suspect the man loathed agreeing with him. "I'm not turning back. I'm tired of playing the craven."

  The king was staring up at the castle, arms crossed. "Cuthbert." He turned back to his spy. "Five hundred or more. That's a goodly number, true. Are they all in the castle?"

  "No, my lord. It seems as though the castle won't hold them all. Many they've housed in the village. Two hundred mayhap."

  Bruce turned to the group of captains around him. "I'd have council on this. Edward, you're fixed that we should not turn back? Even though the fire was a mistake?"

  "We're landed. And Percy. We have scores to settle with that man."

  "The rest of you?"

  "It's unwise. They're too many," Maol of Lennox said. "Another defeat would destroy you."

  King Robert looked at the others.

  "I say, go on," James said. It was a strange thing to agree with Edward Bruce. Mayhap that meant he'd lost his mind. But they couldn't run forever and who knew whether they'd land in Galloway unopposed as they had here.

  "I'm not sure," Boyd said. "To attack the castle with so few-- I can't advise it, but they're right that we're here and unopposed, too."

  "No, not the castle." The king paused, frowning. "I told you after Methven that I'd learned a hard lesson. Aymer de Valence taught it to me. But I should have learned it from Edward Longshanks and Wallace beforehand. How many years has this truth been staring at us, and we didn't see it? We can't meet them in the field and beat them. Can't lay siege to castles and defeat them. There are ten English for every Scot. They'll do whatever they have to in order to destroy us."

  Bruce paced back and forth. He bent and picked up a rock, rolling it in his hand. "It's hard. It's not how we were taught to fight. But either we change or we die. A nation that fights for its very existence doesn't have the luxury of chivalry."

  Boyd said, "You know that I'm with you, my liege."

  "It's how Wallace almost won--would have if all of us had been behind him. Now I'll do it his way. So-- Will you follow me in this war? Fight secretly? In the dark? Because from tonight, that is how I fight the English. We attack the village. At night. As they did to us at Methven. And I'll take what victory I can."

  Edward Bruce made a sound in his throat. "I don't like that kind of sneaking, Robert--my lord. I won't say that I do. But if it's fighting, then, all right. I'm for it."

  "I'm your sworn man," James said but it was more than that. What the king said made sense. He'd not worried about honor when he was hungry and alone in Paris. Now he wouldn't worry about it to save his own lands or the people there who counted on him. This was how it must be. "Where you go, I follow."

  There was a muttering of agreement, except from Maol of Lennox, but even he nodded at last. They would attack.

  "We'll hit fast and quiet. Unless our own villagers fight, spare them. I've not come to kill my own people."

  Their three-hundred highlanders had disembarked in the meantime and gathered into a dark, silent mass. The king quickly divided them; Lennox and Gilbert de la Haye with a score of men to watch the road to the castle and make sure no one got past to give the alarm. They trotted up the winding road to hide along the tree and gorse lined track that led to the cliff-top citadel. A hundred men were for Edward and Campbell to ring the town and keep guard whilst the others went in to do the dirty work.

  Those two with their men headed towards the valley where the town of Turnberry nestled within a ring of woods. After giving his brother and Campbell a few minutes, the king divided the force between James, Boyd and himself. The first assault would be silent and unopposed. After that, no doubt, things would get hot, but it had to be done quickly before the castle was aroused and help arrived.

  They followed a whispering stream to the castle's village. One of Edward's highlanders, a dark shape crouching next to some broom near the road nodded to them as they trotted past. An owl hooted somewhere in the woods, and the wind rustled the branches high overhead. They came within sight of the village from the sheltering trees. It was small cottages. Bruce pointed to the larger buildings--the kirk, a stable, and maltings to make a goodly establishment supporting the keep. He waved a couple of scouts ahead. Any village dogs must be silenced. A half-moon peeked through the heavy drifting clouds casting strange shifting shadows and gave their only light. The huts were dark and silent. The shadow of an owl crossed the moon.

  They gathered around the king. "We can't guard prisoners. You understand that. Quick. And quiet." He gave his final instructions in a low intense voice.

  James walked to the side and motioned his three score men to join him. He worried at his lip as he waited. He'd slit a few throats on their flight through the mountains but a night attack? A bead of sweat trickled down his rib and he took a deep breath. How did one go about this business?

  "Wat," he whispered, "we're to take the place on the right. The malting. What say you?"

  A yelp cut off told that the scouts had found a dog. James looked towards the king who held up his hand to wait. Another few minutes passed and the scouts trotted back. To the left lay the village kirk. The king waved to James and then turned that way, his men following. Boyd had divided his men into two groups to attack the houses faster.

  "We kill whoever is in it," Wat said with a shrug.

  "Aye. Let's get to it." James drew his dirk and crept towards the door. It opened with a squeak. He stepped aside to let the rushing men flood by him, a grim menace in their silent dirk-laden rush. James followed them in. Blind in the dark after the moonlight, he stopped. Blinking, he tried to make out what lay around.

  The Highlanders seemed to have no such trouble. A coughing choke from one side said the killing had started. A short scream was cut off. James made out lumpish figures in the darkness where his men were at work. In a corner, someone shouted, "Help." A thrashing struggle started, soon finished.

  Overhead, rustling and footsteps sounded. A lighter patch of dark, James at last made out the stairs. He headed towards them. A black shape hurtled downward, shouting, "What goes down here?"

  James threw himself forward. He hit the man in the chest with his shoulder and thrust his dirk. It sank deep in the man's belly. He scrambled to hold the man down with his knee. A startled shriek rose that James cut off, jamming his hand down on the open mouth. Teeth sunk into his hand and James jerked his dirk out. A hack to the man's throat and the teeth parted. Upstairs, there was shouting and the clank of metal.

  Panting, James stood but the highlanders were already running past and up the stairs. Crashes and cries came from above. James reached halfway up. A fleeing figure leaped onto the stairs and slashed
at him with a sword. James dodged backwards. He went sprawling his length when his foot caught on a body he hadn't seen in the dark. The sword whistled over his head. On the stairs, the swing overbalanced him and his man stumbled down the steps and half-fell past James. Scrambling to his knees, James twisted. He slammed his dirk downward into the back of the man's neck. He jerked it free and let the body bump the rest of the way down the stairs.

  James jumped to his feet. Outwith screams and shouts came from every direction. A horn trumpeted nearby. Wat ran down the stairs at the head of the highlanders.

  "All dead. No sign of villagers though," he said.

  "Sounds like the others need a hand," James said. "Go."

  He slapped their shoulders as they ran by. Wat burst out the door with the men at his heels. James followed. He glimpsed a highlander impaled on an English sword. The king caught a spearman as the fool ran at him. His battle-axe severed through mail and leather and muscle and ribs. James sprinted towards a knot of the enemy fighting, back to back. His world shrunk to a few feet of ground within reach of his sword. A man-at-arms thrust at his chest. James lopped the head off the spear and shattered the man's face with his backslash.

  An arrow hurtled at James from the right. He whirled, looking for where it had come from. Wat brought the archer down with a plunge of his sword.

  Breathing hard, James turned in a slow circle. In his part of the village, not a single enemy remained, except for corpses he could count in the gray of pre-dawn. The king leaned on his sword not far away. He saw Robbie Boyd going from cottage to cottage. From a house across the road, a woman screamed--shrill and long.

  The king pointed in that direction with his battle-axe. "Boyd, see to that," he shouted. "These are my people."

  At the edge of the village, Edward had brought up his men in support of the attack. Some of them had a handful of English trapped with their back to a wall of the kirk. They were swinging claymores, chopping at the thrusting pikes. Then the English were surrounded.