The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Trumpets sounded from high above, and James turned to the castle that massed against the sky atop a cliff. A watch fire blazed up on one of the towers and then a second. No surprise though. They'd been bound to hear the fighting.

  He went looking for his men. In the maltings, he found Jonat on the second floor in a pool of blood, his arm hacked off at the shoulder. He found another slumped under a tree, skewered by a pike. The rest of the highlanders were looting the bodies of the dead. Of the three score who had followed him into the fight, only two had died.

  The king put his horn to his lips, a gift from Angus Og, the curling horn of a highland bull. He blew the retiral. James trotted towards him. How soon would there be an attack from the castle? They wouldn't stand a chance against mounted knights.

  His hand throbbed and he realized of a sudden that it was covered with blood. When he poked at it, he discovered the bite from the fight on the stairs had slashed open his palm. A wound all too likely to fester. He cursed under his breath and then put it from his mind.

  The king waited until most of his men gathered around him. Now fires blazed on the towers and light shown through the window slits of the castle.

  "Hurry. I want any supplies we can carry with us. James, Percy won't take a chance on attacking at night without knowing our numbers. Find Lennox. He must return to Angus MacDonald and gather more force if Angus will send them. You and Robbie Boyd hold our rear as we move. We aren't to be followed into the hills. And mind, warn the people and then fire the village behind you. We'll leave nothing they might use against us."

  James yelled for Wat to gather the men. He trotted up the road towards the cliff-top castle. Sleet began to whip at him. It cut at his face. The cliff wasn't high, but the castle walls rose blackly into the sky at the top.

  Lennox's men jumped out from some broom, weapons raised.

  "Where is his lordship?" James shouted before they quite got to head-splitting.

  "Ho, Jamie. Where's the king?" Lord Maol stepped out from the trees with Campbell following.

  "We're to move and hold the rear." He looked at the rise and fall of the watch fires on the castle towers that flared and whipped in the sleet. Under their feet, it formed a rime of ice. "Any sign that they’ll find their courage and coming out?"

  "Horses and harness noises. A few shouts. Percy will have scouts out at first light, I'm thinking, and he with his full force once he knows our numbers. That will be strong enough," Maol said.

  "Then best they don't find us here. The king says we go--for Loch Doon." He relayed the king's instructions for Lennox and clasped the man's hand. In the dark, they parted ways.

  Campbell loped ahead to find the king. James rubbed his cold benumbed face thoughtfully. Fire the village, the kind of work they'd have to do much of to rip the land from their conquerors, but not to be relished. He looked towards Wat. "We need torches."

  An hour later, James stood in the middle of the village, heat bathed as flames leaped skyward whipped by the icy wind. "Let's go," he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Carrick, Scotland: March 1307

  James scrambled between high crags of rock above the narrow valley. He ran slantwise downhill over rock falls and scree. At the bottom ran a burn that gurgled over a stony path. Squatting, he splashed the frigid water on his face, washing off the sweat and grit. He breathed in the green smell of pines; it was good to be alive.

  At last, he sighted a sentry beside a tall boulder. James jumped down and the man whirled but then relaxed when he recognized the knight. The man nodded, so James turned to trot past a sharp turn with a shallow dip. It that led to a hidden green hollow in front of the yawning mouth of a cave.

  Before he went back, he'd check the sentry above the loch. For a half-mile, he followed a small side glen. During the week since the attack on Turnberry Village, they'd seen no pursuit. But Percy and Edward Longshanks were not going to let such an offense go unpunished. Every morning and nightfall, James made a tour of the sentries. They wouldn't be caught unawares. A disaster like Methven would not happen again. The furthest sentry was at the top of a gorse-covered rise. He waved frantically to James when he spotted him. It was no friendly hello. James ran to the peak. The sentry pointed.

  From here, you could see down the valley. Coming up the track two miles away where sunlight turned Loch Doon into shimmering silver was a party of forty horsemen. The sun struck arms and armor adding to the sparkle.

  The party flew no pennon or banner. Only forty. Surely, Percy wouldn't have sent such a paltry force against them. Even though the king had divided their force, Percy couldn't know this, and he was too cautious a man from everything people said to take such a risk.

  Two days before, a week after the attack on Turnberry, the king saw that only a few men were trickling in to join them from his earldom of Carrick. He sent Sir Edward with three-score highlanders to try to raise fighting men in his lordship of Annandale. Sir Niall Campbell had gone off with a few of his own men to try to locate the other two Bruce brothers who had landed with Irish gallowglasses in Galloway. The king had fretted and paced at the lack of news.

  James chewed his lip. Men-at-arms in this desolate wilderness must be looking for them. If it wasn't Percy and the English, then it had to be friends. Friends they needed desperately.

  "If I signal, light the warning fire," James said pointing to the pile of wood ready for use. He ran down the slope to the birch woods still bare of leaves. Beyond were dark thickets. Slipping into the thick branches, he made for a curve in the road where the riders would have to pass. Crouching, he parted the leaves and waited.

  In a minute, James laughed. Niall Campbell rode at the head of the troop and a woman beside him. James jumped to his feet. "Niall, what goes?" he yelled.

  Niall's horse whickered and pawed as he jerked and pulled it to a halt. "By the rood, James. You move like a ghost. I've brought Lady Margaret of Carrick with men-at-arms for the king." He frowned. "And news."

  James didn't like the sound of the way Niall said that. It had been long and long since news had ever been good. The look Niall gave him was tense and grim. James started to ask what news and then closed his mouth on the words.

  The woman, only a few years older than James and dark-haired, had a look about her eyes that reminded him of the king. She offered James her hand to kiss and had one of her men loan him a horse so he could return to the camp with them. "The king is my cousin on his mother's side," she told him as they rode.

  "He'll be right glad to see you, my lady," James said. "Even here in his own lands, the people have been slow to rise for him."

  She shook her head. "And I bring few enough but as many as I could from my small glen. It's been a hard war. People are too frightened to act until they see that Robert has a chance against the English. They are many. So many. And what they do..." She trailed off and looked away.

  James knew well enough what they did. Yet it seemed to him that he'd rather die than live under their heel with them claiming everything that didn't belong to them. He wondered if he'd feel different if he had a wife or bairns to worry about, and then he thought of Isabella. But she was in Norway, safe. Yet, if she were in danger, that would be a dagger in his heart. He'd been tempted to leave the king that day when they sent the women away.

  They picked their way on the narrow path, one at a time, and James waved away the sentries as he passed. He gave a shout so they'd know friends approached as they came to the dip. The king stood in the wide mouth of the cave. A haunch of deer dripped fat into the cook fire behind him and gave off a scent of dinner.

  "Margaret," he said. "I can't believe to see you. And Niall, of a mercy this is a fine sight you bring me though I thought you were off finding my errant brothers."

  The king was helping Lady Margaret dismount, hugging her, saying how well she looked. Niall signaled one of his own men to show the newcomers the hollow nearby where the horses could be hobbled along with the ones from the Turnberry raid. James st
ood silent, stroking his short beard. He caught the look that passed between Lady Margaret and Niall. The king must have too. He stepped back looking from her to his good-brother.

  "Robert--" she said, her voice wobbling a little. "My liege. I've had news. So dire, I hardly know the words." She paused, blinking.

  Robert de Bruce paled. Dire news was likely to be dire indeed. "Tell me, Maggie. Of a mercy."

  "Your wife and all who were with her. Marjorie, Isabella MacDuff, your sisters. All were captured."

  Bruce put his hand on the rocky edge of the cave and sagged against it. "No--even Edward Longshanks wouldn't kill women. A child."

  James stomach lurched. He remembered too well the women and children screaming as they were murdered by King Edward's troops in Berwick.

  She reached out and took his hand in both of hers and her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Marjorie he sent to London Tower." She sobbed and then caught herself. "They are building a cage by his order." She pressed her hand to her mouth and turned to Niall. "I'm sorry. I can't tell it."

  Campbell squared his shoulders and looked at the king with eyes that might have been facing death. "They were trapped as they fled to the north. Atholl who led them is hanged, drawn, and quartered. And your sister, my wife--" His chest heaved and he took a grating breath. "She's caged, hanging from the walls of Roxburgh Castle. Day and night. Isabella MacDuff caged outside the walls of Berwick Castle."

  James gasped for breath. A cage? Isabella in a cage? Hanging outside? He had chosen to let her go. Had stayed with the king when he might have protected her. His gut twisted so hard he clamped his teeth to hold in a groan. He felt dizzy with the pain of it.

  Bruce jerked back as though Lady Margaret's touch hurt and took a shuddering breath. "My wife?"

  "By God's mercy, or mayhap of a mercy from her father, sent to a house in Holderness to be held under close guard with no comforts. Lady Christina to a nunnery to be confined."

  The king shook his head as though he couldn't take in what he was hearing. "But they were away to Norway. To my sister."

  "It happened four months ago after they fled Kildrummy Castle. They were betrayed. By Ross. Dragged from the sacred sanctuary of St. Duthac." A look of hatred twisted Niall's normally calm face. "Ross--"

  Bruce stared at them, his face chalky. "Caged. My Marjorie caged. Even Edward--to do that to a child? All these months that I thought they were safe--they were captive. And Atholl--Edward's cousin. Executed?"

  But James could only see Isabella when she said that she loved him, tears running down her face.

  "Sire, there's more." Niall's words rushed, tripping over each other as though the news was forcing its way out. "Worse. The landing in Galloway--a disaster. Lame John MacDougall's men attacked them as they landed."

  Bruce stared, but James could hear the king's breath coming in gasps as though he was strangling. It seemed to James as though the whole world must have stopped to listen to this tale of horror. Even the birds were silent and the wind listened. Mayhap they had all died of the hurt.

  "He captured your brothers, sore hurt. Sent them in chains to King Edward at Carlisle Castle."

  "God have mercy. No." Eyes wild, the king stepped towards Niall.

  Niall gulped, his throat working, his face as pale as the king's. "King Edward still flies the dragon banner. He'll give no quarter."

  The king's cry was that of a wounded animal with no words in it. He plunged across the glen and into the trees. Lady Margaret took a step to follow him, but Niall put a hand on her arm. He shook his head, but no more words came. The ones he'd uttered had killed speech.

  Thomas. Oh, merciful God. Wily Thomas to be caught so. James felt like he was choking. His beautiful Isabella... He stumbled to a pine and leaned against it.

  A twittering chirp above made him raise his head. A lark. God in heaven, how could a bird be alive in this desolation? His dirk was in his hand although he wasn't sure how. He stabbed. Deep into the trunk. Jerked the knife free and stabbed again. And again. But it did nothing. Jammed it back into his belt. Whirled.

  Boyd came to him, gripped his arm hard. "The king will need us, Jamie. We'll have to be strong enough to bear this--if there is to be hope."

  When James had been younger, he had dreamed of doing marvellous deeds in battle as a lad did. He had dreamed of a lady smiling and giving him her favor to carry. The details changed with every dreaming. Sometimes, he had dreamed of freeing his father from London Tower. Still alive. Afterward they would ride together to their lands in Douglasdale and friends would crowd around them. The dreams had never had friends tortured to death. A lady in a cage. The dreams had been a lad's folly; no one returned from the dead.

  "God save us, lad. Do we give up on all those still alive?" Boyd's hand clamped on James and tightened until it hurt. "Your father was my friend. William Wallace. Chris Seton. And they're dead. For nothing? And what of the queen? Of Bishop Lamberton? What of my people if I stop fighting? Do I give them up to--" He growled deep in his throat. "Do I give up their only chance at freedom because it hurts?"

  "No." James forced the word. He had to think of it that way. James gulped down a long breath and looked towards where in his agony Bruce had crashed through the gorse and into the trees. "But what of the king?"

  Boyd shook his head. "I don't know. Three brothers dead and friends beyond count. His sisters--wife--daughter imprisoned. My mind won't deal with that much pain."

  James thought of the tun of wine sitting inside the cave near the cook fire. He pushed Boyd aside. "You're right. But I can't think on it now. I can't think on it." Inside the cave, he grabbed up a cup and then stopped to stare at it. It was from the loot from Turnberry, silver marked with the crest of Bruces. He ran his finger over the slick polished surface. Loot. The whole country torn apart because a foreign king would rule them. Would kill them if they wouldn't bend their knee to him. Their country, nothing but loot. His throat hurt from a lump of stone inside it, stopping his groans. He had to wash away the groans and the stone both, so he grabbed up a flagon, too, and filled that.

  He met no one's eye, heard not a word as he found the shadows under a beech and wrapped himself in the silence. Never had a camp been so quiet. Like a pack of hounds too wounded to whimper. He gulped down the wine, sweet and fruity on his tongue. Too sweet. It should have been bitter as gall. He refilled his goblet and drank again. Light twisted through the leaves in strange shapes. A wind carried Isabella's voice whispering his name, so he downed another long pull. His stomach was sour with bile but he'd drown it. Drown himself in the wine until he felt nothing. He stumbled to his feet and carried the flagon back for more. He started back towards the tree where the goblet was, but his legs wobbled and it was too hard. So he sank down with his back to the cliff and drank deep from the flagon.

  He dreamed of a better place, a forest beside a frothing river. The ground was a soft, a fragrant mat of fallen leaves. Isabella looked at him sadly though. Her face dissolved as tears ran down it like rain. Even when she had faded into mist, he could hear her voice, calling to him. "Remember, I love you. Jamie, I love you."

  Somehow, it had grown dark. When had that happened, he wondered. Yet darkness--darkness suited what was inside him. He forced himself to his feet and staggered a few steps. He spewed bitter wine and bile onto the ground. Grasping at the cliff face, his stomach roiled and twisted. He spewed again, only a few foul-tasting flecks. He threw himself down to lean back against the cold rock and gasped in gulps of the cold night air. In the sky, stars spun and he watched them coldly, eyes narrowing. Grief was for puling babes.

  He grew calm. Drawing a deep breath, he thought of Boyd's words. They slipped from his mind like a minnow, slick and slippery, and he grasped at them. He had to remember them. If they gave up, who would save Isabella? Longshanks would never free her after her crowning of Robert de Bruce. Bishop Lamberton, his second father, locked in a cell. What of his own people, helpless with no one to protect them? There was still a Ki
ng of the Scots. They had a king who would lead them. James curled up on the rocky ground. The words spun and echoed. The hardness under him didn't matter. Only that one thought mattered. There was still a King of the Scots.

  * * *

  Light stabbed even with his eyes closed and set his head to thrumming like a war drum. Groaning, he forced his sticky eyelids open. Drinking like a sot never did anything except make a man a fool, Bishop Lamberton used to say. James considered the words, but he didn't think he could have gotten through the night had he been sober. He lurched to his feet, stomach churning. Sunlight dazzled. Cursing, he realized he needed to check the sentries. He squinted around the camp. Men sat about much as usual and the low buzz of camp talk had resumed, but inside the cave, the cook fire had burned low. James stared at it, his head pulsing.

  A couple of small fires burned under the trees to hide the smoke. Men shoved bannocks onto stones to cook and break the day's fast.

  James headed to the burn where it murmured its way near the camp in a narrow ravine. Kneeling on the pebbly edge of the water, he ducked his head under, and it was like dunking in a bucket of snow. He came up snorting and shaking his head. That hurt but it cleared the daze.

  The king stood in the opening of the cave with Robbie Boyd. Bruce's eyes were sunken, face a marble mask, pale and hard. The men kept well back, throwing an occasional glance their way. The king made an emphatic chopping gesture and shoved Boyd away from him. Bruce spun and stalked back into the cave. Shoved him. James had never seen the king shove any of his followers, much less Boyd. James hurried towards him. Boyd caught his eye and jerked his chin towards the trees. James changed directions to meet him on the edge of the glen.

  His lips in a tight line, Boyd motioned to the cave. "He's beyond reason. I think he's crazed with grief."

  "How so?" James frowned. A man could be driven mad by such news as the king had been given.