by J. R. Tomlin
"He's talking about a crusade. Leading us to Angus MacDonald to leave us. He says he will make for the Holy Lands alone."
James' mouth fell open. "What?"
"He swore it in penance for the killing at Greyfriars, that he would make a crusade. But--" Boyd shook his head. "I tried to talk to him. He just orders me away. He's never been like this. Never."
James thought he might vomit again. Black despair swept through him. "He can't. If he leaves--then it's all been for nothing. Everyone dying for nothing." He turned his back, gripping his sword so hard it hurt. "I'll make him listen."
Boyd grabbed his arm and jerked him around. "Why is he going to listen to you, lad?"
Being called a lad today was like having his face slapped, and he wrenched free. "He'll have to."
"Jamie--" Boyd called as James ran.
The cave was deep, its walls dark. The cook fire had almost burned out and only faint light shone through the opening. At the back was a crook where the chamber made a turn into a corner. Bruce sat on a sawed-off log, a sputtering lamp nearby, his sword in his hands. He turned it over and over as he sat, examining it as though he'd never seen its like before.
James stopped, breathing hard. Bruce, face closed and pale, looked up at him.
Bruce spoke carefully as though even speech was an effort. "Get out, Jamie."
"What are you doing?" James's heart hammered. If Bruce left them, they had no king, James wanted to say, but he couldn't get the words out. No rights. No hope. All wasted. "Boyd said you were abandoning us. Running away."
Bruce threw his sword aside and jumped to his feet. "Abandon you? You mean, not get you tortured and beheaded. I'll take you to MacDonald. Let you serve him in Ireland. I'm no king." He gestured around wildly. "King of a cave. King of my brothers tortured and dying."
"No king? Isabella putting that crown on your head meant nothing? So you'll leave her in a cage." James spit the words out. "What of your wife? Your daughter? Edward will keep them locked up forever. He'll never let them go. You'll not even try to save them?"
Bruce stepped towards James, his face a blotchy red. "It's my fault they're caged. My fault my brothers are dead. My fault." Bruce's fist clinched.
"And your fault they'll stay there," James grated. His whole body flamed with heat. They'd be lost with no king to lead them. He lunged and shoved Bruce. The king stumbled a pace back, his mouth dropping open.
"Coward," James shouted. "We need you. We love you and you'd run."
Bruce grabbed James's jerkin in both fists and shook him. "Get out." Bruce tossed James against the far wall and his head snapped against it with a thud. Light flashed across his eyes. Shaking his head clear, he pushed himself aright.
"Thomas died for you. Isabella will die for you." James was shaking and he couldn't catch his breath, panting. "I would have died for you." He stepped close to Bruce, staring into Bruce's pale face and watching color flood it. This time he shoved Bruce as hard as he could with both hands. "We all would have died for you."
As he stumbled back, Bruce seized James's shirt. He swung him hard to land, holding him down with a knee on his belly and hand on his chest. With the other hand he swung, backhanding James across the face. James neck snapped so hard he thought for a second it had broken. Drifting black came between him and the king. He pressed his hands into the floor, dizzy with the thought that he'd laid hands on his liege. His fury dissolved into horror.
Bruce hit him again, the full force of his strength and pain in the blow. He raised his hand, eyes blazing. He's going to kill me, James thought. Bruce stopped, hand stilled in place. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Don't. Don't ever lay hands on me." He stood, his chest heaving, and looked down at James. "I'll not be spoken to so. Nor have hands laid on me."
A sound like rushing water filled James's head, and he blinked at the blurry wavering walls. He pushed himself up on his elbows. When the king didn't object, he crawled to sit back on his heels. The strange sound went away and he shook his head.
Bruce seated himself on the log and said, "Not even by you."
James spit out a mouthful of blood. The inside of his mouth felt like mush. A trickle ran down from a split lip. But all he felt was sad. "Why not? Tell me why not."
"Because--" Bruce's chest heaved as sucked in a breath and his face was that of man bearing a punishment. "Because I am the king."
James nodded slowly. He'd never felt so empty or alone, yet surely this was a victory. By holy St. Bride, had he run mad? Laying hands on the king was lèse majesté.
The stony chamber was silent except for the gasps of their breaths. James unsheathed his sword and laid it at the king's feet, the steel bright against the gray stone. "My king. I beg you take me into your peace, and give me your pardon." James shook his head though it made his ears ring. No words seemed right for having struck the king. "Forgive me."
Bruce picked the weapon up and looked at it thoughtfully. "It's a fine blade. Did I gift you with it?" At James's careful nod, he handed it back, hilt first. "The man you laid hands on had forgotten to be king. Now he remembers. You were never out of my peace, lad."
James gingerly touched his face. His eye throbbed and his cheek was already swelling. "If that was in your peace, my lord, I'll not want you to clout me when I'm out of it."
The king raised his eyebrows in surprise and then a reluctant smile twitched his mouth.
James licked at the split in his lip. "When we beat them, then we can make them return their prisoners. So that's what we must do."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Robbie Boyd and Gilbert de la Haye were talking in low voices when James came out. He stood with his hand on the cliff face, blinking in the sunlight. His head felt like a ripe melon about to burst. Boyd poked de la Haye's arm and the younger man turned, his eyes widening at the sight. Boyd grabbed James's arm and pulled him towards the trees.
"For mercy, Robbie, instead of pulling me about, pour me some wine." He spit but it was only a little bloody.
"I'll get it," de la Haye said. He hurried to the tun and drew out the last of it into a goblet. He sighed as he handed it to James. "We'll be back to water soon."
"Never mind that," Boyd said. "What happened? The king--" he shook his head in disbelief. "He struck you? Why?"
James flinched. "If I tell you what I did, you'll hit me too. But what matters is that he isn't leaving us."
Boyd was now giving him a thoroughly suspicious look. "What did you do?"
James swirled the wine in his cup, examining it for a moment. He shook his head. "I'm in no condition for another clout, believe me. You'd not want to know what it feels like when he strikes you. Anyway, we must keep him distracted. He's better, but if he has too much time to think about these disasters..." James frowned into his cup. "I'm no better. Thinking about it will unman me, I swear to you." He gulped the wine down. If nothing else, it was a sovereign remedy for a pounding head.
"We're not ready to make another attack. Niall Campbell left again to deliver Lady Margaret home and is for Loch Awe after to try to raise his own men. And with Edward Bruce gone to raise men too, we just don't have enough."
"No," Boyd said, "but our supplies from Turnberry and Arran are running low as you said. We need to do some hunting. There are enough deer in these hills to feed us whilst we await their return if we make the effort."
"We do need more men, there you're aright."
"And food," the king said.
"Your Grace." Gilbert de la Haye's face lit up with a smile.
"We were speaking of it, Sire," Boyd said. "We've depleted our stores. There's a goodly herd of deer we can hunt."
"But if I leave you alone to hunt, will you just scare all the game away?" James grinned, even though it hurt his mouth and his whole face ached.
"What's this?" The king crossed his arms and frowned. "Leave for where?"
James licked at a drop of blood on his split lip. He wasn't sure how the king would like his idea. "Sire, with your consent,
for my own Douglasdale. I've not tried raising men there, and they were ever loyal to my father. He was a good lord to them. They know me. I was born there and stayed as my father's page before he sent me to Paris." Many thought his father a brusque, fierce-tempered man, but he'd been a fond father. Mayhap not gentle, but never once had he beaten him as most fathers did. He'd put James's first sword in his hand and taught him to hold it. Had guided his shot, the first deer James brought down. "He misliked having me gone from him."
No one spoke. Most said his father was foolish to refuse him as a hostage. He wouldn't have been harmed. Hostages were, of a rule, well treated. But never would his father have given him up. Never.
Boyd cleared his throat. "That's a thought. They won't look for one of us so far south."
"We can't spare more men, Jamie. I like the idea, but it isn't possible." But the king was stroking his beard as he did when he thought over an idea.
"I know that, Sire. You've told us this must be a secret war, so I should go in secret with only one man. If we're stopped, who will know I'm James of Douglas and the king's man? I'll be a simple man-at-arms on an errand for his English overlord. Once there, I'll raise my men." Mayhap best not to mention he had a thought to do more than raise them.
"Good God." Boyd stared at him.
De la Haye's mouth hung open. "Deny you're a knight?"
James could have laughed at the looks on their faces. Mayhap it was that none of them had ever stolen an apple from a merchant when he was hungry. "Isn't that what we did after Dail-Righ? Why not now?"
The king motioned towards the last tun of wine that still stood unopened. "Bring me some wine. And I'd break my fast. Is there a bannock about? Let's think on this."
"More for me, too. My head is fit to shatter into pieces." James handed his cup to de la Haye. Spotting Wat at one of the cook fires, he went to get a bannock for the king and to say a word to him about leaving for Douglasdale. He'd trust Wat at his back more than any man in the camp, except Robbie Boyd. It seemed a good idea to wash some of the blood off his face, too. A long dunk of his head in the icy burn felt good. The king had forgiven what he'd done, but James had no desire to remind him of it.
His beard was dripping and he shoved his hair back from his face. When he rejoined the others, they sat on some logs in a circle. He handed the king a bannock. "Wat could join me on the journey, Sire. He's a solid man. I truly think it's worth trying."
The king broke off half the bannock and chewed on it. "You know the men who were your father's well then? How can you be sure they wouldn't betray you? The reward would be great."
Boyd nodded, staring into his cup thoughtfully.
"There's a man there. Thomas Dickson he's called. He was my father's steward and a messenger of his to Wallace. If he's still at Hazelside that my father gifted him with, it's to him that I'll go. Thomas will know whom to trust."
The king jabbed a finger at him. "You're not thinking of only raising men, Jamie Douglas. I know your look too well."
"There might be a chance of striking with them. Douglas is a small castle as you know, my lord. I seem to recall you took it once yourself." He gave the king an amused look.
The king had the grace to look embarrassed at the mention of days when his loyalty to Scotland had been in question. "Well--that was a different case. I pretended to take Douglas Castle and delivered your stepmother to her husband. He was with Wallace those days." That was when Bruce had joined Wallace himself and after knighted the warrior.
"Yes, I was there when you brought her but a little page." James smiled although it hurt his mouth. That was an issue long past. "If I can raise enough men and somehow lure the garrison outwith its walls, why I might take the castle."
De la Haye shook his head. "But it's near Lanark and Bothwell, both with strong garrisons. You'd be under siege and taken within days. If a great keep like Kildrummy couldn't stand, Douglas Castle would have no chance."
"So I would if I stayed. I'd rather hear a lark sing than a mouse squeak, you understand. You'll not find me holding a castle." He frowned. "Now if they'll not come out to play, I'll find another game." He looked at Bruce. "But I'll bring loyal Douglas men to you. That I swear."
At last, the king nodded. "You have my permission then. A month for it and then you'll return to me. I have thoughts for what I'll do next. But mind you, take care." A twist of the king's mouth showed his pain. "By the rood, don't get yourself caught, lad."
James grinned. "I'll bring you men or die trying, my liege."
Bruce shook his head, but James jumped to his feet. "I'll talk to Wat and gather supplies for the trip, my lord."
"Go on then. But remember my words. I expect you to return to me, and a month you have for this enterprise. I need you here. I expect obedience in this, James Douglas."
That stabbed. "I'm yours, my lord. Your man. I swear it."
Bruce grunted. "Good. I expect you to return to me safely."
James felt Boyd's stare as he bowed and went to a spot under a tall pine where he kept the few things in his pack. If Boyd had known what James had done, he was sure he'd get more than a clout. Boyd's was loyal as a hound, and his bite a good deal worse. He trailed along behind James. As James shoved a bag of oats and a dried blood sausage in his pack, the man squatted across from him. "What in the name of the saints was that about? What did you do?"
James looked over at the king talking yet to de la Haye and shook his head. "If the king wants someone to know, then he'll tell the tale." He shrugged. "I stepped a good deal beyond what any loyal man should do, no matter how provoked." He touched his aching face ruefully. "The king explained that to me. And yet, mayhap it was for the best withal."
The king was with them again.
"After he killed the Comyn, I saw something change in him. He keeps himself in tight rein. Except for that." Boyd thrust his chin toward James's battered face.
"He still does. If it had been Longshanks, I'd be dead." James shrugged again. It was nothing he wanted to tell. Disrespect for the king's person was treason, not to be chattered about. He looked up as Wat strolled towards them.
"My lord, I don't mean to interrupt but when were you wanting to be off?"
Boyd stood. "No, I'll leave you to make your plans. But the king is right, by all the saints, Jamie. Be careful."
James watched him walk away. He was a good man and James would trust him at his back in any fight.
Then he turned to Wat. "Whilst we're on the road, I'm no lord, Wat. Remember that. We'll leave at dark. I want to be well away from where they think to find the king by dawn. If anyone spotted us here, who else's men would we be?"
Wat rocked back on his heels. "You'll not go as a knight then?"
"I'm neither proud nor stupid. I wish we could ride though. It'll be a slow trip afoot. But I fear it would raise too many suspicions so--afoot it is. We'll not take time to hunt. Take a bag of oats and some sausage, mind." It wouldn't get them where they were going. He'd have to try to find a village where they could buy more.
"Aye, my lord." He stopped and blinked. "James, then. My pack is ready. And with the look of your face, no one will take you for any fine lord."
James laughed and that gave him a twinge. "It's been a while since any of us looked much like fine lords." He plunked his pack down and leaned back against the tree. "My head is pounding like a smith at his anvil. Give me a poke at dark if I'm not awake." He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Rest at first was little more than a pretense though. Would he ever close his eyes and not see Isabella weeping? Blessed Mary, what must she be thinking locked in a cage? Did she know they still lived? Wonder why no one helped her? Then he must have slept because he opened his eyes on a golden sunset.
Beneath the shining rim of mountain, the vale was gray darkness, smelling of pine and moss. Pale mist rose from the water of the burn as James and Wat walked along it to the ravine. Beyond, the moon made a bright puddle in the middle of Loch Doon. They skirted the lapping water through l
and that was gentle enough, rocky, rolling hills interspersed with meadows and dense woodlands that crowded close to rushing streams. They cut across country where there was no path, taking their time in the dark. Castle Doon, on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, was no worry, but James gave the lights that glinted faintly from it a glare. It was there the governor betrayed Christopher Seton to his death after Methven. Another debt to be paid one day.
He decided to cut into the hills further to the north. They needed to head northeast anyway. When it got near dawn, they stopped, each taking an hour's sleep whilst the other watched. A mouthful of water and a few slices of sausage broke their fast.
That way the River Nith flowed, the highway of English armies into their land. So far from Bruce's hiding place, James decided they could cut to a rutted road that ran by the river so they could move faster. No army would come this day into a land already conquered and under their heel, but James wondered how many English armies it had seen since King Alexander died. It was their fathers' mistake in asking King Edward's aid in choosing a new king that led to this war. They'd thought him a friend. Finally, James admitted they had to stop for food and rest although he begrudged the time.
The ten years since he'd been home were done, and he wanted only to reach it. They stopped in a narrow glen. Under a stand of beeches, James built a fire whilst Wat mixed water with oats for bannocks. A slice of sausage with it made the grumbling in their bellies stop. They filled up on water from a tiny burn that must lead down to the Nith.
Walking along the road, twice James saw wisps of smoke from some croft set well back from the road and out of sight. A stupid place for a croft, even if the land was lush with evergreens and oaks putting out spring buds. What mattered that when armies passed over it? What lord's land was this, he wondered. Some Englishman who had stolen it or a traitor? But the king would say that they'd had little choice with a sword to their throat.
Walking had become a fog, one step and then another. He watched the road in front of his feet but stumbled when he stepped into a pothole that had been right in front of him. He must have been half-asleep. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, they spotted the ruins of a small square keep. A wind had picked up, cold rain blowing into their faces. James was glad to take what shelter the place gave.
