The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  He walked through the camp. The men lay at ease about their campfires, mostly lowland men-at-arms who had joined the king these last months. But there was a good scattering of highlanders in their saffron tunics. Some were sharpening weapons whilst others talked. The strains of a song drifted from one of the fires.

  Mayhap the king had retired to the keep. James turned his steps that way and pushed open the battered door. The Bishop swished a whetstone along the edge of his sword and looked up.

  James froze. Heat flooded his face.

  Bishop Moray carefully placed his sword on the table. "Come in," he said.

  James's heart hammered, but he felt a strange relief when he knelt beside the bold-faced cleric. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to it. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he recited.

  The words came slowly, the story a bit at a time. If the door opened in the course of that hard half-hour, James didn't see it or hear it. Twice he stopped, his head bowed, what he was telling too much in front of his eyes to continue. His face grim, the bishop gave James penance and absolution as he made the sign of the cross.

  The room fell silent. "Go in peace," the Bishop said.

  Any priest would say he was forgiven. The bishop said he was forgiven. Was it yet another sin that he felt as condemned as ever? "Thank you, my lord. I'll pray for her as you command." He mustn't wonder if God would hear him.

  "There's another thing." The bishop stood up and looked James in the face. "You have to tell the king. I couldn't require it. But you must."

  James looked out the narrow slot window at the darkness beyond. "I know. It's how he'll look at me when I tell him that stops me--how much it will hurt him."

  The king's right of justice wasn't what worried him. He would understand. They'd suffered too much together for them both not to know what sometimes had to be done. But it would pain him. Another death, worse in its way than the others. James had killed the woman who'd put a crown on his head.

  * * *

  James had ridden hard with Wat and two of his men the night before. It had taken two changes of horse, but they'd found Valence and crept in close as the Englishman led his glittering mass of soldier. Two thousand at least but surely no more than three. And no archers.

  As the English marched, their armor glimmering like a second sun. Hundreds of banners waved in the wind over the whole host, Valence's starling, the English Cross of St. George, the Plantagenet leopard, and more--too many to count. James shook his head. No doubt the man thought to ride them down, knowing how outnumbered the Scots were. They thought to destroy Robert de Bruce and the six hundred men with him like a worm squashed underfoot.

  James let the gallop back the way that they'd come, cutting across country on their light garrons. They passed through bog and moor where the heavy English horse dare not go. Loudoun Hill came into view, a hump that rose a thousand feet into the air. In the dark moors, James led his men towards the road that ran past it, the road that Valence would be forced to follow. On each side of the road, men labored digging ditches. On the heather-covered slope of the hill spread cook fires and tents in ragged array. The king's gold and red banner flew on the crest beside the blue saltire of Scotland. James nudged his lathered horse's flanks to kick clods out of the dirt as it scrambled and labored.

  The king, clad in mail covered by a surcoat of gold with the red lion on its breast, stood surrounded by his lieutenants.

  "Your Grace," James exclaimed as he jumped from the saddle, "we found them."

  "And?"

  "No archers, my lord. Mostly medium cavalry. Two thousand at least. Another five hundred heavy destriers. We have today to prepare. That's all."

  Bruce grunted. "He thinks to catch me unawares by a fast march. Let him come."

  Boyd pointed down to the bogs that bordered the road a hundred feet out, not close enough to keep the English cavalry from charging as James well knew. "The first ditch is dug up to the edge of the road and hidden by peat. They've just started on the second."

  "That will slow them down. But not stop them." James chewed his lip. "What if I take my men and we start the third? A bowshot from the second. That would bring the trap right to the edge of the bluff. If we run out of time, at least all three would be partially dug. We'll dig the part that's closest to the road."

  The king nodded. "Go ahead." Edward Bruce looked down his nose as James signaled to Wat to pull his men from the ranks of those laboring in the bright sun. Half dug on one side of the road and half on the other. James grabbed a shove and thrust into the mucky ground. Sweat ran down his face as he dug up the heavy stuff. It stuck to his legs and coated his arms.

  Further out, the moor was its own trap ready built. It was only here, close to the road, that they had to make their own trap for oncoming destruction.

  Wat grunted when they had it three feet deep. James said to extend it to the side. "This is deep enough, my lord?"

  "Deep enough to stop a charging war horse." He gave a grim laugh. "And do its rider no good. The only question is will we stop enough of them."

  Sweat dripped down his bare arms streaking dirt from digging. The heavy, wet muck was hard to dig and slow to move. It couldn't be piled where the English would see it, and that meant men carrying it away. Peat had to be cut to cover the ditches to hide the trap. By night, the second ditch was finished and the third halfway to the bog where it narrowed close to the road.

  * * *

  A lark trilled overhead. James looked up at it in the pale blue of the morning sky. He'd said he preferred to hear the lark sing, so here was his chance.

  He had walked the field during the night, checking for anything they'd missed. His sword and dirk were sharpened. In the dark, he'd donned a surcoat with his blue chief and three white stars. As with the king, let the English see whom they fought this day. If nothing else, he'd be finely dressed to die. A sudden wind cracked his pennant. He'd honor Thomas who'd given it to him and his father who'd fought beneath it before him.

  The stack of fifteen-foot-long pikes came nearly as high as his waist. One of his man grabbed one and James gave an encouraging thump on his shoulder as he trotted past to take his place. Already the square of James's schiltron was half-formed, the men shoulder-to-shoulder.

  "Wat," James called, "finish here." His sergeant ran up, and James picked up his horse's reins and led the animal into the rapidly forming schiltron. He walked up behind one of the men. Grasping the pike, James gave it a shake. "Plant your pike hard, men," he yelled. "When the horse hit, it must be braced." He chewed his lip. They didn't have enough men to pack them in more than one line. His men would have to close any gaps when one went down before the coming assault. It took both hands to hold the pikes. Their only protection was the line of blades, like a hedgehog's spines, thrust out ten feet in every direction in a bristling hedge. Unbroken, no horse could pass. If it broke... James paced the rest of the way around, leading his mount, speaking a low word now and then.

  His banner snapped in the breeze, its pole planted in the earth. With the last man to take his place and close the square, Wat ran in and jerked the banner free to raise it aloft.

  Wat waved it over his head. "A Douglas! A Douglas!"

  James swung into his saddle as his men joined the shout. He wheeled his horse in a tight circle. On one side, Robbie Boyd stood in the midst of a half-formed schiltron, his men forming an immense square. On the other side, Gilbert de la Haye was talking to his men as they formed another and braced their pikes into the dirt.

  His men had never held a schiltron before although he'd practiced it with them. Watching a fully armed knight gallop at you and not break yourself--it was much to ask of a man. But close packed in a square they could hold. Mayhap. Wallace and Moray had done it--once. His heart was thudding and sweat dripped down his ribs. But his men must not see that he feared.

  King Robert's trumpets sounded and he cantered down the hill. James smiled wryly to see the king on the black stallion he had gifted him wi
th from Douglas Castle. The big animal snorted as it took the steep slope, skidding in the small rocks. The king stopped just up the rise from them so all could see and hear him.

  The king stood in his stirrups and shouted, "My people." He waited until the murmur of voices ceased. "Today we must send a message to all those who long to join us. They must see that we can win. Make no mistake. If we fall today, so falls Scotland. The fate of our nation hangs on our deeds. We must stand against the foe that would destroy us. I need not ask you if you have the heart to die for Scotland. You've shown me your hearts. You've fought beside me when our enemies harried us like deer. No more. Today we stand."

  The king hoisted his battle-axe above his head. "Today we win or we die. For Scotland!"

  "Scotland! Scotland!" the men shouted.

  A glint of light caught James's eye and he stood in his stirrups. Drawing his sword, he pointed. Around the shoulder of the hill, sunlight glared off mail and arms, a thousand--more, the English van. The cross of St. George and Valence's starling banner caught the breeze and whipped over their heads.

  "My liege," he yelled.

  "We know our enemy," the king shouted. "Now we do our duty. For Scotland!"

  Cheers went up. "Scotland! A Bruce! A Bruce!"

  Wat gestured to the pennant that he held aloft, that James had unfolded during the night, flying from the pole in Wat's hand. "You're sure you want me holding this and not a pike? Your bannerman should be a lord."

  "Another pike won't make any difference, Wat. You'll be my bannerman this day. There's no other man I'd want at my back."

  James put on the pot helm that rested on his saddle in front of him. Donning full armor instead of playing spy seemed like a game after such a time. And wearing a helm made him sweat like a sow, but if they were going to do this, the king said they'd do it aright. The king regained the peak of the hill where there awaited a hundred horsemen, a full half of all they had. On the slim strand of firm ground opposite waited the rest with Sir Edward--all light cavalry with no chance to stand against ten times their number in full armor on murderously heavy destriers.

  A trumpet sounded one long call. The English horse came to a canter and spread out from the road in both directions. Shouts drifted to them, battle cries James couldn't make out. A long line galloped towards them. He paced his horse around the inside of the square.

  "Steady," he said. "Steady. Keep solid now."

  The ground shook. The beat of hooves was like thunder.

  "Hold," James said. Above his men's heads, he watched an ocean wave of steel-clad knights and men-at-arms.

  They hit the first ditch.

  Horses crashed headfirst. Riders pitched flailing, launched into the air to crash flat on the ground. Horses went over, knights crushed beneath the weight. Others smashed into them. Screams of men and horses rose under the thunder. A horn blew twice and again. The riders hurtled forward, kicking as they jerked and sawed at reins. On the edge, some went into the bog up to their hocks, rearing and fighting the sludge that sucked them down.

  Never taking his eyes from the growing chaos, James paced his horse back and forth within the schiltron, heart hammering. He shifted his sword in his hand and rolled his shoulders. How many would reach them? The English cavalry rode over their downed men, using their bodies as a bridge. More than half still stormed ahead. Screams.

  Three blasts sounded and the riders jerked to turn. They streamed towards the road. Hundreds now not thousands, they on-rushed. The second pit was a hell of thrashing horses and struggling men. James watched as one man flew or his horse's head to crash face first in the muck. A knight rolled like a rag doll under trampling hooves.

  "Here they come." He kept his voice even, calm.

  The third pit claimed some, but James had no more time to look. All around them, men shouted and horses trumpeted. James could see nothing beyond the line of horsemen that slammed into the pikes. Men died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. The horses plunged, reared, and screamed. He spun his horse in a fast circle, ready for a gap in their line.

  A pike splintered as a horse impaled itself on the point. The horse went down, snorting blood. The shattering pike speared his man. A knight in a red surcoat burst through before the gap could close.

  "A Douglas!" He swept his sword and buried it deep in the knight's chest. He wrestled the blade free, and the corpse slid off the horse. It bounced.

  The trumpet blew two long blasts, calling to hold their position. "Steady," James yelled. "Close up!"

  A man-at-arms jumped over a body and thrust at him. James lashed out, knocking the blade aside. The man darted back for another try.

  James dodged. "Shoulder to shoulder," he shouted.

  He heard a shout, "England!" Another knight thundered at him from the other direction. Another gap. Wat shouted at the men, cursing them to close ranks. James raked his spurs over his horse's flanks and rode over the first man. The skull burst under his hooves. The other swung a sword around his head. Their horses slammed together; James's light animal went back on its haunches.

  A battering ram blow hit his shoulder. It exploded in pain. He flew face first into the ground, but he rolled and came up on his knees. The horse reared over his head. Lurching, he jammed his sword upward into the horse's belly. A flood of blood and guts spewed. The horse came down like a boulder, he and the screaming rider trapped under it.

  Wat grabbed his arm, pulling him free. James stumbled to his feet, scraping gore off his helm with the back of his sword hand. A thrust silenced the knight's screams. Excruciating pain shot through his shoulder. He stumbled in a haze.

  He turned looking for another opponent through a mist--tried to grab his horse's reins but his arm wouldn't work. His shoulder hammered in red agony.

  He was on a knee propping himself up with his sword, not sure how he got there. The battle had moved on. No one was outwith the circle of bloodied men and pikes, except a deep bloody pile of men and horses. A downed horse, pike through its chest, screamed as it struggled to rise and screamed again when it fell. The rest were silent.

  A long single trumpet sounded a charge from high on the hill. Again, the roll of hoof beats, not so loud this time. The king and his horsemen flew past at a gallop, pursuing the English, the gold and red lion banner whipping over Bruce's head. The remnants of the English charge shattered like thin ice.

  Competing horns blew, in the distance a long and a short blast. Repeated. Then again. Blowing retiral.

  Dizzy, James fumbled to sheath his sword. It seemed strangely hard. He missed and tried again.

  "My lord." Wat had him around his waist, lifting him.

  James groaned at the pain that stabbed from his neck to his fingers when he tried to stand. Blood dripped from his hand to the ground. Someone was yelling his name and kneeling beside him. He tried to answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Somewhere in Scotland: June 1307

  Smoke rose from castle walls, horses crashed on pikes, a lady sobbed. Men groaned and screamed. James hurt. When James moved, pain hacked at his shoulder and he moaned. But he mustn't let anyone hear. He was the Douglas of Douglasdale, son of his father. Nearby, someone started cursing but soon stopped, and James wondered if the man had died.

  From the top of Loudoun Hill, he walked down the heather covered slope. Crows billowed from feasting on bodies in clouds so thick he couldn't see the sky. Corpses sprawled all over the field. The sun was a watch fire that shone upon headless bodies. Where are my men? Please, no. Did I let them die?

  The caw of the crows was the only sound, but then he began to hear the voices of the dead. Isabella wept and begged for mercy. Thomas's voice called for his brother and ended on a scream. A voice begged for help, and another cried out his mother. James's mother had died birthing him. He would have called out for Alycie, but she should not come to this place of death.

  He walked through a field of bodies. Did I kill them all or only let them die? The king. If only he could f
ind the king, he would ask. But the royal lion standard stood at the top of the hill. Tattered and windblown. Abandoned.

  He awoke in a tent with light shining in. He saw the shape of an upright and the droop of the canvas over his head. He was on a cot with blankets piled on him and a pillow under his head.

  The blankets made him swelter, and his body dripped with sweat. He felt dizzy and his shoulder stabbed when he struggled to sit up. No matter how hard he tried to push himself erect, his arms were too weak to hold him.

  The battle came back to him in fragments. The horses on the pikes screaming, a shattered skull, the knight swinging his sword. But they must have won, or he'd be in chains or dead. If the king didn't live, they would have lost. He felt pleased that he'd winkled that much out. His mind wasn't totally fogged.

  He blinked up when a he saw a face leaning over him, scraggly beard barely sprouted on a young chin. Once more, James struggled to sit up. "Wine," he croaked.

  "Sir James," the boy stuttered. "The king--Lord Boyd. They've ordered to know when you awaken." He scurried away.

  James thrashed his legs to rid himself of the blankets. His fever must have broken, he thought dimly because he felt like to smother. He ran his hand across his chest, but it was wrapped in bandages, his arm strapped down. God's wounds, his mouth and tongue felt like old leather.

  The king bent to enter the tent and inside his head brushed the roof. He knelt next to James.

  "My liege," James croaked.

  "What are you thinking?" the king snapped at the boy dithering in the entrance. "Wine for him. Poppy in it."

  The boy scurried over and scooted around the king to kneel next to James so he could lift him a little and held the cup to his mouth. It went down cool, stinging the splits in his lips. James tried to lift the hand he wasn't leaning on before he remembered he couldn't.

  The king waved the boy away and himself supported James as he laid back. "Wound fever. Keep still, lad."