The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Arrows sighed over his head. The morning erupted with the screams of men and horses. “Ambush!” the knight shouted.

  Another flight of arrows arched up from behind James, from where his few archers stood. The English fought their horses into a turn, shouting. Another flight of arrows fell, and two more men slumped from their horses and went down.

  “Scotland and King Robert!” James shouted as he reached them. A man swung at him. James hacked and caught him full in the chest, shearing leather and bone and muscle. James wrenched his sword free as the man fell.

  He stood in his stirrups, looking for the knight. He glimpsed Wat's horse, gutted by an unhorsed Englishman, and a swarm of their men hard behind him. Wat vaulted free as his horse died under him. He rose, untouched, laying about him with his sword. He caught an Englishman full in the chest as the fool came at him in a full run. A dozen others slashed wildly to fight their way free.

  James shouted, “A Douglas! A Douglas! Don't let them escape.”

  The knight’s horse reared and slashed, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. It shattered a man's head in with a kick. The knight wheeled and raced for the castle.

  James put his spurs to his horse's flanks and charged, cutting him off. Their horses slammed together. James's light steed went back on its hocks. His quarry met him, sword raised, and swiped a blow at James's face. James slammed it aside.

  The knight was tall and burly, wearing a mail hauberk, but his head was bare. Blond hair thrashed around his face as he dodged James's blow. “Douglas!” he screamed. “You're mine.”

  James hacked at his head and shoulders. The man grunted, swinging at him and sweat dripping down his face. “Devil take you,” the knight panted, chopping savagely at James.

  James barely got his shield up in time and pain exploded in his half-healed shoulder from the slamming impact. The man bellowed as he raised his sword high for a blow that would have split James's head like a melon. James buried his sword in the knight's belly.

  “He'll take you instead,” James told him.

  As James jerked his sword free, Wat shouted, “After them, lads.”

  A handful of horsemen galloped toward the castle, a good three horse's length ahead of Wat on an English mount. The rest of his men tailed behind. “Hell mend them,” James said through gritted teeth. No one remained but a dozen bloody corpses. Pain shot through his shoulder when he moved his arm, but he whipped his horse's flank. Bending over its neck, he galloped toward the splashing mud of the pursuit.

  Shouts drifted from the walls of Douglas Castle. “Ride!” The fleeing horsemen thundered over the drawbridge. Metal grated, iron upon iron. The castle portcullis slammed down.

  James pulled up and stood in his stirrups, glowering at the castle gate. A crossbow bolt thudded into the ground a yard ahead. Hooves threw up splashes of mud as his mount circled their snorting, rearing horses. He waved his sword over his head and shouted, “Retire! Pull back.”

  One of his men shouted a curse up at the men peering through the embattlement. A crossbow twanged. James heard Wat's bellow of, “You heard him. Back,” as he harried the men into order. James ground his teeth and glared at his castle as he flexed his aching shoulder. He'd not planned the ambush aright. If they'd been a little faster...

  “Back,” he shouted again and waited as his men scattered past him, then turned his horse's head and cantered after them. His jaw ached from the clench of his teeth as he paced his horse at the base of the rise. Two of the towers still showed black stains from when he had burned the castle to try to keep it out of the hands of the curst English. He'd have to do better.

  Wat rode toward him. When he pulled his stocky, short-legged garron up beside James, he scratched at his stubbled chin. “Too bad we didn't get it, but that was Thirwell you took down back there. I'm sure of it.”

  “You have the right of that. I've rid my castle of one interloper.” James twitched a grin. “Once you're finished here, lead the men back to camp. I'm going to make my way to Will's and see if he has gathered more news.”

  Harness creaked, and weapons clattered as James's men gathered around the two of them. James cast a glance over all of them looking for injuries. “All here? How many did we lose? Who was it Thirwell rode down?”

  “Gavine,” one of the men said from the back of the throng.

  James clamped his lips tight. Gavine had followed him from that first fight at the kirk. He circled his horse as he looked them over. Thom leant over his horse's withers, blood dripping from a slash to his head. James motioned to Richert Kintour, the fiery-haired youth had a good hand with tending wounds.

  “Retrieve Gavine's body, Wat. I'll leave none of our people to English mercies.” He spat on the ground. “Not even our dead. I think they won't be in a hurry to bother us, but don't tarry. Strip the English of armor and weapons. And you see that any coin on them is evenly divided.”

  “What about your share?” Wat asked.

  James thrust his chin toward the tower topped by a yellow Clifford banner, scattered with starlings, flapping in the morning breeze. “I missed my prize this time. But I'll claim it the next.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  James looped the reins of his horse on the branch of a sapling beech tree and knelt, peering through the black of night. At the top of the hill, the black hulk of Castle Douglas cut off the scatter of stars. Watch fires made a smudge of light at the tops of the towers.

  Frogs in the Douglas Water issued their musical challenges. A quarter moon hovered above the horizon, and a tall pine creaked in a breeze that carried a green scent up from the river. The air was soft on his face, but his hauberk dragged on his shoulder, and every muscle ached as though he were an old man. With a grim chuckle, he reminded himself never to suffer another wound as he had at the battle at Loudon Hill.

  He straightened, untied his bag from behind his saddle, and walked past the line of trees. The freehold he approached made a black hump in the lesser darkness. In a pen, goats and sheep bleated and bumped. James pressed his back against the wall next to the door and rapped hard. He waited. In the distance, an owl hooted. He rapped again.

  The door opened a crack, and Will peered at him, a flickering shadow in the faint glow of firelight. He stood back and James slid inside and dropped his bag.

  “Prowling under the Sassenachs' noses...” Will shoved the door closed and let the bar thud into place.

  Alycie appeared in the doorway to her sleeping room, slender and supple, her honey-colored braid hanging over her shoulder, rubbing her arms. She frowned at him. “It's too much risk for you to come here.” She shook her head before she dashed across the room. Sliding her arms around his waist, she pressed her face into his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and breathed in the grassy scent of her hair.

  “It's too much risk,” she said again, her voice muffled against him.

  James snorted. “Breathing's a risk.” He raised an eyebrow at Will. “You know there was a skirmish today?”

  Alycie sighed and released him. She smiled a little and stooped in front of the hearth in the center of the room, added a small faggot of wood, and poked at it.

  “Aye, they were all over the village looking for weapons, to see who might have aided you. Mad as hornets, too.” Will stroked his short blond beard and grinned. “We were all innocent lambs still suckling at the teat.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “They roughed up Liam's lad a mite.”

  “Broke his arm,” Alycie said. “It could have been worse. Nothing that won't heal.”

  James unbuckled his sword belt and sucked in a breath at the fire that lanced through his shoulder.

  Alycie, still frowning, took his sword belt from his hands. She stood searching his eyes for a moment. “You're all right?”

  “Only tired.”

  She ducked her chin with a look that made James smile.

  “The shoulder pains a bit, hen. That's all.”

  Hanging his belt from a peg, she shook he
r head. “You tear it open, I'll make you think it pains, Jamie Douglas.”

  Will grinned. “The Sassenach are nothing as fierce as a Scotswoman, my lord.”

  “I'll not argue with that.” James pulled the hauberk over his head with a grunt as Alycie busied herself at the hearth. “Any news, Will? Today was nothing more than an annoyance to them. I need something better.” He tossed the armor aside. It would need cleaning before morning, but that could wait.

  “My cousin in Bothwell Castle sent word that a supply train should be arriving in the next few weeks.” He frowned. “I swear that with Lanark fair in two weeks that the English will either buy or steal what they need, but I've not heard anything definite.”

  Alycie pushed a steaming mug into James's hand. “Willow bark tea. It will ease the aches. Not that you deserve it. Now take off your shirt and sit you down.” She pointed to the floor in front of her stool. “I'll rub salve on your shoulder.”

  Will snickered. “At her feet, you ken.”

  Alycie gave her brother a severe look and sniffed. “If he doesn't want to feel better, he can stand.”

  James flapped his way out of the sweaty linen shirt and sank cross-legged onto the floor. “At your feet suits me well.” He sipped at the mug and made a face. “By the Holy Rude, this is nasty pap.” He looked hopefully at Will. “A dram of uisge beatha would liven it up.”

  “Shame to spoil the uisge beatha though.” Will took the cup and strolled across the room.

  James leant back against Alycie's slender legs as she smoothed a grassy-scented salve onto his shoulder. Her fingers began to work it into the muscles. He gritted his teeth against a grunt as she worked a sore muscle, but the pain was a good one. “Did she learn how many guards? What size the supply train will be?”

  “Large, she thought. And no one is moving without plenty of guards with that demon the Black Douglas about.”

  James snorted a laugh.

  Will came back with two cups and handed James one that wafted a sharp, smoky scent. “It's still early. Roads still aren't much more than bogs.”

  “We need definite word of what they're about. It's been a long winter and with me abed half the time with this cursed wound.” Will had dumped out the tea, and the uisge beatha scalded and soothed at the same time as it went down. “Since I'm well again, I'll...”

  Alycie sniffed, but he wasn't sure if it was from the smell of the drink or the idea of him abed. She rubbed some of the salve into the red scar that ran the length of his shoulder and ran her hands up and down the muscles of his shoulders as though erasing the knots and kinks. “Abed half the time, you have not been. How do you expect it to heal when you won't let it be?” Her fingers began gently to work at the tight spots.

  He reached up and took her hand to rub his thumb over her soft fingers and kissed the inside of her wrist. Her hand smelled of the grassy salve as he wound their fingers together. “There's no time for letting it be. You know that.”

  “I know.” She rested her cheek on top of his head for a moment.

  Will pulled up a stool and sat down. “You'll what, my lord?”

  “Robert Keith is by way of being a cousin of sorts.” James sipped the liquor and sighed as the warmth curled in his belly. “He's with the English in Carlisle.”

  Will gave a non-committal grunt.

  “If I were thinking of making peace with Edward of Caernarfon, it is him that I'd have negotiate for me.”

  Alycie's hands stilled on his shoulders. “Jamie,” she said in a breathless protest.

  “If...” Will gulped down the last of his uisge beatha and reached for James's cup.

  James breathed out a small laugh. “It will get me inside Carlisle for the news that we need. I need to write the Keith a letter. Will, find me a quill so I can trim myself a pen. I have a piece of parchment I've carried in case I needed to write to the King.” He grinned and tilted his head to look up at Alycie. She began to work along the back of his neck and lightly stroked it from hairline to shoulder. He shivered.

  Even one night at peace was more than he could spare, James thought, frowning. But, St. Bride, it was hard with Alycie soft and grass scented so close, and he felt so weary. How could he feel bone weary and yet still be in his twentieth year? He shook the thought out of his head. “If the supplies aren't expected for a few weeks, I have more than enough time for a visit to a cousin in Carlisle.”

  Will took a slow sip of his drink. “They'll be looking over their shoulder for you. They mutter about the devil of a 'Black Douglas' enough.”

  “All the better. I keep them looking over their shoulder for me, and they have no time for looking for the King in the north.” James chewed his lip as he considered. “I haven't forgotten the supplies going to Bothwell. There is a bend in the Clyde, not that far below the bluff where Bothwell stands. It's almost within sight of the castle. They'll think themselves safe so close, but the trees are thick on both sides of the road.”

  “Men.” Alycie squeezed his hand and pulled her fingers loose to rub his shoulder again. “Can you think of something forbye fighting for even a night?”

  “Soon.” James laughed up at her. “Perhaps for a night.”

  Will tossed back his drink and thumped his cup down. “I'll find a quill for you,” Will said.

  James dumped the contents of his bag onto the table: his razor, a piece of soap and ivory comb, a small round metal sheet for baking bannocks over a fire, a cup, and a small bag of oats. At the bottom was a creased and stained parchment he'd saved. Trimming the quill was short work. He chewed his lip as he bent over the letter and made it brief and to the point. Would his cousin meet with him in secret to talk about negotiating his entering the English King's peace?

  “We need someone who'll arouse no suspicion to carry it,” James said.

  “Iain Smythe was able to make a few helms and gauntlets in secret for you. Perhaps he could take some to Carlisle to sell. I'll talk to him.”

  James nodded thoughtfully. More often he disguised himself as a horse trader to cover his spying, but Carlisle was too far for that to work. “We need the armor but need news even more.”

  Will started for the door.

  James nodded, grateful for his discretion as ever. “Thank you, Will.”

  Alycie was smiling when the door closed behind her brother. “Did you miss me?” she teased and wrinkled her nose.

  “Every minute,” James admitted.

  She stood up and reached down to tug him to his feet. He pulled her close, and her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. She was sweet to hold close.

  “You'll miss me all the time whilst you're off to Carlisle,” she said as she led him to her little room. “And then Bothwell with only hairy men for company in the cold spring rain.”

  “You don't know how much.” He would have loved to take her with him, but as much as she was at risk with an English garrison so near at Douglas Castle, it was nothing to the danger of his camp as they struck and ran as they harried the Sassenach. An occasional night visit was the most he dared. He would do anything he could to keep her safe. “I'll come as often as I can,” he promised. “The curst English don't know that I do, and your brother will see that you're safe. I visit as often as I'm able.”

  Alycie softly closed the door to her little room behind them. Through the narrow slats of the shutters, James could make out a flickering watch light at the top of one of the towers of Douglas Castle, but he was distracted by another sight. Bending, Alycie took her kirtle by the hem and drew it over her head. She tossed it aside. Her shift followed. “I don't like to think of you sleeping cold and lonely,” she said as she stood close, golden and lovely in the faint light, one hand flat against his chest. “Will it help when you think of me? How long...”

  “Whist,” he commanded. Her lips tasted of apple as he licked his way into her mouth. Her small firm breasts pressed into him as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Jamie,” she whispered when he broke off the kis
s. “My sweet Lord of Douglas.” James pulled her back into his arms.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A gnarled grandfather oak shaded the dirt road. James paused beneath it to wipe the sweat from his brow. It had been a long walk from where he'd left his horse with two of his men. Above the serrated tips of the spars of docked ships, a cloud slid past the noonday sun. He scanned the high yellow walls of the town of Chester. Just as when he'd passed through the town in Bishop Lamberton's service, guards armed with crossbows marched atop the wide walls and pikesmen stood in the shadows of the gate at the end of the wide stone bridge. A wain piled with barrels rattled past him waved through by the guards.

  He squared his shoulders, blanked his face and strode toward them. His footsteps thudded on the stone and below the waves swished against the riverbank.

  One of the guards lowered his pike to bar the way. “Your name and business,” he said in a bored tone.

  “Iain of Lanark. I'm in service of Sir Robert Keith. He's expecting me.”

  The man's mouth twisted in a sneer, but he lifted his weapon and jerked his head to motion toward the way into the town. “The Scots lords are lodged in the castle.”

  James nodded and stepped around the man. The sun gilded the castle atop a hill beyond the slate roofs of the town. Oaks and beeches dotted the way and a church bell rang peacefully, calling the midday Angelus. Down the street a crowd hooted and jeered at a scarecrow of man in rags, hair in tangles down to his shoulders, shouting curses and shaking his fists at the sky. James wended his way past two soldiers in mail, holding each other up as they staggered into an open door. A crude sign hung over the door, and the smell of stale ale gusted out. A baker's boy, laden arms around a heavy basket, shouted, “Hot eel pies!” and a merchant in a leather apron swept a doorstep. A gang of urchins dashed past into an alley chasing a dog, blood dripping down its sides. No one gave James a second look.