The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  When his fingers touched the age-slick wood of the door, James touched Fergus's arm. As the rest of the men waited, he whispered, “Ready?”

  The man stepped two paces back and crouched. “Aye.”

  “Now!” James kicked with all his strength into the door as Fergus crashed his shoulder into it beside him. It gave with a thunderous crack.

  James stumbled a couple of steps inside until he caught his balance.

  “What the devil,” Randolph said, silhouetted by the dim light in a hearth, gold hair catching the little light. So like his uncle, King Robert. Randolph whirled and threw himself across the room toward a sleeping pallet where a sword lay. Beside James, his men thundered in, spreading as they ran.

  The other man scurried backwards, empty hands raised. “I'm not armed, man.” Yelps came from groggy men in pallets as they were prodded, trod upon, and kicked into submission.

  Randolph swept his sword up from beside a pile of blankets and swiveled.

  “Randolph. Yield.” James lunged after him. Their swords rang together. Again, testing. James backed off a step. Randolph followed, tried a slash. James jerked back and the wind from the blade brushed his cheek.

  “Honorless scoundrel,” Randolph spat.

  James gave way, a smile twitching his lips. “Fine words from a traitor.” He circled backwards, leading Randolph. The knight tried a hack at his legs; James leapt away, hopping lightly over a pile of blankets.

  “Craven,” Randolph said through gritted teeth. He came at James hard. Steel clanged on steel. James let Randolph drive him back, blocking each blow as he stepped over shields and blankets that littered the floor. He smiled blithely into Randolph's eyes. He almost laughed when the man growled under his breath. His blade swished by James's stomach, but James hacked a tear into the mail on Randolph's shoulder.

  “Lost your skill at swordplay since you've kissed English arse?”

  Randolph lunged, slamming the hilt of his sword toward James's face.

  James dodged and caught Randolph across the stomach with the edge of his blade, scoring a gash into his mail. He sidestepped again and slid around the table where the two men had stood talking moment before. “Or mayhap you grew overfond of the English King.”

  James drove out from the other side of the table hard and fast. Randolph blocked. James jerked his sword upward toward the knight's head. Randolph took half a step back, braced himself, and slammed his sword down in a savage arc. James knocked it aside and slid away to the side. He brought his sword down into Randolph's elbow. The mail ripped. Randolph grunted as he half-turned and slammed James's sword aside. James bared his teeth in a grin as he stood his ground. A rivulet of red ran down Randolph's arm. James rained a flurry of blows. Randolph parried--again and again. Each parry was slower. James could hear the knight panting for breath. The crimson from Randolph's elbow dripped down onto his fingers and then the ground. He staggered.

  James slammed his sword at Randolph's head. Randolph lost his feet. He lurched back, tripped over a blanket, and went down on his back. James knocked the sword from his hand with the flat of his blade. Beyond the rush of blood in his head, someone was shouting. He raised his sword, two handed, aiming a swing that would split the traitor from neck to groin.

  Hard hands grabbed him from behind, gripping his arm. He spun.

  “James. No!” Robbie Boyd back-pedaled, raising his empty hands. “Not the King's kin.”

  James panted. Silence hung over the room. He let his arms fall. Around the edge of the room, kneeling amidst their sleeping blankets, the English gaped at him, still as could be with good Scottish steel at their throats.

  His mouth was swollen and bloody where the hilt had caught him. He took off his helm. His hair hung into his face, dripping sweat. He spit out a mouthful of blood. Leaning on his sword, he sucked in a deep breath of air. “Richert, tie the traitor up. And then stop his bleeding. He'll not die before he reaches the King.”

  Randolph propped himself on his elbow in spite of blood dripping down his cheek. He glared at James. “Brigand serving a brigand.”

  James sheathed his sword. “If he opens his faithless mouth again, gag him. We've no time for other prisoners. Bind them.” He jerked a gesture toward the wary prisoners. “If they're in luck, someone will release them. Or let them starve.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They rode in the dark through a scattering of towering Scotch pines. A sentry's horn blew one long quavering note after they were recognized. Below, for miles like a scattering of fallen stars, James saw flickering points of light in an arc along the dark waters of Loch Tulla. Beyond hulked the black mass of Ben Crauchan. They had found the war camp they had travelled north to join.

  A shout then more greeted them as they plodded into the camp. “Boyd's back. Tell the King,” a voice shouted. Their horses' hooves padded softly in a thick layer of pine needles. The ground sloped down as they rode past smoky wood fires and lines of horses.

  From one of the campfires came a plaintive song, a liquid sound that floated through the night air. James understood none of the Gaelic words but shivered as it faded away. Rough voices called for another. From another fire, laughter drowned out arguing voices. They rode past stacks of weapons, past pitch-pine torches and men squatting around sputtering fires where they roasted haunches of venison. The smell made James's empty belly grumble. It had been a fast ride with no time to bring down game.

  Dark shapes strode toward them. James recognized the tall man in the lead, gold hair catching a gleam of the firelight. He jumped from the saddle.

  “Jamie. Jamie Douglas,” Robert de Bruce called. Even in the torchlight, James could see he was thinner, his face drawn. He wore a simple circlet for a crown and mail that was as battered as any other man's, a simple plaid around his shoulders. He clasped James's arms.

  “Your Grace.” For a moment words failed James. “You were ill, I heard.”

  “For a while.” The King laughed and his teeth shone white in his tanned face. “One too many nights in our good Scottish snow. But they nursed me like a bairn. I'm well enough now. Have your sergeant settle your men and tell me your news.”

  James stepped back. “Your Grace...” More bad news was the last thing he wanted to give with the King, but the traitor had to be dealt with. “We took a prisoner. One that we had to bring.” He thrust his chin toward Randolph, hands tied before him whom Wat was pulling from the saddle.

  The King stared as Wat prodded their prisoner into the light of the torch. Robert de Bruce's mouth thinned. “Nephew...”

  James grabbed Sir Thomas Randolph's elbow. Randolph tried to jerk free, but James gave the back of the man's leg a vicious kick.

  Randolph thudded to the ground on one knee. He spared James a glare.

  “So you return to our company, lad. I am most glad to see that you did not share my brothers' fates. Unlike them, your head is quite firmly attached.”

  “Thanks to King Edward.” Randolph's voice was shaking, but James swore it wasn't with fear. “He forgave me for following you. For acting the fool.”

  The King gave a bark of laughter. “I will give you that at Methven we were fools. We trusted to English honor.”

  Randolph glowered at James as he lurched to his feet. The man's chest heaved. “Don't you speak of honor. You! My own uncle. Hiding. Sneaking. Stealing upon knights in the dark. Nothing more than a brigand. Honor? The last thing you have.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “I'm ashamed that we are kin.”

  James would not have liked the smile that flickered over the King's face turned upon him, but Randolph just braced his legs apart and glared at his royal uncle even harder.

  “So, nephew, you find honor in men who lock your own aunt in a cage and torture to death captured knights. A pretty notion of honor. But I'll let you have it. Whilst you stay my guest.”

  Randolph's face twisted in a sneer. “King Hob—”

  “Silence!”

  Randolph clamped his
mouth shut.

  “Despite what you've done, I'll take your parole on your honor to make no attempt to escape. Or you can stay in chains. It is your choice, nephew. In Sir Robert Boyd's charge you'll remain. Until you remember whom I am. And your duty to your sworn King.”

  Randolph tilted his chin up. “You'd chain me? Your own kin?”

  “Your choice, Nephew.”

  Randolph's gaze darted from his uncle's face to James. James narrowed his eyes at the man. Given the choice, he'd hang him and be done with it. The King was betimes soft to his enemies. Randolph glanced at Boyd.

  Boyd gave an evil grin. “Don't look to me, pup. You deserve a good kicking.”

  “My word then.” The arrogant tilt of Randolph's head never faltered as he swept his gaze back to the King. “I'll not try to escape. Not even from you.”

  James twitched his hand. Under the King's eye, he couldn't kill the man as he deserved, but it would have felt a laudable thing to do so. Instead, he jerked his dirk free. He grabbed Randolph's arm and slashed the rope binding his wrists. Then he held up the blade. “I could still be persuaded to use this.”

  “Lad, my sister would be wroth if I let you kill him.” The Bruce squeezed his shoulder. “Come along. There's a tun of good wine that the Comyn gifted us with.”

  Randolph made a noise in his throat James decided to ignore. Wat was already taking care of settling the men and their horses, so James nodded to Niall Campbell and a red-haired youth. Gilbert de Hay pointed to some logs around a large campfire where a haunch of meat was spitted, sizzling and dripping fat into the fire. The scent made his mouth water. “Where's Sir Edward?” James asked. Not that he minded the King's only surviving brother not being there to give him looks like dirks to the heart.

  “On his way to Galloway with most of my chivalry. If he can bring it to heel, I'll let him have it.”

  Hay handed James a cup, and he tipped the tun to pour. Boyd held out a cup for a share. If Randolph wanted some that wasn't James's problem. Dripping fat flared in the fire.

  “What about Lorn then? We won't need them?”

  The King sat in the center of one of the logs and pulled out his dirk. He sliced off a chuck of the venison and chewed it, grease running through his fingers. James sprawled on the ground on a padding of sweet smelling pine needles and bracken. After he had finished chewing, the Bruce said, “How many archers did you bring from Ettrick?”

  Boyd cut off a slice of the dripping meat and tossed it to James. He snagged it in the air. “Fifty,” he said before he stuffed it in his mouth. He muffled a moan as savory taste filled his mouth and juices dripped down his throat. “I keep my force small so we can move fast.”

  “Those will be enough. You've never seen the Pass of Brander?”

  James shook his head.

  “Oh, it's a pretty sight.” Sir Niall Campbell laughed. “My own lands are not so far. I've climbed it many a time up from River Awe. I hope you have a good head for heights, Douglas. And those men of yours.”

  “That won't be the worst.” The red-haired youth spoke up. James frowned at him.

  Gilbert de Hay leaned forward and poured a cup of wine from the tun. “Ross's heir.” He nodded toward the lad. “Hostage for his lord father's behaving.”

  Huh. The King bringing the Earl of Ross to heel as well was news indeed, though considering Ross's treachery in turning the King's wife and daughter over to English imprisonment, it must have been a hard thing to swallow. Yet the lad looked happy enough.

  “What will be worse then?” James asked.

  “Climbing when you can't see a hand's span ahead in the mist.”

  Campbell nodded. “He's right about the mists. They clear mid-morning this time of the year, when the wind from the sea reaches the pass.”

  “The Pass of Brander is nothing but a trap that Iain Bacach MacDougall waits to spring.” The Bruce leaned forward and hacked another chunk off the haunch. “I'll march along the river into the trap with my men. What say you to that?”

  James frowned up at the top of the dark mass in the distance. “How high is it?”

  “Think those Ettrick bowmen of yours can scramble up a cliff?” Niall Campbell gave him a bland look. “I told the King he should let me take my Highlanders to do it. Most like you lot will fall off.”

  James grinned, sure Campbell was thinking of the day he'd grabbed James as he tumbled down Ben Lomond. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

  Campbell laughed.

  “I'd rather you didn't,” the Bruce said. “My scouts say that Iain Bacach has two thousand men holding it, and if you fall on top of them, my plans will go awry.”

  Thomas Randolph jerked a steaming piece of venison from Boyd's knifepoint held toward him and glowered sullenly at his royal uncle.

  “How many do we have?” James asked. It was hard to tell the numbers in the dark.

  “Two thousand with yours and Robbie's,” Gilbert de Hay said around a mouthful of food. He licked his fingers clean. “And if we're to be in position before the mist clears on the morrow, I'd say we need some rest. We'll have to move well before daybreak.”

  James nodded. Night was short in the Scottish summer. He stood and flexed, hands on the small of his back. “I'll not mind some rest. But what about him?” He glared at his erstwhile prisoner.

  “The pine needles make a soft pallet. As for my nephew... He is an honorable man. His word is good.” The King rose. He looked at the young knight with an odd expression on his face. “And Robbie will make sure of it.”

  Randolph jumped to his feet and opened his mouth.

  Niall Campbell grabbed his arm, a hand on his hilt. “I suggest you thank your uncle nicely. Because your aunt—my wife—shivers in an English cage whilst you were free as a robin on the wing. None here is like to defend you.”

  “Enough,” the Bruce shouted. He took a deep breath. “I'll have what is left of my family stay alive.”

  James stretched his back again, twisting to stretch weary muscles. Let the King deal with Randolph. “Jesu God, Gilbert is right. I'm finding a nice padded spot to sleep before we go mountain climbing.” He walked slowly into the murk, feet leaden with weariness. After he shed his surcoat and armor, he sank into the needle padding beneath a pine. Battle on the morrow, an ambush, and you never knew what might go awry.

  Letting his head fall back against the rough bark of the tree, he stared up through the soaring cathedral of tree limbs into the inky sky. He couldn't let himself think about Alycie. It was too much. If she needed him... If the village were attacked while he was too far too come to her aid... He couldn't stand the thought.

  He couldn't even think of another such loss. He wasn't sure he would survive it. Better a sword in the belly than losing her.

  No. Tonight he must only think only of his duty to the King and the coming battle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  James lurched awake, heart thudding as he grabbed his sword. Where were his men? He took a deep breath of the scent of pine needles that made his bed and remembered where he was. In the gray half-light of near dawn, thick mist wrapped the trees like winding sheets. He staggered to his feet. “Robbie,” he called. “You awake?”

  Boyd groaned nearby. “I could use a featherbed. With a nice soft lass in it.”

  “Didn't you find one whilst you were home?”

  Boyd laughed, groaned and laughed again. “Mayhap.” There was some rustling in the darkness. “Randolph. Don't think you're staying abed.”

  “I'm awake, man,” Randolph groused.

  James flapped his way into his hauberk. He searched the ground around his feet for his surcoat, donned that and buckled his sword belt. “I don't think I'm looking forward to the King's plan.” He grinned to himself. “Or not the climbing in the murk part anyway.”

  “James. Boyd,” Gilbert de Hay called. “Time for a council.”

  The torches formed a halo of light where Maol Choluim, the Earl of Lennox, his elegant head thrown back with a scowl, faced the Ki
ng. “The risk is too great, Your Grace. They could tear us apart.”

  “Ridding the kingdom of the enemy is worth the risk. I can't fight the English with a Scottish sword at my back, Maol.” He motioned to James to join them.

  The earl nodded to him glumly. “I'll see that my men are ready to march then.”

  Niall Campbell appeared through a curtain of mist as Boyd strode out from the trees, Randolph at his heels. “My men are at the mouth of the pass,” Campbell said.

  “You'd best have your sergeant join us, Jamie,” the Bruce said. He started into the foggy gray of dawn. “Robbie, you'll lead your men along the river bank with the rest of us.”

  James whistled the scream of a falcon.

  Wat shouted, “You want me, my lord?” He trotted through the fog to James side and blinked at the King, giving a startled bob of a bow.

  “Are the men roused and ready?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then come with me to look where we're leading them.” He walked behind the King down a narrow, stony path. Pale shimmers of dawn fanned out to the east turning the mist ghostly. The western sky was still black, sprinkled with stars. Through breaks in the mist, dark jagged peaks rose high and wild. The King stopped next to the river, a short way down from the path. Strands of white drifted, writhing, from its foamy water as it rushed by.

  The Pass of Brander yawned before them, stretching into blank darkness.

  James raised his gaze to the track to the summit, up and up, to stones and trees and a looming mass of a mountain shrouded black under the damp pall. James strained to see the through the murk. He tightened his sword belt to cover a shiver.

  “Our scouts place the MacDougall's caterans halfway through the pass, where the river bends. I'll lead our men into the pass alongside the river once the sun is full above the horizon.”

  James chewed his lip. They'd fought MacDougall's Highland warriors at the Battle of Dail Righ where they had all nearly died. Attacking them with so small a force was no light matter. “I don't have enough archers to do that many of them much harm.”