by J. R. Tomlin
“Your Grace,” Robert Boyd said from the same doorway, “Alexander MacDougall, erstwhile Lord of Lorn, begs permission to approach.”
James saw that the King took a deep breath before he answered. “So be it.”
Alexander MacDougall's head shook, the wattles on his neck swinging as he walked, gaze fixed on his feet, toward the King. He was dressed in dark velvet tunic and hose, but his feet and white-haired head were bare as was only right for a penitent. Lorn stopped at the foot of the dais and carefully lowered himself to first one knee and then the second. “I come to beg Your Grace to accept me and my people into your peace,” he said, voice wavering. “I offer my fealty.”
“Offer?” The tendons on the Bruce's neck stood out as though he ground his teeth, but his voice was level and calm. “You offer what is mine by right, Alexander MacDougall.”
Lorn looked up, gaping. “Your Grace, I surrendered my castle on your word that you would extend mercy.”
“Mercy such as you did not show my brothers, sirrah, but my word I keep. I accept your homage as it is my due. You and your lady wife will be offered no harm. I will hold your lands of Argyll in safety until I receive the same homage from your son and heir. Until such time, Sir Niall Campbell will give you escort to his own good castle where you'll be kept in all dignity.”
King Robert extended his hands and accepted MacDougall's within them as the man hurriedly muttered his oath. From the sour look on the King's face, he was sorely tempted to wipe his hands as Alexander MacDougall climbed creakily to his feet.
The King turned his head and opened his mouth to say something when Thomas Randolph stepped out of the crush. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, so alike Randolph could have been the King's younger self, tall, golden. But now the King's face was sun-darkened and lines radiated out from his eyes. The King closed his mouth and tilted an eyebrow as Randolph gracefully dropped to one knee.
The chatter stopped, and the only sound was the thump of a hound's tail under a table.
“Will you forgive me my ill words, Uncle?” Yet Randolph begged with an arrogant tilt to his chin.
“Ill words.” The Bruce nodded as though he were thinking of something else, then lowered his gaze to the man kneeling at his feet. “Ill-thought out, certainly. And have you other words for me now, nephew? I will hear them.”
Color crept into Randolph's face. “I do, sire. I wronged you. Will you accept me into your peace? Accept my fealty? I swear by my honor, I'll serve you well.”
The room held its breath as the King looked thoughtfully at his nephew. At last, he nodded.
“Then my forgiveness you have and my peace.” He held out his hands.
Randolph placed his hands within those of his royal uncle. “I acknowledge you, Lord Robert, by the grace of God, King of the Scots, and I will henceforth and always be a faithful vassal to you, and I will defend you, Your Grace, against all malefactors and invaders. Before all God and the Saints, I swear it.”
“I, Robert, do hereby receive your homage and promise that I will be a good and faithful lord.”
There was applause and laughter. James twitched a raised eyebrow at Niall Campbell who shrugged. The King had lost too much. James could hardly begrudge him offering peace to the few of his family still alive, but how true was the oath Randolph had just taken? James wondered.
The King motioned to James to join them. “I'll have peace between the two of you as well,” he said.
“Of course, sire.” Peace did not have to mean trust. He'd not be in a hurry to trust Randolph whatever the King said.
Randolph offered his hand. “I still owe Sir James a blow or two. Perhaps one day on a jousting field.”
“Mayhap, someday. For now, Jamie, Angus Og's ships will speed you to Galloway. My brother has orders to capture Rutherglen Castle, and you're to aid him before you return to hold Douglasdale.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Three days later, James's horse slid down the rocky bank to the River Clyde, his three hundred men in a triple column behind him. Gulls wheeled, squalling overhead. Only a mile inland from where Angus Og had landed them, the wind still carried a scent of distant burning, and a thin snake of dark smoke crawled into the winter clouds. They splashed across the shallow ford rimed with ice and up the other side into the wide valley.
James sharpened his gaze at a shout as one of his forward scouts cantered down the icy braeside, waving an arm over his head. “Armored men riding this way,” the man yelled. “Flying the Bruce banner.”
James reined in his snorting and prancing horse. His men spread out behind him, dismounting to water their horses and squatting to scoop up icy water. Most had lost their green tinge from being tossed in Angus's galleys.
The wind caught James's fur cloak and whipped it around. His horse snorted and sidled until he reined it in with one hand and caught the edge of his blowing cloak with the other. “Gilles, take two men and be sure that is Sir Edward.” It had been a hard school that taught him to take no chances. James waited, mounted, frowning until Gilles galloped back ahead of the chivalry of knights riding under the flowing red and gold Bruce banner.
“Well met,” James called and his words were on puffs of white. He spurred his horse to a trot to meet the King's brother.
Edward de Bruce, clad in a handsome suit of mail under a surcoat of red and gold, a plumed helmet on his head, rode at the head of thirty knights in polished armor riding strong chargers. James swung from his horse and strode through the brown bracken. “Sir Edward.” He bowed making it his most courteous and keeping his expression bland in the face of Edward de Bruce's scowl.
Edward de Bruce dismounted and stood, arms crossed over his chest. “I can use your men for the siege, but do not mistake who is in command. Because my brother favors you, don't make any error on that.”
“Of a certainty. I've no quarrel with your command.” No point in sighing. Edward's dislike was not new. He thrust his chin toward the rising smoke in the distance. “Was there much resistance?”
Sir Edward snorted. “Ingram de Umfraville and Aymer St. John tried to hold at the ford of the Dee. Now they're shaking and quivering inside Buittle where I can't get at them. Left me to collect taxes in cattle and grain.” He bared his teeth in a grin. “And burn anyplace that resisted.”
James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then our backs should be secure for a siege.”
“We'll move on Rutherglen today. If we take it by spring, we'll be lucky.” Sir Edward grimaced. “It will make a grim winter, but my brother commands, so we must.”
James nodded. The King's brother might be in command, but if he could think of a way to take the mighty castle of Rutherglen without a winter-long siege, he would certainly take it. He swallowed a laugh because he didn't intend to say any such thing to Sir Edward. Instead, he nodded. “Your greater number of men follow not far behind I suppose.”
“An hour behind on their slower mounts.”
“The English will have ample warning from the burning.” James swung into the saddle and Sir Edward did the same. “Wat, bring the men in the van behind Sir Edward's men,” James called out. Amidst the creak of leather and clatter of armor, James's men mounted.
So they rode on. James kept his gaze ahead, occasionally glancing at his morose commander from the corner of his eye. He'd try his best to be civil to the man for the King's sake. “Do you know if they can bring supplies in from the sea?”
“It backs to a high cliff. No way up unless you've wings.”
James nodded. He couldn't think of anything else to say. They'd never gotten on, but he had no desire for the man to be an enemy. He'd speak softly and keep his own council.
Scouts rode back with word that the town of Rutherglen near the castle was empty of people. The clattered through the empty streets past cots with doors agape. A single chicken clucked and pecked at winter brown heather beneath open shutters. James ordered scouts to circle the town to be sure no armed men lurked.
Sir Edward grunted. “This is the only road up the castle mount. That will make a siege easy to hold.”
“I'll keep my scouts out. Make sure they don't steal a march on us from Buittle to relieve it.”
Sir Edward spun on his heel. “This will make a good enough base camp. Convenient.” He laughed. “Have your men hold the road out of bow shot.”
No surprise to be given the dirty work, but he bowed and motioned to Wat. “I'll see if I can find a building or two large enough for our men.” He lowered his voice although Edward de Bruce had already walked away. “Before most of his men arrive, we'll settle our own. And send enough to hold the road well out of bow range. Fifty should be enough.”
“A siege so near to Glasgow. It's risky,” Wat said, glancing around to be sure they weren't overheard.
“The King wants it taken, so we take it. But see if anyone has a better idea than sitting here whilst we starve them out. Give out word, I'll reward any good plan. After dark, we'll take a ride. See if we can think of something a bit more...”
Wat grinned. “More like what the Black Douglas would do?”
A whole winter in Edward de Bruce's company would have him the Black Douglas indeed. Drive him to murder most like. And wouldn't that please the King? James headed toward a long, low stone building. He pushed open the door and breathed in the scent of the malt he expected it should hold. They must have emptied it as they fled, but the rich scent was pleasant. And it was large enough for most of his men when they weren't holding the siege. Forbye, it was made to be easily heated. Holy Jesu, that would be welcome. Already the air smelt of snow.
He stuck his head out the door. “Richert, find some tables and stools. Wat, get the men in here once the horses are stabled. Fergus, we need wood for the fire.”
Soon his men were filing in, stomping their feet from the cold, clapping and rubbing their hands. They threw blankets into piles in the corners and cursed the cold. Richert and Hew carried in a table, and a couple of stools whilst Fergus lumbered in with his arms piled his with logs for a fire. “I looked and they didn't leave a scrap of food anywhere,” Hew grumbled.
James paused his pacing. “Sir Edward's men are driving cattle with them that they've levied. They've grain, too. For tonight we'll make do with the oats in our bags for bannocks.”
When Wat opened the door, the wind caught it out of his hand. It crashed against the wall. “It's ugly out there.” He shoved the door closed.
“Don't settle yourself yet, Wat. I want to take a good look at our task.” James nodded toward the door. “We'll ride as far around the castle as can be. Perhaps it will spark some idea in this slow pate of mine.”
Wat snorted but followed him around the long building to a couple of storage sheds they'd taken for stables. The horses danced a bit at being re-saddled, but soon they rode though the early dark, the wind burning their cheeks. The moon made a smear of light in the heavy clouds.
Their horses' hooves thudded against the frozen ground of the road. Near the top of the steep climb, his men piled logs into a blockade. James turned off the road and at a slow walk around the dark, hulking bulk of the castle, skirting bog pits and clumps of bracken. “We'll need a patrol,” he said to Wat as they made their careful way. Near the top of the castle mount, he dismounted and knelt to peer down.
“That's a sharp slope for a charge,” Wat said. He sniffled and wiped his running nose on the back of his hand.
“It's steep all right,” James agreed, squinting down into darkness. “There might be a path though.” Scree shifted under his feet and bounced down the side of the mount, splashing into bog pots on its way down. He slithered a few feet downward on a patch of ice.
“Jesu God! Careful!” Wat's hard fist grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back.
James sprawled on his arse. “Curse this weather for a siege.” He knocked Wat's hand away. “I have to send the patrols out. We can't afford to be flanked.”
Wat peered cautiously down.
“How many?”
“Ten should be enough.” James clicked his tongue against his teeth as he did the math. “We'll be hard pressed. In this weather, we should switch them... Do you think twice a night will be enough?”
“Better three times. Twice during the day unless the weather worsens.”
James grunted in agreement as he stood and broadened his stance on the icy ground.
“And keep fifty men on the road?” Wat asked.
“No, twenty-five. Sir Edward has enough he can make up the lack.” Hell mend the man. “And scouts to our rear, as well. Ten should do. I want them out at all times” James shook his head. Edward should take some of the load, but James wouldn't count on him except in a battle. The man had no patience except for a sword in his hand. “We have to find a better way than a winter-long siege. But we're stuck for now.” He grabbed his reins and mounted. “Back to camp then.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By the next day, the ground was covered with a thin crust of snow. Flurries blew in the sharp wind and men came in went with reddened, wind-chapped faces and cold-numbed hands and feet. Every few hours James slid and skated his way to his horse and rode to the blockade to glower at the castle. Pennants that snapped in the wind and a flicker of movement through the crenels of the embattled parapet were the only signs of life in the great fortress.
The hoofbeats of a heavy mount on the road behind him jerked James from his reverie.
“What think you?” Edward de Bruce said, close wrapped in a heavy cloak. “They could try to break through.”
“They might. I'm surprised that they haven't even made an attempt. It must be they're short on men for a fight.”
“I hate this. Sitting on my arse. Waiting.” Edward's horse shook its mane and snorted as though in agreement.
James laughed. “Not a pleasure in this cold. At least we could have a summer siege instead of freezing.”
“We could try scaling ladders.” The man leaned forward, squinting at the castle. “How many do you think it would take?”
James rubbed a hand over his beard. “Let's...” He caught himself. Best to be diplomatic. “What would you say to a sally? I'd like an idea of how many archers they have. Longbows? Crossbows? Hard to judge.”
Edward nodded. “A feint to test their strength. Not a bad idea, Douglas. Give me half your men to join mine. That will make it look good.”
For once he was in agreement with Edward de Bruce, a miracle of itself. He twitched a smile. “Tomorrow?” At a grunt of approval, James said, “We'll need at least fifty ladders. I'll set some of my men to cutting wood,” and turned his horse's head for camp. It would be hard on his men; they'd had little rest. But it would help make a better plan if they knew what they were up against inside the walls of the castle.
Hammering came from behind the building where his men ripped down a cowshed for the wood. They carried in long, thin logs cleared of their limbs. One of the men bent over a board, the saw grating as he cut rungs. A quarter of a steer roasted over a roaring fire in the huge hearth that normally heated the barley for turning it into malt. James sat, back propped against the wall, on a stool, legs stretched out. Hammering blows nearly covered the comforting whish, whish of his oilstone as he sharpened his sword.
Wat pulled up a stool. “You think an attack is really wise, my lord?” He pulled out his dirk tested the point on his thumb before he also began to sharpen the weapon.
James shrugged. “No, but we must to know what we're up against. Make sure the men know that as soon as they counter-attack, we're retiring. In good order, mind.” He twitched what he intended to be a smile but realized was more of a grimace. “Even Sir Edward, hot-head that he is, doesn't think we'll make it to the wal
ls.”
“We might could at night—in the dark.”
“Aye,” James said. “I've thought of that. Do we have enough black and gray cloaks? That would make the men hard to see until we were at the walls.”
Wat paused the swish of the oilstone. “No. But in the snow... could they see the men anyway?”
James let out a long sigh. “There is no way we could carry the ladders to walls, even in the snow and not be spotted by lookouts.” He leaned his head back against the wall. “We'll have to think of something. What we did at Douglas wouldn't work here. There's no way we'll tempt them to open the gate.”
Philp sidled up and hunkered between the two men. “I heard something that...” He shook his head. “I didn't think it made sense, but you might want to talk to him. One of Sir Edward's men had an idea for a different sort of ladder. The man said it was ladders could be carried secret like, but Sir Edward called him a fool and sent him away with a kick to the arse. Probably right, but mayhap it wouldn't hurt to hear the man out.”
“It never hurts to listen.” James winked. “If it's a terrible idea, I'll not have your hide for it. Can you find him?”
“May take me a mite of time, but I'll find him. His name is Syme the Ironsmith.”
“Good man. Find him for me. The worst that happens, I waste a little time talking to him.”
After Philp went out looking for his man, James checked the ladders, thirty feet long, twenty of them. It wasn't likely they'd be used, but he could be wrong. If they made it to the walls, he'd not turn down the chance. At least, come morning light they'd find out the English strength.
But morning brought little light, only dark heavy clouds blown before a sharp wind. He left half his men at the blockade and riding patrols whilst he led the rest against the sea wind laced with sleet that whipped and stung his face. No horns to be blown, he'd agreed with Edward de Bruce. Frozen bracken snapped under hundreds of feet. Men grunted and cursed as they slipped on the icy, sleety ground. The Douglas pennant snapped in the wind.
