The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  James shook his head. “Thanks be to Jesu.” He returned the bishop's grip as hard as he dared, almost afraid to loose him. “I feared you'd never come home. Are you...?” But he obviously was not well. How he had aged, gray streaks mixed with his brown hair, his face thin, deep runnels carved around his eye and mouth. He had moved like an old man, aged by years chained in an English dungeon.

  “I am free and in Scotland. And the long years make seeing you all the sweeter.” He held James at arm's length. “Let me look at you. A man grown.”

  James frowned past the bishop's shoulder. “Though you come in strange company.”

  Robert de Keith twitched his reins and rode to dismount beside the two of them. “Less strange than seeing you in Carlisle Castle.” His laugh was a harsh bark. “Less unlikely than you swearing fealty to the English King.”

  James shrugged. “I might have. It is possible. Not likely. But possible.”

  “I heard the Bruce has taken the Earl of Ross into his peace. The man betrayed the Queen. By the Holy Rude, he's more likely to forgive me. I served the English—not quite so well.”

  James expelled a long breath. “He'll take you into his peace if you give him your oath. But you'd do well to mean it, Keith.” He looked over his shoulder to his men. “Guide the ladies and the friars into the camp and take care of the horses.” James put a hand on Bishop Lamberton's back and urged him carefully toward the campfire. “Come and sit. Tell me how you fare.”

  “Not so ill now, James, so don't look at me like that. And even better now to smell the air of home again.” Lamberton gave a wry laugh. “Even the peat stink of the moors makes my heart leap with joy.”

  The men were leaping up, bowing respectfully, moving away to the other fire to give the nobles men some space. The black-clad friars followed whilst Robert de Keith helped his lady and daughter from dismount.

  “I don't mean to drive your men from their fire. But I need to sit for a while.” Lamberton lowered himself stiffly to sit on one of the rocks. He groaned softly. “Days in the saddle come hard now.”

  “And I need to hear what news you can tell me.” James pulled his dirk and speared one of the quail. “But eat first.” He motioned to Richert to bring ale from the little cask that sat nearby. “Keith, help your ladies to some food, though it's simple camp fare.” James had forgotten the lass's name if he'd ever known it. Her downturned mouth gave her a sullen look. The Keith split a bird and gave half to his lady wife. She thanked him in an undertone. The lass first put her hands behind her back, but a raised eyebrow and glower from her father caused her to take it. Her thanks were as sullen as her look.

  Lamberton blew on the brown, dripping bird to cool it. “There's little news that you won't already have heard. Edward of Caernarfon is in trouble as always with his nobles. Near as at war with them as you might guess. He has to invade, to crush Scotland to try to make them ignore their anger at him.”

  “Yet he freed you.”

  “Well, Anthony Bek hates me.” Lumberton's thin mouth twitched. “And Edward hates Anthony Bek.”

  “It's one time I'll thank Jesu for an Englishman's hatred then. But have you word of the others? Have you seen any of them? The Queen? Little Margory? The King's sisters?”

  “Thanks be, I was allowed to visit them. They are... as well as one can expect. Closely guarded. But the lass... she is with nuns who could not bring themselves to treat her harshly. That is well. The Queen has been treated less kindly, but they dared not harm her for her father's sake.” Lamberton took a cup of ale as James held it out and sighed with pleasure as he drank.

  “You can imagine the King's thoughts... What he's feared.”

  “I was there when Thomas and Alexander were... killed. Forced to watch. Allowed to offer them no comfort.” The bishop rubbed his face. “At least they were not long dying. That will be a little comfort to the King. It's all I can offer.”

  In the long silence, James stared at his hands. He'd lost many friends since, but the thought of Thomas's terrible death still twisted something inside his chest. The silence was too painful to allow to last, so James said, “But to know that the Queen and the Princess are well is good news indeed.”

  The bishop tore off a leg to eagerly suck the meat from it, swallowed the mouthful of food and wiped greasy lips on the back of his sleeve. He gave a slightly bitter laugh. “I'm not so fine as you once remember me, lad.”

  “A finer sight than I've seen in many a day.” James squeezed the bishop's arm, hardly able to believe he was actually back after so long. “Finer that a scraggly orphan lad you took in when I came to your door.”

  “Well that I did, Jamie. Well that I did. One of the better things that I've done.” He tore off the other dripping leg from the small fowl and ate it, smiling a little around the food.

  “So you think the invasion will be soon?”

  “Not this year. Perhaps not the next, for when they come they will bring an army meant to crush Scotland for once and for all. So the King must make plans. And deal with angry barons.”

  “Our first parliament since Lord Robert was crowned—it will be a good chance for planning. He'll be pleased beyond words to see you.” James smiled. “Even you, Keith. I didn't tell him the bishop had slipped the English noose. It will be a surprise.”

  Lamberton shook his head. “Well, as to that, I am going back once I've talked to him. Given him my advice.”

  James's face blanked with horror. “Why?”

  “The English King trusts me, at least somewhat. I can act as your eyes on the English movements, send you word of their plans. Send word on the prisoners they hold. Perhaps give them some comfort and carry messages. I'll do more good there than here.” His face was determined. “Don't look so appalled lad. I'm not ill-treated now. I give you my oath.”

  James swallowed. “But you were. And will be again if they know that you spy for us. We can use every aid we can get, but no one would ask such a thing of you. To put yourself back in their hands.”

  “I do what I must. As always.” Lamberton tore the bird in two and looked at the halves as though bemused. “But I can rest by a warm fire with a full belly tonight. That will be good after days on the road. And tomorrow we ride for St. Andrews—and home.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  James nodded to the guards as he dismounted in the cobbled bailey yard, dampened by the spray from the surging waves below. Walls, half rubble, surrounded on all four sides. Tired and hungry but suppressing a grin, he strode into the one remaining corner tower of St. Andrew's Castle. Putting one over on the King was a hard thing to manage, but he was sure that he had done it. The King stood at the foot of narrow stairs, speaking to the Bishop David de Moray, both in finery of office instead of their usual armor. James twitched a pleased smile at the King's gold tabard with a lion picked out in jewels and gold coronet, a gold belt about his waist. He straightened his expression and bowed deeply before he interrupted them.

  “Your Graces,” he said creasing his face in a frown. “Forgive me interrupting you. I fear I brought someone you must see, my liege, outwith the doors.”

  The King raised his eyebrows. “James Douglas, you're late to arrive for the Privy Council. I wanted you here two days past.”

  “Your pardon, sire. You'll understand the necessity for delay when you see what I've brought. A most urgent matter, on my oath.”

  Moray nodded toward the door. “I'm sure Lord Douglas has his reasons. Mayhap we should see them.”

  “Very well, Jamie. Let's see what grim news you've brought me.” The King first looked from James to the bishop and then walked to the door and flung it open. In the courtyard stood James's men under his blue standard, fluttering in a stiff sea wind, but before them stood a friar in a dark traveling cloak. The King frowned, looking puzzled. His eyes widened and he gave a wordless cry of astonishment. He ran down the steps of the tower. “William Lamberton! William!”

  James couldn't help his laugh as Bishop Lamberton's face
alit with joy. “My liege.” He lowered himself stiffly to one knee before the Bruce reached him. He grasped the King's hands and kissed each. “My liege.”

  The King pulled Lamberton to his feet and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace. “My dear friend.” Keeping an arm around Lamberton's shoulder, he turned to James. “What secrets have you been keeping, James Douglas?”

  James laughed. “Most dire ones, Your Grace. Dire indeed. The Bishop of St. Andrews is returned to Scotland.” His laughter faded at the thought that Lamberton would not stay. This was something the King would indeed consider dire and must be discussed. “Another is here who craves an audience with the King of the Scots.” He shot Robert de Keith a cool look. The man stood with his chin high, but the way he was chewing his lip hinted at a little fear at his reception.

  The King's gaze skated over the man who was hereditary Knight Marischal of Scotland. He turned his shoulder.

  William de Irvine clattered down the stairs, his young face red with distress. “Your Grace, you must be ready for the procession to the parliament.”

  “That will wait.” Robert the Bruce put a hand on Lamberton's shoulder and his face twisted into a grimace of pain. “I thank Holy Mary and the Saints for your safe return but... Have you seen my wife? My daughter? My poor sisters? Are they...” His voice broke. He took a deep breath and James could see him forcing himself into a mask of calm. “How do they fare?”

  “I saw Lady Elizabeth and Marjorie and was allowed to visit, if only briefly. They are in good health and...” He seemed to search for words. “They are not treated as badly as might be. They are treated better than your sister, I am glad to say, and even Christina is released from that foul cage where she was held. Your sister suffered, but now she's in the hands of nuns who have sworn to me that they will treat her gently. They are all in fair health. Given no honors, kept in close confinement, but not...” Lamberton frowned. “...not quite ill-treated.”

  The King closed his eyes, his lips pale he pressed them together so hard.

  “They think of you, pray for you daily. They know you would rescue them if it were in your power.”

  “Is it what I have done, William? Is that why they've suffered as they have? For my sins?”

  Lamberton gripped the King's arm. “You know better. Who invaded our lands? The fault is not yours.”

  James cleared his throat, gave the Keith a hard look and thrust his chin toward the King. The man strode to stand before the Bruce. He bowed and knelt on both knees.

  “Your Grace,” he said evenly. “I seek your royal pardon and to be received into your peace. I swear to be your true man henceforth if you will have me.”

  The King looked past Keith to the woman and girl who accompanied him. “You and all your house? And where is your son and heir, Sir Robert?”

  Robert de Keith flushed red. “He is at Merse. Forgive me, Your Grace, but until I was sure of your mercy, I could not risk him. He is still a small lad, but he'll serve you as I will. You won't regret your mercy, sire. I give you my oath.”

  Robert de Bruce studied him with a long, cool look. “Then here is my hand, my Lord Marischal, and I will take your oath.” The Bruce extended his hand, which the Keith took between his.

  “I take you as my liege lord and swear by all the saints to serve you and your heirs well and faithfully until my life's end.”

  “Then your oath I accept and will defend your rights as your lord. I so swear.”

  The Keith stood up letting out a rather noisy breath of relief that made the King grin. He slapped the Keith's shoulder. “Welcome home.” And suddenly there was a buzz of activity as though everyone had held their breaths.

  David de Moray walked toward Lamberton holding out his hands. “My dear friend.” He pulled the bishop into a brief grasp.

  Irvine cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I beg you. The parliament will be delayed.”

  “Am I not fine enough for you?” the Bruce growled with an expansive gesture that took in his bejeweled tabard over a red velvet tunic and hose.

  The door to the tower opened with a forceful thud. “It's almost time for this damned procession,” Robert Boyd said as he strode down the steps. He looked James up and down with a satiric twist to his mouth. “I think we'll have to leave you in the scullery though, my lord of Douglas. No member of the Privy Council could possibly be so mud bejeweled.”

  “Do I have time to make myself presentable, William?” James asked of Irvine. “And what of my lord bishop? He should return to his own cathedral in state.”

  Lamberton shrugged. “What matter that I'm not in finery? I am home.”

  David de Moray already had a hand on Lamberton's arm. “I have spare episcopal robes in my rooms. Water to wash the dirt of the road will refresh you.” He was urging to the steps that led into the tower. “Your people will be overjoyed to see you healthy and returned to us.”

  Across the bailey yard, Niall Campbell was shouting to ready the banners. A priest herded a covey of chattering boys into lines, hushing and yelling for order in turns. Gilbert de Hay and Bernard de Linton argued loudly with the Provost of the city about the order of proceedings.

  “Robbie, I must at least wash and put on a clean tunic,” James said, grabbing a bag from off his horse.

  He left behind a smiling King Robert de Bruce as horses were led up for the cavalcade to the Cathedral of St. Andrews and the bailey descended into a chaos of stamping horses and shouting men. Sir Edward de Bruce thundered in and pulled up his snorting steed, laughing heartily at some shouted jape as the tower door closed behind James.

  There was time for nothing more than splashing soap and water over his face and chest, running his razor over his cheeks, and pulling on a red velvet tunic he'd saved for the occasion. It was time to run down the winding tower steps to join the throng that rode with the King. The wind off the North Sea brought a salt water scent and whipped the banners over their heads as they rode down the twisting way, lined on both sides with a crowd of burghers and priests. Lamberton, in exquisite if borrowed blue vestments edged with gold, rode at the King's side.

  “The King! The King!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry. Robert de Bruce waved, grinning broadly as the chant grew louder.

  “Bishop Lamberton!” An elderly priest elbowed his way through the crush. Lamberton rein his horse in for a moment to press his hand to the man's head before he rode on. The crowd cheered.

  James nodded to his uncle, James the High Steward of Scotland, only recently returned to the King's peace. Beside his uncle rode young Walter, laughing and chatting to the men around him. As usual, Sir Edward glared at James without speaking, but this was too fine an occasion for that to be a worry. James twitched a smile at the man, which he knew would irritate him. The bishops of Ross, Brechin, Dunblane, and Dunkeld in their gleaming finery out from its hiding joined David de Moray behind the others. James bowed briefly to Maol, Earl of Lennox and the glum Earl of Ross as they passed to take the lead behind the bishops. Then came noblemen by the hundred and James joined the throng. Niall Campbell waved to James from the other side of the stream of mounted men. Alexander Lindsay shouted a greeting.

  Before them rose almost into the clouds the triple towers of St. Andrew's Cathedral. The sun gleamed on stained glass windows, spared from the war by St. Andrew's distance from the usual route of the English armies. Behind them the choirboys raised their voices in a song of thanksgiving.

  The cathedral doors were thrown open for the King's procession.

  A hidden choir raised their voices. The Master of Arms and heralds bowed and led the King of Scots through the great cathedral to the cloth-draped dais. With the noisy throng, James followed the King into the great vaulted nave, bathed in light from hundreds of high windows. Swaths of greenery and tapestries screened the front and the high alter. The place echoed with hundreds of voices. James elbowed Boyd and they pushed their way through the crush to the chairs that had been brought in for the Privy Council. He mumb
led an apology when he stumbled over John Graham feet as he edged past. William de Irvine trod on James toes as he squeezed through. Randolph gave James a lukewarm nod.

  The King stood before his throne, beaming as heralds pointed and guided the company to their places. Behind the nobility the west end of the chancel filled the hundreds with townspeople who pointed at the returned bishop. The lean black-robed Chancellor of the Realm, Bernard de Linton, with his fiery hair and freckle-splattered face, stood at the base of the dais.

  “What a crush. Even more than the coronation,” James muttered as they stood waiting for the King to take his seat. Gradually the uproar lessened. The air smelled of incense, pine greenery and hundreds of men sweating in their velvet finery. The King stood for another moment and sat down.

  The Herald cried, “Hear ye! Hear ye! All persons having business before the King of the Scots are called to draw near for the parliament of the Kingdom of Scotland is now in session. God save the King!”

  The King raised his hands for quiet. “As the first order of business in this parliament, I welcome my beloved friend, Master William, Bishop of St. Andrews and Primate of the Realm returned from captivity.”

  James grinned and joined in the shouting as the room broke into cheers. He had not told the King that the bishop intended to return to England. He took a deep breath. Mayhap that was news that would better come from the bishop himself.

  The chancellor bowed to the King and requested permission to address the parliament. At the King's nod, the cleric went into a long speech concerning how the clerics had agreed that Edward Longshanks of England had stolen the crown of Scotland. James sighed as the man listed the crimes of the English at length in support of for the puppet king, John Toom Tabard, and listed the ancestry of Lord Robert's grandsire from the long line of Gaelic kings. As though that was something they didn't all know. Then Maol, Earl of Lennox, gave another speech repeating exactly the same thing on behalf of the nobility.