The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  “They'll skirt the Forest,” James said. “Look for anything they can loot.”

  Walter pushed his overgrown hair out of his eyes. “They could go into the Forest after game.”

  Wat spat. “Take too long to kill enough to do any good. Faster to find barns to loot.”

  Gelleys gave a harsh laugh as they mounted. It was near dusk when they passed a place where a village had stood. The fields around it were trampled, the cots blackened ruins. Crows covered the body of a stinking animal, rising cawing, as James and his men passed.

  At last they reached the forest and its green fragrance enfolded them as they followed a deer track into its edges. A lookout waved as they passed and they rode into a clearing. Men sat quietly whisking whetstones along the edges of blades. One snored and low laughs came from a small group. Two were grooming horses in the picket line. One pissed against a tree. Two hundred in all, his best men, honed like a sword in the past year.

  “Mount up,” Wat called. There was a scramble for the horses.

  “Gelleys, scout ahead,” James said. “David, two bowshots on the left flank. Philp, you take the right.

  As James led the men, their horses' hooves padded in the heavy layer of pine needles. They rode through dappled shade and breathed the scent of pine sap and horses and sweat and leather. Leather creaked. A startled bird flew in a rustle of feathers. But on the hunt the men were quiet. Waiting for prey. A slight breeze creaked branches high overhead and carried a faint scent of distant smoke. They rode slowly as they hunted.

  He loved Ettrick Forest and the cool shade of the great trees. James twitched a smile. He snorted. The King said it was his when the day came they could hold it. That day would not be fast coming. A slow fading of the dusk turned the light a smoky gray and then was gone into dark.

  A whistle turned James's head. He spotted David and signaled a turn. David pointed through the trees to where the Forest thinned.

  A moon-cast shadow crept back and forth on the ground. A rope creaked as a body swayed gently in the breeze. James stood in his stirrups and grasped the rope with one hand as he sawed at it with his dirk. The body stank already—of shit and piss. The rope parted. The body thudded to the pine needle covered ground with a thud.

  He climbed from the saddle and turned it over with his foot.

  Wat leaned over his horse's neck peering down. “Stupid to be here, but some just won't leave.”

  Walter was bent over his horse's withers, gagging. There was the sound of men twitching uneasily in their saddles.

  James bent a knee and peered at the dead man in the pewter moonlight. Thin, rags on his back. Blood streaked the swollen, empurpled face. “Perhaps. Or looking for loot, as well. If so, I would have hanged him myself.”

  “Aye, but you'd have the right,” Fergus said.

  James turned the head with the tips of his fingers. One cheek had been beaten in. “I wouldn't have beaten him first.” He swallowed to keep down his gorge from the stench of shit and blood. James slowly moved his hand to the rags that covered a still, sprawled leg. Still wet with piss. “Beaten near to death before they hanged him,” James continued softly. “For information he wouldn't have had.”

  James stood up and looked back the way they had come. “Take the horses back to that clearing we passed. Picket them.” He pondered hoof-prints in the mucky ground. The rains had stopped, but water still oozed through the padding of needles under the trees. “I'll follow these. You come after. Spread out. Wat, give me the hoot of an owl when you're set.”

  Wat started to say something, but James cut him off. “Do as I command.” He'd do better ridding them of any lookouts by himself. Wat hated when he did things like this, convinced one day he'd get himself killed and his men would soon follow. Such was war.

  He followed the hoof tracks, dashing from tree to tree along the edge of the forest. Suddenly, a faint gleam of light broke the darkness to his left. He lifted his head, breathing deep. A hint of smoke, but from a campfire or from a burned field or house? It smelled fresh. He crouch ran from tree to tree.

  The English were sitting by a low-burning fire. Beyond them was a dark bulk of massed, picketed horses. There was a red glow against the dark horizon. A single sentry stood, silhouetted against the red light, swaying a bit from weariness. James dropped to his belly and wriggled through the wet padding of pine needles and mud to between two thin saplings. A thick stick lay under his hand. He grasped it.

  Nearby an owl hooted. Beyond, the land turned to clumps of bracken and heather. A bird swooped across the moon, dove to the ground and something screamed. The sentry whirled. At the fire, someone muttered. A figure started erect.

  The wind moved the trees and scattered shadows whispered across James's face. He lay motionless. All was silent. The sentry slumped once more, still. A rattling snore began by the dying campfire. The sentry's head bent, probably half-asleep. The moon settled behind a fleeting cloud.

  James stood close to the thin tree trunk and threw the stick past the sentry.

  “Wha...?” The man turned his back, shaking his head.

  James ran, drawing his dirk. Plunged it in and twisted hard. He slapped his hand over the man's mouth and clamped down. Left the dirk in and grasped his waist. He lifted him. The man's feet moved, barely kicking, against James's shins as he backed up into the shadows and lowered the body softly to the ground. James wiped his hands on the man's cloak and pulled the dirk from his throat. Now was the time.

  After drawing his sword, James sprinted toward the sleeping camp. “A Douglas!” he shouted. Behind him, his men attacked, screaming. The first man James encountered died as soon as he opened his eyes, James's sword plunging straight down. Men were scrambling onto hands and knees. Jumping to their feet. His men overran them, hacking as they went. One ran flailing his sword at James, the faint light catching terror in his face as James shouted his war cry. James smashed his face in with a swing of his blade. He fell backwards into the fire, and the stink of burning meat rose up. One fled to the horses and threw himself onto its unsaddled back, galloping away.

  Fergus was bellowing, “Scotland!” as they took their revenge for the army they could not fight. There were forty English bodies scattered around the fire. James grabbed the legs and pulled a dead man from the remains of the campfire.

  Suddenly, it was quiet. James felt limp with exhaustion. He hadn't slept in two days. Water dripped down his chest and legs. His muscles quivered. He would give a great deal for a featherbed and Alycie in his arms. Instead he said, “Richert, loose those horses. The rest of you check the bodies. See what they have we can use. And hurry. We must reach Douglas village and have much to burn when we’re ahead of them once more.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The rain had eased to nothing more than a gray drizzle. Dark clouds hung low and thick, threatening another downpour. Mud splattered up to James's knees as his horse sloshed through the muck. A patter of raindrops on the wet ground accompanied the sucking sound of hooves pulling free of the mud. Weeks of unseasonable summer rains had made the ground treacherous, all bogs and hidden rocks. The packhorse he was leading reared on the lead and whinnied; it jerked him half out of the saddle. He wrestled his horse into a circle. The pack animal snorted as it splashed and scrambled in a hole it had stepped into beneath the water. They were lucky more hadn't done the same.

  Wat, riding behind James, wiped dripping water from his cheeks. “Feels like Angus has dropped us into the sea.”

  “That might be drier.” James forced a laugh.

  Half a dozen of his men were strung out behind him, each leading a packhorse loaded with bags of barley. James shook his head, wondering how much of it would be ruined before they reached the village. He jumped from the saddle and led the snorting animal free. It limped, its right forefoot well off the ground. James cursed as he bent to run his hand down its leg. It would never make it to Douglas village.

  The other horses were too heavily laden to take more weight. He jer
ked the ropes that held the sacks in place. Peat-stinking mucky water splashed to his chest when they hit. “Devil take this rain.”

  He pulled his dirk from his belt. “Easy, boy.” Wat climbed from the saddle and grabbed the harness. James gripped the halter and shoved the dirk hard into the vee at the base of the throat. The beast screamed as it thrashed for a moment. Blood splashed into the mud and unfurled like smoke in the pool of rainwater. It went down. He remounted as Wat stripped the tack.

  Another half hour to Douglas village, if they were lucky. He prayed to St. Bride they didn't lose more horses and barley on the way. It was the only grain the village would see. James squinted upwards through the mist wondering when they'd see some blue instead of the murky gray that had graced them these past months. A hacking cough rattled behind him. He should have left Richert behind at the camp, but lying out wet had half his men as bad and Richert could help if any of the villagers were ill.

  Smoke from the houses wrapped itself into the mist as they rode between the stone cots. Up the hill, mist twisted around the ruins of the castle. A single scrawny dog barked before it turned tail and fled. Ragged children ran from every corner of the village, splashing through puddles, muddy to the thigh, laughing and squealing with excitement. A thin-faced woman opened a door, stepped out, and waved. Two men strode in from the woods, carrying bows. Iain Smythe shouted a hallo from the open front of the smithy.

  James pointed toward the building where the smith stood. “Gelleys, unload it inside.” He frowned. He should keep the barley for later, but too many were already hungry. “Open two bags and hand out a measure for each person, including the bairns. Hold the rest back.”

  He set his horse to a canter past the woods toward the house where he'd rather be than anywhere else in the land. Alycie wouldn't know he was here. But she was waiting in the doorway. He flung himself out of the saddle and bound up the stone step to press a kiss on her cheek. “I'll not touch you, lass. I'm muck from head to foot.” Her face was parchment pale and purple shadows stained under her eyes.

  Inside someone whimpered. She put her hand on his arm and urged him inside. The house smelled of the oak fire and herbs but below that the feverish smell of a sick child.

  “Iain's wife died four days ago from a croup.” A sudden cough sounded like a bark, hoarse and tearing. “Now their wee Forsy has it. I'm nursing him.” She shook her head with a jerk.

  Will was bent over a small pallet in a corner near the fire. He straightened. “He swallowed a few drops of the honey water.”

  “It's the coltsfoot in it that might help.” Alycie handed James a cloth to wipe his face and hair dry.

  Iain was a braw man, steady. Losing a wife was bad, but James couldn't imagine if Iain lost the bairn too. “Any others? This has been the worse curst summer I've ever seen.” He threw his dripping cloak across a stool.

  “Many a cough but this is the worst of them. Every field flooded, drowning the crops. Some sheep lost.”

  “Bad enough then, though I suppose it could have been worse. Will, there's barley at the smithy. Once everyone has a measure, I'll bring Iain and the provost over. We've plans to make. The village will flee on the morrow.”

  The child hawked and coughed. Alycie took the cup of herbal mixture from Will and knelt beside him. She lifted his head and dribbled a bit into his mouth.

  James made his voice hard. “I'll burn everything behind you.”

  Alycie looked up at him, eyes wide. “Everything?”

  “Any cows or sheep that are in the village must go or be slaughtered. We'll leave nothing for the damned Sassenach.”

  “The King?” Will asked in a choked voice. “Where is his army?”

  “He's retreated beyond the Firth of Forth into Moray. My men are all our army left in the entire of Lothian.”

  Alycie's lips had turned white to her lips. “Is it the English King then? Is he leading them?”

  “So my spies tell me. With Aymer de Valence. And Lord Clifford, devil take him.”

  Her hands were shaking hard enough that a bit of the tonic slopped over the rim. “They'll take it all back. Everything you've won.”

  James's laugh felt tight and grim. “That may be. But they'll be hellish hungry doing it.”

  Will frowned, looking puzzled. “But...”

  “Go on. Get the barley. Everyone will need a full belly for what has to be done. We'll talk later.”

  Will gave a brief nod, picked up a bowl and bolted out the door. James watched after him for a moment.

  “Jamie.” She stood and put the cup on the table. “The bairn is too ill to travel.”

  She knew better, but this was a hard thing. He pulled her close and laid a cheek on the top of her head. “He has to, lass. We haven't any choice.” He ran his hand softly up and down her spine, feeling how thin she had grown. “I...” He almost said he was sorry. He should have taken better care of her. Taken care of everyone. But all of the crops had failed in the unseasonable summer storms. What good did sorry do when people were hungry?

  She pressed her head into the side of his neck and wrapped her arms around his waist. “There must be some way.” Her voice had half a sob. “He'll die.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. He could tell her that a child with croup most likely would die, even if she could nurse it with every herb that she had. But she didn't want to hear it. Hell mend it.

  The bairn's breathing was noisy, but he seemed to have fallen into a sleep. Alycie should rest whilst she could. She'd worked herself half to death taking care of the others from the look of her. He patted her shoulder and gently nudged her onto a stool. “You need some food and drink. What is there?”

  Her laugh was shaky. “Jamie Douglas, you don't wait on me. It isn't your place.”

  “It is today.” He squatted in front of the fire and picked up a pot of some watery stuff to sniff. “What's this?”

  “Chamomile tisane.”

  He gave her his stern look, the same one he used on his men. “Don't you move.” He found a pottery cup. There was only a dollop of honey left in the jar, but that went in, and he stirred it into the tisane that was still warm. Kneeling on one knee next to her, he pressed it into her hands. “You'll need all your strength, Alycie. You have to rest.”

  She flicked a quick glance toward the pallet.

  “There are others who'll need you, too. I mean it. Drink and rest.”

  She let out a drawn-out sigh and sipped the warm drink. “I'll need to gather what herbs I have dried.” She stared through the wall, as though she were seeing something else, he knew not what. “What clothes we can carry. But food?”

  James stood up to pace around the warm room, impatiently kicking a stool out of his way. “We brought in horses loaded with every bit I could spare from my men. You'll keep the horses to carry it. And I'll send a few of my men so the lad can ride.”

  “Forsy is too small to ride, even if he...”

  “You'll hold him whilst you ride pillion behind one of my men. You're light enough, it won't overburden the horse. It'll be easier on him than being carried afoot.” And easier on her. She'd used up too much of her strength already. He was sure of that from one single look.

  When Will returned with the bit of barley, Alycie took it out of his hands. “I'll make gruel. It will feed the three of us.” She cast a quick glance at Forsy. “He might manage a bite with it thinned.”

  “No, the two of you eat. I need to see to the horses and men.” James tilted up her chin and brushed his lips to hers.

  “There's enough,” Will protested but his heart wasn't in it, only courtesy.

  “I'm not hungry. Forbye, I'll be back in camp soon enough. Even with the rains, there are deer in the forest we can bring down. Both of you need a good meal.” James smiled though it was stiff. They needed to see that he knew what he was about. “I'll be back in an hour's time with the others. We'll talk about what has to be done.”

  His men had seen to the horses as James had kn
own that they would, wiping them down. There was room in the smithy and the nearby shed for all of the horses. James tied his at the end well away from the others. It would as soon take a bite out of another horse that bumped it as not. After he unsaddled it and wiped it down, he found his men had settled in a corner of the smithy and looked happy enough just to be out of the damp. The heat of the forge was a welcome warmth

  Iain Smythe put down his hammer and came to meet him. James squeezed his arm. “Your wife, Iain. Alycie told me.”

  The man's throat worked as he swallowed. “It's hard, my lord. And the lad...” His face worked as he blinked for a moment and then shook his head. “It's good you brought food. Thank you.”

  James stifled the sigh that almost escaped. “You'll not be grateful when you hear my news. Eat first. I want Alycie to have time to get some food down before we talk.”

  The man studied his face grimly. “How bad?”

  James looked at his feet and then back to his vassal. God, hadn't they already suffered enough? “Bad. Another army. One too large for King Robert to defeat.”

  “I've no taste for food.” The man looked around the smithy as though he were lost. “I... I'll bank the fire. And put away my tools.”

  James checked the bags of barley stacked against a wall and patted them to see how wet it was. He thought the bags had kept the barley dry. Sometimes he wondered if God had turned his back on them--crops failing and now this. But he'd not believe it. They'd been through worse.

  James sent Wat for Gavane Anguson. The man's leathery face was knotted like a fist, his long hair mostly gray. Once Iain Smythe had his fire banked in the forge and his tools racked on the back wall, they walked together through the trees to the house. He suspected the two men had already guessed, and he made short work of the news. More important was deciding what they could carry into the hills. What mattered was how they would survive with winter and an army upon them.

  Alycie sat by the sleeping child, gently stroking his red hair back from his forehead as she watched. James leaned his shoulders against the wall, his arms folded across his chest as he studied the men's faces and waited for questions.