The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Wat tromped across the cobblestones and stood, fist gripped on his waist. “Sir James, Lord of Douglas, Englishman. You'll give my lord his rank.”

  “Sir... Sir James, will you treat with me? For our surrender?”

  “Where is Sir Guillemin? He's the one I would treat with.”

  “He is sore injured, by one of your arrows. He said I could speak for him.”

  “Why should we treat with you?” Wat yelled. “We can just starve you out.”

  “Enough.” James said to his sergeant who seemed to have, for the moment, forgotten his place. “Toss your weapons from the windows. My archers will hold their fire.”

  “You'll just kill us. We've heard...”

  “Fool. Make me starve you out and you'll die. I promise you that.”

  A larger figure pushed the youngster away from the window slit. “I don't want to die locked in this tower. I'd like to see home...” A sword tumbled out the slit and clattered onto the parapet. “...before this wound finishes me.”

  “Toss out the rest of your weapons and then throw open the door.” James started down the stairs and paused halfway. “Find Richert. Have him see to the knight's wound. I'll allow him a horse if he can ride, but only him.”

  One of his men pelted through the gate of the inner bailey. “Sir James.” He paused and gulped down a breath. “A party approaches. A large one.”

  “Who?”

  “Too far to tell. They're flying banners but we can't make them out.”

  James jumped the rest of the way down. “Wat, see to it. Igram, all your archers on the walls.” He strode for the gate, broke into a run and dashed up the stairs next to the gatehouse. He leaned over the merlon, straining to see. The watery winter sun flashed off a party of armored knights in the lead. A banner flapped listlessly over their heads. Something on gold, but not the lion of Scotland, he was sure. Behind them rows of pikes waved like a field of grain. The prisoners he'd released might have brought their enemies on them though it wasn't likely. But surely the King wouldn't have sent so many.

  A cold wind whipped and James made out the Bruce's red saltire. Not the King then. His brother. It had to be Edward de Bruce. How could he have already taken Stirling Castle? Or had the King ordered the siege lifted already? But James was not so much a fool as to lower the drawbridge until he recognized the man. More than one had been deceived by a captured banner. He grinned as he recalled using that deception one fine spring day.

  He turned when Richert said, “My lord, I've seen to the English knight.” Richert bit his lip and shifted. “He won't live if he travels and most likely even if he doesn't. The arrow took one of his eyes. He's already fevered.”

  James grimaced. An ugly way to die.

  Hooves pounded on the road and a herald below called up, “Hail the castle for the Earl of Carrick.”

  The big figure leading the distant party glittered from head to heel. Now James could pick out the red saltire on a golden shield that hung from the saddle. “Sir Edward is most welcome,” James called down. “Lower the drawbridge.” Why the devil was the Earl of Carrick here?

  “What should we do with them?” Richert asked.

  “I doubt we can get a ransom for his body even if we had time for nursing him. Give the knight a mount and toss them all out the postern gate. And be quick about it.”

  The lines of pikemen were breaking up; wagons rattled up the rutted road, shouting and clanging drifted up from the chaos. Frowning, James strolled down to the outer bailey.

  Edward de Bruce was the first to appear through the shadows of the gateway, caracoled his dancing bay charger and drew up. The silver sheen of his armor was filigreed with golden flowers. James shook his head. It was no wonder the women favored him.

  “My lord earl, welcome.” James gave the man a half-bow.

  Sir Edward swung from the saddle, mail clattering. “Douglas. My squire carries a letter from my brother--commands for you. We've preparations to make for the summer's campaign.”

  “And your army—” James paused trying to think how to diplomatically ask why they were here.

  “My army will slight Roxburgh.” Edward turned slowly, shaking his blond head. “I've always liked the place. It's a shame to destroy it.” A dozen other knights and their squires were dismounting, calling for stable boys, cursing the cold. “The men will make camp outwith the walls. Too bad we'll have to soon join them.”

  James swallowed a sigh. “There is good wine and food aplenty in the great hall, Sir Edward, and a fire on the hearth. My men will care for your mounts.” He took the sealed parchment that a lad in the Bruce colors held out to him. “Andro,” he called over his shoulder. “Get men out here to see to these horses.”

  The heavy parchment bore the royal seal, the lion of Scotland with, the superscription: To James Lord of Douglas at Roxburgh Castle. James broke the seal with his thumb and smoothed out the folds of the letter. It was notably short.

  Sir James,

  The Earl of Carrick has lifted the siege of Stirling Castle on the word of Sir Philip de Mowbray that it shall be surrendered if relief does not reach it from Edward of England. Carry the fiery cross across Douglasdale and all your lands in Lothian. Join me in Perth within the month to prepare for battle.

  Lord Robert, King of Scots

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  James opened the thick plank door of the manor house the King's master at arms had obtained for him, begrimed, hungry, and weary. He was unbuckling his sword belt and telling the bowing steward to bring him food and drink when the master at arms of the King's household banged on the door and told him that a meeting of the Privy Council was being convened. The presence of the Lord Warden of the Marches was required. James scrubbed his face with his hands. “Surely it can wait until I have something in my belly.”

  The man blinked. “My lord wishes me to convey that message to the King?”

  “By the Holy Rude, of course not,” James snapped. “But I can hardly attend the Privy Council in my travel soil. Pray, tell the King I will be there forthwith.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the Master at Arms said. “The King has taken a manor house hard by St. John's Church. If it please you, I'll await and show you the way.”

  “That would please me well.” James stripped off his travelling cloak and tossed it across a table near the entry.

  “My lord, you will not be dining then?” his steward asked with a nervous twist of his mouth.

  “Later. It seems the Privy Council has need of me. Have a meal ready upon my return.” James started for the wide stairs to the upper floor. “I'll see my chambers and wash. Have the servants bring me hot water—quickly now. See that my men are settled after they see to the horses. My sergeant is following with a wagon of supplies.”

  So a short time later James strode into a small chamber, irritable and his belly grumbling, to find the King and five of the Privy Council awaiting him. The chamber was simply furnished. Rushes scented with lavender covered the floor and a long polished table took up most of the space. Shields and crossed weapons decorated all the walls except one where the lion banner of the King hung, eyes of rubies glittering in its snarling face.

  Robbie Boyd stood by the lion banner talking to Robert de Keith. Bernard de Linton bent over a stack of parchment sitting beside Gilbert de Hay.

  Thomas Randolph rose from a place at the King's right hand and bowed deeply. “Lord Douglas, I heard of your great victory at Roxburgh Castle. What a triumph to take that impregnable fortress.” Randolph sauntered to the flagon at the end of the table and filled a goblet. “It inspired me so that—I hied myself to Edinburgh Castle and took it.” He raised he cup and bared his teeth in a distinctly triumphant grin.

  Robbie Boyd's mouth twitched with a sardonic smile. James couldn't hold back a bark of laughter. He should have known that Randolph would find some way to best him. Apparently he'd wronged the man, and it was wise that the King hadn't killed him. “Congratulation, my lord earl. Well done. I'd like to he
ar the story of how you managed the feat.” He realized now that he had been so angry with Randolph when he captured him that he had forgotten how much he was like the King.

  “Enough, the two of you. You've both done well, but I've no time for japes.” More gray streaked the King's golden blond hair over his weather-worn face.

  James took an empty place at the King's left hand. “I apologize if I kept you waiting, sirs.”

  The others took their places as they assured him they had only just come and it struck James that Edward de Bruce was not here. “Sir Edward will not join us?”

  “Sir Edward has completed slighting Roxburgh,” put in Gilbert de Hay. “But he is still carrying the fiery cross in Carrick.”

  “How many men did you raise, Jamie?” the King asked, mildly.

  “More than a thousand. Every man of an age to fight in my lands, but Walter is still in his own lands raising so I don't count those.”

  “Robbie, your men from Kilmarnock?”

  “Only five hundred, Your Grace.”

  “Neill is on his way, his men and mine make two thousand. Thomas, another two thousand from Moray.” The King sighed. “They must be fed. That is the least of the costs though. They must all have pikes and helmets—leather tunics and mail gloves.”

  Aghast, James blurted, “That will be six thousand men at least. Do we even have enough iron in the country to make so many?”

  “We will not make all of them.” The King gave a short laugh. “Although the iron we raided from England will help. Some weapons we've brought from Ireland and some has already been purchased in Norway. But we need more.” The King looked to Linton. “How much will the treasury bear?”

  “You know what there is, sire.” Linton said with a twist of his mouth. “More than there was short years ago thanks to the tribute for peace from the towns in England. Forty thousand gold marks in the treasury. And not a pence more. Nor a chance of borrowing.”

  “Do we have blacksmiths enough to make what we need before the English are over our border?” Robbie said. “Who can make that much armor so quickly, even leather?”

  “The men who ride on my raids have armor. And some who only ride with my on occasion,” James said. “That is perhaps five hundred of mine, but none have pikes”

  Randolph shook his blond head, his mouth in a grim line. “Against mounted knights, pikes will be better.”

  “We can retreat, Your Grace,” Gilbert de Hay said in his mild voice. “Let them relieve Stirling Castle and burn the land before them as we did the last time they invaded. We need not stand against them.”

  “Hay is right.” The Keith stood up, his chair scraping harshly on the floor. “We need not and I fear that we cannot. How many mounted knights will I be able to lead against their thousands? Their many of thousands? Five hundred? Mayhap even not so many as that?”

  “So your advice, the two of you, is to retreat.” Robert de Bruce looked from one to the other, his eyes hard. “Burn our lands—yet again. As we have burned out the English.”

  Gilbert de Hay leaned back in his chair, eyes on his hands, before he leaned back and faced the King's gaze. “I like no more than you do, Sire. But so I advise.”

  The marischal crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his feet as he nodded brusquely.

  “The rest of you? What do you say?”

  “I say stand,” Randolph said. “As I have always said. We must show that we can stand against them on the field or they'll never sue for peace with us.”

  James leaned his elbows on the table, steepled his clasped hands and pressed them hard into his forehead. “I remember Methven. A loss such as that would finish us.” He met each of their eyes. “It would. But I remember Loudon Hill as well. There we stood against mounted knights with little more than our pikes. It was pikes that won the day.”

  There was a mumbling of reluctant agreement from the others.

  “I say we stand.”

  “But how can we advise?” Robbie Boyd said. “Without knowing for a certainty that we can arm all our men. How many we will have. Or even how many the English will raise.”

  “Then we must keep our options open. We will arm our men for a fight. And we will train them.” The King rose and a brief smile lightened his face, his eyes gleaming with amusement. They all jumped to their feet. “I have a new idea for using our schiltron. If what I have in mind works, it will take months to prepare whilst the armor and weapons are prepared. And James, I need news from the south. I expect you to keep your people out.” He nodded to them and made for the door. “James, I'd have a word with you. Walk with me.”

  James followed. The King led him down a corridor busy with scurrying servants, past a room where a cleric bent over a table adding up long columns of numbers, and into a small courtyard. A brick wall cut it off from the noisy street though the sound of wagons and passing soldiers drifted in. The grass was winter brown and the hoary oak bare limbed. The King grasped one of the limbs as he looked closely into James's face.

  “My liege?” Obviously something else was afoot than plans for battle.

  “You heard what Keith said. How do you judge it?”

  James shrugged a shoulder. “Much truth to it. We will not have knights to match the English, and he's never fought as we did at Loudon Hill--pikes against knights. Many would think it can't be done.”

  “Wallace fought so at Falkirk.”

  James made an assenting sound in his throat. Wallace had fought so and lost. All knew this.

  “Because he was betrayed.”

  “You think...” James stared at the King, eyes narrowing in thought.

  “That he plans it? No. But faced with an English army three times our sides. And it will be. And he will command the chivalry, what there is of it. He must.” The King looked hard at James. “So I must guarantee his loyalty. Must tie him to me. To us.”

  Frowning, James knew he was somehow missing the point. “How?”

  “He has a daughter, of marriageable age. A tie of marriage, of blood, would secure his loyalty. I know the Keith. He would be loyal—is a Scot after all. But we must needs see that fear does not overwhelm that. He must have more reason than an oath he could be forgiven for foreswearing.”

  James examined the dry blades of grass on the ground which was easier than looking at the King. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You'd have me betrothed to her?” It made sense. How could he deny it? And grieving forever was a weakness, one he had no right to. His duty was to his line and his name.

  “Why delay? I'll speak to Master David. He's here with Andrew de Moray's sweet widow, since her marriage to Robbie Boyd.”

  But Robert de Keith was a cousin of sorts and James breathed with relief. “There may be an impediment.”

  “Nonsense. It's no close relation, is it? What degree? I'll talk to the bishop and he'll take care of that. Her dower will be my gift.” The King beamed in satisfaction. “I'll breathe more easily with your good-father at our back in battle. And it's past time you married.” He gave James a buffet on the shoulder as they walked back through the corridor.

  “Have you mentioned this plan to him?” James said irritably. “Mayhap he'll mislike it.”

  “He'll be pleased to have the lass well settled. Of course, he will.”

  The marischal would not argue with the King making a match for his daughter. That was true. And James wondered why was he resisting? He was being foolish. The King had the right of it. It was past time that he married and got an heir.

  * * *

  James stood fidgeting before the great arch of the doors of St. John's Church. Beside him beamed King Robert de Bruce in a gold velvet tunic decorated with a crowned lion. Robbie Boyd was with them, lips twitching with thinly veiled amusement. Easy for him, James thought. He was unreasonably pleased with his bride—one he had chosen. He wished that Bishop Lamberton were here to bless the union but instead Bishop David of Moray stood before the church doors dressed in ecclesiastical splendor in gleaming whi
te robes edged with gold.

  Velvet was hot for even early spring and sweat dripped down his ribs under his blue doublet, tights and fine-tooled boots. A blue half-cloak was draped over one shoulder, the broach a silver star. He shifted and worked spit into his dry mouth. Hurry and let this be done. Just get it over with, but it wouldn't be long now. The sound of flutes, trumpets, lutes and drums drifted up the street. He caught sight of the King's page carrying a silver goblet overflowing with rosemary and ribbons of purple and gold as they rounded the corner. Walter and her brother led Elayne's white palfrey, their sleeves twined in rosemary. He could make out the sound of laughter and chatter of lords and ladies around her.

  She was lovely, dressed all in purple samite, tight of bodice and long, flowing skirt, a slender circlet about her brow. Her long dagged sleeves were lined with green satin, and her golden hair tumbled in loose curls over her shoulders. Her father walked slowly by her side and her mother a little way behind. The musicians strolled after her palfrey and then a milling peacock-bright crowd jostling like hens in a run.

  James stared at his feet for a moment, the polished boots fascinating, and then lifted his head and squared his shoulders. He had imagined his wedding otherwise. It was what it was, he thought.

  Robert de Keith was helping the lass from her palfrey and leading her to the door of the church. He gave James her stiff, cold hand. Perhaps a smile would help, James thought, but she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as though it would burn through the very doors of the church. In truth, he had never considered her feelings on the matter, even at the short betrothal ceremony when she'd been stiff and cold. How would she not, he had thought. Now he wondered...

  After a moment as the chatter died, the bishop said, “James, Lord of Douglas, and Elayne de Keith, do you come here freely without coercion to give yourselves in marriage?”

  Elayne made a strangled sound that the bishop apparently chose to hear as a yes.

  James frowned and gave his assent.

  At the bishop's nod James took a deep breath. “Elayne de Keith, I take you to my wedded wife, for fair or for foul, in sickness and in health, until death us depart, and thereto I plight you my troth.”