by J. R. Tomlin
The Bruce roared, “Stop! You just died. All of you!” He trotted to where the schiltron had divided and used his war axe to point to the hole in their line. “Together. You must move together.”
James raised an eyebrow at Boyd. He ordered his men to find Wat and their place in the camp and leaned forward to watch.
“What the devil is he doing?” Boyd muttered.
The King shouted for the schiltron to start again. The men muttered and cursed as the slogged across the torn and muddy field. From the look of it, they had been at it for hours. They began again. “Let me hear our battle cry,” the Bruce shouted. A ragged cry of “Scotland! Scotland!” went up, but they didn't march half way before one of the men stumbled. His pike tripped the two men next to him and the half the line turned into stumbling chaos.
James snorted a laugh, but the King stopped them again. “Enough. Stack the pikes for tomorrow,” he commanded.
“Who ever heard of such a thing? Having men with pikes try to charge?” a man-at-arms, the saltire of the Bruces on his leather armor, complained.
The King sat astride watching as the hundreds of men stacked the long, bladed pole weapons into piles. James swung from his horse to approach the King. “Your Grace.”
“Jamie, good. Your men are already here, so tomorrow you can begin training them. You saw, it will not be easy. And young Walter's men with yours.” The King climbed from the saddle. “Robbie. Your men shall train with mine.”
Boyd dismounted and led his horse to walk with the two of them toward the horse lines, his face knotted in a deep frown that pulled at the scar on his cheek. “You mean to have them charge, sire?”
“It can be done. Of that, I am sure.” The Bruce shook his head. “No. It must be done. We've done much these past years they said was impossible. This will be only one more.”
James tried to calculate as the led their horses through the muck of mud and horse shit. “We have... What? Eight thousand we thought when we met in Perth. Is it that many?”
“Robbie, would you take our horses to the grooms? James, a word...” The King handed his reins to Boyd who tilted a brow at James as he took the King's and after a moment's hesitation, James handed his own.
The Bruce looked him up and down with a steady, assessing stare. At last, he said, “What are you about, Jamie? I heard complaints from your good-father of how you're treating his daughter?”
“He...” James looked at the sky as he tamped down a flare of temper. “He complained? What did he want me to do? She's a child and I wasn't going to...” He glared at the King. “Sire, I'll do my duty to her. But not yet.”
“Then you need to talk to the Keith and tell him you're not slighting his daughter.” The King put an amiable arm around James's shoulder and walked with him toward the pavilions. “He was long in the English court and you know what that is. Edward of Caernarfon was for years preferring... other company to that of his Queen. He fears...”
James shrugged off his arm. Stopped walking. “You're jesting. You must know better.”
The King stopped, too. “I know you well, James. But he does not.” The King gave him a straight look. “This is important to me. To all of us. Talk to him and she that he knows better.”
James laughed though it wasn't funny. "That's one thing I never thought to be accused of."
“Not accused, but he needs to be assured for the sake of his daughter. And I need his loyalty.” He shoved James in the direction of the Keith's banner. “His pavilion is there. See to it.”
James laughed and shook his head as he strode past squires sharpening swords. Three knights rode past on their palfrey. The scent of roasting beef drifted from a cook fire. James stuck his head through the opening of the Keith's simple canvas pavilion. “I think we need to talk,” he said.
The man looked up from where he sat in a camp chair. “Indeed.” He frowned quizzically at James. “Aye, we do.”
James leaned against the edge of the table, folded his arms across his chest. “So...” He tried to think how to ease into the subject. “You think what? That I should have been harsher with my lady wife?”
“Harsh? No. But she says to her mother she is not truly your wife. And I have to ask why.” But it was no question.
“Because she's little more than a child—and a sullen child at that.” James studied his good-father's face. “You can't truly think that I won't do my duty by her.”
The Keith rose and stepped to the door of the pavilion to look outside. “I've seen that enough—you think the rumors of the English King aren't true? I assure you they are and the Queen... Well, I don't want my daughter in such a position.” He turned to scowl at James. “I won't have it.”
“Have you any reason to think such a thing?”
“That you didn't bed her is reason enough. I don't know what kind of man you are. I thought I did, but now I don't.”
“Robert, I assure you that I'm just giving her time. She thinks... Hell mend it, you know what she's heard of me in England. She just needs time.” James clung to his patience. “We have a lifetime together. Or if I live through this battle the King seems to mean to fight, we will have. In the eyes of the Church and of God, she is my wife. The rest will come—soon enough.”
The Keith said, “It seems to me there is more to it than that. You don't look, even at your wedding feast you did not look, like a man pleased with a young bride to bed.”
“No, I wasn't pleased. She was the next thing to being forced and that leaves out that I have no taste for a child in my bed. A woman, yes. But not a child.”
“You can't say you would have had to force her. She was reared better than that!”
“And hated me for it. And I would have hated myself. I want a woman in my arms who is not terrified of my touch, Robert.”
“Then why did you agree to it?”
James hung onto his patience. “Because the King wanted me to. He was right. I must wed, and she won't always be a child. She won't always think I'm the fearful Black Douglas who devours bairns in their beds.”
His good-father snorted a little through his nose. “No doubt she had heard the stories they tell of you.”
“Oh, she had. But she's my wife. I'll treat her as such.”
“All right. Good.” The Keith shifted, shook his head. “I didn't mean insult. But no one would think it of King Edward either. So like his father you wouldn't believe, except in the matter of Piers Gaveston. He doted on the man.”
“I give you my word. I will court her and make her my bride. I'll work it out. I give you oath on holy St. Bride.” James twitched a smile, thankful to have the discussion done with though he meant every word. He'd make himself stop pining for what could not be. “So you have command of all of the chivalry? How many do you think?”
“Few enough.” The Keith grabbed the topic of knights with obvious eagerness. “Five hundred perhaps and you know our horses are never the weight of the English. We'll do well to have chargers for so many, much less destriers.”
“I'd ride with you if I could. But the King has me training my men in this new idea of his. Tomorrow we start.”
The Keith shook his head. “Pikes against knights. I am none too sure it can be done.”
As James straightened and stepped into the doorway he said, “We did it at Loudon Hill. The Flemish did at Courtrai. Forbye, I trust the Bruce. If he decides it won't work, we'll retreat. And burn the land before them again.” He nodded crisply. “We'll know soon. In the meantime, I'd best see to my men.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
James could not deny the heat. His tunic stuck to his chest like a limpet. Thick, wet air covered the practice field and men grumbled when they were called out of their tents to form the hedgehog of a schiltron and march time after time across the field.
Allane's pike dipped and swung in an arc. It whacked Sande in the belly and he went down with a shout, cursing. The man next to him grabbed Sande's pike to save himself. The man behind Sande stumbled over h
im and went face down in the dry, trampled heather. Then the entire schiltron was chaos with a giant hole in the middle that would have got them all killed in battle. Sande shoved himself free of the tangle, got up, and limped a few steps. Blood dripped down his cheek where a spearhead had hit him. Allane looked at his pike as though it had betrayed him.
Sweat dripped down James's face and ran into this beard. He wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his forehead as he tromped across the broken dirt of the field. He jerked the twelve-foot pike from Allane's hands. “Are you planning to kill the English? Or is it Sande you are aiming for?” He spaced his hands well apart on the pike and braced it against his side. “Don't let it wave about! When we are moving, you must hold it against you and steady.” He braced the butt end of the pike against the ground behind him. “When we stop and the horse charge, you brace it so.”
Wat joined James and gave him a cup of water, but instead of drinking it he dumped it over his head. It dripped down his hair and ran down the back of his neck. The May sun blazed down until he felt he was sizzling in a pot.
“They're better,” Wat said. “Almost they move together now.”
“Almost won't be good enough against English knights,” James snapped. He sighed and took a deep breath. Yelling at Wat wouldn't help, and he was right. The men had improved. “Take them through it one more time. The King has called a council and I'm late. When we're through, I need a report how much armor we're still lacking.” Arming so many thousands of men had been no easy matter. The smiths had been day and night putting metal cheeks down the last foot of the ash poles to strengthen them and fastening on the razor-sharp spearheads. At first they'd trained with just the poles until James decided they needed the spearheads to teach them to take care. Sande was glaring at Allane now and he might well thump him once they reached camp. He'd take more care in handling his pike. Of that, James was sure.
Wat shouted the men back into position to begin the march again as James turned and strode down the long incline toward camp. Walter waved to him and James smiled. The lad was still officially his page, but since his father died last autumn he was also the Steward of Scotland. He'd soon have his spurs, and he'd earned them.
“Another two wagons of armor arrived,” Walter said as he fell into step beside James.
“Helmets?” James asked.
“Mostly brigandines, but good heavy studded leather. I have some camp followers painting the Saltire on the front.”
Robbie Boyd went into the King's pavilion ahead of them. The King's pavilion was large as a small castle's hall with ample room for their meetings, but it was furnished for war and nothing more. A curtain closed off a corner where the King slept.
In the main it was filled by a dozen camp chairs, a trestle table spread with maps and parchments, a flagon of wine and silver cups, and a shaggy-haired hound lay snoring in the corner. Beside the entry, the King's armor hung from a stand, a suit of steel hauberk picked out with gold embellishments, a great helm topped with a snarling lion's face above a gold coronet and before it rested the King's favorite war axe. He really meant to do this. James turned away with a jerk. He had saved the King at the Battle of Methven. They'd fought for eight years against odds that no army would hold against. And now it all came down to a throw of the dice.
Edward de Bruce lounged in one of the camp chairs, legs sprawled, a cup of wine in his hand. The King leaned over a large map and William de Lamberton in a simple black robe stood at his side next to Bernard de Linton.
“My lord bishop.” James grinned at the sight of him. “How did you sneak past my men?”
“I slipped out of England with some of my Benedictine brethren. Your scouts saw didn't recognize me. I wanted to surprise you.”
“By the Holy Rude, you're a welcome sight. I had worried at no word from you these past weeks.”
“It was time to come home is all. There is no more I can accomplish there.” The bishop tapped the spot were Berwick-upon-Tweed was marked on the map. “The English chivalry gathers there at the turn of the month and go to join their foot soldiers gathering at Wark-upon-Tweed. When you fight them, my place is with you.”
“They shouldn't have slipped past your scouts, James,” the King said. “Increase your patrols.”
James nodded. The King was right, but it was impossible to cover the entire border, even with men on fast horses, constantly patrolling. Every man on patrol meant another not in his schiltron, as well. He frowned and opened his mouth to say so. He closed it. He would have to manage... somehow.
The rest of the Privy Council drifted in, Maol of Lennox, Robert de Keith, and Thomas Randolph. The King sank into his chair and waved them to their places. “How goes the training?”
James snorted. “Painfully.”
Randolph let out a jerky laugh. “Indeed. Two of my men managed to break their legs today tripping over their pikes.” He leaned back and tapped a hand on the table. “But they improve. I begin to think we may do it. Only begin—you mind.”
“Mine improve as well,” James said. “They only trip over their pikes once or twice every time they charge. But we still don't have helmets and studded brigandines for all. Half still don't have gloves.”
Linton cleared his throat at a look from the King. “I'm using every groat in the treasury, Your Grace. But it takes time.”
“We're out of time.” The Bruce's face grew angry and tight as a fist. “I don't care what you have to do, but see that the rest of the armor is here--in the week. Squeeze them for it. Promise payment. Threaten them. I don't care. Just get the armor here. My smiths here can make the pikes, but we must have the armor and helmets and gloves.”
“I'll leave first thing on the morrow.” The chancellor shook his head. “I'm not sure how, but I'll buy what you need.”
“See to it,” the Bruce said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now, there are other tasks we must set to.” He tossed onto the table a handful of caltrops, each two nails twisted together so no matter how they landed a sharp point was upward. “Half our smiths in the camp must start working on these. We need thousands of them. And then...“He took a rolled map from a stack and spread it onto the table. “Here is Stirling Castle. And here...” He pointed to a long line. “...is the old Roman road where it turns for Stirling.”
Sir Edward shrugged. “So that's where we meet them.”
“That is where we most definitely do not meet them, though we'll sow the way with caltrops. But we must make sure we give them good reason to come to us on our own ground. For that we must give them a good display.” He pointed to a mark on the map in the opposite direction of the castle. “To the east, the Carse of Balquiderock. Here in this triangle, the Bannock and Pelstream burns meet and join on their way eastward to the River Forth. But all of this is boggy and marshy along their course.” He dragged his finger west. “The Torwood extending into the forest of the New Park. The English cannot take a great army through so dense a wood and my lord of Douglas...” His glance met James's with an amused gleam. “...might perchance harry them if they did so. So they must come to us here. Before the hill of the Borestone where we'll be on the slope.” He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “And here is the corse, full of bogs they must cross to reach us. Here horses will founder badly. It's deadly for knights, rough crossing even for foot.”
“Will they take the bait though? They could simply make for the castle and relieve it,” James said
“And put their back to us, so we hit them from the rear. That they will most definitely not do.”
There was a long silence as they studied the map.
Robbie Boyd traced a route through the corse. “There is a good wide stretch that's solid ground through here, sire. I know this ground. Aymer du Valence and Robert de Clifford know it, too. They fought here often enough against Wallace.”
James grunted, as it dawned exactly what the King had in mind. “You mean to dig pits. As we did at Loudon Hill.”
“Exactly. We'll line t
he pits with stakes, which means the men must be put to cutting and sharpening those when they're not training. Edward, Robbie, you'll put your men to that. James, Thomas, your men must begin digging the pits. That we'll all have a hand in. My own men will dig those as well. Once the English are over the border, we'll cover the pits with branches and sod so they can't be spotted.”
“Though the King is leading, you know if Aymer du Valence is truly in command there is great risk. And Robert de Clifford,” said the bishop. “They've learned your tactics. Ralph de Monthemer as well. They will remember the humiliation of Loudon Hill.”
The King leaned forward elbows on the table, hands clasped. “Knowing them and getting past them are two different things, my old friend. Very different things.”
Bishop Lamberton shook his head as he ran a finger over the line of march on the map where the King planned his strategy. “It is a huge risk. They are massing, I can't even think how large an army. Edward has called for every levy in England. The de Clares, the de Bohuns are leading their levies. However much they mislike their King... losing Stirling is a bitter potion they intend not to swallow.” He looked around at the men. “Believe me. King Edward means to crush us this time. For once. For all.”
“If we must retreat, if with every levy in Scotland raised and my best knights beside me, if then we cannot defeat them—we never will. And if they do not crush us, if we evade them, they will be back again. And again. And again.” The King stared fiercely past the walls of the pavilion to—who knew what. “How many times can our people suffer? Lands burned. Homes. Chased into the hills to starve in the cold. If we cannot stand against them now, when?”
