by J. R. Tomlin
They’d snatched two hour’s rest near Dunbar before riding for Stirling. Between the battle and the pursuit, James had lost count of the hours since any of them had slept or eaten a meal. Symon had swayed in the saddle for the last hour, and the men slumped like sacks of grain.
He lifted his helm to tuck under his arm. "Symon, see to the men. Find where the prisoners are held and where we are to lodge. Rest and eat. I’ll see to Sir Laurence." He nodded toward the spread of gray stone buildings. "If you need aught, find me." He waited as the prisoners were pulled from the saddle and turned to a guard, shifting his feet as he leaned on a pike. "The king?" James asked.
"In the refractory, my lord. It's been a fair to do since the battle," the man said as he opened the door.
James strode into the cool dimness of an arched entry toward voices in a far room. The warm air, heavy with the scent of incense, pressed like a blanket. Holy St. Bride but he was weary.
Through the doorway was a vaulted refectory, walls whitewashed and lined with polished oaken tables stacked with gold and silver plate, gleaming jewelry piled high, weapons, helmets and painted shields, stacks of bright tapestries, fine worked harness, and two tables heaped with golden spurs by the hundred. The room hummed with the scratch of quills upon parchment and the voices of clerics murmuring as they counted the English treasure.
Robert de Bruce sat in the carved abbot’s chair. James's breath went out of him at the sight of the king. They had won. The king lived. Until this moment, he hadn't believed the truth of it. James had thought they would lose. That at the end of the day, they would die.
The shadows under the king's eyes looked bruised, and his face was drawn with fatigue, but his armor was polished and his cloth-of-gold tabard clean of the blood and filth of battle.
"Your Grace!" James strode past Abbot Bernard bent over a parchment to oversee the clerics counting the captured loot. A squire scurried in with a silver flagon. "I couldn't take him. The English king reached Dunbar and took refuge there, sire." He dropped to a knee in front of the king, and a laugh welled up in his chests. "But we won!"
The king dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. "Aye, Jamie. We won." They shared a long smiling look. "Now tell me how you did with the pursuit."
James rose to his feet. "We harried them and took Sir Anthony de Lacy a prisoner. We accomplished little else, I fear. Aymer du Valence was not with them. I saw no sign of him or his banner. On the way…" He muffled a snort. "I was aided by Sir Laurence Abernathy. He’d approach you if he might."
The Bruce narrowed his eyes at James’s companion, hanging a few steps back. "Sir Laurence. You aided my good Sir James. Yet you’ve been in England with my enemies."
"Your Grace." Sir Laurence dropped to a knee. "I was with the English, but…" The man quailed under the Bruce’s frown. "I beg you accept me into your peace, sire. I’ll serve you well. I swear it."
Bruce turned his head at a footstep from a side door. A tall man, threads of gray in his dark hair and dressed in a tunic blue and gold samite, stepped through the doorway and bowed to the king. The Bruce gazed down at the supplicant. "So be it. I accept your oath." The king gave Sir Laurence his hand to kiss. "And I take you into my peace." Sir Laurence rose as the Bruce waved him away. Sir Laurence looked happy to make for the door.
James placed his helm on the table beside a bowl of summer berries and rubbed the back of his neck. "How many did we lose?"
"Few knights. One of the Ross lads, young William. Of wounded, we have many, mostly from pikes that shattered under the weight of warhorses. Gilbert de la Haye will bring a report, and we'll know more when my brother and Thomas return."
The stranger said in a choked voice, "Nothing compared to our losses."
"James, here is an old friend. Sir Ralph de Monthermer." The king's mouth thinned as he shook his head. "His step-son, the earl of Gloucester lies in the chapel."
Gilbert de Clair killed? James realized his mouth was open and snapped it closed. One of the greatest names in England, the nephew of King Edward of Caernarfon, a good-brother to King Robert through the king's wife— "How?" James asked.
Monthermer's face clinched in pain. "In the first charge, Gilbert plunged into the pikes. The king had called him a coward, and he was in a rage. God forgive me that I didn't teach the boy better. He had courage more than enough but in a temper, no judgment." His mouth worked for a moment. "What am I to tell his mother?"
The Bruce stood and grasped Monthermer's arm. "Now England shares the pain that we Scots have had these many years. But I’d not have wished it on you and your lady wife or my wife's sister, his wife." The king turned his gaze back to meet James's eyes. "There is a body in the chapel that will cause us little grief though, Jamie. Lord Robert de Clifford lies there."
"Clifford…" James felt his face heat and his heart thudded. The grasping man who had claimed so much of Scotland–including his own lands and those of the king. He would have killed the man a dozen times over. "At last!"
"And John Comyn. William le Marshal. Sir Edmund de Mauley. Sir Giles d'Argentin... The chapel is filled with bodies—more than thirty of their lords. The bodies of knights and commons are being taken to churches in Stirling Town." He shook his head. "God have mercy on them because we could not."
"Why should we?" James clenched his hands against his thighs and forced his voice to softness. "Any more than they did to my father–starved in the Tower. To your brothers. All three of them hanged, drawn and quartered. Isabella caged like an animal."
"We did what was needful. Now there will be no more slaughter. We'll have prisoners for their ransom."
James raised an eyebrow and slid his eyes toward Ralph de Monthermer.
"No. Not Sir Ralph. I owe him too great a debt and a friendship. He is my guest here, but I've sent Robert de Boyd out with a good troop of men-at-arms to see the killing stops and prisoners brought who will pay well for their freedom. I'll trust you to see Sir Ralph safely over the border along with the body of his step-son."
James's anger ran out of him like water from a cracked flagon. He was too weary to contain it. "If that is your pleasure, sire." James gave the baron, once styled as earl whilst his stepson was a minor, a half-bow.
"Give him a day's rest and…" The king broke off at loud voices in the hallway. He turned toward the door at the sound of his brother's bellowing voice mingled with the clank of steel.
"By the Holy Rood, I want a day out of the saddle," Sir Edward de Bruce said as the door was thrown open. "Albeit this day's ride was worth the trouble. I bring you gifts, Robert." Blond hair windblown and tabard dirt splattered, Sir Edward stood aside to make a sweeping motion to the man behind him. "Your Grace, may I present Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Constable of England, who is now our—guest."
A man, much of the Bruce's age, his brown hair lightly touched with gray at the temples, strode proudly past Sir Edward. His head was bared, and he wore gold-inlaid mail under a filthy silk tabard embroidered with small golden lions. The man's face was a proud, frozen mask.
Men, armored nearly as finely and all mud and blood besmirched from the battle and their flight, crowded in after Bohun. Their eyes darted from the king to Monthermer to James.
Sir Edward made a wide, bowing gesture to the other prisoners. "I present you Robert de Umfraville, Earl of Angus; Hugh, Lord Despenser; John, Lord Ferrers; Edmund, Lord Abergavenny; John, Lord Seagrave; and Maurice, Lord Berkeley. Lesser knights I sent ahead to Stirling Castle to be held, but I knew these you would want to greet." Edward grinned.
"Indeed, all lords I knew in years past. I am most glad to offer them our welcome." The Bruce sat and stretched his long legs out, his eyes gleaming. "My lord of Carrick, where did you find these noble guests for me?"
"At Bothwell Castle where they had taken refuge. Gilbertson there suddenly found his loyalty to you and gave them up to me and the castle with them."
"Well done." A soft and dangerous smile curved the king's mout
h. "Indeed, these are guests with whom I would have speech." For the first time, he turned his gaze to the troop of noblemen who stared at him, faces frozen with hostility. He motioned to a squire and waited until the lad filled his goblet and placed it in his hand. He took a drink and gazed at the vaulted ceiling for a minute before he chose a berry from a bowl at his elbow to toss in his mouth.
"Damn you, you traitor." Bohun's face knotted like a fist. "You have us, but don't play the king at his pleasure with me. I know what you are."
The Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You'd curse me, sir earl? Call me a traitor? Instead, you should give thanks to the Blessed Virgin. My pleasure…" The Bruce's teeth gleamed as his wolfish smile broadened. "…would be to see you on a scaffold—with your belly ripped open as your king had done to my brothers. My pleasure would be your head over the gate of Stirling Castle."
Bohun sneered. "And give up our ransom? I think not."
Robert de Bruce nodded slowly, smiling still. "You speak truly, my lord. I am a Christian king, and I do not heedlessly murder my prisoners―unlike a king who had become no more than a ravening dog."
"King Edward was no… no dog!" Bohun sputtered in rage. "You— King Hob. You're not fit to speak his name. Brigand that you are! Thieving, treacherous—!"
"I suspect I can find somewhere to cool that temper for you, but first we’ll speak of other matters." The Bruce fastened his still smiling gaze on the earl of Angus. "Aye, there will be no executions. Not even of a traitor who has given me good cause."
"Traitor? To you? Who murdered my good-brother." Robert de Umfraville, earl of Angus, flushed red, and he thrust his face toward the Bruce. "I have never sworn fealty to you. Never!"
"More fool you. If you had, you'd not be a prisoner in my hands," the king snarled. For a moment, his smiling mask had slipped. He took a drink from his goblet and paused before he continued in a low, mild tone. "As the earl of Hereford so sagely observed, I shall expect ransom for your release. And the first payment will be the return of what is mine." The king rose to his feet and paced slowly toward Bohun. "Those of mine you and your king have foully imprisoned... My wife... My daughter... My two sisters... My dear friend, Bishop Wishert... Young Andrew de Moray... Donald of Mar… They shall be returned forthwith. Then we will talk about the gold it will take for you to see your own lands again. Gold to rebuild the Scotland you savaged."
He turned his back on the prisoners and looked to his brother. "There are dungeons beneath Stirling Castle where you may lodge these guests. Make sure they are the deepest and darkest. There these lords of England will cool their tempers. And there they shall stay until I have returned to me what is mine. The lesser men you may ledge more pleasantly until they are ransomed."
July, 1314
James led his score of men, horse’s hooves clattering, up the road towards Stirling Town, its red-roofed buildings clustering around the foot of the gray cliff, toward where the Bruce stood with Abbot Bernard of Arbroath. Abbot Bernard, the king’s chancellor, wore a gray robe of the Order of Tiron. Dark hair fringed the blunt, snub-nosed face of the king's chancellor.
Abbot Bernard was shaking his head as James pulled up and jumped from his horse. "Slighting Stirling Castle? I know it's a danger to have it taken again by the English… But Stirling?"
"Jamie," the king said as Abbot Bernard frowned.
This discussion had gone on since their victory, and his news wouldn't wait. "A party approaches, sire. Andrew de Moray and an escort of English."
"Only him and no others?"
"Not yet. I have a watch on the road and orders for news to be brought as soon as they cross the border."
The king nodded. "If they want the Earl of Hereford and the others back with their heads attached, they'd do well to heed my warning. I give you my word on it. They shall not see the light of day until our own are returned to us."
James flashed him a look. How many captured Scots had the English put to cruel execution? William Wallace... The Bruce's own three brothers... The gallant Sir Christopher Seton… Sir Alexander Scrymgeour... The Earl of Atholl... Sir Simon Fraser... More loyal Scots and dear friends than he could count... So many who would not return... Yet, the king wouldn't serve those he'd captured after the battle thus as they deserved. Revenge was past seeking. England did not hold enough blood to repay what this war had cost. Better to rescue the victims than seek vengeance. No, James couldn't argue, and yet…
"There." James pointed.
Around a bend in the road, horsemen came into view, a score in all, led by two men brightly clad. Their armor and weapons clattered as they came.
As they neared, a rider at its head left the group and came at a gallop, gold hair and dark cloak flying in the wind. The lad reined up sharply a few yards away and leapt down so that he was standing, wide-legged, tense-faced, panting. For long moments, he gazed speechless, with an intensity that was painful to see.
Robert de Bruce took a step towards him. "Welcome home, Andrew."
Andrew's mouth moved though at first words did not come. "Sire... Your Grace..." He looked around as though drinking in the sight of the tall oaks, the heather, Stirling Town in the distance. "They told me—of the prisoners you took at Bannockburn. They said that you demanded my release; I could not believe it. That I would be free."
The English party came jingling up and halted just short of young Andrew de Moray. He glanced over his shoulder at the gray-haired knight who led them. "Here is Sir Roger who was my..." His mouth twisted. "...my host these past years."
James bit back angry words. What was the point? The man had no doubt followed the commands of his own king. Young Andrew was not the only child they'd imprisoned these many years. It was over and past mending, except to bring them home.
The man frowned and shook his head. "I dealt with him as kindly as I was allowed, my lord. I've no taste for ill-treating children."
James Douglas dropped his reins and gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip. Through gritted teeth, he rasped, "You will give the king his title. Or you will see a dungeon, Sir."
The man's face drained of color. "I beg his grace's pardon. No offense..."
"You may go." The Bruce gave an abrupt gesture of dismissal. "Mark you, though. The other prisoners had best be returned to us promptly. You have a month or Bohun and the others will meet my brothers' fates. My patience grows thin." As the men turned their horses to leave, he said, "Come here, lad."
He gripped Andrew, wide-eyed and a little white around the lips, by the shoulders. "Never doubt that had it been in my power, I would have brought you home sooner. Now I'll return you to your mother and your uncle, the bishop."
Andrew's color was coming back, but he swallowed hard. "They're here?"
"They will be. You've arrived before them." The Bruce smiled and gave Andrew a gentle shake. "How does it feel to be home?"
"It's a wonder. It smells like home. Isn't that strange, Your Grace? The scent of heather and salt sea. It's what I remembered most."
James smiled. "Not so strange to me. I remember that from when I returned home from exile as well."
"They thought I'd forget." Andrew's eyes were solemn. "But I didn't. I could never forget my own country or my own people."
"I never thought it," the Bruce said gently.
"You'll take my oath? I shall be your man. I swear it."
"Gladly, lad." Robert de Bruce, king of the Scots, held out his hands. "Your father's lands and his titles are yours. Lord of Avoch and Petty and Bothwell, as they should be."
Andrew dropped to his knees and reached up for the king's hands. The solemn look on the lad's face made James's chest ache. Had he ever been so young? He remembered the day he had knelt before Robert de Bruce, not yet a king, on a spring day with the scent of the heather all around them. Yes, mayhap he too had been young and unstained all those years ago.
In a clear, ringing voice, the lad made his oath, "I, Andrew de Moray, become your man in life and in death..."
*
* *
Outwith the stable, James strode to join the Bruce to give him news of the approaching party. "They will be here in an hour or two," he said as they walked toward the door of the manor house.
"You're sure the queen is with them?"
"My scouts said two women are in the party under Gilbert de la Haye's banner." Two men with pikes guarded the door. James greeted them and followed the king up the steps, wondering at the king's frown. This was good news surely, but the Bruce's hands clenched as he walked through the high arched Great Hall to his bedchamber. Within, a squire was polishing the king's helm and another brushing a velvet cloak.
"Lay out my best garb," the Bruce said, "and bring hot water." He paced around the chamber, rubbing his lips with his fingers, his forehead creased whilst the lads scurried to do his bidding. James propped up the wall with his back and crossed his arms.
One of the squires laid out a blue tunic of silk with a lion worked on the breast, black hose, a belt of gold links, and a crimson cloak. The other hurried in with a basin of steaming water scented with lavender. "Very good. Sir James will play the squire for me," he said and waved them away. As they bowed their way out, the king stripped his sweat-soiled tunic over his head and tossed it down. He twitched a crooked smile. "You wonder that I am vexed?"
"Surprised, sire. I thought…"
"We were happy? Aye, we were. But whilst I've been free, she's spent all her youth locked in a nunnery. Allowed nothing fine—no pleasures. She'll come home to find my bastards whilst she was denied…" The Bruce made a choking noise and turned away. He ran a damp cloth over his furred chest and threw it hard into the basin, sloshing water over the rim from the force. "She loved music. Laughter. Gay company. And they locked her in a room with two grim old women, year after year. Eight years of it."
"You think she'll blame you?"
"How not? You know what she said the day I was crowned? That we were but king and queen of the May. That it would not last. She was afraid of exactly what happened. And after, I must face my sisters and tell them through my fault three of our brothers were tortuously murdered. Holy Jesu God! I'd rather face the worst battle of my life than this." The Bruce raked a broad hand through his hair; his chest heaved as he sucked in a great breath.
