by J. R. Tomlin
The lad took a step toward him. "No, I'm Archibald." He jerked his head toward the fat lad standing behind him. "That is Hugh."
Dark eyes darted nervously in Hugh's moon face, and sausage-like fingers wiped themselves on the closed woolen cloak of a cleric though surely he was too young to have taken orders. "We… we wanted to come―tojoin you, but they wouldn't let us. Our mother... Her husband..."
James snorted a little laugh. "Well, I doubt King Edward would be well pleased if they sent you to join me." He caught Archibald by the shoulder and jerked him into a hard hug, pounding him on the back. "But I am pleased. I am well pleased." He released Archibald and looked Hugh over. Not what he'd expect of a Douglas, but his brother, so he thumped Hugh on the shoulder.
Hugh winced at the blow, but a smile warmed his eyes, and they weren't darting with fear any more. "They watched us close and talked about putting us in a dungeon. They never did. But they wouldn't let Archie serve as a squire. Well, he wasn't an heir." He shrugged. "I didn't matter so much since all I'm fit for is a cleric."
James shook his head. He'd not thought there was a chance of finding his brothers, not since his English stepmother had taken them deep within England after his father had died in the Tower. "You'll have to tell me how you got here. And we'll make plans." He threw an arm around Archibald's shoulder. "I can always use a squire."
Hugh stared at James and gave a feeble smile.
"We'll find a place for a cleric, too, Hugh. I will see you right."
"So they found you instead of you finding them, Jamie." The king emerged from the doorway to his tent, his immense crimson and gold Lion Rampant banner waving high overhead from a lofty pike.
"Aye, Your Grace." He rubbed his chin. There was no time for sentiment with a town to take. Archibald and Hugh were making awkward bows to the king and shuffling their feet. "Gylmyne, find a place for my brothers in the camp and food."
He started to follow the Bruce into his pavilion but stopped and turned back. "You're both welcome with me. I'll―" He swallowed something that had closed up his throat. "I’ll do for you as our lord father would have wanted."
Hugh was blinking at him, but Archibald grinned and nodded, so James ducked into the king's large tent. The Bruce dropped heavily into a camp chair and waved a hand toward a silver flagon and goblets. "I'm glad for you, Jamie."
"Archibald. I hadn't seen him since he was―" James poured the wine and tried to remember. "I think he was two when I went with our father as a page to Berwick. Two." James breathed out a laugh. "He followed me like a puppy. I was tenand I rolled him in the mud once. Hugh hadn't been born."
The king nodded thoughtfully and took a drink of his wine.
"Half-brothers, really. And I don't know them." James went to gaze out the entrance into the golden afternoon sun and the high walls of Carlisle Town. "I knew your brother Thomas better than I'll ever know them." He turned back to the king. "They put his head over the gate here after they killed him. Is that what this is? That it was at Carlisle that they butchered your brothers?"
Robert de Bruce face knotted, and he tossed back the rest of his wine. "You know not."
"Do I, Your Grace?"
"You think I'd waste our men on revenge? And what revenge would it earn me? I can't kill Edward Longshanks who ordered the foul deed. He's dead and beyond me." He held out his goblet for James to refill. "No, I wouldn't mind punishing Carlisle, but you should know that's not the reason. If we can take Carlisle, it will threaten them. Force them to treat with me. But we don't have long."
"A week. No more. The forces rallying at Brough Castle can be ready by then. It would have been sooner if Clifford were still alive." He looked at this liege lord. He shouldn't have challenged him albeit there was more revenge in this than the king wanted to admit, but as far as James was concerned, he had a right to it. Still… James took a drink of the wine. It was sour for his taste. Still, it was better than the water they usually drank on a raid. But this was not merely a raid, though he'd looted and burned Hartlepool two days before.
The Bruce shrugged. "Harcla. He's doing well. Better than I expected. So…"
"So we need another tactic. One we haven't used against him yet." James swirled the dregs in his cup. "When Thomas Randolph took Edinburgh, he attacked a gate with a strong force, strong enough to draw all their defenses, and took a small group to climb a weak spot on the wall."
"So he did." The king raised an eyebrow with a wry twitch. "And you hate being bested by my nephew."
* * *
Even before dawn, the next day promised to be hot and muggy as James dodged in a crouched-jog from tree to tree. The leaves were full of whispers. Already sweat beaded in the mud that daubed his face and bare chest. Behind a hoary oak next to the deep ditch that surrounded the city wall, he dropped to his knees and motioned over his score of men.
"Richert, Iain, close behind me with your pikes," he whispered. "And by all the saints, not a sound. Anyone falls going down the edge of the ditch, don't open your mouth." He patted the rope and board ladder he carried himself tied on his back. "Pray that the sentries don't spot us before we reach the wall. And pray they're pulled off by the king's attack."
The wall here was high compared to most of the city, so the English would think it was too high to be attacked. He'd spotted it days ago, and had pikes made even longer than usual. Going in with a score of men to try to open a gate was a deadly risk, one the king had been more than reluctant to take. In the pre-dawn, the wall was a black hulk
James dropped to his belly and wriggled his way to the edge of the ditch, swung his legs around and dropped over, hanging on. When he let go, he slid a span down the rest of the way, clamping his teeth when the hard ground ripped his skin. Once the metal hook of the rope ladder clanked on a stone. Going up the other side would be harder, but it wasn't straight up so they could work their way. The hard part was making sure they made no noise. "Quietly," he whispered and strode four paces and crawled on hands and knees. At every movement, James expected a shout from the guards, but it was silent. Only a thin sliver of silver growing in the east changed as they went. It took a few moments, although once there was an alarming clatter of falling pebbles. They all froze into place, but there was no sound from the wall.
His men knew their parts, so James didn't need to give orders. He pressed his back against the wall, sweat from exertion and nerves dripping down his face and his ribs. His men spread out, each squeezing as close to the wall as he could. The mud that daubed their bodies would make them hard to spot, but with no armor, any fight would be as dangerous as any could be. James grasped the hilt of his sword. He'd have to kill any guard before he could call for help. It didn't matter how many times they did this, his heart still hammered like a galloping horse. If they could open the west gate, he had a hundred mounted men out of sight of the walls, ready to answer his call. But they had to wait for the king's attack on the east gate to draw the sentries away.
In the dawn light, James began to make out the shape of the trees and when he looked up he could see the top of the wall. A morning wind rustled the grass and a branch creaked. A crow called a harsh warble. In the quiet, James heard the far off shout of thousands of voices and the long Harooo of the king's trumpets calling the attack.
Within the city, the trumpets of the English blew defense. James heard men shouting closer and a curse, the rattle of swords and the pounding of running feet. Iain moved but James held up a hand. It was too soon. He must give them time to run to the defense of the eastern gate. The king had brought what should look like their whole army. Almost, it was.
The sounds of running faded into the distance. "Now," James said softly. Hurriedly, he loosed the rope and board ladder from where it was wrapped around his shoulder. Iain poked the point of his pike through a hole in the hook whilst Richert did the other. James craned his neck to look upward as they lifted the hooks. It was simple, yet not an easy task to hoist the ladder on the fifteen-foot weapons high enou
gh to hook over the edge of the crenel. Then they'd drop the pikes and the ladder would be in place. They'd done this a number of times, but they could never be sure that a sentry wasn't waiting at the top to unhook the ladder and send them crashing down. The hooks caught with a clank.
James pulled his dirk and put it between his teeth to have both hands free to climb. He thrust down with a foot on the first board to be sure the hooks were firmly caught and then climbed–fast. At the top, he vaulted over, scanning the walk for a guard. Already, Iain was clambering over the edge. James crouched as Richert followed and another head appeared behind him. James plunged down the steps, leaping three at a time to the cobbled street. "To the gate!"
Two guards stood, leaning on halberds. The towering wooden gate banded with iron was triple barred with beams. One guard shouted in surprise as James barreled into him and kicked the tall weapon aside. Kneeling, James plunged his dirk into the guard's neck. His men were already swarming the other. And in an instant, the street was filled with soldiers. James spied leather brigandines studded with steel and Harcla's cross and starling on their chests. There was a line of them on foot, no time to count but twenty at least. Richert caught a blade and ducked under to gut his attacker. "To the stairs," James shouted. He grabbed Richert's arm and shoved him behind.
"What are you waiting for?" a dark-faced man shouted. "On them." They closed in. Wielding his sword in one hand, his dirk in the other, James cut one down. A second man reeled away gushing from a slashed neck. Richert hacked, a red spray flying from his sword as they backed, step by step.
"Up the stairs," James shouted. "Up!" Two halberds flashed in the sun toward Richert's head. James leapt to meet one with his blade. His side exploded in a moment of blinding pain. He heard a scream. Iain cut the legs out from under his attacker. Another sword slashed. Someone was lifting him, but he couldn't see. It was a blur of agony, and he was in a gray mist. For a moment, he opened his eyes and groaned as he was pulled over the wall. The ground far below was spinning.
* * *
James was wrapped in wool blankets but he shivered. A face bent over him. Through a fog, he recognized Master Ingram. James winced when fingers poked and prodded at his wound. He clenched his teeth, but a cup was put to his mouth. His head was tipped back, and he gulped down a mouthful of a bitter wine. He gagged, but they forced down another swallow.
His head felt heavy and numb. "My cautery iron is heated. I need four men to hold him," a man said from a long way away. Voices buzzed in his ears. He felt a heavy weight hold down his arms and his legs. When he saw the iron glowing red hot, he jerked his head to look up at Richert who knelt, leaning hard on him. Richert look frightened, James thought for a moment, and then pain burned through his side. He threw back his head, gulping in air, but it had the stench of burning flesh. He screamed. After that for a while, he knew nothing.
When his eyes opened a slit, he was wrapped in furs, but his body floated within them. He tried to lift his hand. It didn't move. He must be dead he knew when Alycie brushed his hair back from his forehead and wiped his face with cool water. Her lips pressed softly to his. He smiled when he closed his eyes to sleep.
His next awakening was throbbing with pain. The wagon he was lying in bounced, and he gritted his teeth. Pushing the furs back, he tried to sit up, and a fiery stab of pain went through his belly. He fell back, gasping. Rain pounded onto the canvas above him.
"My lord." Richert's face was looking down at him, freckles and all. "They said you mustn't move."
James grabbed Richert's arm. Yes, he was real. "What's happening?"
"The king commanded a retiral. We're on our way home."
"The men?" He fought the pain to prop himself onto his elbows. "How many got away?" Sweat dripped down his face.
"Iain, Johne, and I gotyou over the wall. The rest―" Richert pushed him back down into the furs. "Rest, my lord. You bled like a pig at the slaughter, but the king’s physician cauterized the wound. You’ll recover. He swore to the king."
He closed his eyes and drifted away.
He dreamt fire was blazing around him, houses and fields aflame. He hurled the torch in his hands. Sweat ran down his face as he ran. A hot wind blew on his neck. Where were his men? "Wat?" he called. "Wat? Richert? " No one answered. In the distance, he heard trumpets. There is a battle. Why am I not there? A burning beam crashed before him and flames roared in his face. He whirled, looking for a path, a way out of this hell. But he was trapped within the flames he had set. They roared...
The room was dimly lit, the bed soft beneath him, the air sweetened with thyme. His own chamber, he remembered as his head cleared. You would think it would have brought him better dreams. His body was sticky with sweat, and he threw the counterpane back.
Archibald looked up from a stool, a dirk and whetstone in his hand. "You were tossing and mumbling, but I didn't dare wake you. The physician gave orders you should sleep."
James looked down at the red, angry slash, scabbed over now and healing, across his belly. "I've rested. Is there water for washing?" He rolled to his side. The pain made him hiss in a breath, but it was nothing he couldn't stand. He wanted the feel and smell of sweat and sickness off his body.
Archibald thrust his chin toward a ewer on the table. "Aye, though it won't be very warm."
James's mouth twitched. He should tell Archibald to heat it since he was a squire now. "Where is Hugh?"
"The king sent him to Glasgow Cathedral– gave him a post there. He was happy about that. I think he was still afraid you'd try to make him fight."
James eased up from the bed, hobbled to the table, and picked up the ewer. "He didn't look as if he'd make much of a fighter. He can give prayers for our souls instead. "James shook the memory of his dream from his head as he poured water into the bowl. "We'll most like need them."
Archibald was right. The water was not very warm, but it felt good as he sluiced his face and his chest.
"There is talk of attacking Berwick." Archibald drew the blade across the whetstone. "The king has been meeting with Sir Robert Boyd."
"Berwick? Attacking it soon?"
Archibald shrugged. "They've not told me their plans, but I suppose soon. I heard one of Boyd's squires say they'd leave tomorrow to raise their levies."
"Find me my clothes, Archie." James scowled. Why would they plan an attack without him? For Berwick―from which his father had been dragged in chains. If there were any attack upon it, he must be there. "Up. Let me sit there." His muscles trembled with weakness, but giving in to it would do him no good.
Archibald jumped to his feet, and James sank onto the stool with a sigh. "The physician won't be happy," Archibald said. He dropped the dirk on the table and hurried to a chest at the foot of the bed to pull out a blue tunic.
The brush of heavy linen over his wound made his belly burn like fire, but James tugged his hose into place. Archie slipped the tunic over his head. He stamped into his boots and Archibald knelt to fasten his belt. He picked up his dirk that Archibald had been honing to thrust into the sheath at his side. By the time they were done, he felt like crawling into a corner like a beaten dog. Instead, he downed a cup of wine. There. He felt more like a man, but Archibald was giving him a doubtful look.
"You're not supposed to be up. I hope the king doesn't blame me."
"The king knows me." He patted his brother's shoulder and hobbled through the door, moving gently so as not to awaken the pain. It was the quiet of a dusty summer mid-afternoon. James could hear friars chanting in the chapel. A lay brother knelt scrubbing the floor. He could smell bread baking in the abbey kitchen. As best he could, James ignored the wobble of his legs as he walked, albeit he had to keep a hand on the wall to stay erect.
When he opened the door to the Privy, Robert the Bruce looked at him with a scowl. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm well enough, sire." James straightened and tried to stride to a chair without hunching over. "And if I am still Lord Warden of the Marches then
my place is here."
The king sighed. "Sometimes you're a damn fool, Jamie. You're weak as a bairn yet. It wouldn't do harm for you to miss one battle."
"If the battle is for Berwick...?"
With a frown that turned the scar up his cheek into a crevasse, Robbie was examining James. "I've seen more color in a snowfall than you have in your face." He got up and went to the sideboard to pour a goblet of wine and plunked it down in front of James. "You've had naught but pap and broth since they brought you back from Carlisle. At least, that should keep you on your feet until you're in your bed."
James took a drink of it because the truth was―Robbie was right. "What about Berwick? Are we going to lay siege? My men still have a blockade on the roads, do they not?"
For a moment, the Bruce clasped his hands and pressed them to his forehead as though dealing with James was more than he could stand. But then he leaned back and said, "Aye, your men have kept a blockade on food and supplies reaching the city, and our galleys have cut off supplies from the sea, but enough has slipped past that they hold out. But a siege? No."
"I heard how well a siege went at Carlisle," Robbie said.
"We lack engineers trained well enough to build siege engines and men trained to use them. And a relief army is too likely to come to their aid. No, we'll go back to what has worked in the past. Another of your secret attacks, James."
"Then I must be part of it. Besides, Berwick..." The king knew he'd sworn holy oaths to take the town where his father had been shamed and dishonored. That was an oath that he meant to keep.
"I know your feeling about Berwick, but you cannot think you are strong enough to lead an attack. After being forced to raise the siege at Carlisle, we can't let the English believe we've lost our ability to win. I'll lead the attack on Berwick myself."
