by J. R. Tomlin
James shook his head. "It will take time to prepare for an attack. Robbie will need to go to Kilmarnock to raise his spears. That will be more than enough time for me to recover from this scratch. I can send Richert to Douglasdale to gather my forces." The king was glowering at him but hadn't said nae, so James plunged on. "What is your plan?"
"I'll lead a raiding party from the sea and open the gates. A small boat can slip in without being seen."
"You can't," James said. "The risk is too great. Give me a week to regain my strength, sire. That's all I need. I'll be ready."
"It's only by God's grace you weren't gutted on that wall at Carlisle," the Bruce said.
He couldn't argue because that was true, but he'd always known he would die in battle one day. He'd choose it over being starved to death in the Tower of London or hanged and drawn on a scaffold.
"Aye, but I wasn't. And if it happens, better the Douglas die so than the king. You can't take such a risk." He twisted in his seat to try to work out the stiff, aching discomfort in his belly, a mistake that sent a shaft of pain through him like a spear. He gripped the edge of the table, grimacing.
"I've taken greater risks than that," the king said.
Once such risks had been needful. James raised his eyebrows and gave the king a stern look through odd flecks of light dancing before his eyes, and his stomach roiled.
The Bruce sighed. "Very well, my lord warden. You have a week, but if you can't move then without going pale as whey, I shall lead the attack. Now hie you to your bed." And James was glad enough to obey. He would be ready. They would make another try for the city that had been so stubbornly held in enemy hands.
March 1316
Annandale, Scotland
James kept his face bland as much as he wanted to grind his teeth with frustration. Since his humiliating flight from Berwick by boat when their secret attack failed, the king had stubbornly refused to allow another attack. The king would not be pleased when he asked again, James knew. He stood to the side as Robert de Bruce’s strode into the Privy Chamber. Robert de Keith, Niall Campbell, Gilbert de la Haye, and Walter Stewart gathered around him. He greeted each in turn, spoke a word to Abbot Bernard, kissed Bishop Lamberton’s ring, and squeezed James’s shoulder.
The king seated himself at the head of the long table, and Walter took a place at his left. James took his preferred chair in a chair at the foot of the table as the others scrambled for seats near the king. He could tell a great deal by watching the other’s faces.
"Is there word from Ireland?" the abbot asked.
"Not since they defeated Butler at Skerries." Gilbert de Haye steepled his hands. "The last word was that they were retracing their steps to take Cerrickfergus Castle so that it was no threat to their backs. That was two months ago."
"It weather is too severe to attempt a crossing. This is the worst winter I’ve ever seen. And after the rains and poor harvest last autumn, Ireland must be the worry of my brother and my nephew. We have enough to deal with here," the king said.
It had been a quiet winter with icy roads too bad for travel or fighting and with snow blowing into your eyes every time you set foot outdoors. The last two days the weather had broken, and everyone prayed the respite would last. Forced into each other’s company with the court, even his wife had been courteous enough as he’d recovered from his wound. She’d even gone so far as to kiss his cheek whilst he sat at the fire by William’s cradle. She’d said, "I prayed every day that you’d heal. Everyone says you are the greatest knight in the kingdom." But she had escaped him at every chance with the excuse that the queen and the infant princess needed her in attendance, and she slept in the queen’s chamber.
Bishop Lamberton on the king’s right smiled. "I have news from Berwick-upon-Tweed. Friars have brought news that their food has almost run out. Even the English soldiery is on short rations and no ships have been able to reach them from England. Nor have the soldiers been paid. It’s said some are near rebellion."
"It’s too bad we can’t take advantage of their weakness," Gilbert said.
"Perhaps we can." The king rubbed the bridge of his nose and frowned thoughtfully, and James sucked in a breath. At last... "We must eventually make another try. They would not expect a winter attack, and our men are capable of surviving a little cold."
"Not so little, Your Grace," Niall Campbell put in.
The king raised an eyebrow at his good-brother. James brushed a spot on his tunic. He smiled at coming to the council with a lump of William’s porridge on his chest. The lad’s method of feeding himself included attempting to feed his father as well, but none too accurately. James worked the spot off with a fingernail as he listened.
"As you said yourself, never have we seen such a winter and there is no sign of it breaking for spring. Even with the warmest woolens, could an army make a march in this weather?"
The king looked at James. "What do you think, Jamie?"
"If you allow, we will do it, sire."
A heavy hand hammered at the door before it was flung open. A guard gaped at Sir William de Keith of Galworthy, who stood panting, red-faced. "Your Grace. Forgive me, but it’s the queen’s command. Lady Marjorie—" He paused. "She’s been thrown from her horse."
The Bruce’s chair crashed over as he leapt to his feet. "By the Holy Rood, who let her ride? In this weather? In her condition?" He glared at his son-in-law.
Walter was shaking his head, hands raised. "I did not. How badly is she hurt? Where is she?"
The flush drained from Sir William’s face to leave him pale. He’s afraid to say how bad it is. Holy St. Bride…
"The guards carried her up to her bower."
The young knight stumbled back when the king shoved him out of the way and ran for the stairs. "I told her." Walter Stewart faltered, his chest heaving. "I said not to venture out. But she hates to be..."
"Caged," James whispered. "Go on, Walter. What are you waiting for?"
Walter nodded and strode for the open doorway, and then he broke into a run. James pushed himself slowly to his feet. The room was silent except for the heavy breathing of men as they stared at the table. Marjorie was young. But young women died if a pregnancy went awry. And this might be as badly awry as was possible.
"I’ll see to the king," James said. He turned and followed through the corridor and up the winding stairs, his feet ringing on the stone as he broke into a run. On the landing, the king and Walter Stewart stood outwith the closed door, whispering servants keeping well back from the two grim-faced men.
The Bruce’s face was pale as whey. "Elizabeth called—" His voice broke and he cleared his throat. "She called my physician. Not the midwives."
"Mayhap that is good news, if it’s not brought on the birth," Walter whispered. "It’s early…
For the bairn."
There was a scream and the sound of a woman crying. The door opened a narrow space. Marioun of Ramsey, her hair wild and windblown around her white face, was shoved through the opening. Lady Elizabeth, her hands and gown spotted with blood, said, "This is no place for her." She slammed the door closed.
James grasped Marioun’s arm and pulled her away from the doorway. "What happened?"
"It was my fault," the girl said around a sob. "She was so tired of being cooped inside. She ordered the guards to saddle our horses and ride out with us. I should have―done something. I should have stopped her." She used the heel of her hand to wipe her face. "When her horse slipped, she went over its head—fell so hard. Her neck was twisted…" She put a hand over her mouth, and wide-eyed she looked from the king to James and then to Walter. Her body was trembling as James put an arm around her shoulders, but she pushed away as she bent, gagging. Nothing came up and James gently raised her.
"You shouldn’t be here." He patted her back as she struggled against her sobs. He tried to think who could take care of her. Where was his lady wife? Probably with the injured princess and the queen.
"Hell mend it. I must kno
w how she is." Walter clenched and unclenched his fists. He took a step toward the doorway, but the king grabbed his arm.
"Wait." The Bruce wiped a hand across his face, looking palely ill.
A puling cry came from within—a thin wail. The king shoved Walter out of the way, stepped to the closed door, and hammered on it with a fist. Holy Mary, Mother of God, surely the princess could not be dying in there. Please, not after what she has suffered.
When the door opened, Master Ingram was wiping bloody hands on a towel. "Sire… I could not wait to speak to you. There was no time. The princess was already—" He shook his head. "—already dead."
Walter growled as he shoved the physician out of his way. The man hit the door with a crash, and Walter bolted into the room. "Marjorie!"
The stink of blood seeped into the landing. The king grabbed Master Ingram and shook him. "What did you do?"
The king tossed the man backward to land flat on the floor. Master Ingram pushed himself to his knees. "She was dead, Your Grace. The only way was to cut him from her body. I saved him. The queen said we must try to save the bairn."
James looked with horror at the blood soaked bed and Walter kneeling beside it.
October 1316
Douglasdale, Scotland
Icy rain ripped at James's face. The air smelt of oak and moss and rain but beneath it was still the tang of long dead fire and ash. Whatever the weather, he welcomed a respite from the grief-stricken court. Marioun was a pale-faced ghost whilst the king, silent and haunted, raised an army to lead for Ireland. Grim-faced, Walter had ridden for his own lands.
Master Gautier sloshed through the ankle deep puddles and mud to stand beside James under a bare, dripping oak. "I'm sorry, my lord. In this weather, there is no hurrying the work though the stones will give us a good start on building." One of the workmen prying a stone from the rubble of a fallen wall slipped, splattering mud and cursing. The workman heaved himself to his feet out of the muck. The wagon was still only half full of the stones they’d take to Lintalee to use for James’s manor.
Those had once been castle walls where James had sat and watched his father’s men marching guard, servants carrying water for the kitchen, girls from Douglas village out of sight beyond the trees gathered giggling to talk under an oak, a man tilling a nearby field. He’d never thought to be forced to destroy it by his own hand. How hard it was to rebuild what was lost. The pieces that were missing left gaps that were never again whole.
Frigid water dribbled down the back of his neck, and James craned to look up at the slate gray clouds. The midmorning was dark as dusk. The year before the crops had been poor. This year he doubted they would be planted at all. If they were and the rain did not stop, they'd drown in the fields. It was as dire in England, but he'd have to consider raiding there. Better the English starved when he took what they had for his own people.
A gust of wind sent leaves flapping around him. I chose a fine year to build a manor, James thought ruefully. Rivulets edged with ice flowed downhill toward the Douglas Water out of sight beyond the trees.
"I don't fault you. Even a master mason cannot control the weather." He shook water from the folds of his cloak. The wet made his side ache from the red scar of the wound he'd taken at Carlisle, and the neck of his sodden wool cloak itched. "Do the best you can. I'd like to be in the manor by snowfall."
The man shook his head. "I fear you will not, my lord. Unless this weather breaks— And I pray that it does."
A horn sounded in the distance, half drowned by the drumming rain. "The signal for riders," James said. He took a few steps toward the road. He didn't expect the English in this weather; it was too early for the fighting to start. "Wat!" James called. "Send men out to see who comes."
Wat ran through the slush, shouting for David and Johne to bring horses. "I'll see to it, my lord."
James shook the water out of his eyes. Wat had been with him most of his life, since the day James returned to reclaim his father's lands. The man was tough as old leather, but James thought his gray hair said it was time for younger men to do the fighting. Moments later, water sprayed as the three men left at a fast canter. Wat gave James a wave as he passed.
"I could send for more men from Glasgow," Master Gautier said as he scowled at one of the men hefting a stone into the wagon. "But it won't speed the building a great deal. In this rain, even once we move the stones, mortar won't set well, no matter how many men I have."
"Send for them then. I won't expect more than you tell me that you can do, but what you can do―you must do."
Lightning sizzled across the sky followed by booming thunder. The mason excused himself and slogged through the muck to have his men stop until the weather eased. They trooped grumbling toward the line of tents. James shook the water out of his cloak again, and then turned to watch the road wondering who would be mad enough to ride out in this weather. It didn't bode well for being good news.
When riders came into sight, Wat, in the lead with several men not their own following. Wat waved an arm over his head and called, "Raiders in Teviotdale, my lord." They splashed at a canter through the mucky road, water spraying.
Thin, sharp-faced Sir Adam de Gordon climbed from the saddle, his mouth drawn like he’d tasted something bitter. "Lord Warden, English raiders in my lands. They must be from Berwick. They seized twenty cattle and captured two men to drive them." He thrust his head at the two men-at-arms with him. "There were too many for the three of us to take on, ten of them."
James gave a sharp nod. "We should be able to catch them up before they reach Berwick. They’ll make for the Merse." He only had forty men in his tail, but that should be enough for a few raiders. With the king supporting his brother in Ireland, Walter Stewart and James had been left as Scotland’s co-regents. He couldn’t―no, he would not fail the king by allowing such a raid.
Wat still sat astride his sturdy mount. "We’ll need to move fast then. I’ll order the men armed and mounted." He turned his horse toward where the men had already begun to stand from lounging beside campfires. "Wake up, you lot! We’ve work to do."
"Archibald," James shouted and called for his armor. Archibald buckled on his brother’s hauberk and coif, his greaves and knelt to put on his boots while James buckled on his sword belt. By then a groom was leading up his black courser. It wasn’t armored. James scratched his chin. Mayhap he should start traveling with armor for his horse, but it wouldn’t matter for taking down a few raiders. "Get yourself armed, Archie." He swung into the saddle. "Quickly now."
Archie ran as James wheeled his mount. His men were throwing saddles on their mounts, buckling girths, checking their swords, and yelling jokes about what they’d do to the enemy. Wat shouted at them to hurry. Archie buckled his sword belt with one hand whilst he led his horse with the other. A watery beam of sunlight broke through the rain as James led them off, and they fell in behind him.
Sir Adam rode beside him. "We cannot lose those cattle. Can’t afford to," James grunted. Why talk about it? Losing cattle would mean even more empty bellies. No, they couldn’t afford any lose as bad as harvest the year before had been.
"Wat, send out four scouts, well spread. A small group could be easy to miss."
As they rode through the scattered woodlands at a canter, James frowned. In the distance, the hills of the Lammermuirs hunched, dappled by snow beneath smoky gray clouds. "Ten is few to take back enough cattle to feed Berwick if they’re as low on food as reports say. You saw the raiders yourself, Gordon? You’re sure of the numbers?"
"Aye, it might have been twelve. Of a certainty, no more."
"They’ve grown bold, or desperate," James said, still frowning. It was a small raid though if less than a score. James was going over in his mind the area of Berwickshire around Coldsteam as they rode along the bank of the gray-blue waters of River Tweed, visualizing the rolling hills and farmland where the raiders might make their escape. It was open country, good country for fighting on horseback. Ill if
you wanted to hide. He jerked his head around at a sound above the steady rustle of the water. Hoof beats coming at a gallop. He held up his hand for a halt as one of his scouts dashed through the hawthorns and scrub.
"Not far behind me," the man panted. "A good four score and in armor all of them."
"By the Holy Rood!" Sir Adam Gordon gasped. "You’re sure so many?"
"Aye. They spotted us. Rode down Ranald. They’re on my trail."
"They must have been spread out to raid when you spotted them, Gordon." James wrapped and unwrapped his reins from his hand as he pictured the lay of the land. There was a stream near Skaithmuir a little way north, one that might serve as a small defense.
"Sir James!" Sir Adam pointed.
James heard shouts. Horsemen in gleaming mail came through the trees. First there were six knights. Then twelve more. Then twelve more. A double column of knights and men-at-arms streamed through the dripping, bare trees.
Sir Adam opened his mouth and made a sound, but James cut him off. He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the Skaithmuir and raked it with his spurs. "Ride," he shouted.
He clearly saw in his mind the little stream and a bank where it formed a hillock. It would be little enough defense but as a good place to make a stand as you’d find in this country. Fleeing from the English in his own country―as he had for so many years in the past. The thought of it made the blood pound in his ears.
Mud flew from the horses’ hooves. He led them in a race for their lives. They splashed through the stream, icy water splattering.
A horn made a wavering call in the distance as James’s mount slipped and struggled to the top of the rise. Outnumbered. "Plant my banner," he ordered Archibald.
Archibald unfurled it and thrust the pike’s head deep into the soft ground. The white banner with its broad blue band and three stars stood steady in the midst of his men. Wat hurried them into a defensive circle, ordering them close together, for mutual protection. They were fixing their shields on their arms and flexing their sword hands on their hilts. "Do nothing but guard my back, Archie," James said. "No need to make a name for yourself this day."
