The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  He turned his horse in a circle to look over the field. The edge of the stream that half-circled the hillock was hard rimed with ice. Beyond, the ground was rolling, spotted with a few trees, but most of the land was cleared for planting in the spring. He watched as a line of men rode into view, shouting and gesticulating. A horn blew again. Harooo.

  More men rode into view, armor catching the glimmers of sunlight and joined the mass that was forming. Their leader, tall and massive on a huge courser, rode with his standard bearer at his side, blue with a gold bend, the armorial of Sir Raymond Caillou.

  Drawing his sword, James watched the man ride up and down the line, shouting. He’d heard of Caillou and tried to remember what. It didn’t matter. When the leader died, most often it broke his followers. Caillou must die.

  The horn blew again, and the English broke into a gallop, screaming war cries and curses as they came. Caillou waved his sword over his head and bellowed a command.

  "Steady," James said. "Make them come to us up the slope." He fastened his gaze on the tall knight with the blue shield. The hooves of charging horses threw muck and icy water, the charge slowing as they labored up the rise. Then the English were upon them.

  "A Douglas!" James roared. The hillock rang with the sound of steel on steel.

  Two men-at-arms slashed at him. James swept his sword beneath a shield to slice one’s belly. He fell, chocking and cursing. James wrenched his sword free and slashed it down on the neck of the second man’s horse. He ducked a blow as the horse reared, screaming. A sword thrust at his chest. He lashed with his shield, knocked it aside, and raked his sword across the man’s face. He wheeled to force his way through the chaos after Caillou.

  Sir Adam was surrounded by three Englishmen. He slammed his war axe into the first one’s shield, knocking it up. James took one down with a backslash as he rode past.

  James glimpsed Iain vaulting free as his horse died under him. James shouted a curse and spurred his horse. It screamed and reared, lashing out and smashing a foe. He saw Caillou catch Wat in the chest with a blow, shearing through armor, blood running down in a flood. James charged, screaming a challenge.

  His quarry met him with a savage blow at his head that James blocked, the shock jolting up his arm. He answered with a slash at his face that the man knocked aside. Their swords crashed together. Caillou feinted and slammed the backstroke into James’s ribs, mail crunched but held. James grunted at the blow. James caught the counterstroke on his shield. They hacked at each other. Sword grated on sword. He shoved the edge of the shield into Caillou’s face. For a moment, the man was unbalanced, and James hacked into Caillou’s leg. As the man reeled in the saddle, James thrust under his shield, and into his belly.

  Another man came howling in rage as he jumped his horse over Caillou’s body. He was checked by James’s blow to the side of his head. Two more men were surging up the slope, their horses struggling in mud above their hocks. James rammed his sword into the neck of one and jerked it free. His counterblow grazed the man to his right. James spurred his horse into a rear. His foe tried to dodge, but couldn’t move in the muck. The hooves crushed his head to spray blood and brains into the mud. James was screaming: A Douglas! A Douglas!

  He looked for another enemy to kill. Three had Archie surrounded. James rode, scything his sword. He hewed the first from the back, through armor and muscle and bone. "They’re done!" a voice shouted behind him. James swung his sword into the second man’s neck as the knight chopped at his brother’s shield. Blood splashed into the deepening rain. Archie finished the third.

  "They’re done," Sir Adam said, and he pointed his bloody axe toward five horses splashing through the stream as their riders whipped them to a gallop.

  James ripped off his helm and jumped from his horse onto a ravaged wasteland of torn earth. He sloshed to Wat, lying face down in a pool of congealing blood and turned the body over, cradling it as he used his sodden cloak to wipe the mud that coated Wat’s face. Wat. God have mercy on him.Wat had followed him from the first―taught James half of what he knew. He raised his head to the rain and sucked in the stinging behind his eyes. "Find people from the village to bury the English dead," he rasped to Sir Adam.

  James hefted Wat’s body in his arms as he stood. Richert was bandaging a slash to Archie’s forearm. David hung onto his saddle, head hanging. Beside him, Fergus’s lay with his throat slashed and five of his comrades sprawled around him atop English bodies. Gylys was cradling his dead brother, no mark upon him except for the red slash upon his breast where a lance’s blow had killed him. As Iain led up Wat’s horse and James draped the body across the saddle, the rest of the field was silent, still and dead except for a raven, cawing as it landed on a sprawled body.

  "I’ll take my men home."

  Holy St. Bride, it was a bitter victory.

  April, 1317

  Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland

  Sea swallows squalled overhead. James walked his elegant bay courser in a tight circle looking over the rugged green moorland and the distant snaggle-toothed rocks along the shore. "Unfurl my banner," he told Archibald. Already smoke was rising on the horizon from a nearby croft-farm his men were burning. He’d brought a tail of only two hundred men, fifty of them now busy gaining the attention of the English within Berwick—or more particularly, that of one Sir Robert de Neville, heir of the baron of Raby.

  He glowered at the Castle Berwick’s high gray walls, wrapped in the morning mist in the distance. The autumn before, barely recovered from his wound at the siege of Carlisle, he had been forced to make a humiliating escape by boat when their attack on the city had gone badly wrong. For now the best he could do was make life thoroughly unpleasant and hungry for its defenders. It was a rare Englishman who ventured out from its walls. But if it remained in their hands, it would be a base for another invasion. The English always used it as a base to invadesince they’d dragged his father out of it in chains. Somehow, somehow he must take it―but that would not be this day. "Gylys, take two men to watch. I want good warning when Neville brings his men out."

  "You think he’ll come?" Archie asked as he unrolled the banner and handed it to David to hold aloft, atop its tall pole. The sea breeze caught the starred banner and it snapped in the wind.

  "Aye, I’m sure of it. Neville is too proud not to after he challenged me." He snorted. "There’s a reason they call him the Peacock of the North. Albeit, he must have some skill to have gotten himself into King Edward’s bad graces, killing Fitzmarmaduke in that duel." He circled his mount again. In the distance, the ground dipped to where silver-gray sea smashed against the rocky shore. Broad, green-leafed beeches dotted the moor above broom and grasses sodden by the summer’s heavy rains. Pointing to a low hill, he said, "He’ll take up a position there."

  "But we’ll be outnumbered, won’t we? Why give him the high ground?"

  "So it will be clear that I won." The returning men cantered up, damp sod flying beneath their hooves. "They’re alight," Iain called.

  "David, I want my banner at my back." He motioned to Symon. "You at my right."

  Archie frowned. "I should take your right hand as your brother."

  "Not yet." James gave his younger brother a smile, although it didn’t seem to reassure Archie. "When you’ve been at this longer. You take my left." His brother’s face tightened like a fist, but James shook his head. He’d been at this too long to permit arguments with his decisions, not even from his brother. "Gylmyne, my lance." His mouth twitched as he couched it. A lance was not his weapon of choice, but it was right for such a fight.

  "What fool challenges you like that," asked Sir Symon as he took his place at James’s side.

  "A proud one. It would seem my killing Caillou was one insult too many."

  Sir Symon blew out a scornful breath as he couched his own lance. "Fool thing to do."

  James fixed his shield on his arm and couched the lance Richert handed him. "If he could kill me, it would earn him his king
’s forgiveness."

  "I don’t understand," Archie said, but then he pointed to Gylys returning at a gallop, his two men spread behind him. One of the men handed Archie his lance.

  Gylys pulled up his lathered mount. "Two columns. At least twelve score. Flying the banner of the Nevilles and another banner I don’t know. Mostly mounted men-at-arms but six knights at least."

  James stood in his stirrups and looked over his men. "Form columns," he commanded. "Be ready to make a flying wedge on my word." He clanged his visor shut.

  In the distance, James heard the rumble of pounding hooves. His helm narrowed his vision, so he turned his horse to watch Robert de Neville, a red and silver banner rippling over his head, sweeping by and followed by his glittering troop, more than two hundred strong.

  At the top of the hill, they pulled up, massing into a tight steel knot, bristling with lances and swords. Neville took a place at the front on a formidable brown destrier, armored and draped in his colors. Behind him flew a banner of green and silver bends, the Baron of Hylton.

  Symon leaned forward in his saddle and said, "By the Rood, look at the shields behind Neville. He has his brothers with him―all three of them."

  "Take them prisoner if you can. And Hylton," James said. "That many ransoms would make this a profitable day’s work."

  As he walked his horse a step down the hill, Neville yelled a command garbled by the wind. His men spread out behind him, so they stretched across and down the hill on both sides.

  "Wedge," James yelled. Behind him, they formed into an arrow meant to cut through their enemy. Archie took his place at his left, horse’s head at James’s knee to place James at the point of the arrow. Symon, on his right, shifted his shield. Saddles creaked. James’s horse pawed as though it sensed the fight to come.

  Neville turned his horse to face his men and his voice carried down to James, "We are the flower of England. We are rightful rulers of this benighted land. These rabble Scots will not stand before us!" He wheeled his horse hard and spurred it.

  James kicked his horse to a canter. Neville was speeding toward him, and James held in a straight line. Leaning forward over his lance, Neville sat rock steady in the saddle. James jerked his horse’s head, and it danced to the side just before the tip of Neville’s lance scraped along the side of his helm. James’s lance hit Neville’s shield square and broke with a resounding crack. Neville rocked in the saddle; his horse went back onto its haunches.

  His ears ringing from the blow, James cursed and threw down the stump of his lance. He snatched his sword from its sheath.

  Neville juggled his lance, trying to bring it to bear on James. Instead, James turned his horse close, knee to knee with Neville, and aimed a swing at his face. Neville caught the blow on his shield, grating out, "Damn you." Neville wheeled, catching another swing on his shield, and dropped his lance as James circled him. Grabbing his sword, Neville came at him. Steel screamed upon steel.

  James pressed in. Their swords locked together. They separated. Neville’s eyes glared through the slit of his helm, and he hacked at James. James parried, threw Neville back with his shield and drove at him with a backslash, pressing the attack with blow after blow. Neville didn’t miss a beat in their dance. Their swords clashed and clashed again. They rained blows down on each other,

  James’s blood sang as it pounded in his ears. They circled each other, and James pressed close, moving into Neville—slash and backslash and slash again. Chips flew from their shields. Slashing. Faster. Harder. Faster. Neville’s sword caught a backslash that would have parted his head from his body. Then Neville went on the attack, hacking at James again and again. James kneed his mount, pressing the man, swinging.

  "Not bad for a Sassenach," he drawled.

  Cursing, Neville came at him, blade scything. His blade raked James’s chest through his armor. James felt the sting and blood leaking.

  He spurred his horse and drove straight into him in a stretching lunge. His sword screamed on Neville’s sword, past his parry, and sank through steel and muscle into Neville’s belly. The man’s sword wavered in the air a moment, his breath going out with a whoosh. James slammed his shield into Neville's face and wrenched his own sword free.

  Neville slid backwards from the saddle, flat onto his back. His blood gushed once and then again, weaker. Around him, it soaked into the torn and broken earth.

  "Neville is dead," someone shouted. Another voice echoed the cry.

  James saw that Archie had unhorsed Robert de Hylton. The man had thrown down his sword and blood dripped from his hand. James’s men were fighting on the slope of the hill, sword against sword. Symon was trapped between three men-at-arms, dodging and taking blows on his shield. He reared his horse, smashing an iron-shod hoof into an Englishman’s head. James shouted, "A Douglas!" and headed for the fight. But the third man wheeled his horse and spurred it to a gallop toward Berwick.

  The English attack shattered like a wine flagon and spilled, racing, first a handful galloped after the first man, and then more galloped away. James spotted one of the Nevilles, a younger brother. The man gaped at his brother’s body in its pool of crimson before he jerked his horse’s head around. James spurred his horse, and it plunged forward. James smashed his shield into the back of the younger Neville’s head. He tumbled to the ground. His horse galloped off. With luck, he was only stunned, James thought as he looked over the field.

  Already crows were circling, scolding the men who kept them from their dinner. No English were left except sprawling bodies and a few prisoners. The red and silver Neville banner lay in tatters, trodden into the dirt.

  #

  April 1318

  Stirling, Scotland

  James awoke to dim morning light and the sound of a fist pounding on the door. Groggy, rubbing his face, he sat up and threw back the blanket. "Sir James," Richert said through the door in a low voice. "The king has called a council."

  "Saddle my horse," James said. "See that my men are ready to ride." Megy murmured and rolled toward him when he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He slid his hand under the blanket and stroked the warmth between her thighs. Her eyes opened. "My lord," she said in a drowsy purr.

  James kissed her. "I must go. Where are my clothes?" He stood and slapped her arse. He tugged on his tunic, and she knelt to lace his breeches. "Bring me my boots." A council— That meant that the man they were expecting had arrived. He wanted to be there to see what curses were flung their way and to see if it was a matter he should take care of for the king.

  By the time he was dressed, he heard snorting horses and the clatter of tack outwith the doors.

  "Tonight, my lord?" she asked, smiling up at him.

  "We’ll see." He pulled her to her feet, gave her a quick kiss, and strode down the stairs, out into the bright morning light. He swung into the saddle and led his men toward Cambuskenneth Abbey.

  When James slipped into the hall, he heard a low hum of murmurs like a hive of bees from two score lords scattered in clumps. With a secret smile, James propped up the wall with his back near a back corner of the Great Hall. This should be entertaining.

  Robert de Bruce entered from beyond the high dais to their bows and lowered himself in a carved oak throne. He nodded to the herald standing beside the door. Abbot Bernard by the king’s side leaned to whisper something to him.

  The herald intoned, "Master Adam de Newton, Father Abbot of the Berwick Greyfriars."

  James swallowed a snort as he beheld the frog-faced monk who shambled into the hall. The edge of his fine wool robe was lost beneath his three chins. Pale eyes darted from side to side to glaring nobles as he trudged toward the king. Half way he stopped and bobbed a bow. "Lord Robert, I thank you for the courtesy of a safe conduct and for receiving me."

  The king smiled and waved a hand. "You are most welcome, Father Abbot. Your request was phrased urgently." A rising storm of murmurs went through the room at the lack of the king’s proper address, but James crossed his
arms over his chest, keeping silent behind clamped lips.

  "I forgive his discourtesy. Let him speak," the king said in a mild tone.

  "I have been most honored, my lord. I carry letters on behalf of the Cardinals Guacchini and Luca. Letters, my lord, they were entrusted with by our Holy Father the Pope. His Holiness is most gravely concerned about the deaths and destruction brought about by the war against England. The Holy Father has declared a two year truce between yourself and the English."

  "I’m delighted to hear of the Holy Father’s benevolent concern." The king gave a wry smile. "No one is more eager than I am for true and lasting peace between my nation and our neighbor."

  The abbot reached into his full sleeve and pulled out a bundle of parchment secured with thick ribbons and hanging with red wax seals. "I carry letters from the Pope for you, Lord Robert." He held them out.

  The Bruce motioned to Abbot Bernard who gave the king a sidelong look before he walked slowly to Master Adam. He took the packet and looked down his nose at them.

  "Your Grace." Abbot Bernard’s tone was icy. "These are addressed to Our dearest son in Christ, Edward II, King of England, and to our dear son, the noble Robert de Bruce, who acts as king of Scotland."

  "Ah…" The king nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. "I fear that there are several knights in Scotland who bear the name Robert de Bruce. It would not serve for me to accept letters from the Holy Father meant for another man. It would, no doubt, cause me to be accused of sacrilege."

  "My lord…" A red flush rose from the monk’s neck until it flooded his face. "My lord, I assure you, they are meant for you!"

  James clicked his tongue against his teeth. Just what might those letters contain? Nothing pleasant, he’d wager. The king had been excommunicated for ten years. But this was a new pope. Mayhap it would be worth knowing what this Pope said, exactly.