by J. R. Tomlin
"Mine!" William exclaimed. When Marioun shook her head at him, he said, "Thank you, my lord."
Marioun rose and held out a hand to the Princess and said William. The maidservant rose to follow meekly behind. "I married this spring, my lord―to Cuilén MacDougall."
"I know." He was still staring at her. She led the children to the entrance through the gateway, but she paused to give James a last look.
"I wish you might stay longer," she said. Then she was gone.
April, 1318
Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
Douglas bobbed his head to the guard. "Neeps is what I’m bringing in. Early from the ground and fresh." He gave a tug on the mule’s bridle. The animal brayed.
"A couple of bags. Hardly worth letting you through the gate." The guard’s hard black eyes squinted at him.
James reached grimy fingers into the rough purse at his rope belt and pulled out two pence. "It’s all I have, sir." With the other hand, he scratched the itch at the back of his neck and wondered if he’d managed to get lice along with his disguise. That should make it convincing. He dropped the coins into the guard’s palm.
The man grunted. "Aye, I suppose. We need all the food we can get. Even damned turnips."
A second guard pulled the gate open, and James hauled on the mule. "Come on, you son of the devil." Tromping, head down, into the cobbled street, he stopped below another guard, leaning against the parapet, watching out over the wall. "Hoi, friend. You know Syme of Spalding by chance? His wife’s a cousin, and I promised I’d give ‘em some of my neeps."
The man spit. "I heard he’d married a dirty Scot."
"Aye, well…" James frowned at the man but shrugged off the insult. "Know where I might find him?"
"Up the street a way. Be about your business before I have you tossed out."
James led the mule, hooves clattering, into the strangely quiet town. No dogs barked. No chickens scratched at weeds. All eaten, he suspected. The reports he’d received from the few spies who’d gotten in had been right that it was town gnawed by famine, and the same spies had said that the guards had been shorted on their pay. A church bell tolled the Angulus, and some guard shouted a command, the sounds echoing off city walls. "A few masts bobbed above the roofs but few for so large a port. In the midst of the city, Berwick Castle rose, gray and grim. The Cross of St. George snapped in the wind over its high walls. Taking the castle would not be easy, James thought, even once they had the town that surrounded it. But with no access to that port, it could be starved into submission.
He tossed a pence to a lad kicking a stone who was happy enough to lead him to a little thatch-roofed cottage, the stones covered by peeling whitewash, shutters firmly shut.
When he hammered on the wood plank door, the man who opened it was brawny with red-brown hair tumbling around a wide forehead. "What is it?" the man demanded.
"You’re Syme?"
"Aye, and what’s it to you?"
"Our cousin in Galston asked me to bring some neeps for your good wife." James untied one of the bags from the mule and hefted it over his shoulder. "It’s been a dry walk…" He smiled and waited. The mule crunched at a patch of weeds by the doorstep as Syme looked James over. At last, he nodded and held the door wide.
James dropped the sack with a thud onto the rough plank table. He nodded to the thin-faced woman stirring a pot that gave off a scent of onions and thyme. "For the pot."
Syme sat on the bench and leaned an elbow back against the table. He motioned for James to have a seat, so James straddled it beside him. "There are rewards to be had for a king’s man, I’ve heard tell," James said softly.
Syme looked at his wife. "Woman, some ale for the two of us. We have man’s business to talk on."
She drew two cups of ale from a little keg in the corner before she picked up a basket piled with clothes. She ducked her head at James and went out the back way.
Syme looked thoughtful as he buried his face in the mug. "So a king’s man would profit?"
James swallowed a gulp of the dark ale to wash the dirt of the road from his throat. So far, the man had a better feel than he’d expected. "I’ve heard there are lands in Angus and silver merks―if Berwick should fall." James put down his mug and rubbed a hand over his beard. "But I want to know why you’d help us. Convince me. If you do, I can speak for the king."
"Why shouldn’t I help you? We’re half-starved. Months go between ships with supplies and never enough supplies when they come. Most of it goes to the soldiers when it does. Then I married Elspet. Well, she’s a good lass and came with a dowry. A good wife. Why should I care she’s a Scot? There’s been naught but trouble since. Dung thrown at her. I beat one of the bastards bloody. But there’s no end in sight for any of it." He slammed down his mug. "So if your king will do right by me, I might can help him."
"How?"
"I have a turn every week for a night watch at the Cowgate. Someone might scale the walls there unnoticed if the watch looked the other way." The man gave a sharp nod and drained his mug.
James leaned close to Syme and said softly, "You’d be well rewarded. But make no mistake, if you betray us, you will not live long enough to regret it. One way or another, I’d see to it."
Syme reared back, face flooding red. "I’m not after betraying you, man. I just want someplace where I can take care of Elspet in peace, have our children, and not always be waiting for supplies that don’t come."
James silently looked into Syme’s face before he held out his hand. "Then you’re our man, and you won’t lose for it." After Syme gave his hand a hard clasp, James reached into his tunic and pulled out a small leather purse, heavy for its size. He bounced it in his hand so the man could hear the clank of coins before dropping it onto the table. "To show the king’s good faith."
Syme picked up the purse. His eyes widened when he spread the drawstring to peer inside. "I’m your man right enough."
"Good. Now what night of the week is it that you have watch?"
"Tomorrow. And again in a week."
James rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. It was enough time. Thomas had a goodly tail of men with him and James would have ample time to bring his own from Douglasdale. The main army would be the king’s, and those were already gathering. "My men will be outside the walls on the eighth night then. After nightfall, light a torch and drop it over the parapet as a signal."
Syme snorted a short laugh. "I saw one of those rope ladders the Black Douglas uses. Canny things they are. Those what you’ll be using?"
James gave a wry smile. "Help me bring in those bags of neeps, and walk with me to the Cowgate. I want a look at the wall on my way out." He stood and clapped Syme on the shoulder. "You’ll not regret helping us. That I can promise."
* * *
Motionless as a stone, James crouched on a knee beside the wall. He’d left off his helm because it limited his vision, and his shield was slung on his back for the climb. Low clouds scurried across the crescent moon, sending flickering pewter light onto Thomas’s face as he stared upward. James could see dark shapes hunched on each side as their men, eighty of them, waited. They needed no command. Each knew what he must do.
At the signal of a burning brand tossed over the parapet and tumbling to earth, they went to work. James stamped out the torch’s flame as hooks at the ends of their rope ladders were hoisted to catch on the edge of the walling. The hooks clanked softly as they caught. James loosened his sword in its sheath and worked spit into his dry mouth. They had all done this many times, but it was always new, climbing into the darkness to face foes who might wait at the top. He patted Thomas’s shoulder and put a foot on the first step. He climbed, foot over foot on the narrow boards fixed between the ropes. With a grunt, he threw himself over the coping and rolled onto the parapet-walk. Four or five figures were already there, silhouetted by a fire in a small brazier, and he jerked his sword free. But the light flickered on his own stars on the breast of one of his men, and he sighed
in relief. There was a constant low clatter of weapon and armor as their men clambered over the walling. Beside him, Thomas crouched, sword in hand as he watched.
"Shhh…" Syme hissed. "It’s two hours until my relief."
"Good man. Now hie you home unless you want a hand in this fight," James whispered.
"I’ll receive my reward?"
"I gave you my word. Now home with you." James gave the man’s shoulder a push toward the stone stairs to the street. "Sir William," he said, trying to make out faces in the wavering light of the tiny fire.
"Aye."
"Take your men through the streets. I want every street to the castle warded. And quietly as you may."
It took several minutes of whispering names and clanking steel before Sir William led his men away. "To the gate then," Thomas said.
"David,Lowrens, keep watch up here. No way of knowing which way someone might come."
James hunch ran down the steps to keep from showing a silhouette. He swung his shield off his back and slid his arm through the straps. "Two hours until his relief."
"We’d best put a watch," Thomas said. Two streets opened onto the gate like dark mouths. He sent two of his men to watch down each.
As he pulled his sword from his sheath, James knelt. "This is the gate my father was dragged out in chains after Longshanks broke his oath to him."
"Is it?"
"You cannot know how long I’ve waited to take this city back." He shifted his knee on the hard cobble of the street. "It was a holy vow, to regain all he had lost―all the English stole. There are few things on earth that will give me more joy than taking Berwick."
A wind that smelled of the salt sea rustled weeds. An owl’s shriek made James flinch before he saw it soar in the moonlight on wide, pale wings. The moon turned the shadow of the parapet into teeth that slowly ate their way across the cobbles.
Suddenly, there was a distance scream and shouts. A tongue of orange and red flashed into the air. James leapt to his feet, cursing, as Thomas drew his sword. A tumult of shouting rose. "Scots!" someone shouted. "Scots within the walls!"
"Hell mend them." James spat. "They’ve started looting. I’ll see someone hang."
"I hope you live long enough," Thomas said. "Backs to the gate!"
The watch Thomas had set ran back towards them, swords raised. A tumult of footfalls were like hail on the cobbles. "On them!" someone screamed. Other voices flung shouts of "Damn Scots!" From both streets, a crowd of guards surged out. The four on watch went down under the surge of chopping blades. The crowd surged forward.
"To me!" James shouted to the handful of men they had left. He had his back to the gate, feet spread, Thomas beside him shield raised. The first guard reached him swinging his sword wildly, two handed. No skill, James thought as he slashed under a swing into his belly, and a welter of blood and guts splattered. He kicked the fallen body away. Thomas was slashing left and right, holding off three men. James saw one of their men go down under the onslaught.
"A Douglas!" James screamed, hacking about, slaying, and gave himself over to the madness. "Scotland!" There were shouts everywhere. There are too many, he thought and chopped into a foe’s neck. Another came at him and died.
Someone went to their knees in front of Thomas and shrieked until Thomas swung, taking his head off. But more came.
Suddenly, from the gaping maw of the street, there were shouts of, "A Keith! A Keith!" And screams of "Run. We’re trapped."
James dove into a gap between two of men, scything his sword in huge arcs. He smashed another’s head with his shield. Beside him, Thomas was shouting, "Randolph!" as he hacked right and left.
James raised his sword, raging, but there was no one left to kill. "My lords," Sir William gasped. "We returned as soon as I could rally my men."
James lowered his sword and gazed around him. David and Richert were at the top of the stone steps, a pile of bodies leaking a rivulet of crimson onto the ground, David mopping blood from a slash on his face. The four men of the watch sprawled amongst the dead in pools of blood. One of Thomas’s men slumped against the gate, armor slashed to pieces. Iain had died holding his belly as his life leaked away.
James sank onto the bottom step. He was red to the elbow and his face splattered with flecks of blood and gore. "We owe you our lives, Sir William. It’s not a debt I’ll forget."
The young knight just shook his head. "No debt, my lord. And I had to kill the two men who started the looting. There was a sally from the castle, but they retired and raised the gate." Within the city, the lights of flames still raised and flickered, fanned by the sea wind. "The fight here is over. Take your men. See what you can do to put down the flames. And find out who began the looting. I’ll hang them myself."
Trumpets sounded on the road outside the gate. Voices were shouting commands. Horses neighed and he heard the steel clamor of armor and weapons.
"Open for the King of the Scots!" a herald outwith the gates shouted.
"Open the gates for the king," James said as he stood. He sheathed his sword and stared up at the castle with no doubt it would soon be starved into submission. "I’ve more pleasure greeting him in Berwick than I would at the gates of Paradise." Berwick was theirs.
October 1318
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
The bailey yard of Dunfermline Palace was chaos and clamor. Hundreds of sumpter horses were being unloaded of bags of grain and beans, of coin in ransom payment for James having spared Richmond and Hartlepool, bags of jewelry, of silver ewers, of crucifixes, church plates, candlesticks, and rich vestments. A line of men, laughing and calling for warm food and ale, carried bags inside to the storerooms to be added to Abbot Bernard’s accounts. Dozens of finely clad prisoners, held for ransom, were being gently herded toward the palace doors. Horses were being unsaddled and led toward the stables. Snow flurries blew in the chill autumn wind, and everyone was in a rush to be within doors.
Cold wind blurred James’s vision, and he ducked his head. His men, the thousands he’d led as he’d swept like a storm through Northern England as far as York, were too many for the palace to hold so with him were only a hundred of his men, the rest on their way to Douglasdale. He longed for home, for the manor he’d barely seen since it was completed. For now, on the bracken-covered slopes outside, his men would have to make do with rough tents. Tomorrow he’d lead them home as well, he hoped.
Richert was dismounting with the prisoners and James called out to him, "See the men are camped as well as may be. Find me if there is any problem." Richert bowed.
James strode into the palace, stripping off his gloves and shaking flakes of snow from his hair. The palace chamberlain met him, saying that the king awaited him in the Privy Chamber. And so the chamberlain opened the door and bowed him in.
The Privy Chamber was richly furnished, and if much had once been in English hands, that mattered not. Moorish carpets covered the floor. The walls were hung with Belgian and French tapestries that shimmered with gold, silver, and silk threads. A side table bore silver flagons that give up a scent of mulled wine and were surrounded by goblets.
Snow splattered against high arched windows edged with lions and falcons twined into vines. "Lord Douglas," William de Soules greeted him, holding out a hand. "I have been most anxious for your return. There is little time to prepare for the dedication of St. Andrew’s Cathedral."
"Then your anxiety is relieved," James said as he tried not to flinch away from the feel of the man's soft, sweaty hand. "As you see, I am here." He brushed by the man to cross the room and bow to the king who stood by the windows talking to Bishop Lamberton. The bishop, still stooped and thin, although he was much recovered from his many years in an English dungeon, pressed James’s hand as James bent to kiss his ring. "I hurried back as best I could, Your Excellency."
"I was sure you’d return in time, Jamie." The bishop’s eyes were shining with pride. "After a hundred years, St. Andrews Cathedral is complete, and the en
tire world will know it, including the Holy Father."
The Bruce nodded. "It will say to all that once more Scotland can resume its rightful place as a kingdom of Christendom."
"I leave tomorrow to complete the preparations for the dedication. It—" Lamberton’s voice faltered for a moment. "It is the culmination of my life’s work. I feared I might not live to see it finished."
"Nonsense, my friend." The king gave Lamberton a stern look. "You’re not old enough to talk so. No more than four years my senior."
"I’m not as strong as I once was, Your Grace. But God is good and… it is done."
"You summoned all the nobility for the celebration?" James asked.
The king squeezed Lamberton’s shoulderand took his place at the head of the council table. "I did and all the burgesses and freeholders who are able to reach the cathedral―all of the community of the realm. This is an occasion the like of which we’ve not seen for many a year—a reason besides battle for our people to celebrate."
Thomas Randolph had poured a goblet of wine and sat down near the king. "It will be an opportunity to show the people that we are strong again, or regaining our strength. That Scotland can once again be a shining beacon of Christendom."
"Oh, they know that." James grinned as he helped the bishop to his seat. "Since Bannockburn no one has questioned it."
"Ruling a kingdom is more than battle, Jamie," the king said.
"I stand corrected, sire." James slid into his place. "When do we leave for St. Andrews? I would like to lead my men home."
"There isn’t time, so your sergeant must do that for you. You know the court moves slowly. Women and children can’t be rushed nor do I wish to do so. We’ll do this well―as it should be done."His brows rising toward his hairline, the king stopped as the door was silently opened.
Sir Roger de Mowbray, tall and rawboned, stood in the doorway, his beaky face covered by purple and green mottled bruises. Behind him, eyes wide and not daring to enter, was a great keg of a man in battered armor. After a silent, echoing pause, Mowbray limped to the king’s side and dropped to a knee.
