by J. R. Tomlin
Maol of Lennox said, "Boyd is right. The Guardian of the Realm cannot be left in doubt. It must be someone who can be trusted."
The king held up a hand. "Both of you are in the right, my lords. A Guardian must be named, but with the lad’s tender age, I’d have two guardians. My nephew, Thomas Randolph, earl of Moray, was named in the previous act. I believe he should be named again. But there must be a second for a child so young. I say that should be the good Sir James, Lord of Douglas. There are no two men in the kingdom I trust more."
James closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Holy St. Bride, to be Guardian of the Realm? True, he'd been regent briefly whilst the king was in Ireland, but he'd never dreamed of being named after the king's own nephew.
Lennox was nodding. "That would be wise. I agree to it."
There was a shout of agreement, although one or two held their tongues, and Soules was frowning. "Your Grace, what if the child dies?" he asked.
Walter Stewart jumped to his feet and took a step toward Soules. "My son is a strong lad. He will not die. I pray God that his grace has a son, but if that is not God’s will, we’ve named my son as his heir."
"Sir Walter," Soulessaid, "I meant no ill. I’m merely concerned that the succession be made clear―for the good of the realm."
Walter’s jaw worked as he continued to glare at Soules, but James stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go, Walter," he whispered. "The thing is decided."
The Bruce stood. "And the succession will be made clear, Soules, at the parliament on the morrow. I thank you for your advice, my lords. Tonight we will resume the celebration of the birth of my daughter as a respite from these weighty matters."
September 1319
Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Scotland
Moonlight flickered through the trees. The whisper of a warm summer breeze through the branches mixed with a whicker of horses, the clank of steel, and the metallic slither of mail. A company of men, silhouetted in the moonlight, stretched beyond sight on the road. James stepped into the open. "Sire," he said.
"What did you learn, Jamie?" Robert de Bruce asked.
"The city is surrounded, as we feared. I looked for myself, though winning through was no easy matter. Lancaster arrived yesterday to join the king."
"How many?" Gilbert de la Haye said from where he sat ahorse beside the king.
"Many thousand arrived with Lancaster in addition to at least four thousand that were already with King Edward. And even worse news―they brought siege engines and a host of men versed in using them. They have ships in the harbor with siege engines, as well. One of my men sneaked through with word that Walter beat off a sea attack yesterday. But it was a close thing."
Archibald led up a horse, and James vaulted into the saddle.
"There is no way of cutting our way through?" Thomas asked.
"They have two lines of earthworks behind palisades of sharpened stakes all the way around the city. No. They intend to have Berwick again. I found no weakness―no way through."
"And what then if we did?" the king asked. "We’d be trapped. Walter is well-provisioned and garrisoned, but they can only hold for so long if we cannot relieve them. Jamie had the right of it. You’ll have to draw Edward away."
"He can’t be sure," Randolph said.
"I had word from more than one of my spies that she’s there."
"They’d use Berwick—"
The king cut Randolph off with a brusque, "I know, but if the queen is at York, then attacking them there will draw Edward off. If Jamie’s wrong, then you’ll be forced to press south. For London or as close as you can reach. Even if she slips through our fingers, a threat to Queen Isabella will bring Edward running. Her brother of France would take her capture most ill, and he would blame her husband. With Edward’s troubles at home, he cannot afford that."
"And I’ve heard that the lady is bountiful in her attentions." At Randolph’s protest, James sputtered a quiet laugh. His interest lay with a sweet lady of their own court and nowhere in England, but Randolph was easy to bait. "She is at York, my lord earl. That much I am sure of, and Edward can’t count on Lancaster. It’s well known that Lancaster hates him. Or more likely, Lancaster cannot count on Edward. They will fall out. All we have to do is help that along, and if we don’t, we’ve lost Berwick. I know what you were going to say, my lord earl. You’re right. Of a certes, they’d use Berwick as a base to invade. We can’t let that happen."
The king said, "Lamberton had news of a gathering of churchmen at York, as well. Archbishop William de Melton and the Bishop of Ely have called a chapter, it seems. That may speed Edward when he learns of your movements. You must gain their attention as you sweep south. Haste you."
"Might the churchmen want to make some donation to St. Andrews, do you think, sire?" James asked, grinning.
Even in the moonlight, James could see Thomas’s scowl. "It is no matter for japery, Douglas, attacking a woman and priests."
"There is no need to attack the churchmen, Thomas," the king said. "The threat should move Edward―threat toward hisqueen or his churchmen. But if you should take the queen as a hostage, it would force him to the peace-table. That is worth bending that pride of yours."
"How many men do you give us, sire?" James asked.
"All except my own tail―two thousand. I’ll take a hundred men to return and move the court to safety. But you must make all haste, or it will be to no gain to us. Draw Edward away from Berwick and avoid Lancaster if he tries to cut you off on your return. Once you cross the border to England, burn every farm and town that you pass. You’re to leave naught but smoke, ash, and cinders. Any who resist―."
Thomas Randolph was tight lipped but he nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."
The moonlight caught on mail like ripples in a dark river as James called a command to move forward. A breeze swirled around them, stirring their cloaks and ruffling their banners as they turned south toward England.
Four days later
Near Myton-upon-Swale in Yorkshire, England
Nicholas Willelmi sank onto the grass and litter of blown leaves, a splotched carpet still wet from the morning rain, and leaned back against the trunk of an oak. The Englishman’s eye was a slit, half his face misshapen from swelling and purple with a bruise. James hunkered beside the man. "What happened?"
"Tinnicokes let himself to be caught as you ordered. I was watching York Castle when they dragged him in." He gingerly touched his fingers to his face, wincing.
"You think your partner was alive?" Thomas asked with a hint of his disapproval in his voice. He could not seem to relieve himself of the belief that spying was dishonorable, but James didn’t expect him to have dealings with the matter. Spies were his own province.
"Aye, my lord, he was alive. The last I saw he was. Not even bad hurt, though I don’t know what they’d do to him. He knew his part was to resist a bit, and then to say if they’d spare him being put to the question, that he’d tell what he knew. By dawn there was a fair to do in the Castle. Men shouting, horses being harnessed and saddled, horns blowing. The church bells in the city were ringing, priests running about. There was a whole flock of fat, pompous clerics, the bishop of Ely and the archbishop both with hundreds of squawking, clucking followers and burgesses shouting for their men. I knew I needed to bring you word, so I made for the gate, but it was closed. I went over a low place in the wall."
"And they objected?" James smiled.
"One of the guards came at me with a club as I went and was about to drop. The funny thing is it helped me get away since I dropped like a rock and rolled down the hill."
"The queen will be fleeing south soon if she isn’t already," Thomas Randolph said.
"There was never much chance that we’d take her. The king knew that." James pulled a handful of silver merks out of his purse at his belt and put them into Nicholas’s hand. The job they'd done was worth high pay. "Lancaster must already have news we’ve burnt all the way from the bord
er. He won’t be pleased to sit whilst we do it nor any of the northerners. But we have to make sure the threat brings them running. The threat to the bishops will do that."
Thomas blew out a breath. "They can’t be so stupid as to fight."
"If they don’t, tomorrow we’ll pursue the queen and burn the rest of the way to York. For now, we’ll put the fields here to the torch. A smokescreen will not be a hurtful thing." James rose to his feet and threw his gaze over the rolling, oak and birch covered hills. In the distance, he could see crofters' cottages, golden fields of wheat ready for harvest, and the River Swale, a silver-blue slash in the land though the stone bridge across it was out of sight beyond a gently rising slope. "Sir Symon," he called. "Take two score men. Once you have the fields and houses fired, watch the bridge and sound a trumpet in good time if the English decide they want to fight. Let them cross and then hold the bridge behind them."
"There can’t be any large number of fighting men left in York. They’re all with the king," Randolph said. "The sheriff’s men and a few militia, but they can’t mean to give us battle with so few. With priests? Burgesses?"
James shrugged as he shouted for the sergeants to ready the men to form a schiltron.
"At least you pay well, my lord," Nicholas said, carefully levering himself to his feet. "I’ll let you know if I have word that would interest you." The man ducked an awkward bow and limped into the trees as James watched, rubbing a hand over his short beard.
"Why are you so sure they’ll face us?" Randolph said.
"Because they don’t think that we’d lead a full army south, whilst Edward is besieging Berwick. The word my man took them was that I have a few men to sneak an attack on the queen." He grinned. "And catching the Black Douglas in his own trap would be a braw thing, would it not, if you were an Englishman?"
"You can’t be sure that he told the story the way you meant him to."
"No, but I pay well, and the story Nicholas brought sounds exactly as it should."
Thomas shook his head. "So you’ve tricked them into fighting. Holy Jesu, Douglas—"
"We’ll not kill them if they surrender," James snapped. "You know that. The Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely would make superb hostages to force Edward to the peace-table, if not as good as the queen. But we’ll burn all to York if we must in order to save Berwick."
Archibald ran up leading their horses, and James swung into the saddle. Thomas turned to mount, his face stiff with displeasure, but James knew that he would do his sworn duty. That was Thomas; however much he might hate the duty he was put to, the king could count on him. So James stood in his stirrups and scanned the hills for sight of Symon’s men. On a hilltop, he saw a roof of thatch catch, orange flames leaping into the air until the cottage stood against the sky bathed in fire. A field caught and then another, billows of smoke coasting above their heads. A torch arched, tailing a long tongue of flame, into a haystack. The smoldering hay added a gray ribbon that drifted toward them. The sky darkened to slate as farms and fields were consumed. Reeking strands drifted and wrapped around his men.
A long blare from a trumpet climbed up from the river to tell him that the English were approaching to enter his trap. It blared again. For a moment, he felt pity for them. They were fools if they resisted, but being a fool should not cost a man his life. But in war, often it did.
"Into a schiltron," he said. The sergeants shouted, echoing his orders and the sound mingled with the rattle of armor, the scrape of pikes being hefted, along with curses and feet pounding as two thousand men ran into place. Thomas drew his sword, still looking glum, but he nodded to James and turned his horse to ride along the lines of jutting pikes. He spoke quietly to the men as he went.
Turning his horse in a circle, James looked over their men. There were two ranks of pikemen formed into a square. His eyes stinging and watering from wafting tendrils of smoke, he saw his banner unfurl as his brother shook it out. Further down, flapped Thomas Randolph’s yellow and purple banner.
Suddenly, through the swirling smoke, James glimpsed the first of the English, riding over the top of the rise. In the lead was a white-robed friar holding aloft a massive gold crucifix. "Do they think to defeat us with that?" Randolph said in a tone of disbelief.
"Look." James pointed at two men both in glittering, bejeweled vestments on high-stepping, white palfreys, the archbishop and bishop, but the men had maces in their hands. Around them ranged a motley army of priests and brightly dressed merchants all with shields and swords and pikes of every description. Some wore helms or rusty mail hauberks, but many were bare of armor, in white priests’ robes.
"Jesu God," James muttered.
The English boiled over the rise, more of them and then even more. James sucked in a breath. There were thousands of them. Three thousand? Four? In the smoke and their disorder, he couldn’t be sure.
He kneed his mount and rode out a few yards. "Surrender," he shouted. "You’ll not be harmed."
The English broke into a run, shouting curses and prayers as they came.
For a breath, James hesitated, but then he called out, "On them!"
His men moved forward in a wall. The archbishop reined and turned his palfrey shouting words James couldn’t make out over the screams and moans. The man tossed down his mace. Prayers and curses turned to screams as the leading wave of English were scythed down like summer grass. James put his spurs to his horse and called out, "Take what prisoners you can."
The English reeled back under the onslaught of the slashing pikes. Men fell, dying under the murderous assault. The bishop in his finery came hard past his superior, knocking into his horse in desperate flight.
James saw Richert catch a burgess, with gold chain about his neck, full in the chest with a pike, splitting him from neck to crotch. It was already a route as the English flung down their weapons and ran.
"Break the schiltron," James bellowed to be heard in the chaos. "To horse. To horse! Take prisoners if you can." As his cry was repeated down the steel hedge of the schiltron, his men tossed away their pikes and dashed to the horse-line, throwing themselves into their saddles.
James wheeled and spurred his horse after the fleeing enemy. The rider with the crucifix was using it to beat his mount to a faster gallop, splashing into the river. The horse was belly deep and then swimming. The archbishop paused in his flight before he lashed his horse and plunged ahead. A knight wearing gilded chain mail turned his horse as he guarded the archbishop’s escape. James charged.
His quarry met him with sword raised and aimed a swipe at his throat. James dodged as their horses rammed together, his black going back onto its haunches. He slammed the sword aside and smashed his shield into the Englishman’s helm with a sickening crunch. As the man reeled, James gave him a vicious blow with the flat of his sword and freed a foot to kick him in the side and knock him from the saddle. The Englishman was on the ground, rolling out from under his horse’s stamping hooves as James drew up, his black snorting and dancing. "Yield or die."
The man rolled onto his back. "I yield, my lord." He dropped his sword from his hand.
When James turned his horse in a circle, the battle, such as it was, was ending. He saw Symon dismount at the edge of the bridge with a kneeling priest at sword point. The archbishop’s horse was heaving its way up the far bank of the Swale. As the archbishop galloped away, a friar crawled out of the water and knelt heaving. But the water of the river was solid with white—the white of priests’ and friars’ robes floating in deep water, drowned in escaping their fool enterprise. Here and there the pall of white was broken by a splotch of color from a burgess who had died with them. Wisps of smoke crawled over them like worms.
The sound of hooves coming up from behind him made him turn. Thomas reined up, shaking his head. "The mayor wouldn’t surrender. Made me kill him. Damn, what a day!"
James scowled down at the prisoner he’d taken—some member of the king’s court from the look of him. At least his ransom sh
ould be profitable. "The best prisoners got away, too. But if this doesn’t bring Edward and Lancaster on the run, I’ll surrender my spurs."
"Which of us has to describe it to the king?" Thomas turned his head to gaze at the mass of floating bodies and the scattered, bloody corpses on the field. "How many do you suppose drowned?"
"The Chapter of Myton." James snorted a pained laugh. "We need to be sure that Edward and Lancaster are on their way, and we’ll swing west to make for home. In the meantime, by the merciful God, have our men fish them out and see if any still live―and claim any treasures they have on them for the king. Mayhap we should roll for the doubtful honor of telling him this tale."
Randolph shook his head.
December, 1319
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
It could not truly have been the most weary three months of his life, James was sure. But the snow that swirled and blew into his face from the drear ravine of Pittendreich as they rode up the palace hill seemed colder than he’d ever known, and his body more worn. A gloom of clouds covered the sun and the woods were coated with ice. White flakes speckled his horse’s black mane, and behind him, he heard one of their honor guards coughing. James shook himself out of his lethargy as the king turned his horse to ride beside them. "How did you fare? You were forced to kill fewer clerics this time, I pray."
"We killed none, sire," Thomas Randolph said. "There were few men we killed of any sort as they did not resist us."
"We carried out your commands most particularly." James knew his tone was sour, but he couldn’t help that. "We burnt the whole of Gilsland, except the grain we sent back. We slaughtered the cattle because they carried the murrain. Fired the houses, the barns. We marched as far as Borough under Stanemoor in Westmoreland, burning as we went, and laid all to waste. Then we passed through Cumbria still burning. We raided Holm Cultram Abbey, took all the beans and grains from the storehouses, sparing only the abbey itself, and returned home."
