by J. R. Tomlin
"We could go by Helmsley. But…" Thomas Randolph shook his head. "We’d lose King Edward. It is too long a way, and he’d be warned that our army has joined Douglas. Moreover, it would mean showing our backs to John of Brittany and risking his attack on our rear."
Walter Stewart peered through the drifting smoke, squinting. "A frontal attack will not work. Not up such a steep slope."
Andrew de Moray grunted, still kneeling next to the map in his shining, gilded armor. "I thought Harcla would be lured out by the burning. I’d not let an army burn my lands before me as Douglas did when he passed through Carlisle."
"Harcla has other plans. He will treat with me," the Bruce said. "Already does, in fact. My Chancellor has exchanged letters with him. He knows that’s the best way to end this madness. Strange, it seems to me that for men who are so different, in this King Edward is truly like his father. He both hates and covets Scotland. And he will not give up."
James twitched a smile. "And he sits at Rievaulx Abbey only fifteen miles hence. If we could reach and capture him, then he would be of a different mind."
"So… Is there some way for us through these hills, Jamie?" The Bruce stared at the smoke-hazed reaches. "You know them better than any of us. The map is useless. Tell me about the lay of the land."
"Obviously, John of Brittany knows that I’m here." They all joined him in laughing. He wiped tears that were more from smoke than laughter. "Whether he has spotted your force, I cannot be sure. I think not, hidden by smoke and with his attention on my own men. To the north, Humberton Hills runs into Cleveland Hills, and there is no good route through. To the south, the bluffs are steep and easily defended. West, as Randolph said, there is Helmsley, but it is a full day’s ride. There," he said, pointing straight ahead to a steep, heathery path up the braeside that was dotted with bilberry bushes and bracken between thick beech and oak woodlands, "there is a path up to the crest. John of Brittany holds that in force."
"So he may think he faces only your small army," the Bruce said. "And that gives us an advantage when we attack."
"A battle then, sire?" Andrew de Moray grinned up at the king from where he knelt.
"Aye, a battle. But we must move swiftly," the king said in a voice of quiet satisfaction. "The English will be forced to the peace-table. Whatever it takes. If it takes full battle in their own lands, so be it. And if we capture Edward, so much the better."
"I’ll lead the attack, sire," James said. It might be suicide to fight their way up that sharp slope. Probably, it would be. Today, in truth, he thought he didn’t care if it would end this: the day after day, the year after year, of blood and burning and ash, hunger and suffering, and death. If it would leave his lands and his son and Marioun and all of the rest in peace, it was worth dying for. "He holds the way, but I’ll lead my men up the escarpment to cut our way through if you give me the word."
"First, tell me about the land around this pass. I’d have you live through the battle, my old friend. I’ll not throw your life away." The king came to face him and gripped both of his shoulders for a moment. "Are the flanks to the north and the south so high that Highlanders couldn’t climb them?"
"I don’t mean to throw my life away—though if that is the price…" He blew out a breath and turned, narrowing his eyes as he pictured the way, blanketed now by waves and eddies of smoke. "They could climb the bluffs on the flanks, though they’re steep and wooded, but not as steep as their Highland mountains." He laughed grimly. "Not as steep as where they defeated us at Dail Righ, but he would throw all his men against them."
"Sire!" Andrew exclaimed. "They’d be slaughtered. They’re fierce fighters, but he has too many." Many of the Highlanders were his.
"Not if Douglas has already made a frontal attack. Richmond has to expect Douglas to try to fight his way through, either to raid or to try to capture the king. So we give what he expects. Jamie will draw the English to him, so when they’re attacked from both flanks, we’ll have them in a trap." He turned to Walter Stewart. "The main of the chivalry are yours. Be ready to ride with them for Rievaulx Abbey once we’ve cleared the way. Campbell, the left flank is yours to lead. Ranald, the right flank is yours. I will hold the reserve with the rest of you."
James chewed his lip as he thought. "I’ll take seven hundred of my own men of Douglasdale to form a schiltron. It’ll be sore fighting. I trust them to hold hard and not break while the flanks are attacked."
"Are there more fields to be fired?" Thomas Randolph asked. "Let’s keep the English attention on your men and make sure they can’t see that more have arrived."
"I’ll send a troop to see what they can find," James said. He blinked tears from his stinging eyes. "I’m not sure we really need more."
"Hie you then," the king said. "An hour and we must be ready for the attack."
* * *
James’s men were massing as Archibald shook out the Douglas banner. A blanket of thick smoke hugged the ground.
Archibald scowled and coughed. "I wish you’d use another banner bearer so I could fight more."
James threw him a hard look. "You’ll have chance enough. Is your sword sharp? That banner will draw them to you." He had no time for foolishness and drew his sword. The king’s forces were out of sight beyond the woods and twisting columns of smoke. James wondered if the king had begun the movement of the Highlanders. He’d have to trust they’d reach their place in good time. "Get your pikes into position. Stay close together as we move or they’ll have us," he shouted. He spotted Thomas Randolph strolling their way, helm under his arm, trailed by two squires who led their horses.
Randolph ducked his head and smiled, looking embarrassed.
"Does the king know you’re here?" James asked.
"Not exactly, but he did not forbid it."
James snorted a laugh through his nose, and then he threw an arm around Randolph’s shoulder. "It will be a good dance. You’re welcome to join." He gave Randolph a friendly shove and turned back to the bristling hedgehog of steel that was forming behind him. James swung into the saddle and turned his courser in a tight circle. He stood in his stirrups and shouted, "We’ll take the brunt of the fight. We’re outnumbered and we’ll be fighting uphill. But if we die, it’s for Scotland and King Robert. We’ll teach the Sassenach how we fight in Scotland!"
Thomas was grinning and James raised an eyebrow. "You give an encouraging speech. You could mention the possibility of winning or that it will be a good fight."
"They know that." He looked over his men to be sure they were in position and then called, "Lowrens, blow the advance." The trumpet blared. Smoke and ashes swirled through the air.
James led his men into the path. As Randolph rode beside his he made his sword sing with wide swings. On the other side, Archie still grumbled as he carried their waving banner. Plants they trod underfoot gave up a green scent. Suddenly, a red grouse whirred out of bush crying Goback, goback, goback!
The ground rose in a steep slope. At the top of the hill was a vast host, thousands strong. Archers arrayed themselves in a line to the right. James gave them a worried glance. If Richmond brought them into play before the Highlanders attacked, it could mean he and his men died on this slope. To the left, hundreds of knights on heavy barded horses were massed together. James saw Richmond’s blue and yellow checky banner unfurled. Dozens of other banners fluttered above them. Even from a distance, Richmond was splendid in a cloak of cloth of gold and polished steel mail inlaid with gold and plumes of blue and yellow atop his helm. But James had never heard that Richmond was a great soldier and shining armor did not win battles.
Between the two lines, a thousand pikemen formed long rows, sun glinting off their blades.
Behind him, James heard the rumble of his men’s feet as they marched. They were halfway up the slope, and sweat was dripping down his face and into his eyes, already stinging from smoke.
Archie waved the starred banner over his head. "A Douglas!" he shouted. The hundreds of men behind
them picked up the cry. "Douglas! Douglas! Douglas!"
"We may be bait, but they’ll choke on us," Randolph muttered beside him. James hoped he was right. He nodded. His men were experienced and well armored, with good pikes in their hands and sturdy brigandines on their bodies, but fighting uphill whilst being cut down by English archers… Good pikes and armor might not be enough.
He had no more time to think on it. The English horns blew. Haroooo The drum of hoof beats was like thunder. The Sassenach broke into a gallop, shouting as they rode. James smiled as he realized that rather than use his archers, Richmond was leading his knights against them. They were upon him in a flood of shields and lances.
James saw horses shy as they charged into the pikes. Pikes ripped into others, slashing into their necks. Knights went down as horses died under them. Randolph was surrounded by three knights. His horse reared, lashing out its hooves to smash the first man’s head as Randolph took the second in the face with a backslash.
A knight came hurtling toward James, his lance couched. James danced his courser to the side. His foe was tall and heavy with a lion on his blue shield that James did not recognize. As he wheeled to charge again, James aimed a slam of his shield at his head. The tall knight dodged and wheeled in a circle as James rode around him, keeping too close for the lance, hacking at his shield and arm. He threw his lance aside and scraped his sword free. "Pour Notre Dame!" he screamed as he chopped. James shoved in close. Their blades locked and James leaned in hard, baring his teeth in a grin. James wrenched his sword free. They swung at each other, stroke and counterstroke. Fragments of shield flew, but the knight’s swings were slowing. James slammed his foe across the side of his helm so hard that it rang. The knight reeled in the saddle. With a twist of his sword, James locked their blades. A jerk sent the knight’s sword flying and then another slam spilled the knight onto the ground. He rolled onto his back as James’s horse danced around him. "Yield!" James yelled.
The man lay limp, his hands open in submission.
"England!" a voice bellowed. "For England and King Edward!" John of Brittany came thundering toward him, swinging a sword. James spurred his courser. They slammed together.
Arrows pattered around them like rain, onto English and Scots alike. Randolph slumped in the saddle, an arrow through his shoulder. One bounced off an English knight’s helm. Where were the damned Highlanders, James wondered as he hacked at Richmond’s shield. Two of his men fought back to back. The schiltron was broken. It the Highlanders did not come they would die here.
"A Douglas!" he shouted. An arrow hissed past his head. He hauled on his reins and his courser reared. James hacked down on Richmond’s hand, and the man screamed, but again he swung weakly at James. Blood dripped from his hand. "Yield, damn you," James said. He slammed the man in the face with the flat of his sword, all the weight of his body behind it.
John of Brittany jerked his reins, trying to turn his mount as he lurched in the saddle. James slammed another blow across his back. "Don’t make me kill you," James screamed at him. The sword slipped from Richmond’s hand, and he slid from the saddle to kneel in the dirt, pressing a hand to his wound.
James looked around for Randolph, but the man had ripped the arrow from his shoulder. Blood dripped down his arm, yet he was still in the saddle, hacking at a pikeman. Randolph shouted, "Macruari’s men!" Shouts of rang out. Like scythes, the Highlanders with their long axes were cutting into the archers.
James spurred his horse toward another knight. His men were raggedly shouting, "Douglas! Douglas!" and "Scotland!" James lopped off the end of the knight’s lance and then his arm at the elbow. A pikeman in a studded brigandine ran at him, and James turned his horse to circle him. He drove the point of his sword into the man’s back so hard he lifted him from his feet. He kicked a foot free from his stirrup, and grunted as he kicked the body loose. He rode past Richmond’s banner, planted listing in the dirt, and chopped it off with a swing.
A knight rode out of the chaos, to chop at him with a two-handed sword. Randolph galloped up from behind and took him in the back. James spurred his horse. He slashed at one knight and then another who threw down his sword, so James spared him. "A Douglas!" he shouted. His sword was red and his gauntlet dripping gore. A pikeman fled from him and James ran him down.
And suddenly, James realized he was at the top of the hill. Below, back to back, the remnants of his men hacked at a few knights. He saw that Ranald MacRuarie’s men were strung across the hills as they pursued the archers and pikemen. Pikes and bows were strewn where they’d been tossed away amongst the bodies. Crows cawed as they circled and landed.
Trumpets sounded and sounded. Walter Stewart’s chivalry swept up the path, scattering the remains of the battle like leaves. Five hundred knights thundered past, sunlight flashing off their armor. The blue and yellow Stewart banner rippled over their heads as they galloped.
The fever of battle leaked out of him; James threw a leg over his saddlebow and slid to the ground.
* * *
The thin archer screamed when the pikemen dragged him before him. James didn’t say anything, just pointed his sword to the ground. One sat on the archer’s legs while Gawter sat his chest and held down his arm. "No. Please! I’ll do anything," the archer shrieked. He tried to thrash.
"Struggle and I may miss," James said. He brought the sword down and felt it cut through flesh and bone. Blood spurted from where the archer’s thumb had been.
Gawter stood and tossed the archer a rag. The man rolled onto his side, whimpering as he hugged his maimed hand to his chest. "Better use the rag before you bleed to death," Gawter said. He turned and stomped off.
James nudged the archer in the ribs with his foot. "I’m done with you. Be grateful it wasn’t your neck."
The rattle of hooves made him turn as the king cantered up with Haye and Andrew de Moray by his side. As they swung from the saddle, Moray said, "Torture, Douglas? What point for only an archer?"
"Say policy, rather. Every English archer has ten Scottish lives that hang from his belt. I either kill them or make sure they take no more Scottish lives."
The king grunted and waved away the topic. "I understand my nephew joined you. I’ll have a word to say to him about that, albeit a fine victory for the both of you. But how dear was the cost?"
"Randolph took an arrow in his shoulder, sire. He’s with your physician, so I pray you’ll not be wroth with him. Otherwise—" James frowned. "—the cost was dear enough. I lost more than half my men. But we killed more of them than they did of us, and we took more than a few prisoners."
A squire in the Stewart colors rode up at a fast canter and threw himself from the saddle to give the king a deep bow. "Sire, Sir Walter bade me bring you news. He chases on the heels of the English king. He fled with Lord Dispenser and others riding for York, my lord believes. But behind them, they left much. Sire, I have never seen the like!" The squire’s eyes were wide with excitement. "Sir Walter left two score guards to hold the Abbey until you could claim it. Such booty—silver plates and goblets from the English king’s own table, horse trappings with gold inlay, bags of coins, immense piles of treasure. But sire, Sir Walter said especial to tell you that they left behind something else."
James was shaking his head at a king he truly could not understand, when the Bruce said, "On with it, lad. What else?"
"On a table there was a gold seal—big as a platter and jeweled. He said it was the Great Seal of the kingdom of England."
"He left—" The king stopped, apparently struck speechless. After a moment, he nodded to the squire, "Well done and I think you. Shortly we shall ride for the abbey and examine what the English king values so lightly." He turned back to James. "If any can catch him, I trust Walter to do it though it sounds as though they may have had a good start on him. Now you had other news for me?"
James cast a last glance at the archer who hunched, rocking against the pain, with a bloody rag wrapped around his hand. He pointed down the b
raeside to a cluster of knights seated between two spreading oaks and surrounded by guards.
"Here are some who did not escape, Your Grace." He walked with the king toward the prisoners. Strands of smoke still drifted like ghosts across the grass and the air stand of ash and blood.
John of Brittany, earl of Richmond, watched them, surrounded by a dozen other men, crouched or sitting on the ground. One stood proudly to watch as they approached. Richmond’s golden cloak and silk tabard were dirt and blood streaked, his hand wrapped in a bloody bandage. He was a cousin to the Plantagenet kings but in no way resembled them. Instead, he had stingy brown hair streaked with gray and a long nose that seemed nearly to touch his knobby chin over thin lips. But his eyes were sharp and shrewd as he stared at Robert de Bruce. He bowed stiffly.
"So." The king’s face was set, his voice cool. "Would you care to repeat to me, Sir John, the words you said to my lady wife when she was a prisoner in Edward Longshank’s hands? Have you the courage? Or is it only a helpless woman you would give affront?"
"I did nothing to Lady Elizabeth." He blew through his lips. "I had no interest in her, except for her lord father, the earl. It’s not my fault if she took something I said ill. What do you expect of a woman?"
"You contemptible coward," the Bruce growled. The Bruce turned his back on Richmond as the man sputtered. "Who are these other prisoners, Jamie?"
James flashed a smile and motioned over the tall knight he had fought. "Your grace, Sieur Henri de Sully, Grand Butler of France."
Sully, a tall, imposing man with a strong nose and hooded eyes, strode over and bowed low to the king. "Your Grace, your Sir James—he defeated me in honorable combat. It was a privilege to cross swords with so formidable a knight, although I would have wished to meet you not his prisoner."
"You came here a guest of Edward of Caernarfon?"
"Indeed, Your Grace. On the command of my own liege lord in France, we were sent to visit our king’s sister, Queen Isabella." He shrugged and motioned toward two knights watching nearby. "When our host was faced with battle, of course, I considered it my duty to aid him, even against such renowned knights as yourself and Sir James."
