The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  The Bruce laughed. "Naturally. I know your reputation for gallantry, Sieur Henri. And you surrendered your sword to Sir James?"

  Sieur Henri rubbed the side of his nose. "If I am to speak the truth, he took my sword from me before I could surrender it. A truly fine knight. The finest I’ve ever crossed swords with. Though my ransom may be high, it is an honor to pay it to someone I so respect." He looked over his shoulder. "And these, my companions as well surrendered to Sir James."

  "Nonsense, Sieur Henri. Your liege lord is a friend, and I hope soon to be his ally. You are my guests and not prisoners if that is agreeable to you. All of you from the French court."

  Sully’s hooded eyes widened. "That will be a heavy cost to Sir James."

  James waved his hand. "The cost is no concern to me."

  "Nor should it be." The king’s eyes gleamed, and he looked down at his right hand, big and spotted with freckles with massive gold rings on two of the fingers, one a wide band set with an enormous emerald. He tugged if off. "I will make up the lack. Sir James, let me see your hand."

  James stared at the king for a moment before he held out his right hand. The king pushed the heavy ring onto the main finger. "A token for the charter I’ll gift you with in repayment." The king beamed. "It is in my mind to give you full freedom from knight fees and other taxes for your baronies of Douglas and Lawder, the royal forests of Selkirk and Jedburgh that you hold for me and of all your lands. For you and your heirs."

  James felt his face flush as he knelt and took the king’s hand. "My liege."

  "Excellent, Your Grace," the French knight exclaimed. "We accept your gracious hospitality. What a pleasing change in our fortunes and a fitting reward to the finest knight in all of Christendom."

  "Gilbert," the king called to Gilbert de la Haye. "I will have the earl of Richmond held most closely, and I bid you keep him out of my sight. I shan’t soil my hands with blood of such a wretch. Some of the other prisoners have hurts to be tended. See that they’re given any aid that we may." He nodded genially to his new French guests as James rose. "Come, sirs. As you know, Rievaulx Abbey is but a short ride, and I have business there. It will be more comfortable for all of us. Jamie, I’d have your company."

  January 3, 1323

  Lochmaben Castle, Ayrshire, Scotland

  Their horses’ hooves sloshed through the thin covering of snow. A cold wind was blowing out of the north, whipping their cloaks. The breaths of their horses and men, steaming, fogged around them. Over their heads flapped their banners, the royal lion of Scotland and the yellow of Randolph and the starred blue of Douglas. An occasional curse at the cold and the creak of saddle leather were the only sounds from the score of guards that rode behind them.

  The Bruce rode between James and Randolph, his gray shot hair stirring in the wind. He had a serious look to his blue eyes as he swallowed down a cough. The loch shimmered white under the drifting flutters of snow and reeds poked through the covering. Little remained of the great castle of Lochmaben except fire blackened stones and the hollow shells of stables and outbuildings. The gatehouse still stood beside a square entry in the half demolished wall.

  It was an uncomfortable place for a meeting, but it would be secret as Harcla had pointed out in his letter. No one would expect the King of the Scots to be in this forlorn place in the midst of the Yuletide celebrations and a chill Scotland winter. In the weed-overgrown bailey yard, a dozen horses were tied to a couple of fallen boards.

  There was a shout. In a corner of two broken walls, ten men in studded brigandines stood up from a small fire. Another with a hard, scarred face walked toward them. "It’s them his lordship is expecting," he said.

  James jumped from the saddle and took the king’s bridle. "Gather wood and build another fire," he said to the sergeant. "And keep yourselves to yourselves." He stamped to warm his frozen feet as the others climbed from the saddle.

  Randolph shoved open the door to the gatehouse with a creak like a scream, and a gust of warmth rushed out. The room was alight from logs piled into a roaring fire. James jerked off his gloves and rubbed his hands together as the feeling returned to his fingers.

  A man faced them, a thick fur cloak about his shoulders, brown hair lightly salted with white and a broad, bony face. Andrew de Harcla, earl of Carlisle gave them a cool, measuring look. After a moment he bowed deeply, "Your Grace."

  "Sir Andrew," the king said, nodding. "It has been a long time since you were our guest."

  "And I prefer it thus. My ransom cost me more than you can know," Harcla commented dryly as he motioned to a flagon of wine and cups beside the hearth. "I crave your pardon for bringing you so far unseasonably. At least I can provide the comfort of wine. Warm yourselves." His smile was sardonic. "But not so warm as Sir James makes my poor lands of Carlisle."

  The wine curled pleasantly in James’s belly. Harcla was right It was unseasonable to be about. He’d choose a warm bed with Marioun or even working up a sweat with his men in the bailey yard to talking treason with the earl of Carlisle. Treason he had no doubt that it was.

  "Your letters were secretive enough." The king drank down a long swallow and James frowned. There was nowhere for the king to sit, and they didn’t want any Englishman to know that something was wrong. James didn’t know what it was, but the king was not well. He had grown thin and gaunt these last months, and his cough never truly went away.

  "So what is it that you want of the king?" James asked.

  "It is not what I want, my lord. It is what I can offer." He took a drink of his own wine before he continued, his voice thinned with bitterness. "Do I need to tell you how bad our case is? It was you who burnt all the north of England. Took the cattle. Ruined the crops. And we have a useless king. He can’t defeat you, but he won’t treat with you. He leaves us to starve. Does not come to our defense or make peace with someone who should not be our enemy." He snorted softly. "He summoned me to defend him before the Battle of Byland, when you defeated John de Brittany, but wouldn’t come to the man’s defense himself. He ran." His mouth grew hard. "Ran like a craven."

  Harcla cleared his throat. "My presence here might be treason, but when the king will not act then someone else must. Things in England worsen by the day. There no depths the Despensers will not plumb, especially the younger. That he is a sodomite is the least of his crimes. All added to the shame of the king’s flight, the shame of the Despenser abandoning the Great Seal, I am sure I can raise the support I need in the north."

  "For what? What is it that you propose to me because in rebellion against your liege lord, I tell you I will not give aid."

  "Not for rebellion," Harcla said bluntly. "To join together to force the king to take the action he should have years ago and go to the peace-table. But if he will not be forced, then I am ready to swear my allegiance to a king who gives some care to his people."

  "And why would I trust a man who would betray his own liege lord?"

  "It is my liege lord who has betrayed me! When I made my oath to him, did he not make an oath in return? To protect me and mine? Have I not protected him, even against Lancaster who was my friend? And when has he protected the north?" Harcla looked at them and James found he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. "When?"

  James picked up the flagon and filled the king’s cup and his own. Randolph shook his head at him, looking grave.

  "Forgive me, Your Grace." Harcla held out his hands to the fire and seemed to forget they were there for a bit. When he continued his voice was calm. "I am no coxcomb. I’m a simple soldier raised beyond my station, a Cambrian by birth, and I tell you the north is ready to rebel if something is not done. And no one is ready to do what must be done except me.

  "I tell you, Your Grace, that Edward of Caernarfon will never make peace with you. No matter what you do, were you to raid London itself, he would not make peace. So what I propose is that with other lords from the north, I take a proposal to him that he recognize you as King of the Scots and Scotland as a fr
ee kingdom in return for terms you give me." Harcla continued to stare into the fire. "He will refuse them, no matter what they are though I ask that you name terms that should tempt any sane king. And when he refuses, I will raise an armed revolt in the north."

  He was speaking in deadly earnest, James realized. He was talking open rebellion in England.

  "I’ve given terms—more than fair ones. I would even pay reparations for the damage of our raids into England if he will do what is right and give up his claim ," the king said.

  "Harcla is right." Randolph broke his long silence. "Nothing will induce Edward to recognize our right to our own kingdom. But I ask who would rise with him against their own sworn lord? " He looked directly at Harcla. "Can you truly promise such a thing?"

  "A number of lords are ready to take action. The Despensers have driven many to the point they will join me." He turned to face them. "The earl of Lancaster’s brother, Henry for one is bitter at his brother’s death and at being deprived of the titles. The Dispensers have stolen the lands of Thomas of Norfolk. He will certainly join to put down their tyranny. Edward has denied Edmund of Woodstock his rightful lands. Now is the time for a throw of the dice."

  James shrugged. "All that is true, Your Grace. But whether it means they will join Harcla—that I do not know." It was all very well for Harcla to claim that Henry of Leicester would rebel. He had no doubt the man hated the English king, but it was Harcla who had turned Leicester’s brother over to the Despensers for execution. So who did Henry of Leicester hate most?

  When Randolph caught his eye, James suspected he had much the same thought.

  "They are all enraged with the Despensers and know the only way to rid themselves of him is to crown a new king. And there is one other I have not named."

  "Ah," the Bruce said as James realized whom Harcla meant. The queen.

  "She hates her royal husband. And even more, she hates the Despensers. They say that young Hugh raped her, though I don’t know the truth of that. She would be glad to see her son on the throne. Young Edward is his old Longshank’s true grandson, much like him and in his tenth year. With a new king, if you offer such inducements we can make peace—peace we both need. But first we must throw off Edward of Caernarfon."

  The Bruce frowned. "I will not involve my kingdom in an English civil war."

  "But you could aid us. That is all I ask. Give me terms to present to the king, and if he refuses, give me aid when I lead a rebellion. A raid to distract them whilst I take London for our new king."

  James’s mouth twisted into a smile, but he kept his voice even when he said, "And you’d have the king put that in writing."

  "On the aid I will take the king’s word. Just give me a letter to present to the king offering terms for peace. And leave the rest to me until I send you word."

  The king gave a sharp nod. "I have no clerk with me, but in secret I’ll get you what you want. And if you can raise a rebellion with such a following, I will send my Lord Warden of the Marches with his men to your aid."

  Harcla raised his cup in salute.

  "When the day comes, I shall come to your aid," James said gravely and returned the salute. If, he thought. If the day comes…

  April, 1323

  Lintalee, Scotland

  James crumpled the letter in his hand and nodded his thanks to the gaunt, sharp-faced gray-robed friar who had put it into his hands. "My thanks. Will you stay? The winds are still chill, and you’re welcome at our table. My chamberlain will find a place for you."

  The man’s sturdy dun palfrey pawed the cobbles of the bailey yard. "For the night, my lord. On the morrow, I must leave for Arbroath."

  James sucked in a lungful of the crisp spring air. No doubt the man carried a similar letter for the abbot. The church was responsible for much of the news they received from England. That they were excommunicated and under interdict was a detail that many friars managed to ignore. This was news he must carry to the king himself. He couldn’t leave it to others. Harcla had paid harshly for his treachery, but if the other news was true as well, perhaps they would profit after all.

  Behind him, the yard rang with the sound of the whacks of wood upon wood. "Hoi," James called to a stable boy. "Take the good friar’s mount." He watched after the man as he went through the manor doors. Yes, he owed the friar at least a good meal and a night by a warm fire.

  Six pages were drilling, heavily padded in quilted linen gambesons that went to their knees, clouting and walloping at each other. Sir Symon, who’d taken over duties as master-at-arms, grunted and said to keep their swords up.

  William was the largest of the pages, tall at eight years but as round as a barrel with the padding. Robert was puffing as he whaled away with a wooden sword. William caught each blow on his own. He answered with a counterstrike that smacked his cousin hard on the arm. The smaller lad staggered, but William had sweat dripping down his face. He was tiring. Robert yelped as he managed to slide the point of his sword hard into William’s belly.

  "That’s the way!" Young Lowrens hooted. The other spectators yelled out advice.

  "They’re improving," Marioun said.

  James gave her a lazy smile. Over the noise he hadn’t heard her approach. "Not very much but they have time." He took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  Sir Symon called a halt and led the lads to the practice dummies on the far side of the yard to practice their strokes.

  "Will you keep them with you?"

  From beyond the wall a little skylark rose like an arrow into the sky higher than the tops of the trees, beating its wings furiously as it poured out a melody. James cocked his head and let it flow over them before he said, "If I can."

  "They love it here," she said, watching the pages as they listened to Sir Symon’s instructions. "As do I, though I would miss being in Dunfermline when the queen has the babe."

  "Dunfermline." He looked down at the letter crumpled in his closed fist.

  "What is that?" She frowned at him, making a line between her brows that he was fond of, especially when he kissed it away. "I saw the monk. Did he bring news?"

  James smoothed the parchment and folded it to stick into his belt. "Aye. Though it may not be as bad as I had feared. Tomorrow we’ll leave for the palace. I must take the news to the king."

  "Aye," she agreed. "I suppose if there is news then we must, albeit I’d rather stay here. Like the lads. Why won’t you tell me the news?"

  He looked back up into the high blue spring sky. The lark was gone and later, in spite of its sweet song, it would fight for its home. "Because it is grim." He sighed and wound his fingers with hers. "The English have executed Andrew de Harcla. Horribly as they do with anyone they consider a traitor." He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "But Henri de Sully and the other French knights were on their way home by way of London. I think Harcla’s treachery convinced the English king that he needs space to deal with his enemies at home. Sully is negotiating a truce."

  "A truce?" Her eyes found his, and he could see how deep the hope went. "Peace. At least for a time."

  "A long one. The talk is of thirteen years. If it is that long a truce, than I can safely keep my pages here with me." He turned her to face him and held both of her hands in his. "And even a lady."

  March, 1327

  Cardross, Scotland

  James gripped the king’s hand and bowed to kiss it, trying not to frown at his liege’s thin face, his hollow cheeks. "Are you well, sire?"

  "You know that I’m not, Jamie, nor have been for some time. The years of lying out the cold have left me with this cough, and food has no taste to me." The king’s voice was hoarse, but he smiled at Lady Elizabeth sitting in the afternoon sunshine with little Prince David banging on the ground with a wooden toy at her feet. James bowed in her direction from beside the king, and she smiled. James thought her face looked full and she seemed rounded again. But surely she was past the age to give the king yet another child, especially since the lo
ng-looked for son had been born two years before. Beside her mother on the stone bench, Princess Margaret scowled as she poked her needle into her sewing.

  The king’s voice was hoarse and scratchy, and he cleared it. "The queen insists that I eat, but it gives me no strength, so I go on as I must."

  "What does your physician say?"

  The king laughed around a cough. "Did you think I called you here to physick me?"

  "No, Your Grace." He shrugged and looked around at the king’s new manor house on the banks of the River Clyde. Huge beeches, green with spring leaves, overhung its whitewashed walls. The roof was thatched, and threads of smoke rose from a dozen chimneys. Gardeners dug as they readied the pleasure garden for planting. "But I was glad that you called me to you. I wanted to see your new manor since it’s finished."

  "You brought William with you?" the king asked as he continued to watch his wife and the two of his children. "His company would be welcome. Robert has been desolate since his father died. The lads have always been close it seemed to me."

  James shook his head. "Walter. Holy St. Bride, that was a shock. There was no sign of sickness in him when I saw him last, and then he was dead."

  The king patted James’s shoulder. "Walk with me down to the water. I want to speak with you privily."

  Purple mountains rose in the distance beyond the glistening inlet where the king’s pier thrust into the water. The single mast of a long berlinn bobbed tied up to the pier. "How many oars does it have?" James asked.

  "Forty." The king grinned and James laughed. A birlinn so large could stand against to anything in the Irish sea. "I’m having an isthmus dug between the lochs at Skipness to Tarbert to give our galleys quicker passage." The king threw his head back, and eyes closed, took a deep breath. "I’ve always loved the smell of the sea. If I’d been born a MacDonald instead of a Bruce, I think I would have made a good sea captain."