The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  James smiled faintly. He’d never liked admitting the sea made his stomach roil. "I’m glad that you were not, sire. I’d not have enjoyed following you to sea."

  The king laughed until he started to cough, throwing an arm around James’s shoulder. "It was neither of our fates, Jamie, but I would have you follow me to sea anyway. I have in mind to sail to Moidart to test my new galley, and you’ll go with me."

  James smiled but more serious thoughts drifted in. This was not what the king had called on him for. "Soon?" he asked.

  "Mayhap I’ll test it nearer for now. I have other tasks for you first." The laughter soured in the Bruce’s face. "Donald of Mar has returned to beg for my peace and my aid."

  "I knew he had returned." James flashed a wry smile.

  The Bruce’s strode furiously down to the reeds at the shore and spun to face James, his face flushed. "He would have me help rescue his beloved friend, Edward of Caernarfon. He has abdicated. Edward is no longer king and is a prisoner in Kenilworth Castle."

  James blew out a long breath and watched as a kestrel spread its wings and let the wind lift it high in the air. It flew into the bright sunlight, and he lost sight of it. "Our truce was with Edward, so that is ended."

  James nodded his understanding. When word had come that Queen Isabella and her lover Lord Mortimer had landed from France with an army at their backs, he’d known this day might come, but it was sooner than he had thought. "Have they crowned the boy already?"

  "They have. My nephew is on his way here and Donald of Mar." The king gave James a sour look. "I forgave Donald his ten year delay in returning home and returned his earldom to him."

  James rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to think through the path that would be best. "Isabella and Mortimer may not have the hatred for Scotland that Edward had, though I don’t count on any of the English to lack his greed. Still, it may be possible to push them to the peace-table. The question is how." He raised his eyebrows at the king. "We will attack England again?"

  "They have hired the Flemish heavy cavalry under Jean de Hainault." He snorted. "Even whilst sending messages requesting to renew the truce, they began to send commands to raise the English levies for an attack. They think I’m a fool!"

  "So it’s open war yet again."

  "You and Thomas will lead your men into England whilst I attack the English in Ireland."

  James gave the king a skeptical look but the king frowned. "I’m not so old or so feeble, yet that I cannot lead an army."

  July, 1327

  Stanhope Park, England

  Rain dripped down James's back and off his short beard. He scraped his hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he spurred his horse across the frothing stream. Beside him, Donald of Mar gave his heavy cloak a shake, cursing the weather. The rain was light but steady, soaking through cloak and armor alike. Mar would have to learn that war wasn't a soft life as he'd had in the English court. Up ahead a horn sounded. "Richert," James said. "Good. They are keeping proper watch."

  When James glanced over his shoulder, the score of men who rode with him were hunched on their horses but in good order, in a close march. It was midafternoon, but the slate clouds made it dark as dusk. James wove his way between massive oaks and past rocks and dark bogs until he spotted the fires of their camp, hundreds of them in a flicker ribbon of light along the south banks of the River Wear. Picketed horses formed on one flank and beyond them a herd of cattle milled andgrazed under guard―agift from their English hosts.

  At the sight of the camp, he set his heels to his horse's flanks and cantered down the ridge. A stone bounced down dislodged by a passing hoof, and his men hooted and shouted in relief at returning. The wind was blowing wet and heavy as they crossed the valley and rode double file through camp. James turned in the saddle and shouted, dismissing his men to picket their horses. The air smelled of damp and men sweating, and meat cooking over the fire. There were cook fires all along the river amongst the trees and rocks. Many of the Scots hunched beside the flames, warming their hands and pulling bannocks cooked on metal plates from the fire with a stick. Others sheltered beside rocks of lean-tos made of hide. At one fire a man was sharpening the blades of pikes and tossing them into a pile. At another two squires hacked at each other with dulled practice blades and grunted when one landed a blow.

  Five plain canvas tents huddled together next to the river. James flung himself to the ground, tossing his reins to a guard. His feet sank into the sloppy muck of the ground. Thomas ducked under the low opening of his tent. "Any sign of them?"

  James shook his head. "I found a good spot I'll keep in mind though if we want to move camp. If the pup king and his fancy army ever show up. No sign of my brother either."

  Mar climbed from the saddle, pursing his lips as his stepped into a puddle. "It's only been three days since Archibald left."

  "Three are enough." James bit back a curse. He'd long since given up on teaching Archibald what he'd learnt himself in a hard school.

  "We'll have to send scouts further afield," Thomas said. "Somehow we have to find them."

  James snorted in amusement. "Patience, Thomas. They'll find us soon enough, and I like it here."

  Thomas looked around the muddy camp and sighed.

  "I don't understand," Mar said. "Why?"

  James shrugged. "I'm hungry." He strolled to the fire that blazed in the middle of the square formed by their small tents. A hide still damp from skinning formed a rough pot. His stomach grumbled at the meaty smell. He pulled his dirk from his belt and poked into the simmering mess until he stabbed a hunk of beef. After he kicked a chunk of log closer to the fire, he sat down and gnawed on the meat. Mar stared at him, eyes narrowed. James knew he shouldn't poke at the lad. Well, Mar wasn't really a lad any more, but hell mend him if he didn't seem like one.

  Thomas chuckled as he poked around in the pot for a piece of the stewed beef.

  "This is a good spot for a fight, Sir Donald." James wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "After burning our way here, we shouldn't be that hard to find. By the Rood, it makes me wonder if they're actually letting the pup lead the army."

  "Hoi!" Sir Symon Loccart shouted, making James look up. "Look what I found me." Symon dismounted and pulled a sodden-looking squire off a mount. He gave the lad a push toward the three of them.

  James tilted his head and examined Symon's prize as he chewed the tough beef. He swallowed and pointed his dirk at the pale-looking young Englishman. "What have we here?"

  "Looks like a tiddler to me," Thomas said. "No more than a mouthful if we roast it over the fire."

  "Too bony for that, and we have ample English cattle to slaughter. No need for roasting their squires." James stood up and sauntered to stand in front of the lad, who squared his shoulders, his jaw jutting with a mulish look.

  "I'm not frightened of you." He narrowed his eyes to glare at James, but his face was pale as whey.

  "Of course, you're not, lad. My lord earl was jesting. Now what name can I call you?"

  "Thomas―Thomas de Rokesby."

  James looked at Symon. "Where did you find him?"

  "Scouting along the river. My men spotted him."

  The lad kept sliding his eyes toward the dirk still in James's hand, so James sheathed it at his belt. "You’re a long way from home. And riding near my army unasked is no safe thing."

  Rokesby crossed his arms over his chest with a defiant look, but his thin hands were shaking. "The king promised a good reward to the squire who found you."

  "Well, his finding me is taking long enough. It's what I'm here for."

  Rokesby opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he squeaked out, "It is?"

  "Aye. So where is this king of yours that he can't find me?"

  "Are you going to go attack him?"

  James laughed and shook his head. "I'm happy enough here. Mayhap I'll let you go tell him where I am."

  The lad's eyes widened. "Would you? He promi
sed a knighthood and a land worth a hundred marks a year to whoever brought him word."

  James grinned at Thomas Randolph. "What do you say, my friend? Should we send young Rokesby here back to receive his reward for finding us? He earned it."

  Thomas's mouth was twitching with barely repressed laughter. "Why not? It will save us the trouble of finding them, and I'm growing right fond of this piece of England."

  James gave the lad a hard look. "But I don't do favors for the English for nothing. I expect you to repay me. Now where is this pup of a king and his army?"

  Rokesby squirmed a bit, twisting a foot in the mud. "At Haydon Bridge. I heard tell they thought you were retiring toward Scotland, and the king thought to cut you off. It's been―well, there hasn't been much food. The supply train was left behind. They brought out tents for the king and the lords." He gazed around the stark Scottish camp. "But―" he faltered. "I suppose you wouldn't know about those."

  "Oh, I know the English fondness for them."

  "We've been cold and wet. The Hainaulters and the archers are fighting―" Hesnapped his mouth shut as though realizing he had said too much.

  James nodded as though the news meant nothing to him. "We'll let you carry the news to your king if Sir Symon has no objection."

  Thomas strolled to stand beside James and looked the squire up and down. "You object to turning the tiddler loose?" he asked Symon who, after all, had claim to what little ransom the lad might be worth.

  Symon shrugged. "You and Sir James are welcome to him."

  "Then tell your king that we're as eager to fight him as he is to fight us," Thomas said to Rokesby, who had a look of astonished hope on his face.

  "Be that as it may, we'll await his army on this spot." James smiled kindly. "Sir Symon, if your men will escort our guest half-way to the Haydon Bridge to make sure he is safe, I'd be most grateful."

  Symon jerked his thumb toward Rokesby's horse and shouted for one of his men. James turned his back and said in a low voice, "I'll send my scouts toward the bridge. This should be – interesting."

  * * *

  For two days, James had sent out his scouts. His brother rode in with his two columns of men, beaming as he recounted that much of Dunbarshire was in flames and he brought more captured cattle. One of his men came complaining the graze was getting thin. Five men got into a brawl that left one with a broken arm. James thought about having them flogged. Donald of Mar sat in the entrance to his tent, scowling at the drizzle whilst Thomas supervised a squire polishing his mail and sharpening his sword. James whistled through his teeth and felt the edge of his dirk with a thumb.

  In the morning, the sun broke through scudding gray clouds. "At last," Mar muttered.

  James nodded as he rasped his dirk over a whetstone. The morning sun warmed his face, and he breathed in a deep lungful of air with no scent of rain. "The weather has broken. We may have fighting weather for a few days."

  A scout galloped into camp calling out, "We found them!"

  James sheathed his dirk that he'd honed to a razor's edge and stood. "What?"

  The man threw himself from the saddle. "They're crossing Blanchland Moor."

  Thomas ducked out of his tent. "How long to reach us?"

  "Three or four hours, my lord." The man ran a hand through his sparse hair. "They're moving slowly, and the rain has the moor near impassible. When they reach the edge of the moor, they'll move faster."

  "I need to see for myself." James looked about until he spotted Richert and shouted to him. "Form me a scouting party."

  By then Thomas was shouting for his squire as Donald of Mar was ducking into his tent. "I'll form the men for battle," Thomas said as Richert led up James's horse.

  "Where we discussed." James turned his horse's head and put his heels to its flanks. A score of men ran for their horses as Richert shouted for them to mount. Cantering to the hillside near the camp past a towering gray spur that thrust skyward, James turned his horse in a tight circle to look over the field. It was muddy but mostly rocky ground, good for horses. Here, the ground fell away to the south bank of the River Wear. He turned the horse's head and trotted to the boulder-strewn edge of the racing river, raging from the heavy rains. Looking back over his shoulder up the slope, he nodded in satisfaction. His men would be out of bowshot from the north bank. If they fought this day, it would be here if the English could be brought to it.

  His men raced into sight, so James headed for the best ford a mile downriver, and even it wouldn't be an easy crossing. The chill water boiled around his legs as his horse splashed, snorting, through the murky green swirling current. Richert rode to catch up and after riding beside him for a while asked, "What do you plan, my lord?"

  "It depends on what they do. The real command will be with the earl of Lancaster and Jean de Hainault. They're canny enough. I want to see how badly we'll be outnumbered this time. Then we’ll see."

  They topped a small rise within sight of the moor. James raised his hand to call a halt and waited. In the far distance a horn winded, thin and lost in the winds of the moor. Marsh grass poked through pools of water that reflected the morning sun. The wet air was like a sodden blanket in the dazzling warmth. And beneath the morning sun, the might of the new king’s army unfolded on the horizon like the opening of a leopard's paw, claws outstretched. James leaned forward in the saddle and caught his breath. To have such an army...

  Even from a distance it was resplendent. In the center column, as big as a ship's sail, fluttered the leopard standard of the young Plantagenet king. Surrounding him, seven columns, all moved in good order. They would be exhausted though after days in the field chasing a foe they couldn't find, short on rations, wet through, tack rotting in the wet. But they'd be eager to punish the foe once they caught up.

  "How many do you think?" Richert asked in an awed voice.

  "Not so many as they had at Bannockburn. Fifteen thousand, mayhap." James turned his horse and spurred it to a gallop. He shouted, "Back to camp."

  They raced across the river at a canter and up the sharp, rocky slope. Pebbles flew and skittered down the incline from under his horse's hooves.

  His men had raised his starred standard next to the gray crag on the left flank. In front were ranks of men-at-arms with lances fixed, shields on their backs and swords sheathed. Behind, men formed a square of three rows, pikes gleaming like steel thorns in a hedge. In the rear, stringing their bows and their arrows thrust into the ground before them, the archers were arrayed into two long ranks.

  The left flank was all chivalry and pikemen, three thousand all told that Thomas commanded, his men of the earldom of Moray. James saw the Randolph standard unfurled as the standard bearer shook the yellow banner. In the rear of his and Thomas's men, held in reserve, massed Donald of Mar's men-at-arms. He would hold and commit his forces where they were needed.

  Sir Symon Loccart was pointing the Douglas men into position, riding through the ranks. "Sir James!" he shouted. "Will you review the positions?"

  "You've done your job. No need for me to repeat your work. Join me here."

  To attack their forces, the English would have to cross the swollen, roiling River Wear and storm up the rock slope. "Look," he said when Symon reached him. Past the foaming current, the enemy was before them, trooping over the ridge to spill in a shimmering flood into the river land.

  What I couldn't do with such an army, James couldn't help thinking. Triple the Scottish numbers at least, their leaders rode on barded horses, banners fluttering over their heads. Beside the massive leopard banner, James spotted the scarlet standard of Henry, earl of Lancaster, the four lions rampant of Jean de Hainault, the scarlet banner of Thomas de Brotherton, Earl Marshall of England, and hundreds of pennants of lesser lords. Rank upon rank of archers followed the chivalry, the longbows of the English, and the Hainaulters, who bristled with armor.

  The English trumpets blew. Harooo… Harooo… James raised a hand and brought it down, the signal for his own trumpeter.
They blared defiance. Would the English take the bait?

  The trumpets died away and hissing filled the air and arrows pattered onto the rocks at the river's edge. Rocks flew as Thomas cantered up and reined his snorting mount beside James.

  "Make sure they hold steady," James ordered Symon who wheeled his horse to trot back to the massed wall of lance and pike.

  "Once I'd like to fight them on even terms," Thomas said. "Instead of being outnumbered."

  "If they decide to fight," James replied. If they left it to the young king, they'd fight. Spies said he was eager to prove himself, but wily Jean de Hainault wouldn't be in a hurry to fight his way across a raging river and up a slope whilst his expensive mercenaries were ripped to bloody shreds. And James had never heard that the earl of Lancaster was any man's fool.

  The rain of arrows had stopped. James shifted in his saddle and made himself more comfortable as he watched the English dismount. Archers dropped to the ground and sprawled to rest. Knights flung down their lances and shields.

  Thomas pointed, "There's Edward." Edward of England rode down the slope through his host. Even from a distance the boy king was impressive on the back of a formidable black courser. His gilded armor shone like a second sun. The front of his surcoat was worked with gems into the shape of a lion reared and roaring. Another golden lion reared as a crest atop his helm. The king's banner was planted high on the crest of the slope, and he dismounted. Soon he was surrounded by his commanders.

  "Yon is Jean de Hainault," James said, pointing at a burly man in plain gray armor. "Hainault spends his siller on his men, not shiny armor." Another man stomped up, resplendentin yellow and crimson―the earl of Lancaster. The other dozen men, James couldn't recognize.

  "We might stand our men down," Thomas said in a doubtful tone.

  James grunted. "They're well rested. A few hours in a schiltron will not hurt them." The English trumpets trilled a short blast and the men around King Edward parted. A herald shouted something that was lost on the wind and a handful of men scrambled toward the king and began to kneel in a line. James lifted his helm to rest it before him. "We'll have water brought to the men. It will be a long day."