by J. R. Tomlin
Heralds ran messages, and there was scrambling amongst the English. Some carried buckets of drink and baskets of bread. James and Thomas sat watching the king go down a line of fifty or so squires, speaking words and drawing his sword to touch each on the shoulders. Thomas tensed suddenly and stood in his stirrups. "What's that?"
James leaned forward. "Those are archers―moving back."
"And men-at-arms. Look. A column of them following. What do you think?"
"I know what they think. That they'll flank us." James clicked his tongue on his teeth as he considered and then wheeled his horse. "Symon," he called. "Join us if you please."
"My lord?" The man cantered to join them.
"I don't want them to guess that they're spotted. I know where they'll cross. The two of you sit here and peaceably watch their little ceremonies whilst I meet our company."
He nudged his horse to a slow walk and called to Archibald, "Form your men past the boulders. And don't make a to-do." James continued his leisurely walk past the tall granite spur as he edged his horse away from sight of the river. He shifted in the saddle as he waited and scanned the valley beyond. Archibald trotted to ride beside James, the rattle and clop of five-hundred mounted men behind him.
"What's about?" Archibald asked eagerly. "Where are we going?"
"I'll show you soon enough." They descended into a valley rich with the scent of summer grass and damp earth. Pulling up, James pointed to dense oaks that began halfway up the hillside. "Half your men there." He pointed to the other side, strewn with boulders, where the trees were thin. "And half there."
Archibald frowned and scratched his cheek. "How do you know they'll come this way?"
"That's for me to see to." He smiled as he looked around and spotted Symon Loccart. He shook his head. "Give me your cloak, Symon."
The man raised his eyebrows as he unclasped the green cloak and handed it over. "Might I accompany you?"
"No, stay with here with him. You pretended to be one of Archie’s men to accompany us, so here you'll stay." He twitched a smile. He'd trust Symon at his back, but this was a task he'd do on his own. "Command the left flank whilst Archibald takes the right. Hold until I give you the signal. Keep your men quiet but ready to move. I shouldn't be long if the English found the ford."
"I'd like my cloak back with no holes in it, pray you," Symon said and wheeled his horse, shouting, "Into the rocks!"
James flung the cloak around his shoulders and tucked it close. It didn't quite hide his entire surcoat and the three stars blazoned on his chest, so he pulled it tighter. With one last glance that his commands were being carried out, he kicked his horse to a trot. The English archers wouldn't move fast afoot, but he had to make sure he was in place before them. The slope led down to the ford he'd crossed only a few days before. He sat a bowshot above the river, just past the shade of a wide spreading oak. The azure and yellow of a pair of blue tits flashed high in its branches as they trilled. Below, the current burbled and splashed in the rocky bed. The wind was warm and sweet, blowing his cloak. He grabbed it and wrapped it close again. The birds stilled. In the quiet, he heard the rattle of armor and swords, the mutter of voices, a laugh, and the tread of a hundred horses. He had time to think that sometimes if one bait didn't work, another did, and shifted in the saddle.
And the enemy was there, beyond the gray-green froth of the river, advancing in ragged ranks, archers with their bows on their backs, screened by mounted shields and swords.
He gave his mount a gentle nudge of his knees and ambled into the open, turning so that his back was to the oncoming English. Another nudge and he slowly rode up the slope. Behind him, a horse whinnied and a voice shouted. Water splashed. Hooves clattered on rocks. James picked up the pace to a trot.
An arrow hissed by his ear. Another arrow clattered on the stony ground. "Hold your fire, fool," someone shouted. "It's a knight. Take him alive, and we take the ransom."
He kicked the horse to a slow canter. No need to let them capture him. Hills rose on each side. Looking over his shoulder, he saw they were nearly where he needed them. One man-at-arm was near enough for James to see his scarred face. Time to bring the fish to shore. James spurred his horse to a gallop. It lengthened its stride, taking off with a surge. His cloak whipped behind him exposing his starred surcoat.
"It's the Douglas! The Douglas!" the man shouted. "A trap!"
Damn it to hell. "After them!" James bellowed. He reined his mount hard. It reared onto its haunches. His men boiled out of hiding. The noonday erupted with pounding hoof beats and shouting men. Cursing, James drew his sword, lifted his shield, and wheeled his mount. "After them!"
"Flee!"
"A trap! It’s a trap!"
"A Douglas!" Archibald shouted as he gained James's side. James spurred his horse to a gallop. Around him the battle came to life, steel shrieking on steel, men shouting curses, the hammer of sword upon shield.
An arrow thunked into James shield and lodged. The man turned to run as James raced after him. James leaned to take him in the neck with his sword. The man swerved, dodging, his feet flew out from under him, and he went down, falling flat on his face, bow flying from his hand. James jerked his reins, his horse reared, iron-shod hooves coming down in a welter of blood. The man gave a hideous scream and James rode on. A knight looked over his shoulder as James gained on him. The valley ran with cries of "Douglas!" and the scream of dying men.
James thundered down on him, shield tilted. He smashed the edge into the knight's head, their horses slamming together. The knight flew forward and his horse galloped away. Once the man bounced before his foot jerked loose from the stirrup. He rolled onto his back groaning. James wheeled to look down at the man. "Yield."
The knight's leg that had been caught was twisted at an ugly angle. He pulled a sword from his belt and tossed on the ground.
James jerked his horse into a turn at the sound of hooves pounding behind him, but it was Archibald. "A prisoner. He'll be the only one. Some got away though."
James looked around at the field littered with corpses. His men came sweeping up to surround him. He pointed his sword at his prisoner. "Find a horse to throw him over. If we need a trade, he'll be of use."
* * *
James waved Sir Symon Loccart over. "Double the watch. I want them far enough out that we are well warned of an attack."
Symon cast his gaze over the English camp beyond the foamy ribbon of the Wear. "Aye. Do you think they'll try another sneak attack?"
Beneath a blaze of banners, pavilions had been raised for the English leaders in the midst of lines of fires that stretched out of sight along the river's bank. Smoke rose in thin fingers from thousands of campfires and hovered in a blanket over the army. Knights sat on the ground, honing their swords. Horses formed a hedge to the left in a long picket. They had settled in to rest, but James had no intention of trusting to that.
"Possibly. I'll not take a chance."
"What…" Symon exclaimed as three riders trotted toward the river and plunged into the water, a white banner snapping in the wind above their heads. Foam splashed around the men's feet, deep enough to reach the horse's bellies. One horse shied and reared, but its rider took it in hand, jerking until it joined its fellows in reaching the near bank and plunging up, slithering back on its haunches.
"Lord Thomas!" James shouted. "Company!" He strode through their men where they'd thrown down their pikes and taken off their helms. Squires scurried through the ranks of knights to lead away horses. The thud of an ax chopping firewood resounded. Men knelt rebuilding fires. Someone cursed.
Thomas wove his way through the tumult, bare headed but otherwise still fully armed. Donald of Mar followed, his helm tucked under his arm, his ferret face tense.
The three men climbed slowly from the saddle and approached. James raked a gaze over them—unarmed heralds in red and gold with a leopard sewn on their chests. The herald who stepped forward was a gaunt man barely past his youth. He raised hi
s chin and strode, the other two trailing him. "My lords…"
Thomas nodded. "We'll hear your message."
"Lord Edward, our king, is as eager to do battle as you. He sent me to say that if you will cross the river to fight on level ground, he will draw back and give you space to deploy albeit tonight or tomorrow."
"A brave message," Thomas said.
"My lord earl." James jerked his head to indicate that he and Thomas should walk a few paces away to confer privily. "We should speak before we give an answer."
Thomas gave him a wide-eyed look.
Would the man never out-grow his foolish notions of what was fair in a war? Thomas Randolph as a good man for all of that, so James patted his shoulder and nudged him.
They walked together ten paces away, and Thomas said, "I know they outnumber us. But we shall fight them, whatever their numbers."
James took a deep breath. "God be praised we have a noble captain with us to undertake so brave a fight. But, by St. Bride, if you trust me—" James gave him a look but Thomas darted his gaze away. "—we will do no such thing. There is no shame in the weaker side using what advantage it has. And it’s foolishness to give up their advantage."
Thomas grimaced and turned to spread his gaze out over the English army below. "That is what my uncle would say."
James nodded. "I won't put it upon your honor. Let me speak for us." He gave Thomas's shoulder a friendly bump as he strode back toward the waiting heralds.
"Tell your king―" He looked into their faces one by one. "—we will do nothing whatsoever. It should be plain to him and his lords that we are in his lands. We have burned it and ravaged it. If this vexes him, he should cross the river and stop us. We are happy where we are. We shall stay here just as long as we please."
The herald's mouth worked like that of a landed fish. James thought he heard Thomas choke, but he kept his gaze fixed on the herald. He waved the gape-mouthed men away, so they clambered onto their horses. Once the clatter of their hooves on the stones turned to a splash as they re-crossed the river, James said, "I'll keep two hundred men in battle lines and alternate them through the night. They can keep themselves awake with battle cries. Let's see that our friends sleep as little as we can manage. Horn blowing in the dark should be a good thing. Young Lowrens has a bagpipe and we'll make use of it. We'll build the fires high and bright." He grinned. "This is exactly my kind of fight."
Thomas snorted. "James…" He shook his head. "After all these years, I should be accustomed to your idea of war."
"It's not that I mind a battle, my lord." James twitched a smile. "But I prefer to win."
* * *
The following day, James rubbed his chin and scowled at the glow of the sun as it westered toward the horizon, spreading its glow atop the far hills. The fact was they were near trapped. If the English dare not attack them, from this spot there was no easy road north to Scotland, except through English steel or through the great morass at their backs. One of his men gave a bagpipe a blow, its squall causing him to shiver. A trumpeter took up the challenge. "Wait until nightfall for your caterwauling," James called. He chewed his lip for a moment.
He motioned Archibald over. "Find Sir Thomas and Sir Donald for me, will you?" He sank down cross-legged and pulled his dirk. He tested the edge. It was sharp, but a dirk could never be too sharp, so he felt for his whetstone in his purse and whisked the blade over it as he waited.
Thomas strode up and crouched, breaking off half a bannock and handing it to James. "The men have eaten most of their oats. We'll soon be down to nothing but beef." He frowned as James bit into the flat bread. "How long can we hold out?"
"We have two hundred cattle. That will last us a bit." James stuffed the rest of the bannock in his mouth and chewed it. Donald of Mar walked up to listen as he chewed. "But we need to move our camp. There's a better place even harder to attack. It's no more than a half-hour ride. The ridge will act as a fence around it, has fresh graze for the cattle, trees for fires but open in the middle for our camp."
"Near to the river as we are now?" Mar asked.
"Aye, and a braeside they'll have to climb if they decide they want a fight."
Thomas took a bite of the half a bannock still in his hand. He nodded. "There might be deer we can kill too. That would help stretch our supplies."
"We'll build up the fires again and have the horns blown even louder than last night to cover our retiring." James tested the dirk on his thumb and then sucked off a drop of blood.
"I don't think they can blow louder than that." Thomas snorted. "I stuffed my ears with my fingers all night and didn't sleep for the yowling."
"Neither did the English." James twitched a smile. "Move the cattle first. We dare not lose them. The English haveus trapped―for the moment."
* * *
The sun cast a gold sheen over distant hills through the drizzle. Dusk would soon be upon them, scudding clouds masking moon and stars, turning the night black as pitch. The English were scurrying like ants out of their ranks. Fires flickered and shouts floated on the wind. James watched, leaning a shoulder on a stone that made up part of the fence that formed a low wall around their camp. Two days camped here, and they were short on cattle with no salt, no oats. He'd have to find a way out of this corner soon, but for the nonce it would be wise to give the English something to think about.
He straightened and went in search of Thomas, past men hauling armloads of wood to pile high into bonfires to light up the night. "Good job, but make them even bigger than last night," James commanded. Two men led a bawling calf by a rope and another sharpened a knife for the slaughter. Another stirred a bubbling pot made of hide giving up a scent of beef stewing.
James spotted Thomas crouched next to a pile of his armor beside his squire. He suspected it still smarted for Thomas to give up fighting the larger force. "I am taking men out tonight," he said as he stooped beside the earl. He stroked his moustache. "Keep the horns and pipes quiet until I return. I want the English to think they can rest."
Thomas eyed him unhappily. "On your own?"
James jerked a nod and rose. "Just a foray."
He spotted Richert and called to him to gather two hundred men and have them mounted to ride. "Half to carry lances and half swords," he ordered. Dropping a hand on his hilt, James narrowed his eyes as he calculated his intervals. By the time Richert had the men mounted, it would be full dark. The sky was clear and a quarter moon would give enough light. They would have to move slowly, quietly, and circle at least to the ford where he'd baited the archers.
Gawter led up two horses and gave James a hopeful look. James snorted but the lad was old enough. "All right. You may come." He wheeled his mount and nudged it to a walk, wending his way through the men. "Keep things quiet for now, lads," he said. "Save the noise for keeping me awake when I return."
"My lord, will you let me teach you the bagpipe tonight?" Lowrens called out and the men around him laughed.
"By the Rood, no!"
He waved farewell as he walked his horse away from the firelight. His men waited, black shadows in the night. James led his men along the heights above the river until the lights of their camp vanished behind him. Scattered fires flickered on the other side of the river through the trees. An owl screeched as he rode through the woods. A rabbit screamed when the hunter took it. Behind him, the sound of his men's horses trotting. Otherwise, the night was still.
They splashed across at the ford. James paused and said, "Afterwards, we meet here if anyone is separated," and he turned his horse to circle the stretch of the English camp. Away from the smells of camp, he breathed in the dusty scent of the dry summer air. Wind brushed his face and, a cloud scuttled across the white sickle of the moon. At last he turned again. The foe would not expect an attack from this direction, opposite that of the Scottish camp, but there should be a watch. The quiet made an itch between his shoulder blades, the ghost of a blade, and he twitched. Here and there the glow of dying campfires shined.
A horse whinnied as they rode past, and there was a raucous laugh that was shouted down by sleepy voices. Far beyond, splashing the blackness, the Scottish bonfires spread against the horizon.
He heard the sound of horses and a voice grumbling about having the watch. And then, "I heard something. Quiet!"
James nudged his horse to a faster walk. "No ward, by St. George," he called in his best English accent.
"Good evening, sir," the sentry answered.
James grunted in response.
They rode on until the pavilions of the English lords sprouted like mushrooms against the light of the cook fires. "Now!" James shouted and spurred his horse to a gallop. "A Douglas!" He galloped into the midst of the sleeping men wrapped in cloaks. "Die, English thieves!" James saw a dozen men speared on the ground as they slept. One man scrambled to his knees. A swing of his sword took off the man's head in a geyser of blood.
The night was a furor of shouts and screams. "To arms!" someone shouted as Archibald buried a sword in his belly. Others died, sharp steel ripping through their backs as they dashed for weapons. Richert's horse shattered a man's chest with a kick.
James slashed the ropes of a tent. It sagged and he slashed another as he rode by. It lurched sideways into a fire. The canvas flamed as someone inside screamed, "Help me!" James saw an Englishman snatch up an axe and run at Gawter, but the lad caught him full in the chest with his sword, hacking through muscle and bone.
He wheeled his horse. "A Douglas! A Douglas!" There was the boy king's tent. He spurred his horse toward the pavilion and jumped over an Englishman crawling, trailing a track of blood. A graybeard in a shift, scrawny white legs bare, scrambled toward the pavilion screaming, "To the king! To the king!"
"Die!" James shouted as he slashed into the bony chest. He hacked at a guy-rope at the corner of the king's pavilion.
