by J. R. Tomlin
The king kissed Lady Christina’s forehead before he pushed past her. He looked back. "Leave us alone." He shut the door, closing everyone out.
James held himself up with a hand on the wall, empty with grief. "The babe?" he asked.
Lady Christina tears streamed down her face. "He’s too small. So tiny."
James reached for her hand. She gripped it hard. "John… The priest christened him John, but I fear he won’t live."
Randolph, Gilbert de la Haye and Archie walked silently into the hallway. James shook his head at them.
"We must prepare to leave for York," Randolph said. "The negotiations won’t wait."
"I know, but—" He looked at the closed door. "We have a duty here as well."
Lady Christina nodded to them, the lines deep in her pale face. "I’ll stay with my lord brother. Wash the dirt of the road away. Rest while you can. He’ll need you by him when he’s ready."
James kissed her hand before he turned for his own room. Duty would tear him away soon. Randolph was right, but he must be here for the king whilst he could. When he opened the door, Marioun turned from a fire on the hearth, her eyes red and swollen.
"James," she said. "Thank the Virgin you’re here."
He nodded dully as he moved toward her and wiped her tear away with his thumb. He didn’t even know what to say, so he curled his hand around the back of her head, fingers tangling into her soft hair, pulling her to him. The space between them vanished, taking weariness and grief at least for a time as they melded together, lips and hands rediscovering each other after too long apart.
The was a thrill of renewal and the comfort of long familiarity all at once; the softness of her breasts beneath his caressing fingers, the lush heat of her breath on his lips, a certain sigh as he trailed kisses down her neck, they were all things that he sought like a ship seeks safe harbor. Her hands skimmed a trail along his back, and he couldn’t remember when he had needed her so much.
"There’s wine," she whispered, but he shook his head.
"I need you more."
June, 1329
Cardross, Scotland, the Royal Manor
Princess Joan was a chubby lass, barely seven, her cheeks round and dimpled, her hair a tumble of golden curls down her back. She curtseyed prettily to the king and bent to kiss his thin hand. A well-brought up princess, James pondered. Even when her mother had ridden away after the resplendent wedding feast in Berwick and left her behind with him and Randolph, she had not wept.
Her husband was already kneeling on the floor beside the king’s chair next to a roaring fire, his arms around the rusty-colored deerhound. Sunlight from the tall windows of the solar flooded the room. A trickle of sweat inched its way down the back of his neck.
"My lord father will give me a dog for my Saint’s day," Prince David said proudly. "He has many of them."
Joan gave David a rather pitying look, not the first he’d received from her since James had escorted the children here after the wedding. But she was kind enough, even if she did treat her lord husband like a tedious child, and it made James smile.
The king had pretended to everyone, even James, that he had not attended nor taken part in the wedding because the King of England had chosen not to attend. He wanted no one to know that he was so weak he could no longer stand. James wondered whether it was only the sickness that was eating his body or part of it was the grief that had etched so deep into his face. Returning from England to find the queen dead and the wisp of a lad, John they had called him, dying from being born too early had seemed to leave him with no strength left to fight the dreadful sickness. The pilgrimage he had insisted on making to the shrine of St. Ninian had drained the last of the king’s strength.
James squatted to be on a level with the children. "You may play for a while." He smiled at little David who was as noisy as a five-year old could be. "But quietly."
The king covered his mouth with a pink cloth and bent forward as he coughed and choked into it. He waved a hand toward James. "Let them be as raucous as they like. I would enjoy a bit of noise. You’ve all been so solemn." His voice was little more than a croak.
James twitched a stiff smile. "As it please your Grace." James cleared his throat of the rock that was constantly lodged there. The king is dying. The king is dying. The words tolled in his mind like a dirge. He rose to his feet. "I’ll see that the preparations are complete for the Privy Council."
"In my chamber, not the council hall," the king whispered. "I have something important to say to all of you."
James’s hands were trembling as he bowed and Randolph nodded that he would stay as James softly closed the door. Elayne, his own lady wife, and Lady Christina stood outside the door in the hallway with Christina’s new husband. Over the years, Elayne had become skilled at ignoring that she was still James’s wife.
Andrew de Moray raised his eyebrows at James. "How is he?" James shook his head. What a strange couple Lady Christina and Andrew de Moray made, the lady a good twenty years older than her flamboyant husband. But the king had been pleased his sister had finally agreed to wed. They were all happy to please him.
"The same. He will tax his strength no matter what Randolph or I say. Lady Christina, mayhap if you—"
"He has never listened to me." She laid a kind hand on his arm. "Besides, you know why he insists, Jamie. This is what he must do." Her mouth tightened into a tight line. "It’s no easier for any of us, but pretending won’t change it."
Marioun stepped into the hallway. Elayne nodded coolly to Marioun and smiled.
"Bishop Bernard is here. He is the last, and I showed him to his chamber."
James ran his hand over his beard and sucked in the stinging behind his eyes. After a deep breath he was sure he could sound as calm as he should, so he said, "A few more minutes with the children. I fear he won’t be strong enough see them again."
Andrew de Moray nodded. "He doesn’t want the prince to see him carried, so they should be taken into the garden."
It was as though James was stabbed. "He hates when anyone sees him helpless."
"Better that they go to the river and away from hearing—" Marioun swallowed. "I’ll take them for a walk to feed the swans. Lady Joan likes that."
The door opened and Randolph stepped through. "Someone should take them," he whispered. James could hear the king’s dry hacking. When Marioun held out her hands, the two children took them readily enough, but Lady Joan gave a look over her shoulder. She’d been through much in her short life, James thought. "My father died," she said pensively. "Perhaps Lord Robert is dying, too."
"He is not!" David replied, but Marioun hushed him. She smiled. She had been sad when she’d lost their bairn two years before, and it grieved her, he thought, that they had none of their own. But William was his heir, so more children didn’t matter except to give her joy.
Marioun started for the door. "We’ll have cakes, and then if you like, we’ll see if the swans are hungry."
"They’re always hungry," Prince David said as Marioun led them away.
Lady Christina nodded her understanding. She patted James’s arm again before she turned and walked thoughtfully away. "See that everyone is ready for the meeting, will you, Sir Andrew?" Randolph said.
James waited until Andrew de Moray was out of sight before he took a deep breath. In this past month, this had become his especial task, the one that ripped at them both. He bent and as the king slipped a bony arm around his shoulders, he lifted his liege’s thin, emaciated body. He weighed no more than a babe. The king accepted being carried by him with no complaint, but no one could see. It was more than either of them could stand. They never spoke of it.
Randolph pulled the velvet bed draperies back as James placed the Bruce in the bed and drew the coverlet up over his chest. The king closed his eyes for a moment.
"My liege," James said, his voice thick with grief, "must you do this now? You should rest."
The Bruce took James’s hand and squeeze
d feebly. "Would you have me continue like this, Jamie? My old friend." He managed a smile. "Once this is done, I can rest. Truly rest. Now call my council to me."
The Privy Council filed in: Thomas Randolph, Andrew de Moray, Robbie Boyd, Iain Campbell, Maol of Lennox, Angus Og McDonald, Bernard de Linton, now a bishop, Robert de Keith, Gilbert de la Haye. Propped up on pillows, Robert de Bruce turned his head and nodded at the men around him. "You’ve already sworn your fealty to my son. I trust your oaths, and I’ll not ask you to repeat them. But there is yet a task I’ve left undone." The king looked at the grim and solemn faces. "You must not look so. You know the trials I’ve had. And you know the sin I committed to secure my crown. When I most wanted to pay for that sin, I couldn’t." He coughed and paused while he wiped his mouth. "I vowed that I would go on a crusade, make war on the enemies of Christ and his church. But the Lord God denied me. So before my council, I put that duty upon one of you."
"I have no more gallant knight in my realm than you, Jamie. I beg you, my old friend, fulfill my oath for me."
James choked on the sob that was tearing its way out of his chest. He heard a groan ripped from Angus Og’s throat. Maol of Lennox grimaced as he struggled against sobs.
"Listen to me." The king’s voice was a little stronger. "When I am dead, have my heart taken out of my body and embalmed. Take such gold from my treasury as you need and such knights as you will. Let it be known as you travel that you bear the heart of King Robert of Scotland. Bear it into battle and when you can, take it to the Lord’s Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem."
Impatient with his weakness, James wiped his face dry with the heel of his hand. His throat felt raw and there was no breath in him. But the king was waiting. He knelt and gently took the king’s hand. "My liege—I will do what you command. As I ever have." His throat closed up.
"You promise me? You swear it?" the king whispered.
"I swear it. I shall fulfill your oath as though it were my own."
"Thanks be to God." Robert de Bruce closed his eyes. "Now let me rest."
With a deep sigh, the king turned his head away. James was sure it would not be long. Master Ingram bent over the king and said something to him in a quiet tone as James closed the door. He went to find Randolph standing in the garden staring at the blue-gray mountains in the distance. His face was drawn with pain.
James had never noticed the white at Randolph’s temples before. He suddenly seemed older. "You must—"
Randolph turned. "Must what?"
"You must—be careful." James bit his lip, a habit he thought he had lost years ago. "Who will have your back? When I’m not here?"
Randolph smiled a little. "The king trusts me, and you must as well."
"Holy St. Bride, I trust you. Of course I trust you. It’s the English I don’t trust."
"We’re not at war now, Douglas."
"Not today. But when our king is dead?" He rubbed at his eyes, scratchy and tired from tears and grief. "You think they’ll honor their treaty? As Longshanks honored his promises, that’s how they’ll honor it. With the king dead. With Walter Stewart dead. And Bishop Lamberton." James examined his feet, escaping Randolph’s doubtful gaze. Peace was wonderful, but James feared it would not last. "You’re a good captain, my friend. I’ve trusted you with my life more times than we could count. But you are only one man. Archibald is brave and loyal, and he’s as thick as a plank of wood. My cousin of Liddesdale is a braw fighter, but murderous mad. Donald of Mar?" He snorted. "Robbie Boyd is a great knight but no leader. The same with Gilbert and Maol, good men but no warlords. Iain Campbell is no more than a lad. The only one you can count on is Andrew de Moray. Keep him close to you."
He put a hand on Randolph’s shoulder and squeezed. "Take care, my friend. Just take care and keep Andrew close. Until I return."
* * *
The sunbaked land seemed to go on forever. James drank deep from the watered wine in his bag. He had never been so thirsty as the weeks since he’d arrived in this ill-begotten land. King Alfonso’s orange banner drooped like something dead over their heads in the still, hot air. He wondered if he had been wrong to accept King Alfonso’s invitation to help him fight against the Saracen’s, but the Bruce’s wish had been to fight the church’s enemies. The castle of Teba was stuck high on the cliff in the distance. The Castle of the Stars, they called it. James snorted. One of the trebuchets threw a stone at the fortress with a crash.
The young king’s sour faced commander rode up, dust puffing from the horse’s hooves. "My lord Douglas, his grace asks that you Scots take the left flank. We’ll push Osmin back to be sure he does not make it over the river."
"As your king pleases. We’re here to aid him."
A dozen Scots had already been with the Castilian king when James arrived with his following. With the dozen knights and score of squires in his company, they made a small but goodly band.
William de Keith scowled, his arm in a sling. "It is my luck to get hurt by a misfired trebuchet and miss the real fighting."
"There will be more fights. We have a long way to go." James nudged young Cailean Campbell. "Blow the assembly."
James looked over the ground where they would fight. It was flat, nothing but sand until the narrow strip of a river, then nothing but muddy shallows, bordered by reeds. He watched one of the Castilian knights ride down the line of the right flank, shouting and waving his arms. It was all chivalry on heavy destriers such as they rarely saw in Scotland. In the center, pikemen formed long bristling lines. The Castilian king, Alfonso, his resplendent armor reflecting the bright sun and surrounded by five hundred knights, took his place on a hill behind the pikemen. He had not been told, but James supposed King Alfonso would hold his men for the reserve.
The king’s trumpets blew and blew and blew. Cailean raised his horn to his mouth. Symon Loccart grinned as he took his place to James’s left. William Sinclair clanged his visor shut as he rode. William Logan and his brother Robert laughed as they took their places.
James led his men toward the river. The glaring sun rippled off the narrow strand of river. He wheeled his mount and stood in his stirrups. "I know your courage, so I do not urge you to bravery. You are good and valiant knights," he shouted. "I do tell you that we fight a strong, fierce enemy, but we will show the Saracens how Scots fight. If we die here today, we die in God’s service, and for King Robert whose heart I carry. Heaven’s bliss will be our reward." He gripped the gold chain and the enameled coffer about his neck that contained the heart of his liege lord. "For the Bruce!"
King Alfonso’s trumpets shrilled. James wiped the sweat from his face and clanged shut his visor. He put his spurs to his courser, and it took off at a canter. Suddenly, the enemy was before them, close ranks of Moorish cavalry a mile of them in flowing light-colored robes and turbans on high-stepping steeds. They stretched out of sight in both directions. Spears glistened in the light and curved scimitars flashed in their hands. Trumpets shrilled and with a shout, James urged his horse faster. "A Bruce! A Bruce!" His men took up the shout behind him. A Bruce! A Bruce! A Bruce!
James splashed through the shallow water and thundered up the far bank. A tall Saracen was before him, a curved sword swinging as he came. James met him and they hacked at each other. The Saracen grunted some words James didn’t understand, but James knocked his blade aside and lay his face open to the bone. He screamed as James buried his sword in his neck.
He wrenched his sword free and heard a ululating behind him. A Saracen came careening at him, a sword in his hand. He was spare and his face scarred, his turban tailing a long drape. James hacked at his face, but the man knocked it aside. The Saracen’s horse was faster, and he circled James, raining blows on his shield. James hauled on his reins and his horse reared, steel shod hooves lashing in the Saracen’s face. His head smashed and gore splattered.
He pulled up his horse and made a tight circle. The Saracens were behind them. He stood in his stirrups and stretched high, searching for the C
astilians.
"Where is our right flank?" William Keith asked with a hint of panic in his voice. The Scots milled around James.
James looked down at his bloody sword and sucked on his teeth for a brief moment. "They either didn’t charge or they pulled back." The Saracens were reforming between James and the river, and the flanks moving in. Trapped.
Robert Logan cursed. "Alfonso let us walk into a trap. He’s a cousin to the damned English king. I knew—"
James cut him off. "What matter if it was a misunderstanding or we were betrayed? We either cut our way through or we die."
The Saracens shouted, waving their swords and spears in the air. James was sure they had moments until their foes charged.
"Form a wedge. I led you into this. If God wills, I’ll lead you out." He gripped the heart for just a moment as his men lined to each side in an arrowhead. "A Bruce!" He raked his spurs and his horse lunged so hard it ripped at his arms. "For St. Bride and the Bruce!" he shouted as he barreled into a Saracen, his sword swinging. They were almost through the thin line of their foe.
It slowed his mount but he knocked the enemy aside. Something sharp pierced his side with a sickening pain. He twisted and hacked at a spear. Blood poured down his side and he hacked again. He was falling, and he rolled. A sword slashed into his shoulder. He was on his knees, and he knocked a blow aside. Pain shuddered through him, and he was on the ground and trying to gasp for breath that would not come.
Then night rushed in on him.
When James rolled over, the battle had ceased. It was quiet except for a rustle of wind. He pushed his hand into soft heather that covered the ground and rose to his knees. He didn’t recall how he got here. Dazed, he staggered to his feet and looked for his men. They wouldn’t have left him lying alone. But his head cleared with the light of a soft Scotland morning. The weakness in his legs faded away.
