He pushed back his chair, came to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Lord Robert will soon leave for Scone where he will receive the crown at the Abbey there later this month. It is impossible for me to abandon council business here of a sudden. Too many eyes upon me. I shall send you to Lord Robert with a message that I will depart when I may safely do so and join him for the coronation. Ride swiftly, James. Let no army deter you. And give my message to no man but Robert the Bruce.”
I rose from my bench, knelt and kissed his hand.
“On my life and my honor,” I swore.
Lochmaben, 1306
The very next day, in the silver hours that precede dawn, I rode out from Berwick on the road to Lochmaben on the bishop’s best horse, a snowy gray with a flaxen mane. The message I carried was written nowhere but in my heart. Days were yet short this time of year and so I rode on into the night, guided only by moonlight reflected in puddles on the muddy roads.
Twice the next day I encountered detachments of English soldiers, no doubt scouring the countryside in search of the very man I was going to meet, but it proved easy enough for me to swing far from their path, plunge into the woods and emerge later without ever being noticed. It was an English custom to be as bloody obvious as possible. It was not a Scottish one.
By mid morning of the second day, a persistent mist began to fall from the sky, melting away the last traces of snow and soaking me to the bone. Mud spattered every inch of my mount. His glorious tail was a matted clump. His muscles trembled with exhaustion and yet he forged on through the rain and the dark at my bidding. I reached Lochmaben just short of midnight, my nose dripping and a cough rattling my chest. I nearly exhausted myself trying to convince the garrison captain of who I was and that I carried a message meant only for the ears of Robert the Bruce. Finally, I was told the earl had left the previous day, but in consolation I was given hospitality. I slept, or tried to, on a pallet of musty straw by the great hearth. The links of my new chain mail hauberk, a gift from the bishop for my endeavor, were already beginning to rust.
By the time the bells of the nearby church rang lauds, I was dressed in my still damp clothing and given cold pork dumplings and a pint of cider to invigorate me. Servants and visitors, still deep in slumber and wrapped in blankets or cloaks, lined the floor of the great hall of Lochmaben. At my rising, one old man lifted his head to spit in my direction, mumbled and went back to sleep. A servant shuffled quietly in and stoked the hearthfire before adding new logs. Even though I was reluctant to leave my dry blanket and a warm fire, the drumming of my heart beckoned me on with my mission.
The hinges of the door nearest the dais creaked and a lady entered. From her shoulders hung a plain, gray cloak, although beneath it she still wore her nightclothes. At her knee, a large, wiry-coated hound whimpered. It curled around to gaze up at her and she scratched one of its long, sandy-colored ears. A thick plait of dark reddish-brown hair wound down the lady’s back. Her round eyes glistened like light playing off the waves of a stormy sea as she looked toward me.
I felt the blood rush hot to my face and cast my eyes down. I had spent far too much time in the repressed air of a bishop’s household not to be affected by the nearness of any woman, let alone one so beautiful, even in such a plain state of dress. I was nearly twenty now and more chaste than some monks I had known – many Scotsmen my age had already married and sired a small brood of children.
She approached the end of the trestle table by where I stood.
“They told me you are James Douglas, Bishop Lamberton’s squire. I am Lady Elizabeth.” She glanced over her shoulder and called softly into the shifting darkness, “Marjorie?”
At first there was only silence. Then Elizabeth called the name again. Somewhere, between a pair of tables where a column rose to the ceiling, a faint sound arose like the stirring of a mouse. The dog whined, then swished his long, thin tail back and forth. A little girl, of ten years or so, peered at me from behind the column, twisting her fingers in her long yellow curls. She flashed a smile and scampered forth, dragging a piece of clothing behind her.
The countess took the garment from the girl. “Tsk, Marjorie. You know better. This was clean when I told you to fetch it, wasn’t it?” She shook the dust from it and then held out the finely woven cloak to me. “Not entirely clean, perhaps, but dry and warm. Someone will bring you food shortly to carry you on your way. Tell Lord Robert... my husband, that I wish him well and ask forgiveness for my cross words. I-I-I... I meant them not.”
Her voice cracked. The countess could not have been much older than me. Her eyes shimmered with woeful tears that reflected the firelight. She sniffed and tried to smile, but the effort produced only a frown.
As I reached out to take the cloak from her outstretched hands, I heard a low rumble from the dog’s throat. His lip twitched. I drew my hands back slowly.
“Coll, fie,” little Marjorie uttered. The dog dropped its head and slunk behind her.
“You have a loyal friend,” I said, recalling how Fingal used to follow me everywhere and bravely watch over me as I courted mischief. Fingal would be long dead by now. He was empty in the eyes and deaf as a tree stump when I left home.
“Egidia Stewart gave him to Marjorie as a pup,” Elizabeth said. “Shamelessly, he has become more of Robert’s dog than he ever was hers. ‘Noble Coll’ he calls him, although the dog seems more stubborn than noble to me. I have to lock him in the kennel when Robert leaves. The one time I didn’t he followed the road Robert had taken, trailed him all night and caught up with him the next day. Robert had to send a man back with the silly dog on a rope. Fortunately though, when Robert’s not about, the dog’s content enough with us. Here, please, take this. You’ll need it.”
“You are too generous, my lady.” I lifted the cloak over my shoulders. Its hem was hand-embroidered with gold thread and black cord was stitched in intricate patterns over its deep red cloth. It was a lord’s cloak and I was completely unworthy of it. I fumbled with the clasp of silver fashioned in the shape of two knotted snakes.
Rescuing me from futility, the countess fastened it with slender but deft fingers. “You must be exhausted to have arrived so late and be leaving so early.”
I stiffened when her fingers brushed my chest and she quickly pulled her hands back. Coll peeked at me from behind Marjorie with his big, black eyes, taking measure of me. His tan eyebrows jumped up and down as he studied me from head to toe.
“Not half as much as my horse... the bishop’s horse, I mean. I fear that he may be too spent to carry me with any speed, or much further.”
“I already asked the stable hands to ready one of mine for you. Morel.”
I took a step back, uncomfortable with such generosity when I had done nothing to earn it. “I cannot. It is too much.”
“And should I have you standing over a dead horse on a deserted road? Take it. Carry my message to my husband and the bishop’s, as well. You’re not far behind, but if you leave now and follow the road to Lanark, you may well find him. Godspeed.”
I bowed to her, but before I turned to go, I asked her one thing. “Have you heard anything of my brothers? Their names are Hugh and Archibald Douglas.”
She tilted her head, as if sifting through thoughts. Then her long lashed eyes narrowed and she nodded. “Aye, I think... aye, they have oft been at Rothesay in the company of my cousin, Walter Stewart. He would be close to them in age.”
I wanted to snatch up her hand and kiss it, but I could only manage a fleeting smile. I turned, plucked up my sack and pulled from it a letter, tattered from my rushed and hard journey. “Will you see they get this?”
I entrusted it into her care, confident that at last I would hear from Hugh, or more likely by now Archibald, and soon I would see them again. After so many years, finally.
Lanark, 1306
On a fresh horse, I rode hard on the north road along the River Annan and then on toward the Clyde. My will was tested as I flew past the road that l
ed off to Douglas Castle. If I went there now, I would find only Englishmen, eating from my table, sleeping in my room, stabling their horses where I had passed my youth with Hugh beside me and Fingal at my heels. The rain had relented, but a gray, windless sky kept everything wet. I was somewhere near Lanark when I finally caught sight of what I assumed was the earl and his company. With reckless enthusiasm I sped along the road, the hooves of my horse slapping mud onto the rich cloak flaring from my shoulders.
A swarm of weapons greeted me. I jerked back on the reins barely soon enough to keep a spearhead from plunging into the breast of my mount. A dozen or more mounted men in chainmail surrounded me, backed by a small army of roughly equipped footsoldiers. My horse danced nervously. She reared and I gripped my legs tight to stay on.
“Make way!” I commanded. “I have messages for the Earl of Carrick.”
One of the men dropped from his saddle and pushed the others back with a punch of his gloved fist. A long mustache covered his mouth and matching bright red locks of hair strayed from beneath a battered conical helmet. “Drop your weapon.” He smiled to show missing teeth and drew his sword. “Unless you want to swallow mine.”
I tossed my sword to the muddy ground and as I reached for my knife – the one my father had given me on the battlements of Berwick during the siege – a spear tip pricked the vein in my throat.
“I’ll take that one,” the red haired man said.
“And you’ll give it back when you hear who I am,” I told him.
“Perhaps.” Taking hold of his bent noseguard, he readjusted his helmet and grinned. He reached up, slid the knife from my belt and tossed it to a tall, dark-eyed knight standing behind him. Then he snagged the hem of my cloak and yanked me from my saddle. I landed with a ‘thump’ on the soggy ground.
“Gerald?” The tall knight holding my father’s knife elbowed a portly squire beside him. “Do you recognize that cloak?”
Gerald twisted his bushy brows into a knot, shuffled to me and laid a thick finger on the clasp. “Indeed I do.”
I pushed myself to my knees and gazed at the tall knight. How could I not have known instantly? At once I bowed my head in obeisance. “My lord earl, I am sent from Berwick by the Bishop of St. Andrews.”
“Of course. We’ll get to that. First, how did you get my cloak?” Then the earl studied the dark roan mount that had carried me from Lochmaben. “And Morel? This bears explaining.”
“Your wife, the Countess Elizabeth,” I began, my head still lowered, “she gave them to me to use not two days past.”
“And how are we to know you did not steal all these things?”
“Would I be here if I had?”
“He has a point there,” Gerald said.
“True enough,” agreed the earl. “Go on then.”
“She says that...” I looked up and was overcome with awe of his towering height, “that she did not mean her cross words. That she is sorry for them and wishes you well and good.”
He hardened his countenance, as if smote with embarrassment over the private nature of my message. “Ah, well, wives are never joyful to see their menfolk depart. Isn’t that so, Boyd?”
“Don’t know ‘bout that,” Boyd, my surly interrogator, admitted. “Mine seems happy to see me go and I’m even happier to leave after being harangued and badgered by the witch for a fortnight. This scar by my right ear is from our last quarrel. These two teeth knocked out by a flying bowl during our first.” He drew a line from his ear to his missing teeth. His half-empty mouth gaped open and with a guffaw he snapped it shut.
“And which of the two of you looks the worse?” someone shouted.
“Och, I would never, ever strike a woman,” Boyd protested. “All part of the dance. I suffer her fury and she bears my children. Eight of them now with Murdo’s arrival. We make up splendidly.”
Laughter rolled in waves through the men.
Lord Robert stomped his foot once to halt it. “Enough. Now, you,” he said to me, trying to divert attention, “name and business?”
“James Douglas, my lord, squire of Bishop –”
“Wee James?” He came to me, bent over and studied my face closely.
“Once,” I said.
“Aye, no more. How old are you now? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Twenty.”
“Indeed?”
I shrank within my muddied cloak. I knew I did not look my age. Probably I never would. “I am Bishop Lamberton’s squire and he –”
“Paris. Did you learn anything there?” he interrupted again.
I sighed inwardly, frustrated at his casual nature. “A great deal of French, some Latin, and how to cut a merchant’s purse from his belt and disappear into a crowd before he ever noticed it was missing.”
He nodded with interest. “Sly. A bit like your father. A good man. I admired him.” He straightened and handed my knife back to me. “You were saying?”
“Thank you, my lord.” I tucked the knife back into my belt. “The bishop sends word that he could not leave Berwick immediately. But he will be in Scone on the appointed day... to see you crowned.”
“Good then, if all falls out as it should, I should like to have him there.” He walked a few feet away, lifted my muddy sword and handed it back to me. “On your feet now. Back to Berwick for you then?”
As I stood to sheath my sword, the mire sucked at my boots and I had to pull them free before I could move from my spot. My leggings were thoroughly soaked, not to mention sagging in a rather unflattering fashion, and my cloak, the earl’s cloak, was a terrible mess. Lord Robert was already headed back to his horse and I followed him every step through the crush of curious soldiers. “If you would allow, I should like to serve you, my lord. My father’s lands, they were given to Sir Robert Clifford and I want to join you, so I might one day get my home back and bring my brothers and stepmother there.”
As his squire Gerald held his stirrup, the earl put his foot in and hoisted himself up. His armor was like the chain mail I had on and he was dressed no better than any of his knights.
“Ah, I see,” he said, looking down at me. “And if by serving me you get your lands back, what do I get from you in return?”
My hand crept over my heart. “I shall serve you, my king, until my final day, through all fortune – good or ill. And I vow to be your ablest and most faithful knight.”
He looked about him and guided his horse so they were again headed northward. His men cleared way and began to fall in behind him. Over his shoulder, he said, “Some here would challenge you for such honors.”
Gerald snorted from behind his forearm and then muttered as he took his own saddle, “A right grand oath, coming from a mere squire.”
“Come along then, good James,” the earl said, lifting up his reins. “If you’ve half the mettle of your father you might be an asset to this company.”
Boyd and Gerald exchanged glances as they pricked the flanks of their horses with their spurs. I stood there wet and growing colder as two by two they passed me by. Above, the sun struggled to break through, but clouds in sheer numbers overcame it. I scraped the mud from my knees and turned to find my horse, which had by then drifted off the road to graze on the first tender shoots of springtime.
Scone, 1306
On the 25th day of March in the year 1306, the highest clerics and lords of the land assembled at the Abbey of Scone to witness the crowning of Robert the Bruce as King of Scots. The bishops of St. Andrews, Glasgow and Moray were there, as well as the earls of Lennox, Mar, Menteith and Atholl. For the first time I saw all of Robert’s brothers gathered together before me: proud Edward with his roving eye, fair Alexander the noted scholar, staid Nigel and young Thomas who could barely endure the length of the ceremony. Behind the throne hung a silken banner of scarlet lilies and a golden lion. From Robert’s broad shoulders, a velvet cloak of blue flowed to the floor. When the crown, a simple circlet of gold, was placed upon his head, Robert cast his eyes heavenward and whispered
a prayer and a word of thanks to the Lord.
Some said Robert the Bruce had murdered a man: Red Comyn of Badenoch. Some said it was to save his own life, that when Comyn came, he meant to kill the Bruce. Others said it was not Robert the Bruce who ended Comyn’s life, but one of his men. Who thrust the blade into Comyn’s chest was not the matter. What mattered was that it had happened in a house of God: Greyfriar’s Kirk. Ill portent for one who had clamored so long and so loud for his right to the throne. But hungering for a champion, men had gathered about him who were holy, sage or skilled in arms and because of that he had swept through the southwest and ascended the throne.
Upon hearing of Robert’s coronation, Longshanks called on his knights to gather at Westminster in May. From there they would march on Scotland. It was exactly the delay King Robert was counting on.
There are some who say God has no hand in the affairs of men. But those who believe in kingship would declare that not to be so. I, for one, believe the Almighty put Robert the Bruce here for good reason: to teach us the cost of freedom and to humble the bloody English.
Ch. 26
James Douglas – Kildrummy, 1306
Even when I was in Paris, if I closed my eyes I could see the Lothian hills of my boyhood: green swells brushed by the gentle wind, a golden eagle soaring above. If I listened, I could hear the murmur of winding rivers that emptied into deep lochs. I thought it beyond beautiful, that nothing could compare. I think now that I was wrong, for to traverse the Highlands was to shrink beneath the vastness of the sky. As we moved in the purple shadow of the heathery mountains, it often seemed heaven and earth would meet somewhere, just beyond the next rise.
From Scone, our ever-growing army went on to Moray. There David, the Bishop of Moray, had rallied an impressive host to our cause. Robert believed he could gather more loyal men in Atholl and Mar, and so we turned south and east again. Alliances were so layered, it was a hazard to bargain for fealty. Where one chieftain or lord might swear a blood oath to stand by the new king, there was no guarantee his kith or kin would do likewise. But Robert, ah, he was a man of reckless faith. You either supposed him a fool or admired him for it.
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 21
