A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (25 page)

"He's to reinforce Valence with another
thousand men for some coming battle. My spy says he goes by way of Edryford."

James opened his closed his fist, picturing
that narrow route through the marshes and bogs. He nodded thoughtfully. "I
can do something with this." He took the three pounds sterling he had out
of his purse and put it on the table. "See that our spies are well paid,
Will, and keep some for yourself and Alycie."

"I don't do it for gold."

James shook his head. "Of a certainty
not. But a man should be rewarded for his work, you and the others." He
went to Will and squeezed his shoulder. "I value you, Will. Don't doubt
that. I must go to the king soon. Tell him what I've done and receive his
commands, but I'll send someone for your reports. I'll be back soon. Else, I'll
get word to you. And to Alycie."

In the bedroom, he quickly pulled on his
jerkin and kissed the top of her head. Rolling over, she opened her eyes.

"Where are you going?" She
slipped her arms around his neck.

"I'll be back as soon as I may." He
kissed her lips. "I must leave before it's light."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Douglasdale,
Scotland: April 1307

James hurried through pre-dawn chill, wisps
of fog drifting through the trees from the river. His garron whickered where
he'd left it tied. He threw the saddle on and mounted. Taking his time through
the forest made him grind his teeth in frustration. He couldn't take a chance
on the horse stepping in a hole in the darkness, but he had to move fast. If he
was to stay ahead of Mowbray, there was no time. A chill of excitement went
down James's back.

The sentries waved him in and James nodded
in satisfaction. Wat had done well. Day broke and light streamed through the
trees by the time he rode into camp. "Up," he shouted.

Wat ran towards him. "My lord, is
aught wrong? An attack?"

"No, But we must get to Edryford as
soon as we might." He strode the pile of his mail and started stripping to
pull it on it. "We'll carry bows, every man. Now move."

Men raced to Pym as he handed out bows and
they grabbed handfuls of arrows. By the time James tightened his belt and
checked the hilt of his longsword, they were lining up in files of two.

"How did they do whilst I was gone?"
James asked as he gathered his reins.

"Another man left, my lord, and I let
him go as you ordered. But they trained well. We're ready for a fight. And we
have garrons for all though it cost a goodly amount."

"Good man. Get them mounted. We've no
time."

James was pleased at the way the small
horses could wend their way through the dense woods. His troop of men followed.
He knew their nervousness, their fear. They'd had time to think and to wonder
who would die.

The trees stopped. They entered the
moorlands. Rocky scree-covered hills and broken boulders rose sharply to the
north on the other side of the narrow path. Patches of willow trees reflected
in standing pools of water. The path wound its way, but James led his men into
the moor instead. He wouldn't chance Mowbray realizing a force had passed
before him. The horses sloshed hock deep through sludgy water. Tussocks rose a little
way to the south. The horse heaved and strained its way up onto the boggy
ground. Even the small garrons sank to their fetlocks. A larger horse would
have long since foundered in the deep green slime. James counted on it.

At Edryford, a shallow stream crossed the road,
passing into a dense patch of beech and hawthorn. It made a thick screen. James
dismounted and led them across in the water. It would leave no sign of their
passing. The path narrowed here to only four feet across, barely room for a
single rider. James pointed. "Iain, ride back and watch from the ridge. There'll
be English riding this way. Light a small fire when you spot them--just enough
that I can see the smoke mind you."

"Wat, half on this side of the stream
and half on the other. Do not fire until I give my cry. No one." He turned
his horse in a tight circle, making sure they all saw his face. "We're
out-numbered. Our only chance here is surprise. So hold until I call out."

Thomas had died from a panicked attack. It
wouldn't happen again. A couple of the men gathered the horses and led them
along the stream and back past the ridge.

Now James knew was the hard part--the
waiting. But if his spy told true the wait wouldn't be long. Once Wat had the
men in place in a row of two, one squatting and one standing so they could
concentrate their fire, James walked amongst them. Wat waited in next to the
road, watching for the signal.

The morning was clear and bright, the sun
shining down from a soft blue sky. One by one, James spoke to his men as they
crouched in the cover of the green undergrowth. He walked slowly back to the
stream. Here he could watch--tell the best moment to attack. His men must
remember to hold their fire. Even one losing his nerve or loosing an arrow
beforehand and they'd die.

He paced behind them one more time,
reminding them, and then he joined Wat.

Loosening his sword in its sheath and
checking his dirks, he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the waiting.
Mayhap spending days waiting to be beaten should be added to a squire's
training. He snorted.

A wisp of smoke rose above the trees. Wat
caught his eye and handed James his bow and quiver. James hung the quiver from
his belt. He'd had enough practice with his bow this past year. He bent the
good Scottish yew to slip the bowstring through the slots. "See that they
hold, Wat." James shook his head at his own nerves. He ran splashing
through the water to clamor up the ridge and peered through the leaves. A jay
fluttered, scolding and screaming and then settled again. Midges swarmed,
stinging his neck.

"Notch arrows," he said. "Make
sure you have a good clean shot." Battle nerves. Here the horses could
only go single file with barely room to turn. The green sludge on the other
side of the road reflected a gold coin of the sun. The brook burbled.

A whinny came from around the bend and
there was a ring of harness. A horse clattered into sight, a destrier, brown
coat glistening. Mowbray. Behind him a man bearing his green banner. James
pulled an arrow from the quiver and notched it to the string. Wait-- Wait-- Mowbray
came at an amble, one hand relaxed on his thigh as he rode. His shield hung
from his saddlebow. A long line behind him in dark mail rode one by one around
the bend.

Mowbray reached the stream. Splashed
through. James held up a hand, waiting. Sweat ran down his forehead and his
ribs. The man behind Mowbray. Then another, all of the men strung out riding
single file. Mowbray was half way to where James's last man waited.

He led the man with his arrow. It made a
hiss as it left his string. Mowbray's bannerman grunted and tumbled from his
horse. The banner lay in the dirt beside him.

"The devil." He'd meant it for
the traitor.

James yelled, "A Douglas. A Douglas."
His men took up the shout.

"Douglas. Douglas." echoed from
the hills behind them.

A man-at-arms kicked his horse in a circle
trying to reverse. Instead, it went into the black bog of the marsh, pitching
him over its shoulder. He crashed into the sludge. Before he could rise, arrows
pierced him. Horses reared. A man-at-arms jerked his reins to head towards the
ridge and jammed spurs into its flanks. It plunged, hooves scoring deep and
dirt flying. James pulled a second arrow. He hurried the shot too much and it
missed. The man beside him put an arrow through the Englishman's chest.

Riderless horses neighed. Riders kicked
their horses ahead. They jammed into men flying the other way. James pulled
another arrow back to his ear, aimed and loosed it. The shaft pierced a chest
and the man screamed as he fell.

He drew his sword and leaped from the edge
of the ridge. "A Douglas," he shouted again. "At them."

Around him, his men jumped with him, swords
slashing as they went. A sword took Pym and he fell back, skidding in scree and
leaving a track of blood. James buried his blade in the middle of the first
belly within reach. There were more behind him. His men were shouting: "A
Douglas." The English screamed as they tried to retiral. They were a
tangle of horses facing every direction.

"The Black Douglas," one of the
men-at-arms shouted.

It happened all at once. The English broke,
yet their own horsemen blocked their way. Some tried to fight and died. The
ones who could turned. The horses scrambled as their riders desperately kicked
into their flanks. A rider slipped off the road into the hock-deep black muck,
horse thrashing. The man screamed as an arrow found his back.

James ran in the direction Mowbray had
ridden, onward out of the trap. He stepped on the green banner in the sodden
muck. One of James's men grabbed Mowbray's stirrup. Mowbray hacked down on his
shoulder. He gave a bubbling shriek.

Mowbray hit his horse's flank with the flat
of his sword. The animal gathered its haunches and lunged to a gallop. An arrow
whistled past him. James ran a step in that direct and then stopped, cursing. No
chance to catch him.

The air was full of the stink of blood and
shit. He found Pym dead. Another corpse lay in the muck and James cursed again.
He'd forgotten the man's name. How could they trust him if he didn't even know
their names? Iain lay stuffing a rag on a slash in his leg, pale and bloody but
still alive. An English man-at-arms groaned with his arm slashed open.

"Leave him be," James said to one
of his men standing over him. He gave a twisted grin. "No harm for the Mowbray
to find out who did the dead."

At every step, there was a dead horse and a
dead enemy. Not so many--he counted as he walked. Only seventy enemies dead but
they'd turned them. There would be no reinforcements for Valence. Not now. Even
if he hadn't crossed swords with Mowbray, the man had run like the craven he
was.

Wat ran up, sweat rolling down his grizzled
face. "My lord--" He stopped to gulp down a breath of air. "Should
we try to follow? Harry them?"

"No. Back to camp." He gestured. "Loot
the bodies but make it fast in case some of them find courage in their bellies
for a fight."

Wat laughed. "Not likely. They'll not
stop running before Bothwell."

James rolled a corpse over with his foot. He
looked down at a face no older than his own and now wouldn't be. Why couldn't
these people stay in their own land? They had a kingdom that was big--rich. Once
England had been enough for seven kings it was said, and now they wanted
Scotland, too. Why?

"We'll leave no weapons or armor. We
need all we can get." His smile was grim. "The English can pay for
our war now."

That afternoon, James paced the camp. He
crouched beside Iain. The man was too badly injured to ride with them to the
king. Anyway, he'd need someone to carry messages and reports from his spies so
they'd leave a handful of men here.

When he returned, he would meet with the
spies. He would know all of the men and women, too, who risked so much. Even
though it wasn't really for him, he owed them that.

He'd given the king his word he would
return in good time. And with battle looming, with the king he must be.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Near Loudon
Hill, Scotland: May 1307

The light mellowed as the sun sank to the top
of distant mountains. Ahead at the top of a heather covered hill rose a small
square keep. Beyond it, stretched out under trees was a camp with smoke rising
from dozens of fires. Tracking down the king had taken James two days. He'd
moved further into Ayr from since he'd fought at Glen Trool, but, for a
certainty, of that James approved. Staying several steps ahead of their enemies
was likely to keep them alive.

A handful of men stood in front of the
keep, and James strained to make them out. "Wat," he yelled back, "I'm
riding ahead." He clapped his spurs to the big stallion he was riding as a
gift for the king. It gathered its haunches and sprang into a gallop. James
leaned forward over its neck, wind whipping his hair and he laughed.

 
A man swung out the door, blond hair
touched with a few strands of gray, red-lion surcoat over his armor. A knot in
James's stomach untied. He'd not been truly quite sure that he'd see the king
ever again. He pulled up hard on the reins and the horse came to a rearing halt
a few feet from where Robert de Bruce smiled up at him.

James froze for a moment. It had only been
a month since he'd seen the king, yet it seemed more than a lifetime. Then
James realized he was sitting his horse in the king's presence. He threw
himself down and took two running steps to drop to a knee and reach for the
king's hand. "My liege."

"Jamie." The king smiled and there
was a hint of relief in his face. He motioned towards the stallion. "Tell
me how you acquired this animal you galloped in on. You're looking fine indeed,
my Lord of Douglas."

James's band of men clattered up and Wat
shouted for them to dismount.

James gathered the reins and handed them to
the king. "Lord Clifford no longer had need of the horse it seems. I
brought him to you for your use--and my loyal men of Douglasdale I promised
you."

Bruce took the reins, laughing and looped
them to a post. "So you did, Jamie." He put his arm around James's shoulder
and nodded towards the keep only three stories and the gray stone crumbling,
James realized now that he was closer. "I want you to tell me this tale of
how you got a horse of Lord Clifford."

"More the horse of his commander, but
as close as I could get to the miscreant."

This was a tale that would be ill telling,
he feared. Over his shoulder, he ordered Wat to see to the men and went with
the king towards the door of the keep. Sir Niall Campbell and Robbie Boyd both
were waiting inside in the musty-smelling hall. Sir Edward stood next to a slot
window looking out.

Bruce looked around at the place. "Not
fine, but mine own for the moment and better than a cave, I mark me."

"It's time and past time that you had
a roof over your head, my lord." He went to the tiny fire that burned in
the hearth at the end of the hall. The reeds on the floor were pounded flat and
smelled of droppings. Squatting he held his hands out to the flames although it
wasn't cold.

The king turned a chair and sat, facing
James with a thoughtful expression. "I've reports that Mowbray is moving
to join his forces with Pembroke's. We were making plans--"

"Oh, well, as to that," James
said and then clamped his teeth. His manners had apparently gone somewhere else
to lodge that he'd interrupt the king. He inclined his head, coloring, "Forgive
me."

Bruce waved a hand. "No, Jamie, speak."

"Two days back Mowbray found it wise
to turn back to Bothwell. We laid an ambushed for him at the Edryford. Killed
not so many. Less than a hundred by my count, but Mowbray fled." He
laughed as he stood. "And left with his troops running in the other
direction."

"With the men you have with you now? So
few?"

"I lost two men, but for the most
part, yes, my lord." James smiled. "They're good men."

"And the horse--from Lord Clifford's
commander?"

James paused and felt his face go stiff. "That--may
not please you so well." James sucked in a long breath and watched the
king's face as he told him the whole story of the attack on Douglas Castle. Even
Edward Bruce had turned to stare at him. "My spies tell me people call it
the Douglas Larder. But it was a fine fire. I know not how long it took to wash
the blood from the floor of the kirk." He stared out the window at the
tint that covered the hills as if the setting sun had shed its own blood. "And
that's the tale, my liege."

The king was silent for a long moment. "God's
wounds, James." He shook his head. "That's a grim story."

James felt himself flare at the king's
words. "Grimmer than Sir Thomas, or Nigel, or Alexander, my king?"

Bruce sprang to his feet and strode around
the room. "Revenge? I--I want it. But--" He swung around. "Can I
kill every man who's sided with the English this year past? Every English who's
held a castle in our land?"

"No." James rubbed his beard. "Not
revenge in truth, though I want it. Yet, if those men had lived, my people of
Douglasdale would have been killed. I couldn't let the English know who had
aided me and let Clifford take his revenge on them." He gave a hard sigh. "So
I killed the prisoners instead--after they surrendered their swords to me. There've
been days when I've felt I'd never be rid of the blood. But I did what I had to
do."

Boyd hammered his fist down on a table in the
middle of the room so hard that a map bounced. "Who raised the dragon? It
wasn't you, my lord. Or Jamie. Edward Longshanks still offers no quarter to any
man he captures."

"I tell myself that. I found my people
raped and abused by those men. It was justice to kill them, but..." It
would be weakness to tell them that he'd his reached his nineteenth year the day
before and had wakened from dreams of killing. So he kept the thought in his
head.

"You're right, both of you. We've little
choice if we're to live and the people we have a duty to protect. You did what
had to be done. The kirk--attacking in the kirk was a hard thing, but I'll say
nothing about it. And Valence won't have Mowbray's men when he meets us." Bruce
nodded. "Well done, lad."

James swallowed, opened his mouth to speak,
and then closed it. He remembered stories his father had read to him about
Roman soldiers who fell on their swords. That had to have been easier. And he
couldn't do it. The words to say he'd killed the woman who set a crown on his
king's head would not come.

Edward swaggered to the table and thumped a
finger on the map that lay in the middle. "It seems to me we've spent
enough time on boyish problems. We have a battle to plan."

James' face flushed. After everything, he
would not take Edward's jibes. "My lord." He swung around on the man,
hand on his hilt and face scalding with heat.

"Enough, Edward. You too, Jamie."
Bruce looked from one to the other. "I'll have no words between you."

James ground his teeth but held his peace. One
day the man would get himself or the king killed with his high-handed ways.

"As for planning the battle, that I
have ideas on." Bruce pointed to the map. "See you here where the
road runs under the Loudoun Hill. What this doesn't show but I remember well,
there are bogs on both sides. It's why I chose the place." He looked up at
Niall Campbell. "You remember that?"

Campbell turned the map so he could look at
it.

Crossing his arms across his broad chest,
Boyd said, "The bogs get close thereabouts, if I mind me."

Bruce's smile was grim. "I owe Valence
a turn or two for Methven."

"I don't question that, my lord,"
Campbell said. "But we'll be badly outnumbered again. At least three to
one, mayhap more. I'd be for retiraling. Refusing the battle."

"A set battle?" James asked with
a frown. "When I heard you agreed to it and couldn't believe you'd do so. They'll
have ample cavalry even without Mowbray. And what of archers? Can we hold
against them?"

"Skulking. I've always known you were
good at that, Douglas," Edward said. "But I'm a Bruce and it's time
we stood up and fought like men."

The king hammered on the table with his fist.
"I said no words between you two." The king glared at first one and
then the other. Bruce's voice turned to steel. "I mean there to be peace
between you. That is your king's command."

"As you will, my liege." James and
Edward locked gazes. Peace didn't mean he had to like the man, king's brother
or not. But he still offered Sir Edward his hand. They gripped forearms and Sir
Edward looked no happier than James felt.

"Do you see what I mean, Robbie?"
the king continued as though he'd never been interrupted. "My people have
been flocking to me and I mean to keep on as we have. But I have to show that
in the field, I can stand. Else how will they truly believe? So--I'll take his
challenge. This once."

"Oh, aye, I see it. We'll need to look
the ground over, but if we can break their charge, then mayhap--just mayhap we
can hold against them. We need to know whether they bring archers. If they have
archers--" He grinned his deadly grin. "Well, they shouldn't reach
the battle."

"Another thing. I had a message from
Bishop Moray that he's within an hour's ride. If I know the good bishop, he'll
have Moray troops at his back ready for the battle. Then we'll move and prepare."

The next hour Bishop Moray with a hundred
men-at-arms arrived. The Bishop was one of the few men in Scotland who had never
spent time in King Edward's peace. Even the mention of the English king brought
a look to his face that chilled. James had no doubt he'd consign the English monarch
to hell or to worse if he could think of worse.

As usual, the bishop wore armor with a
cross painted on his surcoat, a priest militant if ever there had been. James
thought about going to him, asking to make confession. He'd never been
religious in spite of the training Lamberton had tried to drum into him. But
the fact was he'd rather not die with what he'd done unconfessed. If he'd never
been religious, he'd never before been sure that God had abandoned him. He
watched the Bishop and waited. It was too hard. Coward, he told himself. He'd
never thought he was a coward before.

From a distance, he watched the Bishop talk
to the others and go through the camp blessing men who sought it. He watched
and stood apart. Twice the bishop caught him watching and paused. James turned
away.

It was near dark and James sought the king.
If he would permit, James would take his own men ahead to harry strays or small
groups and to scout the enemy as they marched. The king must know if Valence
had archers. This would suit James better than marching with the van.

He walked through the camp. The men lay at
ease about their campfires, mostly lowland men-at-arms who had joined the king
these last months. But there was a good scattering of highlanders in their
saffron tunics. Some were sharpening weapons whilst others talked. The strains
of a song drifted from one of the fires.

Mayhap the king had retired to the keep. James
turned his steps that way and pushed open the battered door. The Bishop swished
a whetstone along the edge of his sword and looked up.

James froze. Heat flooded his face.

Bishop Moray carefully placed his sword on
the table. "Come in," he said.

James's heart hammered, but he felt a
strange relief when he knelt beside the bold-faced cleric. Taking a deep
breath, he steeled himself to it. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,"
he recited.

The words came slowly, the story a bit at a
time. If the door opened in the course of that hard half-hour, James didn't see
it or hear it. Twice he stopped, his head bowed, what he was telling too much
in front of his eyes to continue. His face grim, the bishop gave James penance
and absolution as he made the sign of the cross.

The room fell silent. "Go in peace,"
the Bishop said.

Any priest would say he was forgiven. The
bishop said he was forgiven. Was it yet another sin that he felt as condemned
as ever? "Thank you, my lord. I'll pray for her as you command." He
mustn't wonder if God would hear him.

"There's another thing." The
bishop stood up and looked James in the face. "You have to tell the king. I
couldn't require it. But you must."

James looked out the narrow slot window at
the darkness beyond. "I know. It's how he'll look at me when I tell him
that stops me--how much it will hurt him."

The king's right of justice wasn't what
worried him. He would understand. They'd suffered too much together for them
both not to know what sometimes had to be done. But it would pain him. Another
death, worse in its way than the others. James had killed the woman who'd put a
crown on his head.

* * *

James had ridden hard with Wat and two of
his men the night before. It had taken two changes of horse, but they'd found Valence
and crept in close as the Englishman led his glittering mass of soldier. Two
thousand at least but surely no more than three. And no archers.