by J. R. Tomlin
The galley smashed into the side of the Rossmen, shearing off oars. Splinters and shards of wood flew. The Rossmen screamed, speared by pieces of their own oars. Shouting MacDonalds flung their grappling hoods over the sides and swarmed over the rails from both galleys.
James saw their thought--to finish this galley first whilst it was outmanned before they had to take on the other, which was still maneuvering into position. He nodded to himself as he drew his sword. Bruce already had his battleaxe in his hand. He leapt down the six-foot drop to the poop deck of the Ross galley from the high bow. James scrambled to follow. Lennox jumped beside him.
James's feet slithered on the wet deck. With a huge effort, he managed to right himself as a red-dripping claymore slashed at his belly. He dodged and nearly went down on the pitching deck. The king swung at the attacker, knocking him out of the fight. James managed to get his balance and raise his sword.
Half-a-dozen Rossmen swarmed towards them. Bruce had his back to Lennox so James turned to guard their flank. The Rossmen circled, looking for an opening. Bruce, apparently deciding that offense was best, dove towards the first of the Rossmen with a smashing blow. Few in the world could match Bruce hand-to-hand. The king crashed into them with his deadly swinging axe. James dashed in to skewer a Rossman who'd circled to the king's side.
The main of the battle was still raging a distance ahead near the bow of the galley. James jumped over a body to keep to Bruce's side as the king cut his way through. Pausing, James looked over his shoulder. Where was the other galley? The chaos around them made it impossible to tell. They'd best finish this fight fast.
Lennox, on the other side of the king, whirled to face an attack, leaving the king open. The king dodged a swinging claymore and went down to a knee on the slimy, blood-soaked catwalk. James caught a blade that would have severed Bruce's neck. From his knee, the king swung and gutted the man. Then ahead, James saw something he hadn't noticed before. The group at the bow surrounded a prisoner, roped and tied.
Already Cuiden was hacking at one of the leaders, a bearish-built man with bushy red hair. James pointed in their direction with his sword.
"Yes, we'll to his aid," the king said. A huge swing flung the last of the Rossmen out of the way and Bruce strode onto the bow. As he reached them, Cuiden hewed into the other's chest with his claymore. Another rushed at the Cuiden's back. Bruce swung. The man flew off the deck and into the water from the force of the blow.
Cuiden swung around, sword high, but now the bow was cleared of enemies. He touched his breast in a salute. "Methinks I owe you a debt, Robert de Bruce, and Angus Og will know it."
Edward Bruce and Niall Campbell and the rest of their party were still fighting at the poop of the galley, but the remaining Rossmen seemed reluctant to continue the battle. Some jumped and others were pushed into the sea. The other Ross galley was backing water instead of joining the fight.
Cuiden bared his teeth in a grin. "They counted swords and don't like the numbers. We outnumber them now so they don't have the balls for a fight."
Their own caterans were shouting jeers--it wasn't needed to understand the language.
James kicked the fallen body out of the way as he hurried to the trussed prisoner, laying face down on the deck. Slashing the ropes that bound his hands behind his back, James turned the man over to look into Robbie Boyd's eyes.
"By the rood, Robbie." He slashed at the ropes that still tied Boyd's feet.
Boyd was rubbing his wrists and hands where ropes had left bloody impressions. "Thank all the saints." Boyd was white-faced as he struggled to sit up. "Been bound for two days," he said through gritted teeth. "Since the bastard Rossmen laid hands on me. I was seeking you."
Bruce pushed the man back as he squatted beside them. "Stay still, Robbie." The king scowled, worry and puzzlement both clear in his face. "Are you hurt?"
"Nothing to worry over, mostly numb from the bonds." But his eyes were wide, and he grabbed the king's arm. "My lord--it's Kildrummy Castle. It's fallen."
Bruce rocked back on his heels. "How?"
"A traitor. We held off the attack easy enough, and they laid siege. Someone fired the stables. Whilst we fought the blaze, he opened the postern gate."
The king's mouth worked soundlessly before he choked out, "Elizabeth? Marjorie?"
"Fled before the siege as you commanded. But--Nigel. He was sore wounded in the fighting. Yet, oh, God have mercy. I fear he may have lived long enough to reach Berwick."
Bruce gripped the bloody axe in his hand, staring at it. "Nigel--" he whispered.
James looked away, ashamed of his relief. Isabella was safe and fleeing to Norway.
"I escaped. God forgive me, but Nigel was held too close." A tear ran down Boyd's cheek, and he made a choking sound, turning his face away. "Forgive me. Robert, forgive me."
"There's nothing--nothing to forgive, Robbie. Do you think I don't know..." Bruce's voice seized for a moment before he went on. "I know you would have saved him if you could. I think God that you got away, my dear friend. I thank God."
He took an almost sobbing breath and looked up at Cuiden who watched wordlessly. "If you owed me a debt, then it's paid for saving Robbie."
* * *
Two weeks later, even through the thick walls of Castle Tioram with its long, timbered hall, the winds of Loch Moidart could be heard whistling up the cliff. James fidgeted as the bard told his interminable tale--in that still mostly indecipherable Gaelic. James couldn't stand doing nothing--had never been able to stand it. The day before they'd had a stag hunt, better than being locked inside but not the excitement of hunting to fill an empty stomach.
A full five-score of the Lady Christina's people sat at her table, a court indeed and no rude one, whatever he'd heard in the past about the Highlanders. All listened respectfully to the bard. James sighed. Resolutely, he sliced a choice bit from a boar that sent up fragrant steam in the middle of the long table. He offered it to Lady Iosbail, the dark-haired girl to his left, a cousin of Christina of the Isles if he'd made the whole thing out aright.
She motioned to her trencher with a wicked smile. She'd tortured him nightly in the two weeks they'd been here. Somehow, her dress had slipped down half exposing the tops of her breasts. James suppressed a grin. They were plump and tempting, as Boyd preferred. That poor man was sitting between two large and hairy warriors. Further down the table, Thomas Bruce raised a cup to James before he leaned close to a red-haired lady and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh and give him a playful push on his shoulder. James suspected his own companion had much in common with Lady Christina with whom the king, most unusual for that man, seemed smitten. Even now at the head table, they were talking, the king motioning with a hand as he spoke. Lady Christina bent her head to listen intently. If anything could give the king respite from the ill news that trickled to them, it was only joy to James.
For himself, as delectable as the girl was and even though she kept him in constant turmoil, James wasn't ready to be in her toils. Isabella was too much in his dreams of a night to think of another. However, she did try to help him get his tongue around the strange language they spoke.
"How is it that you say to attack ahead, Lady Iosbail?"
"Say 'A bheil thu 'g iarraidh a dhanns' and they'll attack as you please," she said and a smile curved her full lips.
He laughed. "That's not what you said last night." He nodded towards a particularly burly, longhaired chieftain sitting a place down from Lady Christina. The man was watching James as they spoke. He rarely looked away, James thought.
"If I said that to him, would he perchance try to remove my head?"
"He's a cousin and mild as milk." Her eyes glittered.
"I'm sure he is, my lady." James laughed. "Like all your mild men-folk." James squinted as he thought over the phrase and, at last, managed to parse it out. "Mayhaps he wouldn't be offended if I asked him to dance as you suggest. Not as if I called him a sheep as you told me to do befor
e."
She giggled. "You're nae as dim as you look."
"You aren't promised to the braw man, I suppose?"
"He might like it if I were," she smiled as she sipped her wine.
James shook his head. God's wounds, but he needed to find something to do. Mayhap Robbie Boyd might have an idea. Arran wasn't so far, if the king would allow an attack there.
* * *
The next night, James stood in front of the roaring fire on the huge hearth. Behind him, the king paced as he often did when he had decisions to be made. James was glad the king had taken him into his council and now his voice was heard in the discussions. But he couldn't stand any more sitting and waiting. It was time to let the English know the Scots still had swords.
Boyd sat, legs stretched in front of him, across the room. He had little taste for talking in council, or so it seemed to James. Thomas and Alexander sat next to their brother whilst Edward Bruce turned from staring out through a window slit and paced around the room. Campbell and Lennox were watching the pacing Sir Edward.
Edward Bruce turned to toss a bag into the middle of the table. It clinked as it hit. "The Martinmas rents from Carrick. I had to dodge Sassenach all the way. There's been unrest there and executions. Priests crucified. Hangings. Villages burned. The country's being ground down into the dirt."
King Robert gripped his hand into a fist. "Who holds the castle? Did you learn?"
"Percy, Earl of Northumberland."
The king strode another turn about the room. "There are worse to face. He has an over-abundance of caution on the battlefield. How much of the rents did you collect?"
"Not as much we would have hoped because of the troubles, but if I take them to Antrim they should pay for a good number of gallowglasses. And you have the promise of galleys from Angus MacDonald."
The king picked the bag up and weighed it in his hand. "Yes, Irish troops--gallowglasses, we must have. But I need you with me whilst I gather what aid I can from Mackinzie of Kintail. Alexander and Thomas can go to Ireland for us." He nodded to his two younger brothers.
Since Boyd had arrived with word that Kildrummy Castle had fallen to treachery and the King's brother Nigel captured, the king had slept little. Word of Nigel's fate hadn't yet reached them so far into the north were they, but James knew what the king feared. It was what they all feared. Every captured friend they had word of had died to the same execution King Edward had given Wallace.
The mistress of this castle gave the king some comfort. Yet when James checked the walls at night, too restless to sleep, all too often he saw the king pacing in the great hall.
James felt he would burst being confined to the castle. Often he stood on the walls watching roiling waters of Loch Moidart, waiting and watching. His hands twitched to hold his sword.
"How many do you think from MacKinzie?" Edward asked.
"Not many, Christina believes. You know how thin the king's writ runs here but for my friendship with her. Mayhap a hundred and the three hundred she's promised from her own."
"And no knights or heavy horse--" Edward shook his head. "I don't like it."
"Heavy horse won't win for us, Edward. You know that. We can't and won't match the English in cavalry. So we'll have to make good use of what we have. My plan is wait two weeks for Alexander and Thomas to sail to Ireland, hire what gallowglasses they may and return. Meanwhile, we'll have gathered our force. We'll land in Carrick in February, before they expect spring attacks. We can't wait for the hill passes to open. The Islemen say the English still seek us at Rathlin Island, so they're well out on where we are."
"Your Grace," James said stepping towards the table. Time to put forward his idea. Boyd had thought it was a good one.
"Jamie?" The king raised his eyebrows.
James knew his place here was more because of saving the king and for being the Lord of Douglas that should be than because the king expected him to speak. Edward Bruce gave him a scathing look and even the others leaned back with skeptical gazes. James rushed on. "I've a thought. Men are good, but we need supplies. Weapons, armor, food."
"Not a new thought to me. But you're right."
"On Arran, the force at Brodrick Castle is small and vulnerable I've heard. We could attack, mayhap seize their supplies. It wouldn't take a large force--the men to row a twenty-oar galley. We could hide it and watch for a chance to seize what we could."
"Attack Brodick Castle?"
James shrugged. "That's not my thought, my lord, but it might be possible. Attack a force that's been sent for supplies is more likely or at least harry them. We have to scout the place before we know. You could gather your forces on Arran Island when you're ready. If we've seized nothing, then there's no loss. But there's a chance of gain."
"And you'd lead the attack force, Jamie?" The king didn't sound unhappy at the idea, but James had never led a thing on his own. Even forty men would be many to lose in their thin numbers.
"In part, my lord. I'd like the chance to learn, but I talked the idea over with Robbie." He nodded towards Boyd whom he'd avoided looking at. Boyd had said James should present the idea since he'd thought of it. James took it as a kindness to have the chance to put himself forward. Boyd had fought with Wallace and knew the ways of secret warfare. "I think he would be willing to lead with me. I'd defer to his experience in all things."
A smile broke over Bruce's face. "You have the makings of a good leader, Jamie. And I like your idea." He turned to Boyd. "You agree with his plan, Robbie?"
"Indeed, I do. He's right that we need supplies, and if the English can give them to us, so much the better. I know Arran well. It's a workable plan."
Edward Bruce was still giving James another of his cold looks. James wasn't sure why the man had taken against him. Jealousy? But Edward and his brother argued most of the time, so that didn't seem to make sense. Anyway, at least the king looked pleased, and that was what counted.
"You have my permission," the king said.
"Thank you, my lord." He grinned and Boyd winked.
"Very well, then. Tomorrow, we split in three directions. Arran, Ireland and I for Kintail. We assemble on Arran in two weeks time. It's understood?" The king looked around his council waiting for a response. When they'd all agreed, he rose and climbed the steep stairs to the chambers above.
"Robbie," James said.
Boyd rose from his place. "You did well. I agree with you that we've had enough being cooped up. Time to show the English that there's a King of the Scots."
"Which men should we take with us?"
"What do you think?" Boyd gave him a blank look and James knew he was being tested. Well, how did you choose men for a job like this?
He crossed his arms and thought for a few seconds. "I think I'd ask Wat to choose. He knows the men-at-arms and even the caterans better than I do. Eats with them. Practices with them. And I trust him. I'd like him as our sergeant, and he speaks some of their Gaelic. You know I barely twist my tongue around it."
"Good. You take care of it. You'll learn by doing, lad." The man grinned again as he left.
By the next afternoon, Wat had their forty men ready to sail, the lightly armored highland caterans, many clothed in a saffron tunics and some with a plaid slung over their shoulders and their toughened leather jerkins. They all carried small round shields and claymores and dirks. Along with that, they were tough and agile, as James had seen far too often as the king had fled from the MacDougall's fighters.
Dark clouds scurried across the sky before a high wind that snapped at their cloaks and faces. Waves rocked the galley. Water slashed into their faces over the side. Boyd set two of the rowers to bailing. James, peering into the dark, heard the sea crashing on the breakers. Boyd joined him as the oarsmen eased them towards the sound.
"There." James pointed towards a faint cluster of light that had to be Brodrick Castle.
"There's a good beach for landing to the south. We can pull the galley up into the broom there," Boyd said.
Even through the dark, James could see the shimmer of the white beach as they skirted the island. Another mile and they were able to turn in around the eastern point of land. Boyd pointed towards a place where the water was dark, but more sheltered from the wind. The heavy seas eased. At Boyd's order, they slowed, the oars dipping lightly. Soon they crunched their way onto the pebbly beach. James jumped over the side into the icy, knee-deep water. Boyd followed. Another sweep of the oars had it as beached as they could make it. Their men scrambled out. With all forty shoving, the light-hulled vessel slid slowly up onto the beach.
Brush massed darkly on the rise. Boyd took an axe to a small tree that blocked their way and then another, pulling them onto the beach to use as cover. A full hour of struggle got the galley into the thicket. James examined their work from the beach. He'd check it again tomorrow, but for now, it looked good. He took a deep breath. Action, at last. Boyd pointed them inland and led the way over the beach and the sea-grass into the dense woods.
They made a long march in the biting cold wind with occasional quiet curses as someone stumbled over roots or rocks. Pine needles and blown leaves littered the ground and squashed under their feet, wet from recent rains. They passed hosts of tall pines and giant oaks with bare branches waving in the wind. Boyd led them to a wooded hill with a clearing at the top ringed by weathered stones where they could set up their camp. The caterans made a couple of small fires. Boyd left, saying he'd be back with someone he trusted from nearby.
James walked the perimeter of the camp speaking to the sentries one by one. Mostly they chuckled at his tries at Gaelic, but in a friendly way. Near the fires, the others were already wrapped in their plaids. A snorting snore broke the silence.
Wat poked up the flame of a fire and James squatted beside him.
"Sentries are in good order," James said.
"I could have done that for you, my lord." Wat sounded a bit put out.