by J. R. Tomlin
James gingerly touched his face. His eye throbbed and his cheek was already swelling. "If that was in your peace, my lord, I'll not want you to clout me when I'm out of it."
The king raised his eyebrows in surprise and then a reluctant smile twitched his mouth.
James licked at the split in his lip. "When we beat them, then we can make them return their prisoners. So that's what we must do."
Chapter Thirteen
Robbie Boyd and Gilbert de la Haye were talking in low voices when James came out. He stood with his hand on the cliff face, blinking in the sunlight. His head felt like a ripe melon about to burst. Boyd poked de la Haye's arm and the younger man turned, his eyes widening at the sight. Boyd grabbed James's arm and pulled him towards the trees.
"For mercy, Robbie, instead of pulling me about, pour me some wine." He spit but it was only a little bloody.
"I'll get it," de la Haye said. He hurried to the tun and drew out the last of it into a goblet. He sighed as he handed it to James. "We'll be back to water soon."
"Never mind that," Boyd said. "What happened? The king--" he shook his head in disbelief. "He struck you? Why?"
James flinched. "If I tell you what I did, you'll hit me too. But what matters is that he isn't leaving us."
Boyd was now giving him a thoroughly suspicious look. "What did you do?"
James swirled the wine in his cup, examining it for a moment. He shook his head. "I'm in no condition for another clout, believe me. You'd not want to know what it feels like when he strikes you. Anyway, we must keep him distracted. He's better, but if he has too much time to think about these disasters..." James frowned into his cup. "I'm no better. Thinking about it will unman me, I swear to you." He gulped the wine down. If nothing else, it was a sovereign remedy for a pounding head.
"We're not ready to make another attack. Niall Campbell left again to deliver Lady Margaret home and is for Loch Awe after to try to raise his own men. And with Edward Bruce gone to raise men too, we just don't have enough."
"No," Boyd said, "but our supplies from Turnberry and Arran are running low as you said. We need to do some hunting. There are enough deer in these hills to feed us whilst we await their return if we make the effort."
"We do need more men, there you're aright."
"And food," the king said.
"Your Grace." Gilbert de la Haye's face lit up with a smile.
"We were speaking of it, Sire," Boyd said. "We've depleted our stores. There's a goodly herd of deer we can hunt."
"But if I leave you alone to hunt, will you just scare all the game away?" James grinned, even though it hurt his mouth and his whole face ached.
"What's this?" The king crossed his arms and frowned. "Leave for where?"
James licked at a drop of blood on his split lip. He wasn't sure how the king would like his idea. "Sire, with your consent, for my own Douglasdale. I've not tried raising men there, and they were ever loyal to my father. He was a good lord to them. They know me. I was born there and stayed as my father's page before he sent me to Paris." Many thought his father a brusque, fierce-tempered man, but he'd been a fond father. Mayhap not gentle, but never once had he beaten him as most fathers did. He'd put James's first sword in his hand and taught him to hold it. Had guided his shot, the first deer James brought down. "He misliked having me gone from him."
No one spoke. Most said his father was foolish to refuse him as hostage. He wouldn't have been harmed. Hostages were, of a rule, well treated. But never would his father have given him up. Never.
Boyd cleared his throat. "That's a thought. They won't look for one of us so far south."
"We can't spare more men, Jamie. I like the idea, but it isn't possible." But the king was stroking his beard as he did when he thought over an idea.
"I know that, Sire. You've told us this must be a secret war, so I should go in secret with only one man. If we're stopped, who will know I'm James of Douglas and the king's man? I'll be a simple man-at-arms on an errand for his English overlord. Once there, I'll raise my men." Mayhap best not to mention he had a thought to do more than raise them.
"Good God." Boyd stared at him.
De la Haye's mouth hung open. "Deny you're a knight?"
James could have laughed at the looks on their faces. Mayhap it was that none of them had ever stolen an apple from a merchant when he was hungry. "Isn't that what we did after Dail-Righ? Why not now?"
The king motioned towards the last tun of wine that still stood unopened. "Bring me some wine. And I'd break my fast. Is there a bannock about? Let's think on this."
"More for me, too. My head is fit to break into pieces." James handed his cup to de la Haye. Spotting Wat at one of the cook fires, he went to get a bannock for the king and to say a word to him about leaving for Douglasdale. He'd trust Wat at his back more than any man in the camp, except Robbie Boyd. It seemed a good idea to wash some of the blood off his face, too. A long dunk of his head in the icy burn felt good. The king had forgiven what he'd done, but James had no desire to remind him of it.
His beard was dripping and he shoved his hair back from his face. When he rejoined the others, they sat on some logs in a circle. He handed the king a bannock. "Wat could join me on the journey, Sire. He's a solid man. I truly think it's worth trying."
The king broke off half the bannock and chewed on it. "You know the men who were your father's well then? How can you be sure they wouldn't betray you? The reward would be great."
Boyd nodded, staring into his cup thoughtfully.
"There's a man there. Thomas Dickson he's called. He was my father's steward and a messenger of his to Wallace. If he's still at Hazelside that my father gifted him with, it's to him I'll go. Thomas will know who to trust."
The king jabbed a finger at him. "You're not thinking of only raising men, Jamie Douglas. I know your look too well."
"There might be a chance of striking with them. Douglas is a small castle, as you know, my lord. I seem to recall you took it once yourself." He gave the king an amused look.
The king had the grace to look embarrassed at the mention of days when his loyalty to Scotland had been in question. "Well--that was a different case. I pretended to take Douglas Castle and delivered your stepmother to her husband. He was with Wallace those days." That was when Bruce had joined Wallace himself and after knighted the warrior.
"Yes, I was there when you brought her but a little page." James smiled although it hurt his mouth. That was an issue long past. "If I can raise enough men and somehow lure the garrison outwith its walls, why I might take the castle."
De la Haye shook his head. "But it's near Lanark and Bothwell, both with strong garrisons. You'd be under siege and taken within days. If a great keep like Kildrummy couldn't stand, Douglas Castle would have no chance."
"So I would if I stayed. I'd rather hear a lark sing than a mouse squeak, you understand. You'll not find me holding a castle." He frowned. "Now if they'll not come out to play, I'll find another game." He looked at Bruce. "But I'll bring loyal Douglas men to you. That I swear."
At last, the king nodded. "You have my permission then. A month for it and then you'll return to me. I have thoughts for what I'll do next. But mind you, take care." A twist of the king's mouth showed his pain. "By the rood, don't get yourself caught, lad."
James grinned. "I'll bring you men or die trying, my liege."
Bruce shook his head, but James jumped to his feet. "I'll talk to Wat and gather supplies for the trip, my lord."
"Go on then. But remember my words. I expect you to return to me, and a month you have for this enterprise. I need you here. I expect obedience in this, James Douglas."
That stabbed. "I'm yours, my lord. Your man. I swear it."
Bruce grunted. "Good. I expect you to return to me safely."
James felt Boyd's stare as he bowed and went to a spot under a tall pine where he kept the few things in his pack. If Boyd had known what James had done, he was sure he'd get more than a clout. B
oyd's was loyal as a hound and his bite a good deal worse. He trailed along behind James. As James shoved a bag of oats and a dried blood sausage in his pack, the man squatted across from him. "What in the name of the saints was that about? What did you do?"
James looked over at the king talking yet to de la Haye and shook his head. "If the king wants someone to know, then he'll tell the tale." He shrugged. "I stepped a good deal beyond what any loyal man should do, no matter how provoked." He touched his aching face ruefully. "The king explained that to me. And yet, mayhap it was for the best withal."
The king was with them again.
"After he killed the Comyn, I saw something change in him. He keeps himself in tight rein. Except for that." Boyd thrust his chin toward James's battered face.
"He still does. If it had been Longshanks, I'd be dead." James shrugged again. It was nothing he wanted to tell. Disrespect for the king's person was treason, not to be chattered about. He looked up as Wat strolled towards them.
"My lord, I don't mean to interrupt but when were you wanting to be off?"
Boyd stood. "No, I'll leave you to make your plans. But the king is right, by all the saints, Jamie. Be careful."
James watched him walk away. He was a good man and James would trust him at his back in any fight.
Then he turned to Wat. "Whilst we're on the road, I'm no lord, Wat. Remember that. We'll leave at dark. I want to be well away from where they think to find the king by dawn. If anyone spotted us here, who else's men would we be?"
Wat rocked back on his heels. "You'll not go as a knight then?"
"I'm neither proud nor stupid. I wish we could ride though. It'll be a slow trip afoot. But I fear it would raise too many suspicions so--afoot it is. We'll not take time to hunt. Take a bag of oats and some sausage, mind." It wouldn't get them where they were going. He'd have to try to find a village where they could buy more.
"Aye, my lord." He stopped and blinked. "James, then. My pack is ready. And with the look of your face, no one will take you for any fine lord."
James laughed and that gave him a twinge. "It's been a while since any of us looked much like fine lords." He plunked his pack down and leaned back against the tree. "My head is pounding like a smith at his anvil. Give me a poke at dark if I'm not awake." He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Rest at first was little more than a pretense though. Would he ever close his eyes and not see Isabella weeping? Blessed Mary, what must she be thinking locked in a cage? Did she know they still lived? Wonder why no one helped her? Then he must have slept because he opened his eyes on a golden sunset.
Beneath the shining rim of mountain, the vale was gray darkness, smelling of pine and moss. Pale mist rose from the water of the burn as James and Wat walked along it to the ravine. Beyond, the moon made a bright puddle in the middle of Loch Doon. They skirted the lapping water through land that was gentle enough, rocky, rolling hills interspersed with meadows and dense woodlands that crowded close to rushing streams. They cut across country where there was no path, taking their time in the dark. Castle Doon, on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, was no worry but James gave the lights that glinted faintly from it a glare. It was there the governor betrayed Christopher Seton to his death after Methven. Another debt to be paid one day.
He decided to cut into the hills further to the north. They needed to head northeast anyway. When it got near dawn, they stopped, each taking an hour's sleep whilst the other watched. A mouthful of water and a few slices of sausage broke their fast.
That way flowed the River Nith, the highway of English armies into their land. So far from Bruce's hiding place, James decided they could cut to a rutted road that ran by the river so they could move faster. No army would come this day into a land already conquered and under their heel, but James wondered how many English armies it had seen since King Alexander died. It was their fathers' mistake in asking King Edward's aid in choosing a new king that led to this war. They'd thought him a friend. Finally, James admitted they had to stop for food and rest although he begrudged the time.
The ten years since he'd been home were done, and he wanted only to reach it. They stopped in a narrow glen. Under a stand of beeches, James built a fire whilst Wat mixed water with oats for bannocks. A slice of sausage with it made the grumbling in their bellies stop. They filled up on water from a tiny burn that must lead down to the Nith.
Walking along the road, twice James saw wisps of smoke from some croft set well back from the road and out of sight. A stupid place for a croft, even if the land was lush with evergreens and oaks putting out spring buds. What mattered that when armies passed over it? What lord's land was this, he wondered. Some Englishman who had stolen it or a traitor? But the king would say that they'd had little choice with a sword to their throat.
Walking had become a fog, one step and then another. He watched the road in front of his feet but stumbled when he stepped into a pothole that had been right in front of him. He must have been half-asleep. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, they spotted the ruins of a small square keep. A wind had picked up, cold rain blowing into their faces. James was glad to take what shelter the place gave.
They'd have a cold camp. James sliced up the last of the sausage. There was still oats for bannocks but they'd need more. Mayhap he should risk stopping at a croft. Thinking on it, he wrapped himself in his cloak and pressed against the stone. Sheltered from the fine rain, he told Wat to wake him to keep the late watch.
He lay there for a minute or two, a side tooth the king had knocked loose aching. He poked at it with his tongue. It was loose but not so bad he would lose it. Then Wat nudged him and he sat up the rest of the night, the moonlight making flickering shadows from the broken walls.
He didn't remember this keep. Mayhap he'd never been this far with his father. An owl hooted and its shadow passed over the moon.
* * *
There was no straw on the floor, only bare stone, cold enough to soak through Lamberton's body. The one slit window was high in the wall, far higher than he could hope to reach. It let in a beam of dim light at least so he supposed it might have been worse, although a cold wind whistled through most nights. In the corner, the slop bucket that went days between being emptied sent up a stench he was sure. He was past smelling it.
He examined for the thousandth time the walls of pale gray festooned with patches of green mold and an age-blackened door three inches thick and studded with iron.
He feared he had lost track of the days he had been here. There was no way to mark them so he tried to count. Two hundred and eighty-nine days he thought. But had he counted a number twice? Or missed counting? Some days he'd been confused.
No one spoke to him. He'd heard no human voice but his own in all these months, except when he was told of an execution. Sir Christopher Seton, Nigel Bruce, the next eldest and fairest of those brothers, the Earl of Atholl, Sir Simon Fraser and his brother. Like the days, he'd lost count of the executions. All he could do now was pray for the friends who'd gone to the scaffold and a torturous death.
Not knowing what was happening gnawed at him so that at times he had to force down the gray food he was given. Of a certainty, if they'd captured Robert de Bruce they would have told him. King Edward wouldn't have passed up the chance to gloat over it before he had Robert tortured to death or even had he been killed in battle. The worse hadn't yet happened. Mayhap he had fled to Norway where his sister was dowager queen. Yet, even that, Lamberton suspected would be used to torment him. Not knowing--King Edward did indeed know how to torment.
Lamberton made plans in order to keep himself sane. Robert de Bruce would raise a new army. Lamberton would be rescued and together they would heal Scotland. Muttering to himself to hear a voice, he planned the laws he would write as the king's chancellor, the additions he would make to St. Andrew's Cathedral.
The nights were the worst. In the darkness, unable to sleep, his memories became nightmares. He remembered before King Alexander died. He was twent
y, at the great tournament with his mentor, Bishop Wishart. There was peace in the land. No one thought of war, not in Scotland. They'd been at peace for a hundred years. The grass was lush, scattered with the purple of heather. The wind carried the scent of spring flowers. The wine tasted sweet and Wishart frowned when Lamberton got muzzy headed, but it was as much happiness withal. He remembered Robert de Bruce in his golden armor, still a squire. It must have been his first tourney, so young. He fought like a madman, laughing as he unhorsed opponents left and right. Lamberton had smiled as Bruce circled the field after defeating Campbell to win the champion's crown from King Alexander. A cloud had covered the sun. In his memory, the king faded away--as he had only weeks later, falling to his death. Leaving Scotland with no heir--no king--no champion--to Edward of England's certain conquest.
The hours stretched into days into years, it seemed although he kept count. He prayed for hours every day, almost as much to keep from raving as for the victims he prayed for, yet he ached for the friends who died.
The low flap at the bottom of the door opened and a wooden tray slid through. He sighed. The usual flagon of water and a bowl of some watery gruel, a piece of bread, enough to keep him alive.
He ran a thumb down the back of his hand, thin except for the knuckles. From the damp, they had swollen, paining him constantly. The worst was the dirt, embedded deep in his skin, under his nails that were blackened with it. He'd been a fastidious man. If he lived to see the freedom again, would this cure him of the fault or make him worse, he wondered. Sometimes he used his water to wash instead of drink and endured the thirst. Without soap that did little good, yet it made him feel more human.
He got the tray from the floor and poked with a spoon at the thin liquid in the bowl. He picked the bowl up and drank some of the greasy stuff down. It had no real taste but it more or less filled his belly--less than more. Twice a day, he was fed. Now there was another day to get through.
Lamberton was on his knees with his prayers for the soul of-- Who? He'd drifted off into memories again. From outwith the door came the rattle of chains. He put a hand on the damp wall and pushed himself to his feet. The door creaked open.