by J. R. Tomlin
Chapter Fifteen
Douglasdale, Scotland: March 1307
All through that night, men came. They knelt and swore themselves to the service of the Lord of Douglas. The next day again he stayed locked inside the house whilst Alycie sewed a rent in his cloak and prepared clothes for him to wear over his armor.
He kept telling himself she wasn't truly fair, that had only been courtesy. Her face was rounder than Isabella's, too round for true beauty. Her eyes were too far apart and her nose was turned up instead of straight and regal. But when she smiled and handed him a mug of ale, he thought the laughter in her eyes made them pretty anyway. She sang in a soft voice as she sewed, and it stirred him. Later she sat by the hearth, hugging her knees, and combed out her long cornsilk-colored hair and that stirred something in him so hard he rushed into the other room.
But he had a lady; he had sworn her his love. She had wept when he sent her away without him. He had told her never to forget that he loved her. A man might lay with a woman for his needs--as the king had with Christina of the Isles. Everyone knew that. But to love another and whilst Isabella suffered for her courage, he couldn't betray her that way.
"I'll never understand lords and the like," Wat said when she had gone to take her father his food. "If a lass looked at me the way that one does you, I'd be doing something about it."
"I'd not dishonor her father," James said. "He's a loyal man and his daughter deserves better of me."
"I'm thinking he'd not hold it dishonor. Would you mistreat her?"
He looked blankly at Wat for a moment. "I might get her with child."
"A lord's bonny lassie or laddie wouldn't be no bother to Thomas. But if such worries you, did your father never tell you to spill your seed on a woman's belly?"
"Yes, but--" He couldn't bear to talk about Isabella so he just shook his head.
"I'll never understand lords," Wat muttered, "but even the king has made a bastard or two."
As he slept that night, James dreamt he and Isabella walked beside the water with the tall spire of Scone overhead, that Alexander and Thomas laughed, running ahead of them. The king, wearing his crown, walked down from the crest of the hill, talking to Wallace beside him. When James stood with Isabella in the shade of a spreading oak, he drew her into his arms. Her mouth tasted of summer wine, and he awoke aching and angry.
He pushed open one of the shutters and breathed in the soft piney scent of near dawn. It was time. He pulled on his hauberk and the mail chausses that came to below his knees. After belting on his weapons, he donned soft leather boots so no mail would show under the worn thresher's robe. He picked up the mantle with a grim smile. It was patched and worn and still smelled of another man's sweat.
He heard the murmur of Alycie's voice and her father answering.
She looked up at him when he stepped into the room. "I'll have bandages and herbs if we need them."
He nodded shortly. Thomas and Wat waited by the door. "Thomas, go ahead so you can be sure you get a place inside. We'll follow. I want all the English inside. I'm not so nice of a holy day as they. I'll be at the back. When I raise the cry, you know what to do."
When the door closed behind Thomas, Wat sucked on his teeth with a click. "There's much that could go wrong, my lord."
"If it goes wrong, then I must put it aright. You just see no one reaches the castle from the kirk if any get past us. They mustn't have a chance to close the gates."
James looked over his shoulder. Alycie crouched by the hearth, crushing a cloth in her hand, her eyes wide. "Bar the door and only open it to one of us, lass." Not that a bar would keep the English out if this went awry so he'd have to be sure that it didn't.
"I'm not afraid," she said and he knew it was a lie.
As James walked towards the village, he could see the top of the keep poking above the trees. Ahead, thatched roofs clustered along the edge of the river and a small pier jutted out into it. Wisps of smoke rose from some of the chimneys and part of a cart stuck out from behind one of them. At the end of the dirt track, the gray slate of the kirk gleamed like silver in the first shafts of daylight.
James stopped beside the road under a skeletal beech tree. Weeds grew up through the pebbles in patches. A wind sighed through the bare branches and they rustled and creaked.
Then there was laughter.
Two men in mail hauberks walked around the bend in the road. A third man came into view dressed in blue and yellow velvet, talking to another beside him. Their voices were loud but they were too far away from James to make out the words. A flock of crows took off cawing as the men passed. Behind them in two rows marched in men-at-arms in mail jacks.
James leaned back against the tree and crossed his arms. He took a deep breath. Look afraid. His face showed too much. He stared at the feet of the guards as they passed, counting. Forty-two, including the commander in his velvet. Their feet thudded in the dirt, weapons and armor clanking.
Once they were past, he watched their backs. Even to the kirk, they wore swords and daggers at their belts. He nodded to himself. Then it would be a fight of it. Straightening, he followed.
Thomas stood beside the door to the kirk with Gib behind him. Clusters of men meandered towards it from the houses. A door slammed. Thomas motioned to Gib as soon as the English had crowded inside. They entered, going in opposite directions to each side. In ones and twos, his other men entered. The bell of the kirk clanged and clanged again. James realized his heart was racing. These men weren't fighters. Holy Mary, please let him not have made a mistake.
As one of the English would have pushed the door closed, James caught it with the flat of his hand and stepped inside. The priest stood before the altar, his hands raised.
A barrel-chested man at the front swung to face a guard. "A Douglas!" he screamed and swung his flail at a man-at-arms head. As he stumbled back, the man swung two-handed again. The wooden bar thwacked against the guard's head and blood splattered.
Too soon. They weren't yet at their prayers. The English commander jumped to his feet. The priest scrambled behind the altar.
Thomas shouted, "At them. At them."
James cursed under his breath. With both hands, he ripped the tunic and mantle to get to his sword.
"Guards," the velvet-clad commander was screaming.
By that time, James had his longsword in his hand. He scythed it, catching a southron in the back and cleaving him like a loaf of bread. A guard swung a sword at Thomas who managed to catch it on his own.
James jerked the blade free. "A Douglas. A Douglas," James shouted. His men took up the cry. It rose over the clang of steel on steel and the groans as men died. There was no time or room for fine blade work--just swing and hack. He had to get to the front. Thomas was trapped, back to the wall. A sword swung at James and he dodged backwards, loosing a blow between helm and shoulder that took the man's head halfway off.
Two were at Thomas. James thrust hard into the belly of the guard in front of him. He kicked the body out of the way. Their ranks were thinning. He jumped over another body and shoved one of his men out of his way. He hacked a Sassenach down. Swung his elbow into the nose of another whilst he caught a third with a backswing of his sword.
He was almost to Thomas, but the man was on his knees in a pool of blood. The guard above him swung. Thomas folded up into a bundle surrounded by gore. Too late, James lunged. The man caught the blade on his. James leaned his weight into him and shoved him, taking him off his feet, sliding on the blood-slick floor.
"A Douglas," James shouted as he brought his blade down in a killing stroke. Blood sprayed in a red fountain.
"I yield," the velvet-clad commander threw his sword clattering at James's feet. "I yield."
James spun looking for another opponent, but the two men-at-arms still standing dropped their weapons. "Gib, get to the castle. See to the gates."
Gib jumped over a corpse as he went and he yelled, "Will, come with me."
James kicked a body
out of the way and bent over Thomas, rolling him onto his back. His mouth gaped and his eyes were blank. The rent in his neck was a bloody grin. James supported his head with one hand to lean it on his shoulder. It was half off and the white of his spine showed through the gore. For a moment, James closed his eyes, then he slid his other arm under Thomas'sknees and lifted him. He should have been heavier. He was a big man, James thought as he laid the corpse gently on the altar.
Someone shoved the commander down on his knees in front of James. Men were going amongst the bodies gathering weapons.
"Looting can wait." He flexed his hands. "Tie them," he growled, "and bring them." They'd have to be taken care of. He flexed his sword hand.
The worst choices were when there was no choice.
He strode into the sunlight. His hands were sticky with blood. It was caked on his chest and specks were drying in his beard. It didn't matter. He walked on. A corpse lay in the middle of the road, Wat standing over it.
"You let one get away," he said.
"We still have business to attend to," James rasped.
Gib and Will waited in the gateway, the portcullis like teeth above their heads. Will caught James's eye. His face was drawn. James shook his head. The man had seen his father fall. "I should tell Alycie," Will said.
James frowned. Mayhap the news would be best coming from her brother. James wouldn't blame her if she said it was his fault. He should have kept Thomas close to him. If he had-- But any of them might have died.
In truth, he didn't have time. Besides, she wasn't his. He'd made that decision, hadn't he?
"Yes, she needs to know. Return with her. I have work to do here."
The doors of the great hall had been thrown open and Wat came running out. "My lord, they've left us a feast." He laughed.
"Gib, see that the prisoners are tied and secure. Any get away and it's people's lives when they return with aid."
He let out a long breath. The last time he walked out those doors, he'd been at his father's heels. He should remember it more clearly, but at the time, they'd just been leaving for Berwick. The excitement of seeing the city had been more important than leaving home. His baby brother had cried. He remembered that.
"If there's a feast then it's ours now," James said as he walked through the doors.
The gray stone walls of the great hall were draped with banners, blue, gold, green and amongstst them the banner of the Cliffords. The arched ceiling was supported by age-blackened beams. The air was heavy with the smell of roasted fowl and fresh baked bread. At the end of the hall, a fire roared in the great hearth and sent forth a smell of oak.
He turned and shouted to the men who crowded in the doorway behind him, "Get your women and children. We'll feast on what's ours."
His people were hungry. They'd had little enough left after the English took the best of everything. He wanted no food, but they'd expect him to take the lord's place.
"Bring water." He waited until he could plunge his hands into a basin. The water came away dyed red.
James sank into high-backed lord's chair at the head of the raised high table. A honeyed chicken sat on a platter. He reached out to tear off the rear quarter. He forced down a bit and then dropped it onto the trencher. The thought of what was to come stole hunger.
As men and a few women straggled into the room, laughter and talk filled the air. James's head thrummed with pain and his hand twitched. He couldn't sit here and feast. His gut twisted. Sitting still had never been easy.
He shoved back the chair and stood. "My people," he raised his voice over the noise. "Eat. Drink. Afterward await me here, and you'll have what you can carry away. There will be food, supplies. No one leaves empty-handed."
Cheers and shouts followed him as he slowly climbed the steep stone steps that corkscrewed the keep, trying not to think that this would be the last time. He reached the landing and stood for a long moment, memories flooding. His father, hounds at his heels, shouting that they must start on a hunt. His brother running from James's step-mother to throw arms around James's legs. Thomas carrying a hound pup up the stairs shouting for him.
Now he must destroy it. He entered the room that had been his father's. The bed hangings were the same blue that matched the family crest. The chest under the open window the same golden oak. The shouting that drifted up from the yard below was different though. He threw open the lid of the chest. Light caught on armor. He turned it in his hands--gold inlay on the helm, the mail beautifully crafted and a plate cuirass instead of a mail hauberk. Clifford must reward his minions well, James thought as he handled the pieces. Underneath he found a bag of silver groats and that went into his belt. One last time, he looked out the slit window. High in the sky, a hawk rode the wind in lazy circles, the last sight he'd see from here. Victory wasn't supposed to be so bitter on the tongue.
There was no time to waste and much to be done. He pelted down the stairs. Finding Wat still at the table, James sent him up for the armor and clothes in the master's chamber. Once he had that, James ordered that he go through the storerooms selecting anything that should be carried to the king and pile that outwith the gates.
James stepped onto the top of the high table and shouted for attention. When he had it, he told everyone that once they had finished their feast to join him out in the yard.
The stables had to be emptied so he set Gib to leading out the horses to hobble them furth the gates as well. "But find me one that we can spare for another purpose. One I won't want to take with me."
"My lord," Will said as he came through the gate with Alycie, "I've brought my sister as you commanded."
She was dry-eyed and calm but her face was white and stiff and she had a bag in her hands. "I brought bandages, herbs."
"You know?" He tried to think of the right words to say. "I should have kept him close to me," he managed at last. "I'm sorry, lass. He was a good friend."
Her nod was jerky. "Will told me you tried to save him. I know you would have if you could."
He reached out and took her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. "He will have justice. You know my oath. And before we leave the priest will give him his rites." Then tears started in the corner of her eyes and rolled down each cheek. James pulled her to him, stroking her hair. "I'm so sorry."
Yet he seemed to have lost the power to feel. He was sorry but it seemed as though his heart had frozen.
He wasn't sure if it was when he carried Thomas's dead body or when he stepped into his home knowing what he had to do. Killing in the heat of battle was one thing. But he had to protect his people, no matter what it cost him.
"I don't blame you," she pulled back, wiping at her eyes. "Is there anyone who needs care? The nuns taught me well."
"Will, why don't you take her inside? Several men had wounds she could tend. There's much I must see to and little time."
The prisoners sat, hands tied behind their backs, against the outer wall. Gib and a helper were leading out horses, their hooves ringing on the stones of the yard. He spotted the smith coming out the door of the keep and called to him, giving him orders to find men and bring out all the stores from the kitchens and store rooms. "Any that people can carry with them stack there," he pointed to beside the doors of the great hall, "and the rest is all to go in the cellars. The tables and chairs and benches from the hall, break them up. Into the cellar with it. Everything--except the salt. Bring me the salt."
Gib led up a brown filly limping on a hind foot. "This one you'll not want, my lord. What should we do with it?"
"You know where the well is on the side, Gib. Take her there and wait for me. Once Iain Smith brings me the salt, I'll take care of the matter."
The yard had become chaos with men and women both carrying out bags and barrels of stores, Wat and Will carrying out stacks of weapons and armor, horses whinnying as they were led through the press. Woman talked and laughed as they shared out flour and oats from the barrels stacked to the side. He set some children to chasing do
wn chickens to carry home. Their squawking added to the uproar.
James walked to the top of the steps to shout over the cacophony. "All of the women need to go through the food here. Take what you can carry away. Take anything you can use--but remember the English will come looking. If they find something they can identify, they'll take their revenge. Carry off only what won't give you away."
Iain Smith appeared with a barrel of salt on his shoulder. "This is the salt I could find, my lord."
"Good. I'll need your help." The man followed him around to the side. James pointed to the edge of the well. "Dump it in." Once the salt was poured in the well, he took the horse's head, sidling her flank against the low edge of the well. "Once I've done what I must, you see that she goes in. Get ready."
He pulled the dirk from his belt. With a hard slash, he slit the horse's throat, jumping to the side away from the hot gush of blood. Still his hands were covered in red gore. For a second, her eyes rolled. The three of them pushed hard. Her thrashing body tilted onto the opening. Her weight topped her down. They scraped on the stone on the way down. James heard a splash. An unpleasant job, but not the worst he'd do this day.
Gib met him as he strode back into the yard. "The supplies are all piled in the cellar."
James looked down at his hands, once more blood soaked. Well, time for them to get more so. He must reek of blood. Mayhap it had soaked into his soul.
"Get the prisoners," he ordered. He strode through the door of the great hall and went to Alycie. Will had a hand on her shoulder as she tied off a bandage on a youth's arm. They were in front of the hearth where a fire still crackled though the room was empty of tables and benches. "It's time for justice to be done. You should stay inside until after."
Alycie looked from him to her brother and back again. "What are you going to do, Jamie?"
"What I must."
She paled. "I--don't think I like this."
"There are many things I don't like, lass." His voice grated. "But the English will know they can't despoil my people. Nor may they live to take revenge once I'm gone. None must know who helped me here."