A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  Outside he pulled Wat aside, "Whilst I finish here I want you to check the church. Take anything we can use--armor, weapons." He frowned and motioned to Gib. "Start someone moving the horses into the village. But I want you to stay. I'd have the village elders witness what I do this day."

  Then James stood in the middle of the yard, motioning the people to clear a space and drew his sword. Iain Smith and Gib dragged the commander before James at his nod.

  "You commanded here?" James asked. "And what was done here was at your command?"

  "You know I did." He jerked against the men holding him.

  "Be grateful I'm not your sovereign. I don't torture men before I kill them. But you have offended against the laws of the Scotland and of God. In the name of Robert, King of the Scots, I sentence you to death."

  The two men forced the commander down until his face was pressed into the ground. James lifted his sword in both hands high over his head. He sucked in a breath. He brought it down as hard as he could. It hit the ground with a jar. The head bounced, rolling. Blood sprayed across the stones.

  He heard Alycie give a cry behind him. He didn't turn but something inside him seemed to crack and unfreeze. He felt his face flush as though he had a fever, and he knew if he let them, his hands would shake. But he had to finish this.

  He motioned to someone, not looking to see who. "Drag the body into the cellar with the rest of it. Put it on top."

  Twice more he sentenced a man to die and executed him. It was right that he should soil his own hands. He wouldn't put this on another man's soul.

  The ground was soaked red with blood and the air stank of it and of death.

  At last, he sent everyone away. Silently they filed out to await in the village. He watched them go, holding tight to his sword so no one saw his hands shaking. The cellar door stood open and he walked down the steps. He took a torch from its sconce. The pile reached to the thick beams that supported the upper floor. It filled the room--spilled grain, split barrels of wine, furniture. On the top were bodies. Oil seeped through the mess and pooled onto the floor.

  He said goodbye to memories and the days of happiness he'd had in this place. This was now how he'd remember it. He tossed the torch.

  The oil caught with a whoosh and flames climbed and twisted towards the beams.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Douglas Castle, Scotland: March 1307

  Even the men-at-arms had had armor in better condition than his. James gave a grim laugh. Wat had put aside armor for both of them, improving what they were wearing. James threw aside the bloody mess his own was and waded into the Douglas Water within sight of the kirk. He shivered in the cold but plunged his face in to wash off the blood and sweat. The water tasted of mud and grass and living things. He turned, looking at the green sprouts of spring. He had to hang on to why he'd done what he had. He couldn't let go of it.

  Beyond the trees, the smoke from Douglas castle rose in a black column into the sky. As he splashed out of the water and sponged off with his discarded cloak, he pictured his father that last day they'd left. He'd lifted James's step-mother off her feet in a bear hug and tousled his brother's hair. But he would have understood--would have done the same thing. James picked up the looted hauberk and paused. Would his father have executed the prisoners? James's stomach twisted. He hadn't tortured them. What he'd done was gentle compared to Wallace's and Thomas Bruce's deaths.

  He shuddered. Killing them didn't mean he was a ravening beast. He wasn't like King Edward. St. Bride, please let him not have turned into a demon from hell.

  He jerked on the armor and buckled on his weapons. That smoke was likely to bring someone to investigate. Time to finish here.

  Buckling his belt, he strode through the trees and into the village. The men were dividing up the armor and weapons. Now most of the seventy who would ride with him had at least a mail hauberk. About half had a helm and they all had dirks and swords at their belts. Around them stood those who would stay behind, women and children and most of the family men.

  "If anyone wants to flee, I'll give them escort. There's a chance that even with no one who could say who aided me that the English may still take revenge."

  Gib came forward. "My lord, it's our home."

  One last task.

  The grave was already dug. James stood behind Alycie, his hands on her shoulders, whilst the priest said his prayers and blessed the holy ground. She trembled but made not a sound. As dirt clods began to thud over the body, James turned her. "Don't watch. Come along." Pulling her against him, he nodded to Will and started towards their home.

  As they walked, Will said, "I'd go with you, my lord, but how can I leave Alycie alone? With no one to care for her?"

  She sighed and James tightened his arm around her shoulder.

  "Can you truly take care of me as long as there are English in the land? What can you do to protect me--however much you want to?" she said.

  Will opened his mouth but nothing came out at first. "You know I tried."

  "Did I say you didn't try?" she said in an angry voice.

  "Wait," James said. "Will, I need you here. I've a more important task for you than riding with me."

  "Truly?"

  James stopped and turned to face Will. "You know the men here as well as your father did. I trust you. I must know what happens in Douglasdale. Even in Bothwell and Lanark. Anywhere we can find someone to watch. I'll have a camp in the Forest. When I'm not there, I'll see that someone is."

  Will opened the door to their home and they went in.

  James kept his arm around Alycie. It somehow seemed like the right thing to do. And she didn't seem to think he was a ravening beast. He needed to feel that.

  "Once I have a camp set up, I'll send Wat to you. We'll make plans. Find a few men--ones you can trust mind--to spy for us. I'll know every time the English move, how many and where."

  "My lord," Will's eyes had widened. "I can do that."

  "I know you can." James managed a smile.

  A horse whickered and hooves clattered outside. He tilted Alycie's chin. "Keep safe, sweetling."

  Her eyes were soft--full of sadness. She stroked his cheek. "When will you return?"

  How could a man not kiss such soft lips? They parted under his mouth. His tongue touched hers. Her face was scarlet as he pushed her gently away. "I must go. I'll return when I may."

  He threw himself out the door. Wat held the reins of a big black stallion. He vaulted in the saddle, wheeling the animal in a circle. "The Forest," he yelled. "And let the English seek us."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ettrick Forest, Scotland: April 1307

  James paced the vale whilst his men hobbled the horses. He set a watch up on the ridge where the stone peak curved like a scythe. Trees covered its lower slope, pine and yew and hawthorn. As he paced the edge of the clearing, jays and skylarks burst from the trees. The spring wind sighed amongst the trees. A squirrel chattered and scolded high above.

  He climbed to the peak, pebbles scattering as he went and nodded to the sentry. The red sun hung low above the horizon and the trees stretched on and on in waves like a sea of dark green marked by a line where the Water cut through. He smiled. Bad cess to the English when they tried to find him here. Like Wallace and Frasier who'd hidden here before him. This was a fastness as good or better than the mountains where Bruce yet lurked. They stretched thick over three counties and he'd hunted them as a boy.

  He had to wonder how the king would take the news of his fight at Douglasdale. He was religious in his own way. James knew that Comyn's killing worried at him. In spite of the bishop's absolution, the king sometimes said their ill fortune sprang from that deed. James would have to tell him of a kirk that had a floor coated with blood and men he'd beheaded. He supposed confession would be a good thing if he could find a priest who would absolve him for such acts. Bishop Moray would understand. As he watched the sun setting, he had to laugh. At least he wasn't important enough for the Pop
e to excommunicate. That worried Bruce as well--that the Pope threw anathema at him rebelling against the English rule.

  Ah, time to see to the camp and think about what they might yet do to annoy the unwanted guests in their country and plans yet to make.

  Men in twos and threes were building small cook fires and for the comfort in the shelter of the scattered trees. The scrape, scrape of a whetstone on steel was a comforting sound. A long and lean man whose name he didn't recall sharpened a dirk. He needed to learn his men--their names. Their strengths. And their weaknesses.

  Wat came through the trees. "The horses are hobbled and wiped down. But keeping enough feed for them will be hard."

  "I want to look them over. We have no time for cutting hay." They'd had to double up to ride them into the Forest. Some of the men who couldn't ride would straggle in later. The black charger James had ridden snorted and snapped when he took its halter. He gave it a jerk.

  "This one I have a use for." He chewed his lip and went to the animals one by one looking them over. "They're good rouncels but I'd rather find lighter garrons for us to ride. They'll go where these never will."

  Will frowned. "I've never heard of an army on garrons."

  "Nor have I but it's what we'll do. They're light enough to make it through marshes where these would be stuck in a trice."

  "So what do we do with these. They're too fine for a cook pot except the pack horses."

  "The pack animals we'll keep. But these... There is a market it seems to me at Bothwell village. And the last I heard, Aymer de Valence was in residence there. I'd like to see if I can get wind of what that man is up to."

  "Surely this many animals would raise suspicions, my lord. I've no desire for us to end up with our heads on a stake."

  James gave a grim laugh. "Even less do I since I'd share Wallace's fate. Give me a clean death in battle, pray God. But we can take them a few at a time to this market and that. We'll make sure they look rough, like an animal that's never known a fine stable. Thus, we'll learn much, mayhap find a chance to do our friends a bad turn and gain some much-needed coin. After all, out of this mail would you take me for a king's man?"

  "No, not any of us." Wat nodded. "We could do it, I think."

  "The market for animals is--" James squinted searching his memory. "It used to be held on the second Sunday of the month so a week from today. The Lanark Fair is only a few weeks away. And, Wat, I want the men trained to use their swords and dirks. These are farmers and need practice. That will be your task. Set up a schedule to work with them. And set some to hunting. I'll have them busy and not idle. Who knows what work I might find for them traveling about." He smiled.

  Wat nodded. "Right you are that they need training, my lord. I'll start tomorrow."

  "I'll see to the sentries myself whilst I'm here." James strolled back to the edge of the camp and Wat followed. One of the men was singing a song about two corbies looking for their dinner whilst another played on a pipe. James's stomach grumbled. Time to eat and rest, but it was hard with so much to do. Ten men to a watch would suffice.

  He tried to keep his mind from skittering about but there was so much to plan. On the way to Bothwell, he'd sneak into Douglas village. Someone must go to Berwick-upon-Tweed. It was a long trip, but Will would know who could be sent. James had to know Isabella's fate. Was there any chance of getting aid to her? Did she have warm clothes? He had no chance of a rescue at that great keep--yet, he had to be sure. If only there were a way to rescue her. Thinking of her locked in a cage like a wild animal made him want to howl in rage, but it was better to do something instead.

  Soon he had someone digging latrine trenches and the rest of the sentries in place. They'd brought a haunch of beef from the castle that sizzled and spit over the fire and each of them sliced some off. The camp started to feel like a good place to be. But when he closed his eyes to sleep, the eyes of the men he had executed stared out of the dark.

  The next morning Wat practiced with some on their blade work and others hunted. James made it a point to talk with each of them, to fix their names and their faces in his mind. He talked to them about what they could do and what they knew about the surrounding towns and castles. Most had some skills. Iain knew horses. Dauid had helped in the kitchen at the castle so James put him in charge of the food. Most had never ridden so he'd need to work on that. Moving fast would be essential. But they'd need the right horses for it. He sent Sym to hunt for a new campsite. When he returned, they'd move. A week in one place would be more than long enough.

  By Friday night, James felt happy with the way the camp was running and soon he'd have fighters. He picked out the two smallest and scruffiest horses and told Iain to come with him. A horse trader wouldn't have a sword or armor, but a dirk in each leather boot and one at his belt made him feel secure enough.

  After dark, they saddled and rode down the Douglas Water to near the town. Iain stayed with the horses hidden in the woods whilst James crept to Hazelside. A soft knock and Will opened the door for him to slip inside.

  "My lord. I thought you would send someone. It's dangerous for you. Valence and Clifford have men scouring the dale."

  James grinned and scrubbed at untrimmed beard. "Do you see any Lord of Douglas hereabouts? Looks to me like I'm just a horse trader on my way to market."

  Will laughed and Alycie came in carrying a basket of herbs.

  She curtsied, her cheeks growing pink. "I heard you, and thought mayhap you could use these. There's boneset for fevers and comfrey and slippery elm for wounds." She frowned. "I'll put it in cloth sacks for you to take. I should have thought of that." She scurried out of the room and James looked after her.

  "She seems well. I was worried how she'd take your father's death."

  "She's stronger than you'd think. I wish she'd let me find her a husband. But I won't force her. After everything, it's more than I can do. She..." Will gave James an embarrassed look, rubbing his neck. "She has her mind elsewhere."

  The house smelt of the oak from the crackling fire and something with an herby scent that Alycie must have been cooking. He paced. He tried to be a decent man, but sometimes he wasn't sure how. He shrugged off the thought. "Will, I have a hard task I need done. I need someone to go to Berwick-upon-Tweed for me. Is there any man who's been there? One we can trust?"

  Will frowned. "That's a long trip. I was there with my father once. Going so far away from everyone they know, I'm not sure I'd want to trust anyone else. It's too big a risk. If someone must go, it must be me."

  "You'd leave Alycie with no protection and the village with no leader. No. I can't agree to that." He took another turn around the room. "Mayhap I'll make the trip myself."

  "My lord. No, you mustn't," Will exclaimed.

  Alycie stood in the door with the bag of herbs in her hand. "Mustn't what?"

  When Will told her what James was proposing, her eyes widened. "Oh, please. Don't."

  James took the bag from her hand and smiled. "I'll think on it." But it had to be done, and it looked like he'd have to do it himself and soon since he needed to return to the king. "Thank you for these. We've been lucky so far, but eventually we'll need such."

  "I do have news for you, my lord," Will said. "A troop of men-at-arms arrived from Lord Clifford yesterday. They've ordered us to help with clearing the castle. They said they'll start repairs soon."

  "It's what I expected. But I can make it an uncomfortable place to hold. Gather any more news that you can and I'll be back soon. I want to take a look at Bothwell Castle."

  "Ah. My lord, whilst your there you'll want to talk to a cousin of mine. My mother's cousin, I suppose. She's passed me news and might know something new."

  "Will you sup before you go?" Alycie asked.

  He took her hand. The bones felt frail under his fingers; he could have broken them with no more than a squeeze. With a jolt, he thought that if he could have taken her to safety he would. If such thinking was wrong, then he couldn't help it.
/>   "No, I'd best go. One of my men awaits and we have traveling to do."

  She hurried to a shelf to take down bread and cheese. "Then you must take something with you. I won't let you leave without food."

  He smiled softly to himself as he took it from her hand. It was hard not to become fonder of her than he should be.

  After Will made sure the way was clear, James left. He and Iain led the horses through the dark, not wanting to ride and take a chance on laming one if it stepped in a hole.

  They rested a few hours in the night and by morning, Bothwell Castle rose before them.

  The red stone keep punched into the sky at the top of a grassy brae. The castle village sat below along a twisting road. The market was set up south of the village, a small city of tents and stalls, even from a distance stinking of shit and blood. The horses whickered at the smell but a word calmed them. Hawkers shouted and loud voices were all mixed together so James couldn't catch the words. He led the way into the reeking market.

  A man-at-arms in a blue dyed wool cloak and black mail was propped up by a spear next to the first tent. He scanned everyone who passed. James slid his eyes away. Beyond the tents stretched paddocks for the stock. James dismounted and nodded to Iain to follow him. Men crowded around a stall selling mugs of ale. James stopped and slid a groat to the merchant for two mugs.

  "I hear the castle burned for three days," a man said in an undertone his eyes on the guard.

  "Aye, the Lord of Douglas they say. English are naming him the Black Douglas his dark looks and for killing all the garrison." The man snorted with laughter then looked around in alarm. He glanced at James and moved away. That was old news, but the part about being called the Black Douglas made him smile. He held his horse's reins whilst he sipped and slid closer to two men talking, heads near together.

  "At Glen Trool, they say. Had Lord Clifford running like a whipped cur."