by J. R. Tomlin
"By the saints, burn all the wood I have and you're welcome." He frowned at James. "Alycie's right. You look worn to the bone." He picked his mantle up and kissed his sister's cheek as he left. She barred the door after him.
James thrust a piece of wood from a pile into the embers and squatted to poke at it whilst it caught. He pulled a stool from the table to sit on, stretching his legs out to the fire. "Mayhap I'll sleep here in front of the fire." He bent and tossed another piece of wood into the flames.
"You can't rest so. I have some chamomile. Let me prepare a mug for you."
He gave her a wry smile. "I'm not a bairn or an old man--just tired." He sighed. "I really have never been so tired." Not a lie--the weariness went down to his soul.
She knelt by him and touched his arm. "What happened?"
He took her hand and turned it over. Running a finger over her soft fingers, he found a callous her middle finger. He wondered how she'd made it. Not a fine lady's hand, but soft and warm withal. "How many years do you have, sweetling?" he finally asked.
Looking puzzled, she said, "Sixteen."
He reached out a hand, stroked her hair, and ran a fine strand through his fingers. The house was quiet. The wood popped as it burned. "You should be married with a bairn at your breast. Not here with a lord who's as like to ravish you as not."
She shook her head, but she had laughter in her eyes again. "Jamie, you're not going to ravish me." Standing, she brushed a finger across his lips. "You wouldn't--"
"How can you be so sure?"
"I admit you used to chase me away with a stick when I was a lass. But I remember the one time when you caught me--" She smiled. "What did you do, Jamie Douglas?"
He had to laugh. How could he have forgotten she was the first lass he'd kissed? He'd been eight and she mayhap all of six.
She stroked his hand. "I know you better than you think I do."
He was on his feet both hands holding her face. He bent to press his face into her hair and breathed the scent of grass and beneath it her own scent. Running his hands down her back, she arched against him at the pressure. "Do you? You're sure I wouldn't ravish you?"
Her arms slid up and around his neck. She stretched up onto her toes, pressing her mouth to his ear. "No," she whispered. "You wouldn't."
He held her close and her heart was beating against him. No, he wouldn't. She touched his face and tipped her head back to look up at him. "You think I don't know you better than that, James, Lord of Douglas?" She shook her head. "To think that you'd hurt me?"
"How can you know me when I don't know myself? What I've turned into?" He shoved the stool back as he pulled her down and sat on the floor, tucking her against him with his arm around her. He propped his back against the wall and gentled her head on his shoulder. A knot in the wood popped loudly and he sighed. "I've done things I never meant to. I never meant to--" And like a dagger it cut him that he was grieving as much for himself as for Isabel. His grief was in part for the knight he'd meant to be--the knight who would do no wrong. "Dreams. What did you dream as a lass?"
She laughed softly. "Impossible things, but I won't tell you." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
He smiled and turned her head towards him. "Really? Is that what you dreamed of?"
She blushed and pushed his hand away, looking into the fire. "You shouldn't make me admit that. It was foolish."
"Not at all. You're beautiful enough for any man." He settled her back against his shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "Mine were boy's dreams. Jousting. Defeating all who came against me. Battles that left me covered with glory." His voice hardened. "They say I have glory--that my enemies fear my name. I never suspected the price that came with it."
She put a hand against his chest. "It's been a terrible price for all of us. But I know what's inside you, Jamie." She stroked her hand over his heart. "I know the love that's there."
He tilted her chin up with his thumb and kissed her, nibbling at her lips. "I shouldn't do this," he whispered, and he was so hard it hurt.
He caught the hem of her kirtle, tugging it up to her hips; he could feel himself trembling. "Lass, tell me no," he urged.
She rose onto her knees and pulled the kirtle over her head in a motion, tossing it aside. James took her hand. He pulled her gently to him. Her mouth tasted of mint and honey when he thrust his tongue into it. Her fingers stroked his neck, tangling into his hair.
She made a noise in her throat and fumbled at the fastenings of his clothes as her mouth clung to his. Not here, he thought. He wouldn't rut with her like an animal so he scooped her up and shoved the door to her room open with a foot.
She was watching, eyes wide, as he jerked off his tunic and breeches. Out of his clothes, he knelt beside her and took her soft breasts in his hands. He swallowed and couldn't wait longer. He'd waited so long. He touched her soft thigh and moved his hand up until he could feel her warmth and her wetness.
Slowly, he eased his finger inside her and she tensed. James knew she had been hurt and what had been done. He lay still as he whispered soft words in her ear. Breathing in the scent of her hair, he forced himself to wait, holding her and fingers gently stroking her wetness. His mouth drank her in, her breasts, her neck, her mouth. Her arms tightened around him as he heard her moan. She moved against him.
"Jamie," she pleaded. She returned his kiss, her tongue probing his mouth until it found his.
He threw back his head, his eyes closed. "I'll be gentle." He was easing into her. He came deeper and she was lifting her hips for him. Then slowly he began to move. He held her head between his hands and kissed her, his words fast and frantic, gasping out between kisses his need for her. He'd wanted to be gentle at this moment but he could not. He thrust deep. "I won't hurt you, sweetling. Ah, God, I need you." She cried out and held tightly to him.
As she lay in his arms afterwards, James realized how much he had needed her. Not just that it had been a year since he'd lain with a woman, but that in all that time he'd not touched anyone but to kill them. He'd hungered for this. He might well die tomorrow or mayhap the next day. If he did, he'd go to hell thinking of Alycie and not the men he'd beheaded or his knife sliding into Isabella's throat.
He could feel the softness of her hair that fell across his chest as she lay against him. He stroked the silky strands and wound it gently around his fingers.
She murmured something against his shoulder.
"Go to sleep, love," he said. With a sigh, she settled against him. When her breathing turned deep and even, he eased his arm from beneath her smoothing the coverlet around her. Naked, he walked to the front door and stepped out to make water. Beyond the trees, the black shape of Douglas Castle hulked, but a single light showing from the tower. James shook off the last drop of piss and thought that he'd have to do something about the castle again. But not yet. He'd let them finish first. Then--he'd remind them that the Douglas had returned.
When James returned to the bedroom, Alycie held out a hand and said sleepily, "I awoke and you were gone."
"I'm here now." He slid into bed and pulled her against him.
She pressed her body to his and he was hard again. "Yes," she said and drank in his mouth. He was on top of her and for a while, she made him forget war and blood.
He awoke to a knock on the door. "My lord," Will said.
James slid his arm from under Alycie's shoulders and slipped out of bed. She murmured a sleepy sound as he tucked a blanket around her. James grabbed his breeches and boots. Opening the door, he said, "You're back early." He closed the door and stepped into his pants. Looking away from Will's gaze, he tried not to color. Not that he'd intended to hide what he'd done from Will, but this wasn't how he'd meant to tell him. But Will just sighed.
"I knew this would happen."
James finished lacing himself, chewing on his lip. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"What is there to talk about, my lord? Done is done."
James folded his
arm across his chest and propped up the wall with his back, frowning at the man. "Do you think I'm the kind of man to abuse a woman? Take her against her will?"
"No. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. Or that there's anything I can do about it."
James nodded in the direction of the castle. "You could go there and tell them what you know."
"God's wounds, I wouldn't do that. Never. Whatever has happened, I'm your loyal man."
"No, I don't suppose that you would." James sighed. "Like me, you're your father's son. But, Will, you have to know--I'll not hurt her. I won't make promises I can't keep, but if I can protect her I will."
Will rubbed his face, looking weary himself. "And we have no time for this. That's what's wrong. We have time for nothing until they're gone. I met the woman who spies for us from Bothwell and rushed back as fast as could be. That's why I'm early."
James sat, jamming his feet into his boots. "What happened?"
"Today John de Mowbray will leave to lead a troop to join with Valence."
James jerked his head up. "Mowbray." There was a traitor he'd give much to cross swords with. "How many? Which way do they go?"
"My lord, there's more news. There was much talk that King Robert fought a battle at Glen Trool. Valence attacked him in the Glen with a thousand men and was driven back. It's said that when Longshanks demanded an explanation, Clifford and Valence came to blows in the king's presence." Will was practically tripping over his words in excitement.
"I heard about Glen Trool. But Clifford and Valence fighting--" James laughed. "That I would have given much to see. But that was a good place to catch them. I know that glen well. Narrow and with steep cliffs on each side. A thousand men our king defeated." He gave a grim smile. "Our luck has indeed changed. But what of Mowbray?"
"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.