by J. R. Tomlin
James swung his shield above Bruce and grabbed his arm. With a grunt, James hauled him up.
Mowbray jumped from his horse and grabbed the king's reins. "I have him!"
Sir Christopher rode at Mowbray, scything his sword. "Die, traitor!" His blow hit Mowbray on the side of the head and he went over sideways, blood dripping down his chest.
"I'm all right." Bruce pushed James's hand away. "We fly."
He swayed in the saddle as they galloped. In the dimness of near dawn, the English had lost track of the king, James was sure, or else they'd never have broken away. He looked over his shoulder at the thin line of knights and men-at-arms stretched out behind and groaned. But no time to think of how few they were left. Surely, not all who were missing had died. How many? God's wounds. The king leaned in his saddle, nursing the shoulder that had taken the last blow, but he waved James away when he reached to help.
As the sky lightened, the king swung back westward to splash through the moors. The rank smell of rotting plants rose as muck covered their horses' bloody legs. The purple of the heather-covered hills in the distance made a grim contrast to their state. The king led them without stopping until it was full noon.
Finally, he drew up next to a tiny stream and climbed gingerly from the saddle, looking around him.
James dismounted. He'd been afraid to count their losses. Now he looked for Alexander Scrymgeour, for Alexander Frasier, for Sir Hugh de la Haye, for Sir John Somerville, for Thomas Randolph, for the Lord of Carnwath and for the hundreds of men those had led. In his exhaustion, James felt light headed. Most of their army was lost--more than half, surely. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the king's brothers. But where was Alexander Seton. He'd been with them. Now he was missing. So many missing.
Pray God they'd died on the battlefield because he knew the fate that King Edward would deal any prisoner he laid hands on. Some nights, he still awoke with Sir William's scream echoing in his dreams.
The king pulled off his helm and let it drop to the ground as he turned in a circle, slowly. Finally, he threw his arm across his horse's withers, covering his mouth with a hand, and stood. Silent. A pair of larks flew from high in a birch tree trilling, the only sound but for a creak of a saddle. The king straightened, mouth set and pale skin ringing it in his grief.
"This--" He turned in a circle again, catching their eyes one by one. "This is a desperate plight. Our losses are terrible. You see that. But I may still raise men from my own lands. I will not give up. I'll free Scotland or die trying. I swear that to you. I won't give up. We'll grow strong again, and last night I learned what will let us win."
He paused and moistened his lips. "I'll never trust English honor again. Not any of them. It's to my blame for having left the lesson late. King Edward has never shown his honor to us Scots. Didn't he break his word to your father at Berwick, James? Slaughter the city for no cause?"
James stared in surprise. He hadn't expected the king to call on him. But those days in Berwick were ones he would never forget. "You know that he did, Sire."
"I fear for any left in their hands," the king said in a low voice. "But our enemies will pay for the deaths and the treachery. For King Edward trying to steal our land when we were left with no king, and for every broken oath since. Whoever trusts them rues the day. I'll fight them however I may. I'll use their very deceit against them. And we will win."
Then James realized the king was looking at him.
"My lord?"
Bruce unsheathed his sword. "Do you think I don't know you stood over me? Took blows on your shield that would have killed me?"
James opened his mouth, not sure what to say. "You're my liege."
"Kneel." James dropped to his knees, and the king tapped him on each shoulder. "I dub you knight. Be you good and faithful until life's end, Sir James."
A ragged cheer went up, weary sounding. It was a brutal day to think of being cheered--a brutal day to get his knighthood. As James stood, the king led his horse into the trickling water of the stream. He bent to scoop some up with one hand to drink, the other close to his side. James followed. Some dropped where they were in exhaustion and a few wandered towards the water's edge. But where the king went, so would James. The king must live.
"My lord, let me look at your back. You risk a wound fever or worse," James said.
Bruce shook his head. "I've had worse in tourneys. Feels like the shoulder is broken. Not the first time."
Whilst his horse drank, Bruce squatted and splashed water in his face. He scraped his wet hair back and looked up at James with a wry smile. "I'm sorry for doing it this way, Jamie."
"Sorry?"
"No man should receive his knighthood after such a rout. It shames me. You deserve better, but it's the best I can give you--for now. One day you'll get your Douglasdale back and more. You have my word on it."
James knelt on one knee beside the king. "I hate even the thought of the English in my home, my people at their mercy. I swore a sacred oath to recover everything that was stolen from my father. It's true." A rustle in the bushes caught James's eye, and he jerked for his sword. But it was just a cuckoo fluttering from one branch to another. He breathed in relief before he looked at the king. "But lands or no, my sword is yours, and I'm your man. Where you go, Douglas follows."
The king gripped his arm in silence.
CHAPTER SIX
Carlisle Castle, England: July 1306
The bailey of Carlisle Castle was still as a guard dragged Bishop Lamberton towards the doors of the keep. The dazzling mid-afternoon sun hung low over the walls, ripening the day into sweaty idleness. On the ramparts, a man-at-arms in dark armor paced his rounds.
The Great Hall of Carlisle was in a massive square fortress that hulked behind walls eight feet thick and a wide sluggish moat. A knight guarded the doorway, steel armor blinding in the sunlight.
Within, Lamberton blinked in the dimness. The guard gripping his arm jerked him to a halt. Lamberton watched a drop of blood weep its way down his hand from under an iron shackle before he raised his eyes. At the end of the hall, King Edward Longshanks sat glowering, seated upon a throne. Behind King Edward hung the leopard banner of the Plantagenet and beside it the banner of the dragon, fire gushing from its mouth, raised only when no quarter would be offered to taken enemies. Lamberton's own protection was absolute--that of the church and the pope. He feared no one else would survive capture.
Before King Edward, held between two men-at-arms, sagged Alex Scrymgeour dressed in black sackcloth that came to mid-thigh above a gray and blood-streaked bandage. Chains dragged at his feet.
The sides of the room were packed with half the nobility of England, aglitter in velvet, silks, and satins adorned with gold and silver and jewelry. Beside the English king stood his son, Edward, Prince of Wales. Blondly handsome like his father had been as a youth, tall and broad shouldered, but his eyes looked sullenly out on the world. He chewed on a lip as he watched.
Soon the nobles would take up their armor again when the march towards Scotland resumed. For now in Carlisle Castle, they rested whilst King Edward meted out his own wrathful justice.
The king waved a dismissive hand towards a man standing near the door. "A friend of the miscreant Wallace. I should have killed him beforehand. See to it."
Lamberton tightened his mouth as Alex was jerked around to be dragged towards the door. Alex's eyes were wide in his pallid face, and his lips moved as he lifted a clanking, shackled hand to cross himself. As he was dragged past, Lamberton spoke loudly enough to be sure that Alex heard his words, "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." All he could do for another old friend going to an unimaginable death.
The man-at-arms behind Lamberton drove a fist into the small of his back. The jolt of pain took his breath. Stumbling forward, he fell to his knees, feet caught in his chain. "Shut up," the man growled. "Speak to no one."
King Edward's teeth flashed in a smile. "Bring th
at one forward. Only seeing Robert de Bruce on the scaffold would give me more pleasure."
The guard grabbed Lamberton's arm, mailed fingers digging in hard, and jerked him to his feet. Another bruise, minor pain compared to being tortured to death, it meant nothing except penance for his sins. He struggled to get his balance as the man dragged him forward, shuffling against the confines of the short chain.
King Edward's hair had gone quite gray, and his face was gaunt, but the fury in his eyes had abated not at all. A grim smile curved his lips. He made an abrupt motion to one of the tonsured clerics. "Show my lord bishop," his voice dripping poisonous honey, "the document we found concealed at St. Andrews."
The simply-clad priest thrust a parchment into Lamberton's hands. He tried to keep them from shaking as he scanned the brief agreement. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Here was an end to lies and scheming. The seals and the signatures were his and Bruce's. Nothing could explain his agreement. And King Edward wouldn't forgive this time. It was, as well. He was weary beyond telling of deceit; yet, if another lie would save a single Scottish life, he would have told it.
He opened his eyes and raised them to look into the smirking face of the English king. "It is mine." He extended the parchment to the man who'd given it to him.
"You confess to your treachery, then."
Lamberton paused. Mayhap he should try to appease this man. Humility might gain him some degree of freedom. Being a bishop protected him from a death sentence. A hard glitter in King Edward's eyes stopped him. He'd deny Edward Longshanks the pleasure of his begging. "My only loyalty is to the lord Jesus our Savior and to the Kingdom of the Realm of Scotland. All other vows were given under duress."
King Edward's smile hardened and became even fiercer. "I am the Realm of Scotland," he said in a low voice. "There is no other." He glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Ned."
"Yes, Sire." The prince gave a petulant twist to his lips.
"Go. I'll follow at my leisure to finish these Scots. Take the army I've given you. Ayr, Annandale, Carrick, they are to be ground into the dust. Leave them nothing. They'll never rise against me again."
The prince glowered. "Why can't Valence--"
"Go!" The king's face reddened.
Lamberton followed the prince with his eyes as the young man swaggered towards the door, one of the nobles joining him, arm around the prince's shoulder and whispering as they went. That part hadn't been meant for Lamberton, but he was sure that the other had been. The sight of the prince being sent to savage the land was intended to torture him. Something inside him twisted, but he kept his face blank. He wouldn't let King Edward see how well he'd succeeded.
King Edward lifted a hand to point at Lamberton, his teeth bared in a smile. "You-- You will never see light of day again. I can't kill you. But you'll wish that I had."
* * *
James ducked under a low-hanging branch of an aspen, shifting the weight of the red deer slung over his shoulders. Blood dripped down his half-exposed chest. He'd shed his armor for leather breeches and a belted shirt for hunting and carried a good yew bow in his hand.
Even with so few in their army remaining, it wouldn't fill their bellies. Mayhap the trap he'd set for fish in the river would catch something. He splashed into the water and walked along rocky edge of the tumbling Dochart, spume spraying where it leapt and gurgled over rocks in the warm August sun. Bees hummed, hovering and darting about the gorse on the banks of the river. He might think later of finding a hive. Honey would make a welcome addition to the table. Sparrows flittered like blowing leaves above the purple carpet of the heather. Whistles and trills filled the warm air.
James knew that by noon, the sparrows would fall silent, but for the moment, he felt like leaping to celebrate with them. He was alive. And Isabella would soon be here.
James dodged through the sprinkling of pines and aspen and up the green and purple slope to reach where King Robert de Bruce paced. "Dinner, Sire," he called as he ran.
James was panting by the time he reached the king. Below them spread the camp of some five hundred, all that was left of the king's vast army. For the moment, they had set weapons aside, but on the edges of the glen, sentries paced. Men gathered in groups about the small fires, all with arms stacked near to hand. Ribbons of smoke and the sound of weary voices drifted over the glen.
"Jamie, if it weren't for you, we'd have empty bellies more often than we do."
James dropped the hind to the ground and flexed his shoulders. He'd soon have the carcass hung and slaughtered. "Not enough, Sire." He frowned. "When the ladies arrive, I'll have to do better."
"We all will. I would there were any other choice, but I don't dare chance their being taken. And I want Nigel with me as well." The king scanned the horizon to the east as he had since day broke. "The dishonor. To declare women outlaw. The English king runs mad." He growled deep in his throat. "There was a time I counted him an honorable man."
James waved to Sir Gilbert de la Haye, the craggy knight talking to some of his men-at-arms. "Sir Gilbert, if one of your men will take this hart, I have a mind to see about some salmon."
The knight pointed and one of his men ran up the slope as the king shaded his eyes with a hand.
"Look." The king pointed to a distant slope. James squinted. Sun glinted on steel.
His heart missed a beat. It must be the women and Sir Nigel. "I'll tell Sir Niall." He sprinted down the slope into the camp, weaving between the men. A few minutes later Sir Niall Campbell led a score of men out to be sure it was the expected friends, amongst them his wife, and not their enemies yet again on the king's tracks.
Hurrying to the river, James pulled his fish trap out of the water, hand over hand. The cold spray into his face felt good. Even in mid-summer, the Dochart ran cold. It always had plenty of fish, and a salmon as long as his arm flapped and splashed in his trap. This would make dinner for the ladies, no fine fair but the best they had in this rude camp. He'd tell one of the men to put it over a fire. First, he'd clean himself. He couldn't let Isabella see him like this, dressed like a servant. Stripping off his shirt, he splashed into the water and dunked his whole body to come up shaking and tossing his hair.
He ran back to the fire where his armor was stacked, no longer shining but at least whole. Spotting the soldier who had finished hanging the hind, James called him over and sent him for the fish for the newcomers with strict orders it was for them alone. Pulling his mail hauberk over his head, he felt like a knight again. His blood was racing, and for some reason his breath seemed much too fast. You'd think he'd never seen a woman before. He laughed at himself, trying to pretend his stomach wasn't in a coil.
James was still belting on his sword when Sir Niall shouted and rode in. The women, all in plain dresses, wide of skirt for riding astride, followed. The king ran down from his perch on the hill.
Sir Niall leaped from his horse to hold the queen's bridle. Before he could help her down, she jumped to the ground and ran towards her husband. The king stopped and held his arms out. She ran into them. James looked away. Truly, everyone said it was a love match.
But there were other women to be seen to. Nigel de Bruce was helping his sisters, Christina and Mary, from their horses whilst Sir Niall lifted down young Marjorie, a slender, dark-haired child of ten by King Robert's first wife. Seeing his chance, James hurried to Isabella and took her reins. She smiled. He reached a hand up as she climbed from the saddle, exposing slender ankles under her wide brown riding skirt.
He ran his thumb down her fingers. "My lady. It pleases me more than I can say to see you safe."
"We heard rumors so many were killed." She squeezed his hand. "And when the king sent word, he didn't say who--who was still with him. Except poor Sir Christopher." Her voice choked with tears.
James sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. He knew too well what Sir Christopher Seton had suffered after he saved the king on the battlefield. Captured. Hanged, drawn, and q
uartered. Tortured to death. He glanced to where the king had put his arms around his weeping sister, now Sir Christopher's widow. His daughter stood close by his side, looking doubtfully around the camp, a strange sight to the child, no doubt.
"I must greet the king." Isabella squared her shoulders and went to him where he was surrounded by his family, curtseying low.
James watched after her with a bemused smile. He'd never been in love before. He'd thought it was something the minstrels only sang about.
Robert Boyd punched James's arm with a grin. "Looks like she used a poleax on you. You're that stunned."
"She'd never look my way." James shrugged. "But, I didn't know a woman could be like that. She's amazing."
"She's not bad--though I like them plumper of a bosom. She has you dancing to her tune of a surety."
James scowled at the knight. "Don't insult the lady."
"Hoi, now. I wasn't insulting her." He threw up his hands with a wry grin. "Leave hitting me to the English. They're willing enough."
James snorted. Then he laughed. Isabella gave the two chuckling men an odd look over her shoulder, and the king raised his eyebrows. The laugh felt good.
The scent of roasting venison began to drift across the camp. Sir Nigel de Bruce had brought five sumpter horses loaded with supplies, wine, and grain. It wouldn't last long, but they could celebrate being together and being alive.
"Niall, have the men set up tables. We'll feast tonight." Bruce's face had lost the grim look that had hardened it for the last weeks. He took the queen's hand. "It's a good thing our young James is a knight. He'd have made a fine poacher, otherwise. He supplies much of the food for our table these hard days. You may thank him for your dinner."