by J. R. Tomlin
Isabella put her hand on his arm.
"Jamie," the king said. "Be careful."
Isabella cocked her head. "I swear I mean him no harm, Your Grace." He could hear the laughter in her voice.
"I never thought so." The king gave James a firm nod.
"Sire," James dropped a hand on his hilt. The sword was loose in its scabbard. "We'll stay within a shout of the camp."
He closed his hand over hers on his arm and led her to circle the heathery hill where the king liked to keep watch. In the stand of towering pines, needles and blown leaves littered the ground, a soft carpet under his feet.
"Why are you to take care?" she asked with a tinkle of laughter. "Surely, I'm not so dangerous a companion."
"Are you not, my lady?" He ran a finger over her hand. "I wouldn’t swear so, but that wasn’t the king’s thought. The battle at Methven--we were ambushed in the dark. It worries him. He seldom sleeps at night."
"Oh. I hadn't been told what happened exactly, except that so many died. And that you saved the king."
He squeezed her fingers. "It's nothing any of us want to tell about." He stopped and disengaged his hand to run his fingers along her chin, tilting it up. "I'd rather kiss you, but if I did, would you run away again?"
"No." Her voice was soft, her lips softer when he brushed them with his. He grasped her arms to pull her close as his kiss deepened. "James--" She turned her head, but still pressed against him. He buried his lips in the curve of her neck and breathed in. She smelled of roses. "James. I need to talk to you."
Inside he groaned. Talk? "What do you want to say?"
Her body shook with laughter. "You, too. My father used to say women always want to jabber."
"Do they?" His breath came in gasps. This business of talking wasn't going to be easy.
"You have to know. I need you to know that I've never--done this before. I mean not--" She seemed to choke on the words and then laughed. "Why is this so difficult? I've been with no one but my husband, James. I was afraid you'd think I was a harlot." She cupped his cheek with her palm. "I suppose I just wanted to tell you that I am coming to love you."
Her words lit his body like fire. He plunged his hands into her hair. "I could never think you that. But we shouldn't--" So near the camp, what if they were seen?
Her eyes closed, she caressed his lips with hers, fingers tangled in his hair.
He ran his hands up her body, and she dissolved softly against him. "I love you, want you," he heard himself say, all thoughts of camp forgotten. His mouth plunged down on hers, his tongue probing her mouth. Shrugging his cloak onto the ground, he stripped hers from her shoulders. He tugged at her gown whilst he devoured her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She came to his aid, unfastening the buttons that ran down the front of her kirtle and wriggled to let it slide down over her body. He cupped her breast, filling his hand with the warm flesh.
"You too," Isabella said, giving a tug at his sword belt.
He sucked a breath in through his teeth, stepping back, and unbuckling the belt to let it drop to the ground and pulled his hauberk over his head. She stepped out of the puddle of material at her feet. Her white body glimmered in a stray shaft of moonlight. His eyes drank her in. He was as hard as the stone of the mountain behind them. Of all of the times that he'd seen her, he'd never known how beautiful she was. Her legs were slender but well-muscled. In the moonlight, the hair where her thighs met was a mat of curling blonde.
"I love your soft skin. I love your lips and the way you kiss me," he said as he pulled her to him. "I love your breasts." He knelt and pulled her down with him. "I want you," he heard himself say and forgot everything else. He caressed her mound as he lowered her onto the soft padding of leaves, lying between her legs. She opened her arms to pull him to her as he thrust. Welcoming him, she whispered endearments against his mouth, his ear, into his shoulder as she shuddered and grasped him fiercely. When the moment of his pleasure came, he called out her name.
Afterward, she buried her head against him even though he was dripping with sweat. He stroked her hair and wondered if she felt shy, reaching for one of the cloaks to pull over her.
"You're beautiful, you know," she said as he cradled her head on his shoulder.
He snorted. "The moonlight is playing tricks with your eyes." James knew perfectly well he wasn't a fair knight who'd dash off with every lady's heart. Sir Edward might but James didn't want to mention him. "I'm neither fair--nor beautiful." It didn't matter when he had his good hands with a sword.
She brushed a lock of hair back from his eyes. "Mayhap not fair the way some might think of it. But I love your black hair, you see, the way it falls across your forehead." Her lips softened, and her eyes got a hazy look as she stroked his brow. She shook herself and touched a finger to his mouth. "Your lips are fine and strong. And I love your hands." She rolled away from him onto her back and took his hand to twine her slender fingers into his.
"You have a strange taste in what you call beauty, my lady, but I won't complain." He pushed back the cloak to stroke her breast.
She sniffed. "You're going to question the taste in beauty of the daughter of Fife? For shame, Sir Knight."
"Never," he said, lips twitching. "If you say I'm beautiful then I must believe my lady. My lady." He savored the words. "Isabella. My lady."
"Ah, my gallant knight. I knew you must be so." Her smile was soft and lazy.
A rustle in the tree made him jerk, but it was only the wind. He looked around. The moonlight had shifted as the night deepened. "We'd best go back to the camp. The queen might be seeking you."
"I told her I would take a long walk," she said snuggling closer to him. "And the night's young."
"What did you tell her?" He grinned. "I saw looks go between you."
"Only that. I'm nothing so bold as to tell her that I wanted you, although no one would believe it, and me lying here naked in your arms in the moonlight. Yet, the queen saw how you looked at me and how I returned your looks. I know that."
He wound her hair around his hand. "It's not so hard to see how it is with me. I would I could give you the graces a knight should." He laughed. "Though I'm a poor one at quoting poetry, and my voice is none too fine for love songs. Yet, I would."
"I know." She kissed his shoulder. "Think it done, my love. You've my favor in the lists. My husband gives you foul looks."
He rose on an elbow to look down at her. "It's an ill thought. His touching you."
"He did rarely enough, though he loathed any man to look at me. I was no more than a doll for his keeping. Now, I've no doubt he hates me. He hates the king, you know. How he must rage at my putting the crown on our liege lord's head." She sighed. "I don't want to think of it. We have so little time. I'm frightened, Jamie."
He wished he could tell her not to be frightened, but she'd know it was a lie. "We have what we have. You're my own love." His voice went thick, husky. He ran his hands up her body. "You're all I could desire."
The moonlight was gone by the time they finished, and, as they fumbled into their clothes, they bumped into each other in the dark. Isabella got tangled in the weight of her dress and fell. She caught hold of his arm, sending him stumbling. He grabbed her against him and laughed. Then she was in his arms, her mouth finding his, and it turned out they weren't finished after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Near Dail Righ, Scotland: August 1306
The air in the dim kirk smelled of mold and something had managed to make the stones under James's knees even harder than stones usually were. He shifted his weight, glancing out of the corner of his eye to see Isabella kneeling close to the queen, hands meekly folded. He smiled secretly at her ability to look innocent when she wasn't in his arms. Beyond them knelt the princess, too small and frail to be with an army. But what could they do?
At the altar, his hands raised, Abbot Maurice droned on, his gray beard down to mid-chest and long hair cloaking on his shoulders. Beside the altar knelt the Dewar, in
a ragged robe and his gray-streaked red hair and beard even longer than the abbot's. The Dewar grasped a relic of St. Fillan. The king hadn't moved or even twitched the whole time.
How long had it been? James hadn't known the king was so devout, but he'd insisted they stop for a blessing from the Abbot and to venerate the sacred relic. It could be word that the Pope had excommunicated him. James had noticed the king didn't like to talk about that. James thought the murder of the Comyn was nothing more than an excuse for the Pope to give aid to King Edward.
The king had talked about it one night as they camped rough in the forest, staring into the campfire. "Mayhap I'm cursed from it." His face had been as hard as the sword he grasped in his hands. "He sent King Edward the agreement between us, knowing it would mean my death. Mine and others. He thought--God knows what he thought! But I meant to kill him that night. God forgive me. I meant it, and I fear I'd do it again."
But he had confessed and had absolution for the killing from Bishop Wishart. He'd pledged a dreadful penance, James suspected. What more did the pope want? No, it was no more than excuse for siding with the English king.
James shifted his shoulders. It was the benediction so they should be back in the sunlight soon where the men-at-arms took their ease. James envied them.
At the Abbot's signal, the Dewar stood and displayed the coigreach, the ancient staff of St. Fillan, worn and faded. The man held it above his head, turning slowly from one side of the kirk to the other so all could see the precious artifact. It was one of several of the saint that the Dewars spent their entire lives guarding.
James breathed a sigh of relief when the Abbot bowed his head and gave the final blessing, "Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spritius Sanctus."
Saying a grateful amen, James sprang to his feet.
The sun was already halfway up the morning sky, but there was still time to move further into the mountains. The sooner they reached the purple heights to the west the better. Boyd had said it was called Ben Lui. It loomed high, a formidable obstacle, more so with women and a child, too. The mountains peaks reached so high they pierced the thick mat of white clouds that topped them.
He frowned as he studied the pass they would use, a narrow track with a sharp drop on one side. Still to the west they must go. Sir Niall Campbell's lands lay that way on Loch Awe. Then they’d press onward to Dunaverty Castle on a rocky headland jutting out into the sea. A long trip through lands held by Comyns and their relatives the MacDougalls, deadly enemies of King Robert. But the king counted that Angus Og MacDonald of the Isles would hold fast for him if only they could reach the sea.
James twitched with impatience. They couldn't rush with a party such as this, but the delays were as much as he could bear. Just the day before their scouts had spotted the English under Lord Percy passing through the narrow gap at the head of Glendochart. They were no more than a day away. That way was closed even if King Robert had wanted to go back. So westward was their only choice, through the lands of the king's sworn foes.
Isabella laid a hand on his arm as they walked towards the horses and the men-at-arms roused themselves, standing and stretching. "Worried?" she said.
He shrugged. "No more than always. I'll be glad to get you safely within castle walls."
The king waved to the trumpeter, and the horn blew a long note to signal them to horse. The Abbot followed them out and once more made the sign of the cross over them and gave them another blessing.
James boosted Isabella into her saddle and mounted. He gathered his reins and turned his horse to ride with the king's guards.
"Robbie, you'll take the vanward," Bruce said. "Niall, you and your men the rear guard."
Boyd led two lines of men away as the ladies and the king formed their party, the king in the lead, even in defeat magnificent in his cloth-of-gold tabard with the lion embroidered on its chest. James took his place to the rear, guarding the king's back. With a wave of his hand, the king started them forward.
"What strange lands, Your Grace, even if Scottish," James said. "These mountains press down like monstrous beasts. I miss the hills of the lowlands."
"It's not gentle country of a truth, Jamie. But you must admit it has a wild beauty to it."
"I'll better enjoy their beauty with more men at your back."
Behind them in rows of three, the men-at-arms formed a tail immediate behind the small group of ladies and the child. The sound of the women's talk drifted towards him. He heard Isabella's voice and the Marjorie's giggle.
The valley made a steep climb over loose scree and the horses labored, tumbling stones scattering from their hooves until they reached a rocky ledge. The gorge to the left dropped straight down. Below in the deep gorge the river crashed and surged over boulders. As they traveled along the narrow path, James kept scanning the sharp slope that rose on the other side. A turn hid what lay before them.
A horn sounded. Ahead, someone shouted and a horse screamed. James grabbed his sword. He pulled up sharply, horse slithering in the loose stones, and looked over his shoulder at Isabella. God's wounds, what could they do if they were attacked?
The king had already pulled his horse around, and Sir Edward galloped up, his own sword drawn. "Boyd's in trouble. Let's to his aid."
Bruce pointed to the women. "Look you. We must have a care. You take a score of men and see what's happened. And return to me after."
The king turned his horse in a circle, eyes darting. He unsheathed the great sword he wore across his back and nodded towards the upward slope, too steep for any horse. "An ill place for a fight."
Above them, someone yelled, "MacDougall! MacDougall!" Another horn ululated. A long line of highland warriors, caterans, leaped over the crest above. Their short saffron tunics fluttered as the slithered downward. Then more. The crest was covered with men and long axes catching the light.
The king cursed. "Trap."
Now shouts came from behind, hundreds, mayhap thousands of them.
The king pointed ahead. "Ride," he shouted. "Nigel. Thomas, take the front."
He waved the women forward and the men formed up around them just ahead of the running, bounding highlanders. They swung long hooked lochaber axes. One hacked at James's horse. He hauled back hard on the reins, rearing the animal. Its hooves smashed into the man's head. Another grabbed his stirrup, but he jammed his spurs into the horse's flanks and galloped to catch up with the fleeing party.
The men-at-arms swung their sword desperately. They were flooded by the seething mass of warriors. Screams and shouts echoed off the mountain as the men were overwhelmed by the vortex of swords and axes.
James reached over to slap the young princess's horse on its flank. He bent over his horse's neck and spurred, jerking the reins to turn and reach the king's side where he guarded the rear of their flight.
"Ride," the king said. "Don't stop."
James paused.
A man grabbed the king's stirrup. The king swung and he fell, blood gushing. "Go!"
Hands shaking, James jerked his horse around and obeyed. He raked his spurs into this horse's flank. They thundered towards the chaos of men in front of them. Hundreds? Thousands? The narrow gap was filled with struggling, hacking warriors. From the shouts, Boyd and his men had to be in there somewhere, still fighting. God in heaven. James gripped his sword, sweat running down his face. But where were they?
The king swung his great sword in a huge figure eight as he plowed into the fight. Blood splattered across his horse. It was covered hock high in blood. It reared and smashed a screaming highlander's face.
More and more men were pouring, screaming, down from the crest.
"On," The king said. "We must break through."
The princess screamed, high pitched, terrified. James hauled his horse around, sword swinging wildly. Someone grabbed his reins, and James smashed his face with his shield. The women were still within the circle of the men's horses. Nigel, Edward, and Alexander all flailing desperately as they
spurred their struggling mounts. The king held the rear, his sword swinging, hacking at anyone who came within reach--a flashing island of mail in a sea of highland caterans.
A highlander swung his long axe for Edward's horse. James spurred and rode into him from behind, trampling him into the bloody stones. War horns blared.
Then he saw Boyd, standing beside his gutted horse. Alone. Boyd took a blow from an axe on his shield, and it splintered, splinters flying.
"A Douglas!" James bellowed and spurred his horse. Boyd jumped aside from a blow that would have split his skull as easily as it had his shield. James swung as he rode. He hit the back of the man's neck. He went down, just another body in the bloody muck.
James grabbed Boyd's arm and the man flung himself up. As he did, from the other side an axe swung past. James felt the wind from the blow.
"Fool." Boyd clung behind James.
He wheeled, thrusting his sword at the sound of a shout. An axe slashed his side. Red pain lanced through him. Boyd hacked down. James saw the axe fall to the ground but reeled sideways. His foot lost the stirrup.
Boyd grabbed his waist and hauled James upright. He groaned, pain tearing as he was held in the saddle.
Bent over the horse's withers, he managed another hard kick into its flanks. It screamed in protest as it surged through. Then they were beside the king. With Boyd propping him up, pain kicked his stomach. James managed to jerk his horse into formation behind the king, rejoining the struggling group. Blood dripped down the horse's flank, but James couldn't tell whose it was.
The king slashed from side to side as he rode, not hesitating, keeping the horse moving. A highland cateran jumped into Bruce's path, jabbing with his axe, but the massive horse reared, and a hoof caught him in the chest. James gripped the reins and slashed down when hands grabbed at them. A sorry blow but enough. Behind him, with one arm holding him upright and the other wielding his sword, Boyd shouted, "Devil take you" with every blow. Battle screams from hundreds of throats pounded at James from every direction. His head reeled.