by J. R. Tomlin
The king stopped his pacing. "Not altogether a bad plan, my friend. Niall Campbell has gone ahead to the Firth of Clyde to bespeak galleys of his clan, but I'm not for Ireland. I'm to Dunaverty Castle and then to the Isles to raise men. The MacRauries are kinsmen of a sort and the MacDonalds." He crossed his arms and looked at his friend. "Will you come?"
"Need you ask, my liege? Of course, I'll come."
* * *
A few weeks later, a steady drumbeat led the cadence and the MacDonald caterans sang a chantie of some sort, loud and enthusiastic. James understood not one of the lilting Gaelic words. The air smelt of salt spray, and a sharp tang of sweat from the laboring oarsmen hung over the galley, twenty to each side.
At least Angus Og MacDonald had given them men for their galleys. The MacDonald had never admitted the King of the Scots was his lord before and wasn't likely to do so now. Still his aid, however small, was a welcome respite. On the way to Dunaverty Castle, even the king had taken a turn at the oar. But Angus of the Isles had been unwilling to spare more men than this. As usual, he was at war in Ireland. Yet the king had accepted even so little aid with gracious thanks.
The early winter sun turned the sea into dazzling rays of blue and green that shimmered like jewels. To the east, breakers dashed onto white sands below heather covered cliffs turned a bloodstained red in the changing seasons.
They were sailing northward to Moidart and the Castle of Tioram. The MacDonald had said that Christina MacRaurie of the Isles was holding her winter court there.
A shout came from Cuiren MacDonald as he shaded his eyes and pointed ahead into the glare. James stepped onto the bow deck. Cuiren, given them to captain the galleys by Angus Og, spilled out a quick spurt of liquid-sounding words.
The king, standing next to him with Lennox, squinted in that direction. "Ma's àil leibh." He glanced to the others.
James always felt strange at the Gaelic of Highlanders, which the king spoke well-enough. The king's mother had been of the old blood. James could seem to make out not a word of it. He'd always spoken every language he heard whether English or French or Latin. This Gaelic, how had he not learned it?
"See you, two galleys. And he's not happy to see the red and gold of the Ross in MacDonald waters."
James shaded his eyes and strained his eyes through the glare. "Ross. What think you, my lord? Friend or foe?"
"He's taken no oath to me. Cuiden?"
Cuiden was capable of speaking understandably if he so chose. He grinned at James, eyes gleaming before he replied. "'Tis no doubt they're heading this way. Now why would that be? Already the English king harries the southron waters for you, King of the Scots. I'd nae put it past the Ross to bend a knee to England. Especially if he could steal control of these waters from my own lord."
"I don't like the sound of that," Maol of Lennox said, frowning. "I'm no seaman for battles on the water."
Cuiden shrugged. "It's all the same. You kill them or they kill you."
James leaned over the rail, gripping it as the galley slapped its way through the waves, splashing icy water in his face. In the eye-burning glitter of the reflected sunlight, he managed to make out two shapes that themselves seemed to be gleaming. "How he can make out the device is beyond me, but they're cutting this way."
"Ross would attack Angus in his own waters? Bold indeed," Bruce said.
Cuiden shouted to the helmsman and the oarsmen. Their second galley cut towards them to coordinate their actions. More shouts led to an adjustment in their course. Each veered to intercept the intruders. The boom of the drum picked up pace. Oarsmen strained, their long sweeps churning the blue water into froth up the sides of the galley. The grunt of the laboring oarsmen made a savage counterpoint to the splash of the oars. The relief oarsmen were taking up swords and the small round shields the Islesmen preferred.
James's hand twitched on his hilt. Surely, they were honor bound to assist the MacDonald in return for his aid. After the fleeing and hiding of the past months, a fight man-to-man would clear a foul taste from his mouth. But it was for the king to say.
The galleys drove straight for each other. Cuiden shouted and the helmsman made another adjustment. The galley turned and the sail-boom cracked overhead. It adjusted again. They drove in towards the stern of the ship. The Rossmen in the oncoming galleys could be seen at the sides, armed for a fight. Along the edge of their own galleys, the caterans waited with grappling hooks.
"Cuiden," the king said, "we're your guests. Would you have our aid or no?"
"You're welcome to join in the fight if it pleases you. Never say that a MacDonald would not share with a guest. But 'tis up to you. If you'd bide in safety..."
"No. You're our hosts and we'll pay our guests' duty." He turned to the others. "Follow their lead in this. It's their style of fighting. We'll do what we may to their aid."
The oncoming galley was adjusting, the oarsmen backing water, but Cuiden's galley and its sister drove in. The two flanked the leading ship. The oarsmen rowed in a frenzy of effort. At a shout, they raised their sweeps.
The galley smashed into the side of the Rossmen, shearing off oars. Splinters and shards of wood flew. The Rossmen screamed, speared by pieces of their own oars. Shouting MacDonalds flung their grappling hoods over the sides and swarmed over the rails from both galleys.
James saw their thought--to finish this galley first whilst it was outmanned before they had to take on the other, which was still maneuvering into position. He nodded to himself as he drew his sword. Bruce already had his battle-axe in his hand. He leapt down the six-foot drop to the poop deck of the Ross galley from the high bow. James scrambled to follow. Lennox jumped beside him.
James's feet slithered on the wet deck. With a huge effort, he managed to right himself as a red-dripping claymore slashed at his belly. He dodged and nearly went down on the pitching deck. The king swung at the attacker, knocking him out of the fight. James managed to get his balance and raise his sword.
Half-a-dozen Rossmen swarmed towards them. Bruce had his back to Lennox so James turned to guard their flank. The Rossmen circled, looking for an opening. Bruce, apparently deciding that offense was best, dove towards the first of the Rossmen with a smashing blow. Few in the world could match Bruce hand-to-hand. The king crashed into them with his deadly swinging axe. James dashed in to skewer a Rossman who'd circled to the king's side.
The main of the battle was still raging a distance ahead near the bow of the galley. James jumped over a body to keep to Bruce's side as the king cut his way through. Pausing, James looked over his shoulder. Where was the other galley? The chaos around them made it impossible to tell. They'd best finish this fight fast.
Lennox, on the other side of the king, whirled to face an attack, leaving the king open. The king dodged a swinging claymore and went down to a knee on the slimy, blood-soaked catwalk. James caught a blade that would have severed Bruce's neck. From his knee, the king swung and gutted the man. Then ahead, James saw something he hadn't noticed before. The group at the bow surrounded a prisoner, roped and tied.
Already Cuiden was hacking at one of the leaders, a bearish-built man with bushy red hair. James pointed in their direction with his sword.
"Yes, we'll to his aid," the king said. A huge swing flung the last of the Rossmen out of the way, and Bruce strode onto the bow. As he reached them, Cuiden hewed into the other's chest with his claymore. Another rushed at the Cuiden's back. Bruce swung. The man flew off the deck and into the water from the force of the blow.
Cuiden swung around, sword high, but now the bow was cleared of enemies. He touched his breast in a salute. "Methinks I owe you a debt, Robert de Bruce, and Angus Og will know it."
Edward Bruce and Niall Campbell and the rest of their party were still fighting at the poop of the galley, but the remaining Rossmen seemed reluctant to continue the battle. Some jumped and others were pushed into the sea. The other Ross galley was backing water instead of joining the fight.
Cuid
en bared his teeth in a grin. "They counted swords and don't like the numbers. We outnumber them now, so they don't have the balls for a fight."
Their own caterans were shouting jeers--it wasn't needed to understand the language.
James kicked the fallen body out of the way as he hurried to the trussed prisoner, lying face down on the deck. Slashing the ropes that bound his hands behind his back, James turned the man over to look into Robbie Boyd's eyes.
"By the rood, Robbie." He slashed at the ropes that still tied Boyd's feet.
Boyd was rubbing his wrists and hands where ropes had left bloody impressions. "Thank all the saints." Boyd was white-faced as he struggled to sit up. "Been bound for two days," he said through gritted teeth. "Since the bastard Rossmen laid hands on me. I was seeking you."
Bruce pushed the man back as he squatted beside them. "Stay still, Robbie." The king scowled, worry and puzzlement both clear in his face. "Are you hurt?"
"Nothing to worry over, mostly numb from the bonds." But his eyes were wide, and he grabbed the king's arm. "My lord--it's Kildrummy Castle. It's fallen."
Bruce rocked back on his heels. "How?"
"A traitor. We held off the attack easy enough, and they laid siege. Someone fired the stables. Whilst we fought the blaze, he opened the postern gate."
The king's mouth worked soundlessly before he choked out, "Elizabeth? Marjorie?"
"Fled before the siege as you commanded. But--Nigel. He was sore wounded in the fighting. Yet, oh, God have mercy. I fear he may have lived long enough to reach Berwick."
Bruce gripped the bloody axe in his hand, staring at it. "Nigel--" he whispered.
James looked away, ashamed of his relief. Isabella was safe and fleeing to Norway.
"I escaped. God forgive me, but Nigel was held too close." A tear ran down Boyd's cheek, and he made a choking sound, turning his face away. "Forgive me. Robert, forgive me."
"There's nothing--nothing to forgive, Robbie. Do you think I don't know...?” Bruce's voice seized for a moment before he went on. "I know you would have saved him if you could. I think God that you got away, my dear friend. I thank God."
He took an almost sobbing breath and looked up at Cuiden who watched wordlessly. "If you owed me a debt, then it's paid for saving Robbie."
* * *
Two weeks later, even through the thick walls of Castle Tioram with its long, timbered hall, the winds of Loch Moidart could be heard whistling up the cliff. James fidgeted as the bard told his interminable tale--in that still mostly indecipherable Gaelic. James couldn't stand doing nothing--had never been able to stand it. The day before they'd had a stag hunt, better than being locked inside but not the excitement of hunting to fill an empty stomach.
A full five-score of the Lady Christina's people sat at her table, a court indeed and no rude one, whatever he'd heard in the past about the Highlanders. All listened respectfully to the bard. James sighed. Resolutely, he sliced a choice bit from a boar that sent up fragrant steam in the middle of the long table. He offered it to Lady Iosbail, the dark-haired girl to his left, a cousin of Christina of the Isles if he'd made the whole thing out aright.
She motioned to her trencher with a wicked smile. She'd tortured him nightly in the two weeks they'd been here. Somehow, her dress had slipped down half exposing the tops of her breasts. James suppressed a grin. They were plump and tempting as Boyd preferred. That poor man was sitting between two large and hairy warriors. Further down the table, Thomas de Bruce raised a cup to James before he leaned close to a red-haired lady and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh and give him a playful push on his shoulder. James suspected his own companion had much in common with Lady Christina with whom the king, most unusual for that man, seemed smitten. Even now at the head table, they were talking, the king motioning with a hand as he spoke. Lady Christina bent her head to listen intently. If anything could give the king respite from the ill news that trickled to them, it was only joy to James.
For himself, as delectable as the girl was and even though she kept him in constant turmoil, James wasn't ready to be in her toils. Isabella was too much in his dreams of a night to think of another. However, she did try to help him get his tongue around the strange language they spoke.
"How is it that you say to attack ahead, Lady Iosbail?"
"Say 'A bheil thu 'g iarraidh a dhanns' and they'll attack as you please," she said and a smile curved her full lips.
He laughed. "That's not what you said last night." He nodded towards a particularly burly, longhaired chieftain sitting a place down from Lady Christina. The man was watching James as they spoke. He rarely looked away, James thought.
"If I said that to him, would he perchance try to remove my head?"
"He's a cousin and mild as milk." Her eyes glittered.
"I'm sure he is, my lady." James laughed. "Like all your mild men-folk." James squinted as he thought over the phrase and, at last, managed to parse it out. "Mayhap he wouldn't be offended if I asked him to dance as you suggest. Not as if I called him a sheep as you told me to do before."
She giggled. "You're nae as dim as you look."
"You aren't promised to the braw man, I suppose?"
"He might like it if I were," she smiled as she sipped her wine.
James shook his head. God's wounds, but he needed to find something to do. Mayhap Robbie Boyd might have an idea. Arran wasn't so far if the king would allow an attack there.
* * *
The next night, James stood in front of the roaring fire on the huge hearth. Behind him, the king paced as he often did when he had decisions to be made. James was glad the king had taken him into his council, and now his voice was heard in the discussions. But he couldn't stand any more sitting and waiting. It was time to let the English know the Scots still had swords.
Boyd sat, legs stretched in front of him, across the room. He had little taste for talking in council, or so it seemed to James. Thomas and Alexander sat next to their brother whilst Edward Bruce turned from staring out through a window slit and paced around the room. Campbell and Lennox were watching the pacing Sir Edward.
Edward Bruce turned to toss a bag into the middle of the table. It clinked as it hit. "The Martinmas rents from Carrick. I had to dodge Sassenach all the way. There's been unrest there and executions. Priests crucified. Hangings. Villages burned. The country's being ground down into the dirt."
King Robert gripped his hand into a fist. "Who holds the castle? Did you learn?"
"Percy, Earl of Northumberland."
The king strode another turn about the room. "There are worse to face. He has an over-abundance of caution on the battlefield. How much of the rents did you collect?"
"Not as much we would have hoped because of the troubles, but if I take them to Antrim they should pay for a good number of gallowglasses. And you have the promise of galleys from Angus MacDonald."
The king picked the bag up and weighed it in his hand. "Yes, Irish troops--gallowglasses, we must have. But I need you with me whilst I gather what aid I can from Mackenzie of Kintail. Alexander and Thomas can go to Ireland for us." He nodded to his two younger brothers.
Since Boyd had arrived with word that Kildrummy Castle had fallen to treachery, and the King's brother Nigel captured, the king had slept little. Word of Nigel's fate hadn't yet reached them so far into the north were they, but James knew what the king feared. It was what they all feared. Every captured friend they had word of had died to the same execution King Edward had given Wallace.
The mistress of this castle gave the king some comfort. Yet when James checked the walls at night, too restless to sleep, all too often he saw the king pacing in the Great Hall.
James felt he would burst being confined to the castle. Often he stood on the walls watching roiling waters of Loch Moidart, waiting and watching. His hands twitched to hold his sword.
"How many do you think from Mackenzie?" Edward asked.
"Not many, Christina believes. You know how thin
the king's writ runs here but for my friendship with her. I think a hundred and the three hundred she's promised from her own."
"And no knights or heavy horse--" Edward shook his head. "I don't like it."
"Heavy horse won't win for us, Edward. You know that. We can't and won't match the English in cavalry. So we'll have to make good use of what we have. My plan is wait two weeks for Alexander and Thomas to sail to Ireland, hire what gallowglasses they may and return. Meanwhile, we'll have gathered our force. We'll land in Carrick in February before they expect spring attacks. We can't wait for the hill passes to open. The Islemen say the English still seek us at Rathlin Island, so they're well out on where we are."
"Your Grace," James said stepping towards the table. Time to put forward his idea. Boyd had thought it was a good one.
"Jamie?" The king raised his eyebrows.
James knew his place here was more because of saving the king and for being the Lord of Douglas that should be than because the king expected him to speak. Edward Bruce gave him a scathing look, and even the others leaned back with skeptical gazes. James rushed on. "I have a thought. Men are good, but we need supplies. Weapons, armor, food."
"Not a new thought to me. But you're right."
"On Arran, the force at Brodrick Castle is small and vulnerable I've heard. We could attack, mayhap seize their supplies. It wouldn't take a large force--the men to row a twenty-oar galley. We could hide it and watch for a chance to seize what we could."
"Attack Brodick Castle?"
James shrugged. "That's not my thought, my lord, but it might be possible. Attack a force that's been sent for supplies is more likely or at least harry them. We have to scout the place before we know. You could gather your forces on Arran Island when you're ready. If we've seized nothing, then there's no loss. But there's a chance of gain."
"And you'd lead the attack force, Jamie?" The king didn't sound unhappy at the idea, but James had never led a thing on his own. Even forty men would be many to lose in their thin numbers.