The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  The priest's eyes fluttered open. "What..." His tongue was thick and he couldn't seem to get words out.

  James sat beside him and lifted his head to let him drink. "You're all right, Father. The Sassenach are gone."

  Water dribbled from the man's lips as he gulped thirstily. "You're-- You're--"

  "No southron, Father." James let the man's head down and refilled the cup. At least, they'd leave him with water and he could only hope that would be enough. "What happened here?"

  The priest rolled his head back and forth. "I had a message from the Bishop of Moray. Saying to preach to rise for Bruce. But there are no fighters here. Not even a lord. All gone. I--I didn't. But they came anyway." A tear rolled down his face. "They came anyway."

  "I think some of the people ran away. They'll be back."

  The priest's eyes opened and widened. "Who are you?"

  "Just say I know the Bishop of Moray and leave it. I'll not bring more troubles on you. We'll move the bodies safely into the kirk before we go. There's no more I can do." He patted the priest's shoulder. "There's water here. Rest."

  But the man's eyes had closed, his face went flaccid. James put a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief to feel it rise and fall. He itched to leave and to reach Douglas Castle. If this was done in such a small village, his stomach knotted to think what might have happened there. He'd help Wat move the bodies into the kirk. Then they'd be off.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Douglasdale, Scotland: March 1307

  James crawled through the drizzling rain. The brown carpet of dried leaves squished under him wet oozing into his jack. Huge bare oaks and tall pines cast dark shadows. On a slight hill above them was Castle Douglas, old and solid, with faint light shining out of the slit windows. On the wall, the silhouette of a man-at-arms moved as he walked his watch.

  James' stomach lurched. From a tree beside the keep, two bodies hung, swaying in the rising wind. He ground his teeth. The truth was he'd wanted a sight of the castle. Home. A home he couldn't hold. But if he couldn't hold it, he could still see the English burning in hell for what they'd done. He tried not to remember which of these trees he'd climbed as a lad.

  By the time he made his way back to the glen where he was meeting Wat, darkness had fallen. The black clouds hid the moon. Thunder crashed and lightning slashed the sky, lighting the night like daylight.

  "This is going to get worse," Wat said. "Looks like a good storm."

  James had to agree with him. The village of Douglas was only two miles away and Thomas's farm just beyond that. They needed to find shelter. The rain had turned to sleet slashing at him by the time they passed east of the village. When the lightning flashed, the small timbered house was a welcome sight at the end of the muddy path. A glimmer of light shone through the shutters.

  Wat crept ahead to scout whilst James crouched in the driving sleet, his cloak flapping around him. He grabbed it close, more to still it than for warmth, and listened. The howl of the wind and crack of branches was all he could hear. Wat was back after a few minutes and tapped his arm to give him the all clear. They'd already agreed James would go in alone in case something went wrong.

  James wondered why his heart was hammering so hard. He was just going to talk to one of his father's men. It shouldn't make him feel like a nervous lad. So he stood up and strode to the door. As he hammered on it, another crash of lightning lit up the sky.

  "Who is it?" a voice shouted from inside.

  "An old friend." James hoped. He couldn't recognize the voice from the muffled shout over the sound of the storm.

  "What old friend?"

  "Thomas Dickson, is it? Open the door." Thunder crack again. "Thomas, you knew my father."

  The door opened halfway and Thomas Dickson looked out. His father's man had a craggy face. His nose was hooked, and he had a blond beard down to his chest though now it was streaked with gray, but there had always been a hint of laughter in his blue eyes. James stood with his hand on the doorway, his hair crusted with ice.

  "Thomas," James said.

  The man looked him up and down, no smile in his eyes now. He frowned in puzzlement.

  "It's Jamie."

  Thomas's eyes widened. "By the rood." He grabbed James's arm and pulled him inside. First, he took a quick glance into the darkness and then he slammed the door.

  "Jamie." He threw his arms around James, pounding his back and laughing. "Lad, you're alive."

  James laughed and pounded back. "Unless you break something, beating on me."

  "We have to talk, lad." Thomas shook his head. "It's my lord now. That's hard to remember. I still think you an imp following your father about."

  "Ah, it's good to see you, Thomas. It's good to be home--even if it is in secret."

  "You've been gone too long. I never thought to see the day a Douglas would have to sneak into the dale. But get you out of that wet cloak and beside the fire. We'll talk."

  "Let me get my man first." James ran out through the sleet whilst Thomas held the door open. As they went in, he stepped out to walk around the house. James smiled. Thomas was always a cautious man and in these foul days, that was a good thing. Once Thomas returned, he dropped a thick wooden bar across the door. The room was snug with a fire burning on the hearth and stools to pull in its warmth. Water dripped from their hair as Thomas took their cloaks to hang.

  Soon the three of them were sitting with ale and James gave a profound sigh. The house had a scent of a sweet wood fire and fresh bread.

  "This is the best thing I've felt in many days, my old friend," he said. "In spite of how I came here."

  Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "They said you were wi' Bruce. But none knew if you still lived."

  "I was with him at Scone when Bishop Wishart crowned him and then Isabella MacDuff put the crown on his head again. And afterward until two days ago when I swore to him there were loyal men in my Douglasdale. I came to find them."

  "So it's true then. He's making a fight of it? After so many died at Methven and after, I feared. The English said he'd fled to Ireland."

  "A lie. We never left but were in the North Isles. He'll make a fight of it. And we've learned what we needed to from our defeat there and from Wallace. We can't beat the English in the field. But we can beat them." James stood and walked to the fire. He turned to face Thomas. "We mean to."

  Thomas's face was flushed with excitement. "And you're to claim Douglasdale? As your father's son?"

  "That I am. It is mine. The king has sworn to restore it to me though I'll have to fight for it."

  "A Douglas. Returned. Take my oath then. We need you, Jamie." His face split into a broad smile. "My lord of Douglas."

  If only his father were here to see him receive his first oath-- Thomas knelt and put his hands between James's and swore to be his man and James swore to protect him. So simple, but now they had a duty to each other. James sat back and looked into the dancing flames of the fire. It was a duty that he feared might cost them both much.

  Thomas stood. "I've saved something against this day. Something for you." He went to a chest under a window and opened it, pulling out some blue cloth. Holding it out he said, "I took your father's pennon the day he was taken prisoner."

  James' chest squeezed tight. He took it and ran his fingers over one of the white stars. "Thomas." He stared at the silky cloth so the man wouldn't see tears start in his eyes. "I thank you."

  Thomas busied himself at a shelf getting down bread and cheese for them. "What am I thinking? My lord in my house and I've not offered him food."

  James took a deep breath and took a slice of bread and hunk of soft yellow cheese. But one hand slid over something that his father had touched.

  "How has it been in Douglasdale?" James asked after a few minutes. He told Thomas what he'd found on their way.

  "Bad enough. After it was noised about that you were with King Robert, my cousin Iain was hanged for no more reason than to warn us. Two of the smit
h's sons hanged. Thom Miller. Iain of Lannock. Women have been savaged." His mouth twisted in pain. "The commander does nothing or less than nothing. Of a mercy, the priest has been careful, mayhap too much so, but I cannot blame him."

  James thought on that for a while. "Thomas, how many men does Lord Clifford have holding the castle?"

  "It's a small garrison, my lord." Thomas's eyes sparked with delight at the title, and James had to chuckle. But James hadn't felt much different when Bruce became his liege lord, now that he thought of it.

  "Thirty and a handful of servants," Thomas said.

  "So can I gather enough men to play a little game with these thirty Sassenach?"

  "What game did you think of playing?" Wat had kept quiet sipping his ale and eyes going back and forth between the two men.

  "That I've yet to decide. But I'm sure we can think of one. If I could take my castle, I could not keep it out of English hands long. But at the least, I'd like to give them a good lesson." His voice hardened. "There is a Douglas once more in his own lands."

  A sly smile slid across Thomas's face. "I know men who will rise for you. And I may know a way to get at the English. Palm Sunday is only a few days away. The commander sees that his men attend holy day services. By the saints, they're godly men to rape of one day and pray on the next. But none dare abide wi' out attending the kirk." He gave a bark of laughter. "On Epiphany Day they left the keep unguarded so all could go to their prayers."

  James leaned back and stretched his legs out. "Did they indeed?" He smiled into the fire as he sipped his ale.

  James wanted to curl up in front of the fire to sleep, but Thomas wouldn't have it. His lord had to take his bed. The house was a large one for the village, with three rooms and the unusual luxury of a wide hearth and chimney. A gift from James's father for Thomas's service. Thomas showed him to his own bed on the other side of the hearth.

  Under the bearskin coverlet, James sank into the feather mattress. After days of weary travel, sleep came easy. The sight of Isabella hanging from an oak tree, a rope digging deep into her white neck jerked him awake. He was on his feet, panting and his heart racing. He lay back down and threw his arm across his eyes. He wouldn't see that. Thinking on it would destroy him. Hours later, he slept again.

  Bars of sunlight in his eyes awoke him the next morning. He jerked upright in bed. How late had he slept? Padding into the main room in bare feet, he found himself face-to-face with a young woman who looked him up and down. He blinked in confusion before he remembered that Thomas Dickson had a daughter and a fair one now it seemed. Alycie had been but a nuisance when he'd last seen her, always following her father, asking questions, and getting underfoot.

  Her hair had the color and sheen of corn silk piled atop her head, and her face and neck were creamy and smooth. Her simple blue kirtle was modest, but still shapely enough to give him pause.

  He bowed slightly. "Forgive me."

  She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Her blue eyes had exactly that same hint of laughter as her father's. "Have you not changed at all, Jamie Douglas?"

  He shook his head, smiling. "Only a bit, Alycie. I've grown a taller." He looked down at her. "And you've grown fairer."

  Her father came in carrying an armful of logs and bringing a scent of fresh pine with him. "Lass, show a little respect to Lord Douglas."

  James threw his arms wide. "Here I am in my bare feet, Thomas. I don't blame her for thinking I look a careless lad."

  "No, my lord. Father is right. You just seem so like you did when you were a lad. I'm gladder than you can know that you've returned." She tilted her head to look at him. " Gladder than you can know."

  "Being a fine lord hasn't been my lot lately, but I can do better than this. I'm pleased to see you here. I suppose I thought you'd be wed and in your own house." In truth, he hadn't thought of it at all, but he wouldn't say so.

  The laugher in her eyes faded with her smile. "There have been things that happened." She shook her head and picked up a pitcher to pour him a mug of ale. "You'll have a long morning. There's bread and cheese to break your fast. I'm sorry I teased you. It's hard to remember we're not children any more."

  He took the mug and tilted her chin up with a finger. "I've fond memories of being a lad here, Alycie. I don't mind being teased. But you were a troublesome lass and always underfoot." He winked at her and then took a drink of the ale. He hid a smile in the mug when she blushed.

  James sat the mug on the table and broke off a hunk of bread. "Thomas, I'll try to make myself look more like the Lord of Douglas. But she's aright that there's much to be done. I want to meet with our men."

  "Aye, my lord. I sent Will to three I trust. I fear if too many come of a time, it might be noticed."

  Wat looked up from where he sat cleaning his armor. "That's a wise thought."

  James swallowed a mouthful of bread and motioned with the rest in his hand. "The luxury of breaking my fast is welcome, but I can't be slothful. Here's Wat hard at work and I'm still idle." He picked up his mug of ale and took it with him. His hauberk was rust specked from the rain. With a sigh, he took a cloth out and a bit of grease to do something about it. It would take tumbling it with sand to get it truly clean. He remembered as a lad thinking he'd have a squire for such tasks as his father had. Now that he remembered, he'd spent much time polishing his father's armor. James's sword was in better case, but the edge could be sharper. The whetstone was making a comforting whisk as he ran it down the blade when he heard voices in the outer room.

  Buckling his belt and checking the hang of the sword, he stepped in to see four men had joined them. They stared at him, looking him up and down.

  "God's wounds," one of them said in a low voice. "I didn't truly believe you, Will."

  Alycie clanged the lid down on the steaming pot she was stirring that hung over the hearth. She stood up straight to glare at the man. "I'll thank you not to use such language in my father's house, Gib."

  The leathery-faced man shook his head. "Sorry, lass. But I'd given up hope of seeing a Douglas back where he belongs. I put this lad on his first pony."

  Recognition hit James. Gib had been his father's stable master. "I remember. It's past time I was back." One by one, they gave him their oaths, and he promised them protection. So small a start but one that meant much.

  James sat down and motioned for the men to join him and Alycie sat down as well, a bit of sewing in her had.

  "Thomas told you our plans for Sunday?"

  Thomas frowned at his daughter. "Alycie, this is men's business. Best you take your sewing to your room, lass."

  She stood, crumpling the cloth in her hand, and started to the door but stopped. Whirling, she faced them. "Was it man's business when the English ravished me? Was it when Maggie was left a widow? When we suffer as much, why is it only men's business?"

  "I'm sorry, lass." Thomas’s voice softened. "But it's best."

  James frowned. There was truth to what she said. War left women weeping for the men they'd lost, or raped and dead in a village, or locked in a cage. He stood and went to look down into the flames of the little fire on the hearth. "Let her stay if she wants, Thomas. Women in Scotland have more--"

  Alycie tilted her chin up and sniffed. "Thank you, my lord, but I'll be in my room until it's time to carry the water." She closed the door so quietly behind her that it was better than a slam.

  "She always was a stubborn lass and what happened--I can't bear to think on it. Forgive her rudeness. I should beat her for it, but I haven't the heart."

  James could all too easily guess what had been done to her. "By the saints, don't. I'd punish the English instead. And I mean to."

  "Aye, my lord, that's what I want to hear about," Gib said.

  "Only thirty of them. Thomas, how many men can I count on?"

  Thomas grimaced. "Your father could raise a thousand spears, my lord. But I fear at best seventy who are fit to fight and can be trusted."

  "With seventy
we can do it. But we must see that the women stay away." He chewed his lip. "Will they notice no women in the kirk of a Palm Sunday morning?"

  "They don't really look at us except to take what's ours," Gib said. "It's like we're cattle in the field. I think they'd forbid us the kirk if they could."

  "That's good, though. If they don't look, they won't notice a couple of extra men--though to be cautious mayhap Wat and I should come in last."

  Thomas beamed. "If you come in last then we'll have them trapped."

  "Weapons. In a close fight, I've found dirks do as well as any other, sometimes better. But do all the men have them?"

  "For any who don't, we can use threshers' flails. Those we have in plenty. A blow with a flail is as good as a mace."

  "Good." James leaned back and looked them in the eye, one by one. "You know the danger. Some of us may die, but so will the English. Have the men come to me after dusk tonight and tomorrow. I'll have their oaths and give them mine."

  "I'll be off for the fields, my lord. These days I'm no more than a serf and grateful to be left that much. But it'll give me the chance to talk to those I trust." Thomas stood. "Mind you, men, keep your mouths shut. One word in the wrong ear would be a disaster."

  "Wait, Thomas. There's something else I'd say."

  "What's that, my lord?"

  "If the village is to be safe from revenge after--" He took a deep breath. "--none of the English can live."

  The men all exchanged looks and nodded. Mayhap they had known that.