The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  He strolled amongst the men stopping to talk to them. At one cook fire, three men offered him a share of a rabbit they were roasting. He took a leg, tossing it from one hand to the other when it scorched his fingers as they grinned. At another, a youngster asked the best way to defend if he fought someone with a two-handed sword. James thought he'd like this life and felt comfortable taking charge of the men of Douglasdale--as it should be. It was what he was born to. What they expected of him.

  The next morning he had them move to the new camp. Soon the jacks were being dug. James went over the training again with Wat. They reviewed the stores and James realized they were short of arrows, so he set men to fletching. He'd never suspected how much there was to think of. But he couldn't think of anything more so he sent Iain off to the Lanark Fair with some extra gold and two horses to sell. Then he took one of the horses himself and one to ride.

  Wat kept casting him worried looks and said going to Berwick-upon-Tweed was too dangerous.

  "Did you grow tits that you're my mother?" James vaulted into the saddle, shoving his feet into the irons, and laughed. He would hate the day he was so old he had to use stirrups. But even the king as old as he was could mount without touching them so mayhap that would never happen.

  "Just keep the men busy. We'll have work to do when I come back." He waved and rode away from the camp.

  He rode east through the Forest. It was dark with changing shapes of the shadows and smelled of spring. His horse's hooves made soft thumps in the deep carpet of needles. The Forest stretched a half-day's ride to the east--well past where he might be sought. He shrugged off that worry. A lone man in leather breeches and jerkin was nothing anyone would pay any mind. "On my way to sell this horse I raised--" he would say if anyone questioned. But no one did. He wrapped his short mantle around himself that night and made a cold camp, filling up on cold water from a stream. Eventually, he slept only to wake, gasping when someone held a sword over Isabella's slender neck, and blood gushed when the sword fell. In the gray darkness, he watched the stars moving across the sky and the North Star steady in its place, wondering if he'd ever stop having such dreams. Once it had been the city ahead of him and the screams whilst it was butchered that had haunted his sleep. A priest would no doubt say they were a penance for his sins.

  When he awoke, James took a breath of the fresh morning air filled with the scent of heather and allowed himself to hope. The eastern sky was pale gold at the horizon but dark gray higher, and the North Star still hung high in the sky.

  Late in the afternoon, the high towers of Berwick Castle came into view. He pulled up his horse and sat a long time looking at it. He'd known the place as well as his own home when his father was governor there. He'd been a page more given to climbing the towers than waiting on table.

  It had been a happy time--until King Edward of England turned his entire army loose on the people of the city. James heard later, it was that some of the Scots had bared their arses at the English king that caused him to butcher the city.

  James had huddled on the parapet whilst his father paced, looking down as the town burned, choking smoke engulfing the castle, and people screamed below the walls. His father had cried that night. That had frightened James as much as the screams. In his armor with a useless sword in his hand, his father had turned his back so James wouldn't see. The next day he'd negotiated a surrender, giving himself up if Edward released the garrison. One of the men had held his hand over James's mouth to keep him quiet when they dragged his father away in chains.

  Now an English banner flapped above the tower in the sea breeze. And somewhere on its walls, Isabella was caged. He wondered if the castle was in need of horses.

  James rode down the street below the high gray walls. Even after ten years, every third or fourth house was a burned out shell with weeds sprouting waist deep though the rotted ruins. Some boys with dirty faces crouched behind a building and watched him as he passed. Further on, a whore threw open shutters to yell an invitation down to him.

  In the market square at the edge of the port, he stopped. It still had a familiar smell of mud and fish guts but once it would have been full of ships carrying wool to the Flemish and beyond. Now one mast bobbed at the docks.

  On the west, side of the market square stood a modest inn with whitewashed walls and a sign painted with a mug of ale above the door. He dismounted at the stables setting next to it and yelled for a groom.

  His horses tended, he went in. The blousy, dark-haired innkeeper smiled at the sight of him and set to teasing him. "Come to town to comb the heather out of your hair, did you, lad?"

  He wondered how long he'd have to grow his beard before people decided he wasn't a lad. He was nearing nineteen.

  She patted his cheek. "You're a tall one, too. And look at that blush. But my Mabel can cure that for you."

  "Thank you," he said, "but all I need is a meal and a bed. And mayhap you can tell me who might buy a horse hereabouts."

  "Beds we got but no use for a horse," said the red-haired Mabel. She put her hand on James's arm and squeezed. "And you want food, do you?"

  "If you have it and I have the price," he said and his face going even hotter.

  "There's some mutton roasting, and I'll send one of the girls to the baker for some fresh bread," the dark-haired one put in.

  He handed over a groat and sat in the common room to eat his mutton with a mug of watery ale. A serving wench took a customer up the steep creaking stairs. The man patted her rump as they climbed.

  Mabel sat down on the bench beside James and smiled at him. "Mayhap you're looking to do more than sell a horse."

  "Just selling the animal is all."

  "Well, nobody I know needs one." She shrugged and her gown slipped even lower over her full breasts. "I bet I could make you happy though. Want to?"

  He sighed. "I said no." He drained the mug and climbed the stairs to the sleeping room. There was only one bed, a big one that he'd probably end up sharing with another traveler. It filled the whole room with just enough space to squeeze around it. The musty smell of the straw-filled mattress made him sneeze. He pulled off his boots and lay on top of the blanket in all his clothes.

  Sleep came as soon as he closed his eyes. He dreamed of swords flashing as he hunted through dark woods. He killed and killed, blood spattering until he reeked with it, but no matter how he called, he couldn't find the king or Isabella.

  He awoke to a man snoring loudly to his left. Sitting up, he pulled on his boots. When he went out, the morning was gray and overcast with a smell of rain in the air.

  He chewed his lip. The horse would almost certainly get him into the castle even if they didn't buy it. But he needed information first, so he strolled past the dock and up the slope. A baker yelled out that he had fresh pies. James bought one, savory with meat and onion.

  He licked the crumbs off his lips as he tilted his head contemplating another. "My pa was at the castle when Lord Douglas commanded it."

  The man spit. "Old man didn't do nothing to save the town, he didn't."

  James blinked. What could his father have done with not even enough men to hold the castle much less defeat Edward's army? But he thought better of saying it. "I guess he didn't. Some Sassenach commanding it now though."

  "Like everywhere. If the King Alexander had left us a son--" He shrugged. "Guess they'll let us live if we keep quiet. You want another pie?"

  James shoved over a pence. "I hear they have some woman in a cage over there."

  "Oh, that they do. The MacDuff woman. She was fucking Bruce and put a crown on his head. She'll not get out of her cage after that."

  James took a big bite of the pie and chewed it. Nasty mind but mayhap people were bound to think that. Few women had her courage or men for that matter. "Never saw no woman in a cage. Guess she's inside the castle though."

  "Nah. On top of the hanging wall, high up. On bread and water, I heard. Have to feel sorry for her even if she did put horns on old Comyn
."

  James worked a bit of gristle from between his teeth with his tongue and nodded. "Hope I'll see her if I go up there. Looking to sell a horse and thought the horse-master might look at it."

  The man shrugged, so James wandered away. He walked around some more by the empty buildings where the Flemish merchants used to be until Edward had them hanged. He passed a kirk where a priest used a hoe in a garden. James stopped and thought about confession. No, he'd trust no one but Moray or Lamberton with what he had to tell. This poor man would probably shit himself with fright. Another inn up the slope a way where he drank a glass of ale told him nothing. Finally, when the afternoon was half over with shadows long and heavy he took the horse from the stable and led it up the wide stony way to the castle.

  He walked the horse along the road that seemed strangely quiet except for the wash of the water against the shore. It splashed and splattered against the wall.

  High against the merlons hung a square cage from creaking wooden posts. Inside was a pile of cloth. James walked towards it, his belly cold. The cloth moved and a sun-darkened arm reached out to grasp a bar with stick-like fingers. The cage sifted. A face peered down at him, hair sticking out from it, white as a bone.

  The hardest thing he had ever done was to turn his back and walk to the gate. He wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

  A man-at-arms stepped in front of him. For a moment, James couldn't find his voice to speak. His throat had shut on a scream, but he managed finally to say, "I seek to sell this." He jerked his head towards the horse.

  The guard pointed across the yard to the stable. "Stable master's that way."

  It seemed too easy to get in, but the fighting was far away--minor yet. Mayhap they'd not even heard of it. That didn't mean that getting to Isabella would be easy. They wouldn't just let him wander up on the parapets. And once he got there, Holy Mother of God, somehow he must help her.

  Crossbowmen paced the walls. A boy shoveled horse droppings in the bailey. The sound of a hammer on steel came from a smithy as he passed it, but behind it was in dark shadow. When he reached the wide doors of the stable, a man's voice barked to bring hay down and hurry up about it.

  "Stable master around?" he said into the dim interior.

  A tall gray-haired man came out from a stall. "That's me."

  "Thought you might could use a horse. I need to sell it."

  The stable-master walked around the animal and James crossed his arms. Take your time, he thought, the longer the better. By now, shadows had engulfed the yard. Soon it would be dark except for spots where torches and braziers lighted the walls.

  The man mounted and gathered the reins. He let the horse amble around the yard once and then again. "Not a bad animal," he said as he dismounted. "Might do for a man-at-arms with some work. I'll give you a pound for it."

  "I was thinking more like two," he said in a doubtful tone.

  "Well, tell you what. I'll throw in an extra shilling. Best I can do."

  James nodded. "Done, then. And I thank you, sir." He waited, propping up the stable wall whilst the horse master went to get the money. On the parapet, a crossbowman paced near Isabella's cage, looking bored. A servant climbed the steps carrying a hunk of bread and bowl that she slid through a slot in the bars before she left. The horse-master returned and handed James his money, taking the reins of the horse. James nodded as he sauntered towards the smithy. In the half-dark, the man was closing the door when James stopped. "Wouldn't happen to know a good inn, hereabouts?" he asked, looking beyond to see the horse led into the stable.

  "One next to the square."

  James nodded, pausing to straighten his tunic and stepped around the corner behind the smithy. He smiled as he unlaced himself and pissed--just in case. But no one appeared. The bailey had grown silent. A horse whickered in the stable. He heard two men, laughing and talking. A door slammed.

  James slowly laced his breeches and slid one of the dirks from his boot top. He backed into a corner and waited. The night grew black and moonless, clouds hiding even the stars. A fine rain started. He didn't move and it soaked him to the skin. Water dripped from his hair down his neck. With no moon or stars, it was hard to judge the time, but at last, James slipped out of his hiding place.

  He pressed against the wall and slithered towards the stairs, watching the parapet. In the dense murk, he couldn't even make out the crossbowman at first. Straining, he picked out an even darker shape, hunched as it made its way to a corner of the tower. James crept up the stairs, eyes fixed on the shadows where the guard hid from the rain.

  When he was close, James saw the whites of the man's eyes staring. He lunged.

  "Wha--"

  James' dirk went through his throat and jammed in bone. Gurgles came out of the man's mouth and a gush of hot, sticky blood. James caught his waist and lowered his body, working the dirk from side to side to free it. He wiped the blood from his hands on the man's cloak. A voice in the across the courtyard was answered by another. He waited in the dark. Footsteps sounded and another slamming door, then quiet again. The rain turned to mist and then stopped. He knelt and waited some more.

  Finally, letting out a long breath, he rose and went to the cage.

  As he ran his hands over the bars searching for the door, a hoarse voice croaked, "Who's there?"

  Thin fingers touched his. He knelt. "Isabella," he whispered. "God's mercy, what have they done?"

  "Jamie." Her voice was part wheeze and part croak. Her breath rattled as she spoke. "How?"

  He reached through the bars and touched her hair. It felt like wet straw under his fingers. "I sneaked in. Isabella, love, I'll get you out of here."

  "They said--Bruce is dead?"

  "No, love. He lives. We struggle. Many died but not the king."

  She put her hand over his. Her skin felt like parchment. So hot, yet strangely dry with it wet from the rain.

  He reached up. "Where's the lock? I must open it. Force it." He felt for it in the darkness. Merciful God, he had to get her out of here.

  She began to cough, a tearing sound. He took off his mantle and slid it between the bars. "I'm sorry it's wet. It's all I have."

  She pushed it back towards him, the cough shaking her whole body, ripping at her chest.

  "Take it," he said.

  "I can't," she croaked. "A guard slipped me a cloak once. When they found out--took it and didn't give me food for three days."

  His hand found the lock and he shook it. The thing didn't even rattle. He took out his dirk and slid it into the crack. "I'll get you out. Then it won't matter. I'll get you away. The smith shop. A bar to pry it open"

  "Jamie, stop." She hacked again, a wet horrid sound. "I can't even stand." Then she sobbed.

  He let go of the lock and dropped the dirk. His arms barely fit between the bars, but he forced them through and pulled her against his chest. He stroked her sodden hair and felt her body jerk, half in sobs and half in coughs. Her face burned with fever. "When I get you out, I'll carry you," he said.

  "They'd hear. I know what they'd do." Now it was purely sobs that racked her. "They made me watch when they killed Nigel."

  His tears were silent and he let them run down his face. "I can't leave you. God in heaven, Isabella." He stroked her back. Under her sobs, he could feel the grinding in her chest but he kept stroking. The bones of her spine stuck out so much he wondered they didn't cut her skin. How had she lived exposed to the Scottish winter, with no shelter except the bars of a cage? He pressed his forehead against the iron so hard that it hurt. "I won't leave you."

  At last, her sobs stopped. The only sound was her breathing, like pebbles tumbling down a cliff. "Jamie--" she whispered.

  He kissed the top of her head through the bars.

  "If I were a man--if I were your friend--would you give me a dirk?"

  "No!" He looked around to be sure he hadn't been heard. They were both quiet, listening. "I have to get you out. Don't talk about that."

  An
other cough racked her before she could speak again. "I won't. I won't watch you die. Not like Nigel. Choking back screams whilst they slit open your belly." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You can't make me suffer that. I won't let you. I won't go with you."

  He let her go. Desperate, he picked up his dirk and slammed it into his boot, shoved his hands through his wet hair to push it back. "I love you. Don't ask me that. I--"

  She sighed faintly and leaned against the bars. "I'm so cold. And it hurts. Has it been a year, Jamie? It's spring again so it must be. I tried to count the days, but it's too hard."

  "Let me try, Isabella. Please."

  "My sweet love," she whispered. "Can you magic open a lock? Make me invisible so they don't see me?"

  "I can go over the wall," he said trying not to sound angry. "I'm strong. I can carry you." He shook the lock. Took out his dirk and slid it into the hole. But the fact was he knew nothing about such things. He cursed under his breath. If he broke into the smithy to get a bar of some kind--

  "You'll climb the wall carrying a dying woman? And they'll catch you. And kill you, too."

  "You're not dying."

  "Jamie, I am." She stretched her arm up and clutched at it with her hot, dry hand. He knelt and pulled it through the bars--so easily. Her wrist was no larger than a child's. Her arms were skin over bone.

  He kissed her fingers. "I can come back with my men. I can..."

  "You can take Berwick Castle--from Edward?" She gasped and her chest heaved. James clutched her hand as she struggled for breath. Finally, it eased. She coughed and spit something out onto a scrap of cloth. "My lungs bleed. More every day."

  James grasped the bars with both hands and jerked on them. But he was no Samson to tear them to bits. Would to God that he were.

  What was he to do? He couldn't throw his men's lives away. They trusted him, and this wasn't a castle he could take with a handful of men and a trick. It was one of the strongest in the kingdom, garrisoned with hundreds of guards.