by J. R. Tomlin
At Edryford, a shallow stream crossed the road, passing into a dense patch of beech and hawthorn. It made a thick screen. James dismounted and led them across in the water. It would leave no sign of their passing. The path narrowed here to only four feet across, barely room for a single rider. James pointed. "Iain, ride back and watch from the ridge. There'll be English riding this way. Light a small fire when you spot them--just enough that I can see the smoke mind you."
"Wat, half on this side of the stream and half on the other. Do not fire until I give my cry. No one." He turned his horse in a tight circle, making sure they all saw his face. "We're out-numbered. Our only chance here is surprise. So hold until I call out."
Thomas Dickson had died because of a panicked attack. It wouldn't happen again. A couple of the men gathered the horses and led them along the stream and back past the ridge.
Now James knew was the hard part--the waiting. But if his spy told true the wait wouldn't be long. Once Wat had the men in place in a row of two, one squatting and one standing so they could concentrate their fire, James walked amongst them. Wat waited in next to the road, watching for the signal.
The morning was clear and bright, the sun shining down from a soft blue sky. One by one, James spoke to his men as they crouched in the cover of the green undergrowth. He walked slowly back to the stream. Here, he could watch--tell the best moment to attack. His men must remember to hold their fire. Even one losing his nerve or loosing an arrow beforehand and they'd die.
He paced behind them one more time, reminding them, and then he joined Wat.
Loosening his sword in its sheath and checking his dirks, he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the waiting. Mayhap spending days waiting to be beaten should be added to a squire's training. He snorted.
A wisp of smoke rose above the trees. Wat caught his eye and handed James his bow and quiver. James hung the quiver from his belt. He'd had enough practice with his bow this past year. He bent the good Scottish yew to slip the bowstring through the slots. "See that they hold, Wat." James shook his head at his own nerves. He ran splashing through the water to clamor up the ridge and peered through the leaves. A jay fluttered, scolding and screaming and then settled again. Midges swarmed, stinging his neck.
"Nock arrows," he said. "Make sure you have a good clean shot." Battle nerves. Here, the horses could only go single file with barely room to turn. The green sludge on the other side of the road reflected the gold coin of the sun. The brook burbled.
A whinny came from around the bend and there was a ring of harness. A horse clattered into sight, a destrier, brown coat glistening. Mowbray. Behind him a man bearing his green banner. James pulled an arrow from the quiver and notched it to the string. Wait-- Wait-- Mowbray came at an amble, one hand relaxed on his thigh as he rode. His shield hung from his saddlebow. A long line behind him in dark mail rode one by one around the bend.
Mowbray reached the stream. Splashed through. James held up a hand, waiting. Sweat ran down his forehead and his ribs. The man behind Mowbray. Then another, all of the men strung out riding single file. Mowbray was half way to where James's last man waited.
He led the man with his arrow. It made a hiss as it left his string. Mowbray's bannerman grunted and tumbled from his horse. The banner lay in the dirt beside him.
"The devil." He'd meant it for the traitor.
James yelled, "A Douglas. A Douglas." His men took up the shout.
"Douglas. Douglas." echoed from the hills behind them.
A man-at-arms kicked his horse in a circle trying to reverse. Instead, it went into the black bog of the marsh, pitching him over its shoulder. He crashed into the sludge. Before he could rise, arrows pierced him. Horses reared. A man-at-arms jerked his reins to head towards the ridge and jammed spurs into its flanks. It plunged, hooves scoring deep and dirt flying. James pulled a second arrow. He hurried the shot too much and it missed. The man beside him put an arrow through the Englishman's chest.
Riderless horses neighed and reared. Riders kicked their horses ahead. They jammed into men flying the other way. James pulled another arrow back to his ear, aimed and loosed it. The shaft pierced a chest, and the man screamed as he fell.
He drew his sword and leaped from the edge of the ridge. "A Douglas," he shouted again. "At them."
Around him, his men jumped with him, swords slashing as they went. A sword took Pym and he fell back, skidding in scree and leaving a track of blood. James buried his blade in the middle of the first belly within reach. There were more behind him. His men were shouting: "A Douglas." The English shouted curses as they tried to retire. They were a tangle of horses facing every direction.
"The Black Douglas," one of the men-at-arms yelled.
It happened all at once. The English broke, yet their own horsemen blocked their way. Some tried to fight and died. The ones who could wheeled their horses. The horses scrambled as their riders desperately kicked into their flanks. A rider slipped off the road into the hock-deep black muck, horse thrashing. The man screamed as an arrow found his back.
James ran in the direction Mowbray had ridden, onward out of the trap. He stepped on the green banner in the sodden muck. One of James's men grabbed Mowbray's stirrup. Mowbray hacked down on his shoulder. He gave a bubbling shriek.
Mowbray hit his horse's flank with the flat of his sword. The animal gathered its haunches and lunged to a gallop. An arrow whistled past him. James ran a step in that direct and then stopped, cursing. No chance to catch him.
The air was full of the stink of blood and shit. He found Pym dead. Another corpse lay in the muck and James cursed again. He'd forgotten the man's name. How could they trust him if he didn't even know their names? Iain lay stuffing a rag on a slash in his leg, pale and bloody but still alive. An English man-at-arms groaned with his arm slashed open.
"Leave him be," James said to one of his men standing over him. He gave a twisted grin. "No harm for the Mowbray to find out who did the deed."
At every step, there was a dead horse and a dead enemy. Not so many--he counted as he walked. Only seventy enemies dead but they'd turned them. There would be no reinforcements for Valence. Not now. Even if he hadn't crossed swords with Mowbray, the man had run like the craven he was.
Wat ran up, sweat rolling down his grizzled face. "My lord--" He stopped to gulp down a breath of air. "Should we try to follow? Harry them?"
"No. Back to camp." He gestured. "Loot the bodies but make it fast in case some of them find the courage in their bellies for a fight."
Wat laughed. "Not likely. They'll not stop running before Bothwell."
James rolled a corpse over with his foot. He looked down at a face no older than his own and now wouldn't ever be. Why couldn't these people stay in their own land? They had a kingdom that was big--rich. Once England had been enough for seven kings it was said, and now they wanted Scotland, too. Why?
"We'll leave no weapons or armor. We need all we can get." His smile was grim. "The English can pay for our war now."
That afternoon, James paced the camp. He crouched beside Iain. The man was too badly injured to ride with them to the king. Anyway, he'd need someone to carry messages and reports from his spies so they'd leave a handful of men here.
When he returned, he would meet with the spies. He would know all of the men and women, too, who risked so much. Even though it wasn't really for him, he owed them that.
He'd given the king his word he would return in good time. And with battle looming, with the king he must be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Near Loudon Hill, Scotland: May 1307
The light mellowed as the sun sank to the top of distant mountains. Ahead at the top of a heather covered hill rose a small square keep. Beyond it, stretched out under trees was a camp with smoke rising from dozens of fires. Tracking down the king had taken James two days. He'd moved further into Ayr from since he'd fought at Glen Trool, but, for a certainty, of that James approved. Staying several steps ahead of their
enemies was likely to keep them alive.
A handful of men stood in front of the keep, and James strained to make them out. "Wat," he yelled back, "I'm riding ahead." He clapped his spurs to the big stallion he was riding as a gift for the king. It gathered its haunches and sprang into a gallop. James leaned forward over its neck, wind whipping his hair and he laughed.
A man swung out the door, blond hair touched with a few strands of gray, red-lion surcoat over his armor. A knot in James's stomach untied. He'd not been truly quite sure that he'd see the king ever again. He pulled up hard on the reins, and the horse came to a rearing halt a few feet from where Robert de Bruce smiled up at him.
James froze for a moment. It had only been a month since he'd seen the king, yet it seemed more than a lifetime. Then James realized he was sitting his horse in the king's presence. He threw himself down and took two running steps to drop to a knee and reach for the king's hand. "My liege."
"Jamie." The king smiled and there was a hint of relief in his face. He motioned towards the stallion. "Tell me how you acquired this animal you galloped in on. You're looking fine indeed, my Lord of Douglas."
James's band of men clattered up and Wat shouted for them to dismount.
James gathered the reins and handed them to the king. "Lord Clifford no longer had need of the horse it seems. I brought him to you for your use--and my loyal men of Douglasdale I promised you."
Bruce took the reins, laughing and looped them to a post. "So you did, Jamie." He put his arm around James's shoulder and nodded towards the keep only three stories and the gray stone crumbling, James realized now that he was closer. "I want you to tell me this tale of how you got a horse of Lord Clifford."
"More the horse of his commander, but as close as I could get to the miscreant."
This was a tale that would be ill telling, he feared. Over his shoulder, he ordered Wat to see to the men and went with the king towards the door of the keep. Sir Niall Campbell and Robbie Boyd both were waiting inside in the musty-smelling hall. Sir Edward stood next to a slot window looking out.
Bruce looked around at the place. "Not fine, but mine own for the moment and better than a cave, I mark me."
"It's time and past time that you had a roof over your head, Your Grace." He went to the tiny fire that burned in the hearth at the end of the hall. The reeds on the floor were pounded flat and smelled of droppings. Squatting he held his hands out to the flames although it wasn't cold.
The king turned a chair and sat, facing James with a thoughtful expression. "I've reports that Mowbray is moving to join his forces with Pembroke's. We were making plans--"
"Oh, well, as to that," James said and then clamped his teeth. His manners had apparently gone somewhere else to lodge that he'd interrupt the king. He inclined his head, coloring, "Forgive me."
Bruce waved a hand. "No, Jamie, speak."
"Two days back Mowbray found it wise to turn back to Bothwell. We laid an ambushed for him at the Edryford. Killed not so many. Less than a hundred by my count, but Mowbray fled." He laughed as he stood. "And left with his troops running in the other direction."
"With the men you have with you now? So few?"
"I lost two men, but for the most part, yes, my lord." James smiled. "They're good men."
"And the horse--from Lord Clifford's commander?"
James paused and felt his face go stiff. "That--may not please you so well." James sucked in a long breath and watched the king's face as he told him the whole story of the attack on Douglas Castle. Even Edward Bruce had turned to stare at him. "My spies tell me people call it the Douglas Larder. But it was a fine fire. I do not know how long it took to wash the blood from the floor of the kirk." He stared out the window at the tint that covered the hills as if the setting sun had shed its own blood. "And that's the tale, my liege."
The king was silent for a long moment. "God's wounds, James." He shook his head. "That's a grim story."
James felt himself flare at the king's words. "Grimmer than Sir Thomas, or Nigel, or Alexander, my king?"
Bruce sprang to his feet and strode around the room. "Revenge? I--I want it. But--" He swung around. "Can I kill every man who's sided with the English this year past? Every English who's held a castle in our land?"
"No." James rubbed his beard. "Not revenge in truth, though I want it. Yet, if those men had lived, my people of Douglasdale would have been killed. I couldn't let the English know who had aided me and let Clifford take his revenge on them." He gave a hard sigh. "So I killed the prisoners instead--after they surrendered their swords to me. There've been days when I've felt I'd never be rid of the blood. But I did what I had to do."
Boyd hammered his fist down on a table in the middle of the room so hard that a map bounced. "Who raised the dragon? It wasn't you, my lord. Or Jamie. Edward Longshanks still offers no quarter to any man he captures."
"I tell myself that. I found my people raped and abused by those men. It was justice to kill them, but..." It would be weakness to tell them that he'd his reached his nineteenth year the day before and had wakened from dreams of killing. So he kept the thought in his head.
"You're right, both of you. We've little choice if we're to live and the people we have a duty to protect. You did what had to be done. The kirk--attacking in the kirk was a hard thing, but I'll say nothing about it. And Valence won't have Mowbray's men when he meets us." Bruce nodded. "Well done, lad."
James swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He remembered stories his father had read to him about Roman soldiers who fell on their swords. That had to have been easier. And he couldn't do it. The words to say he'd killed the woman who set a crown on his king's head would not come.
Edward swaggered to the table and thumped a finger on the map that lay in the middle. "It seems to me we've spent enough time on boyish problems. We have a battle to plan."
James' face flushed. After everything, he would not take Edward's jibes. "My lord." He swung around on the man, hand on his hilt and face scalding with heat.
"Enough, Edward. You too, Jamie." Bruce looked from one to the other. "I'll have no words between you."
James ground his teeth but held his peace. One day the man would get himself or the king killed with his high-handed ways.
"As for planning the battle, that I have ideas on." Bruce pointed to the map. "See you here where the road runs under the Loudoun Hill. What this doesn't show but I remember well, there are bogs on both sides. It's why I chose the place." He looked up at Niall Campbell. "You remember that?"
Campbell turned the map so he could look at it.
Crossing his arms across his broad chest, Boyd said, "The bogs get close thereabouts if I mind me."
Bruce's smile was grim. "I owe Valence a turn or two for Methven."
"I don't question that, Your Grace," Campbell said. "But we'll be badly outnumbered again. At least three to one, mayhap more. I'd be for retiring. Refusing the battle."
"A set battle?" James asked with a frown. "When I heard you agreed to it, I couldn't believe you'd do so. They'll have ample cavalry even without Mowbray. And what of archers? Can we hold against them?"
"Skulking. I've always known you were good at that, Douglas," Edward said. "But I'm a Bruce and it's time we stood up and fought like men."
The king hammered on the table with his fist. "I said no words between you two." The king glared at first one and then the other. Bruce's voice turned to steel. "I mean there to be peace between you. That is your king's command."
"As you will, my liege." James and Edward locked gazes. Peace didn't mean he had to like the man, king's brother or not. But he still offered Sir Edward his hand. They gripped forearms and Sir Edward looked no happier than James felt.
"Do you see what I mean, Robbie?" the king continued as though he'd never been interrupted. "My people have been flocking to me and I mean to keep on as we have. But I have to show that in the field, I can stand. Else how will they truly believe? So, I'll take his chal
lenge. This once."
"Oh, aye, I see it. We'll need to look the ground over, but if we can break their charge, then mayhap--just mayhap we can hold against them. We need to know whether they bring archers. If they have archers--" He grinned his deadly grin. "Well, they shouldn't reach the battle."
"Another thing. I had a message from Bishop Moray that he's within an hour's ride. If I know the good bishop, he'll have Moray troops at his back ready for the battle. Then we'll move and prepare."
The next hour Bishop Moray with a hundred men-at-arms arrived. The Bishop was one of the few men in Scotland who had never spent time in King Edward's peace. Even the mention of the English king brought a look to his face that chilled. James had no doubt he'd consign the English monarch to hell or to worse if he could think of worse.
As usual, the bishop wore armor with a cross painted on his surcoat, a priest militant if ever there had been. James thought about going to him, asking to make confession. He'd never been religious in spite of the training Lamberton had tried to drum into him. But the fact was he'd rather not die with what he'd done unconfessed. If he'd never been religious, he'd never before been sure that God had abandoned him. He watched the Bishop and waited. It was too hard. Coward, he told himself. He'd never thought he was a coward before.
From a distance, he watched the Bishop talk to the others and go through the camp blessing men who sought it. He watched and stood apart. Twice the bishop caught him watching and paused. James turned away.
It was near dark and James sought the king. If he would permit, James would take his own men ahead to harry strays or small groups and to scout the enemy as they marched. The king must know if Valence had archers. This would suit James better than marching with the van.