by J. R. Tomlin
James's lips were cracked and dry so it hurt when he gave a wry laugh. "No. Set. Battles."
"Aye, but it went well. And by the Rood of St. Margaret, you're with us again." The king's face hardened in a mask for a second. "I feared to lose you, too."
"My men. How many?"
"Not so bad. Ten of yours. Forty in the whole battle. Valence lost four times that number and the rest fled. I harried them well on their way. Gloucester was a day behind encamped. I sent them both back to their master." He gave a grim laugh. "They should be joyful Edward Longshanks is still at Carlisle, or he'd do Valence even more harm as we did."
The tent spun around James, and he wondered if he was dying. He thought to ask, but Isabella's voice stopped him. She whispered words in his ear. He couldn't die without telling. He grabbed Bruce's wrist. "I killed Isabella." He struggled against the king's hands, pressing him down into the blankets. "Your Grace, what could I do?" He felt tears running down his face and a sob he couldn't stop wracked his body. He clutched onto Bruce's arm. "I sneaked to her--in the castle. She begged me. To end it. I couldn't get her out." His words were strangely muffled. "I couldn't get her out. They hurt her. I had to."
He could hear the king's voice, but he didn't understand the words. They buzzed in his ears like midges on a hot night.
Through a haze of sleep, he felt someone raise him. He remembered where he was and looked for the king, but the face was the wrong one, not the king but a grizzled face with a short beard. How long had it been?
"Do you thirst, my lord?" Wat said.
He put a cup of water to James's mouth, and he gulped it down.
He managed to scoot back and, with Wat helping him, sat up. He ran his hand over his face. It was sweaty but the fever seemed gone. His beard had grown. How long had he been ill? "Bad bout of wound fever, Wat?"
He'd told the king about Isabella. Or mayhap it had only been another fever dream. Had they given him poppy? He frowned, trying to remember.
"Bad enough. I'll get you some broth."
"Wait." James jerked at the edge of the bandage and cursed. He was too weak to dislodge it. "I want to see. How bad is it?"
"Ripped open your shoulder good. Broke the bone. The horse falling on you didn't help."
When James twitched the shoulder, it was like someone drove a sword into it again. Sweating, he held out his hand. "Give me your dirk. I'll see it."
Wat looked over his shoulder. "The king will have my head if I make you worse." But he reached behind James to loosen the linen strip, slowly unwinding it. It stuck. Wat grimaced as he jerked to get it free.
As the bandage pulled loose, James felt cool air on the wound and a jolt of pain. He clamped his teeth and ignored it. Wat tossed aside the bandage, smelling of myrrh and vinegar.
James strained to see over his shoulder. Even that was agony, but he had to know. A shoulder wound could mean losing the use of your arm. At least, it was his shield arm. He lifted it carefully. Where it had been laid open was a long gash that went from his neck to his arm, red and swollen and oozing pus. If it was better, he didn't want to think how bad it had been.
James slid his feet from the cot onto the floor. His legs wobbled under him when he stood, and the tent spun. He had to grab Wat's arm to keep from plunging face down onto the ground. "Where are my clothes?" Pain gnawed his shoulder like a hound on a bone. The pain and the not knowing made him fume. "Get me my clothes."
"My lord, the king ordered..."
How Wat could be so good in battle and not understand about getting dressed was more than James could understand. "Get. My. Clothes." Wat dug through a pack and pulled out a shirt whilst James swayed on his feet.
In the end, James settled for breeches and a linen shirt that hung loose about his shoulder over the red, oozing flesh. Wat pulled on James's boots whilst he sat and downed a goblet of wine to strengthen himself.
Even so, he was dizzy by the time he pushed aside the flap of the tent. Across the camp, crowded with men, the king stood under a spreading oak, talking to Sir Niall Campbell. Wat wrapped an arm around James's waist to steady him. Woozily, James realized they weren't at Loudoun Hill any more. He hadn't known when the camp was moved. The walk towards the king made James's legs tremble.
The king turned to watch his approach, waving Campbell away.
"Let me go," James croaked to Wat. "Leave me."
A stillness in the king's face told him. The words had been truth and no dream. Near the king, he reached up and grasped a branch to steady himself, clinging to it. Sweat beaded his face. His stomach coiled and writhed like a snake. "My liege," He licked his cracked lips. "What I told you. . ."
The king lifted his chin and his lips formed a stern line. "You told me an ill dream, James. You'll not speak of it again."
James shook his head. Now that it was out, the king had to know. It had been no fever dream. He'd not lie. "It was. . ."
"No," Bruce barked out the word. "It's your king's command. Had such a thing happened, think. How many are the lady's kin? Can we afford another blood feud?"
James felt cold whilst sweat ran down his face. Finally, he said, "No."
"It never happened. It was a dream. Now, you'll never speak of it again."
James' lips moved, trying to form a protest that his muzzy head wouldn't make for him.
"I command you, James, Lord of Douglas."
Tears prickled in James eyes, but he forced them back. She deserved more than weak tears. He'd never speak of it again. Yet, he would pray for her. That he could do. "As you command, my king."
"Devil take it, sit, Jamie." Bruce grabbed his arm. When he was safely on the ground, leaning carefully against the rough tree trunk so that his shoulder didn't touch, Bruce knelt beside him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Whether you were right, I don't know. I pray to God I'm never put to such a test. But, mind, it never happened."
Wat ran up at the king's urgent motion. "My lord, I told him to stay abed. I did."
James took a deep breath of the warm, summer-scented air. "He did. But I needed to see my king's face. And to hear his command." For a moment, he squeezed Bruce's arm. "Now I'll bide here a bit. The sight of my liege and fresh air will be a remedy." The sun felt good on his face. "I think I could use that broth, Wat. And a bit of bread."
* * *
July 1307
James ran his fingers over his face as he looked in the silvered looking glass. His beard was trimmed back to the small shape he preferred, his cheeks bare. He grinned to himself wondering why he cared. This morning, he'd lead his men back to Ettrick Forest, but first he'd say farewell to the king. Only the good God knew when they'd see each other again.
Wat was preparing the men for the trip. He had his orders, not that he needed them. James flexed his shoulder. The half-healed scab on it pulled with a stabbing pain, and he sucked in a breath. He'd have to hope he didn't need his shield arm for yet a while, but it would heal. If the scar was ugly, well a man needed a few scars. He'd tell the king farewell and take any last commands. The next months would be harsh ones, yet again.
A horn blew in the distance signaling riders coming in as he emerged into the bright summer sunlight. He blinked in the glare. They were camped on a low ridge between two rocky peaks. Horses clattered in and soon the riders were dismounting, two knights and a score of archers and men-at-arms. The force had grown since the battle at Loudoun Hill. Not a day passed that more didn't ride in, mostly lower lords with small forces, but their numbers had doubled. Wat had chosen a score to add to James's force. They'd be ready to move fast and hard in Douglasdale and the Forest.
He'd had news from the south three days before, a messenger that Will had gotten to him that King Edward was said to be yet at Carlisle, preparing a vast army to come against them. An army that would make Valence's look like a man taking a piss compared to Loch Lomond.
King Robert planned a retiral with all his forces into the vast mountains of northern Moray. There they would be hidden, deep in
mountain fastness. Only James and his men would stay behind to harry the enemy's rear from the Forest as best he could.
The king strode towards the newcomers. They dropped to their knees to make their pledge to him. As they arose, another horn blew that more newcomers were riding in.
Three men rode hard towards the camp, flying no pennant. James's spurs, new gold ones gifted from the king, rang on the stones. He watched the approaching riders as he walked towards through the crowded camp.
Then he recognized Gib and behind him, struggling to keep up, rode Will and a priest in a gray robe. They weren't to come themselves with messages, but neither was a man who'd lightly ignore his orders. A priest with them was a strange addition.
Frowning, James waited whilst Gib pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. He ran towards James shouting, "My lord." Then he seemed to remember himself with all the people staring at him, so he bent a knee. "My lord, we've news I had to bring myself. News from Carlisle."
The king stepped beside James.
"What news then, man?" James demanded.
"It's King Edward." Gib rose and motioned to the wiry, tanned priest who'd dismounted and followed more slowly. "This priest brought the news. He was there, he says."
The man looked from James to the king in his armor and gold tabard in apparent confusion of whom should address.
"What happened?" James prodded him.
"King Edward rode north from Carlisle as far as Burgh-on-Sands. At the head of his army. A messenger came with the word of a battle, from Aymer du Valence. That he had lost. King Edward went into a rage." The priest shook his head. "That king always had an excess of choler, or so they say. He cursed Valence. Drawing his sword, he slashed about him. He swore he'd leave Scotland a burning ruin. Shouted they'd never rise against him again." The priest paused for a moment as more men gathered around to hear what he was saying. "Then, he fell onto the ground, clutching his chest as though his rage had ripped his very heart. I could hear him gasping for breath. His face turned purple. And his eyes became spider-web etched with blood-red lines."
He shook his head. "He seemed to recover a bit when they gave him wine. He spoke again, cursing Lord Robert. Then he was dead. But I swear to you, it was the news of Lord Robert's victory that killed him."
Bruce stepped ahead of James, his face grim. "Speak truly as you value your life. You were there when this happened?"
The priest faced the king squarely. "I swear it, Your Grace. I was there with my brothers from the Lanercost Abbey to pray--" He shuffled and his eyes darted away. "Forgive me, but to pray for King Edward's victory. At my abbot's orders. I saw it myself."
Boyd was glowering at the man suspiciously. "Can we trust this news? From someone from an English Abbey?"
Will stepped forward, his face flushing bright red. He dropped to a knee. "My king, messengers have been riding into Bothwell Castle. Rumors buzz about like midges. For two days before we left, it was so."
The priest gave an emphatic nod. "The army turned back to Carlisle, but I decided it was time to return home." He glanced at the still glowering Boyd out of the corner of his eye. "I confess I feared too much to be loyal, but I'm a Scot. I had to bring word. I swear it’s the truth."
Bruce's chest heaved with a deep gasp. "Then I killed him. Strange. God's hand at work, so it seems, giving us justice for those he's torn from us--letting our victory fell our greatest enemy." The king spun to face James, face ablaze. "At last. He is dead."
The whole earth had moved, shifted. This man had destroyed James's whole life. Destroyed everything he ever cared about, except Alycie and the king and those near enough. Ordered his father starved. Had Isabella caged. Ordered the deaths of friend upon friend.
James shook his head. "Longshanks dead?" he asked in wonder, unable to take in the idea. He'd known the man to be aging. There had been stories of his falling ill, but that he could die had seemed impossible. He'd never known a world without King Edward of England threatening him and everything he loved.
Shouts, cheers, and catcalls resounded and echoed. Around the camp men danced and jumped. Boyd was ordering one of his men to pull a tun of wine out of the supply tent.
The king was laughing, a deep racking laugh almost like grief. At last, he threw his arm around Jamie's shoulder. "There is something evil at such joy at a man's death--and a man I once counted as a friend. Long ago--"
He gestured towards the wine. "We'll join in the celebration whilst we may. The prince loves us no more than his father. We'll have war again soon enough and our own enemies here yet to defeat in the meantime. The Comyns. The MacDougalls. Ross." He could barely say the name of the miscreant who had betrayed the queen and the other women to imprisonment.
Boyd handed the king a cup and raised his own high. "We'll have time to prepare whilst they take his bones home for burial. Defeat the traitors in our midst, and we'll have a whole nation for the pup to face when he returns with his pack of hounds. To freedom, my liege."
The king threw back his head and laughed before he drained the cup. He looked back at the men who'd brought the news. "You deserve more than I have in my purse this day. Reward you shall have."
James waved Wat over to him. "We'll delay leaving to celebrate." He grinned. Never had there been such good news in all of his life. As much as there was still to grieve them, friends and family dead, Lamberton and so many others still imprisoned, this was the day he'd waited for.
Their victory had sent a king who had tried to destroy their very kingdom to face a judgment that he'd been too powerful for the world to give.
Bruce yelled to his trumpeter, and a long call sounded and sounded again. Silence fell over the camp, an anticipation and joy that none quite knew how to feel. "Bring out more wine. Bring out food for a feast. We celebrate tonight. Our greatest enemy is no more." He turned to Robbie Boyd. "See that the sentries are changed every hour. All should celebrate--and mayhap that way they won't be too drunken to keep watch."
"I'll see they aren't, Your Grace," Boyd said.
James looked at the king surrounded by laughing, dancing men, his face alight for a change. How rarely he had seen the king joyful or felt such himself.
He wandered the camp all the rest of the day and the night. He drank a cup of wine and smiled and laughed with his friends and his men. Yet he couldn't keep back the thoughts of what this pup of an English king would be like. It was said he was weak--nothing compared to his cruel and fierce father. Edward Longshanks. Great in a way, some said. Strong beyond belief leading an army. Loved and honored by many in his own land. Yet, with his greed and hatred, he had done evil beyond understanding. Evil not yet ended.
Three days later as the sunset streaked red on the hills, James signaled a halt next to the dark river. Outlined were the towers of Douglas Castle, once more whole. The Clifford pennant flew above the highest turret. He swung out of the saddle and looped his reins to a branch.
The scent of the wind off Douglas Water, the pines and the broom wrapped around him. Strange that nowhere else had the same smell as home. Home. How much of his life had he wanted nothing more than to be home? How much more would it take to put things to right? But it would happen. He would make it happen. Now he knew it would be.
"Will, come with me for a bit."
Will joined him and they walked through the cool dark of the trees up the slope. "How do people fare? It's wrong that you know my people, and I don't. What should I do, Will?" Jamie leaned his against the trunk of a tree and frowned at the dark mass of the castle.
"Food's short. You know that. What you can do? That I don't know."
James nodded. Food must be found or, better, taken from the enemy. "The Cliffords-- I feared they'd retaliate because of the raid."
Will crossed his arms and paused. "They fear you. What you might do. They ever look over their shoulders for you to appear."
James' laugh was harsh. "I'll give them reason. No English will hold my lands or my people. Before St. Bride, I swore
it." Catching them in the kirk was no longer an option. He smiled. There were other ways to lure from a castle. He would try them all. "Will, does the castle have cattle that graze nearby? As they did in my father's day?"
"Aye. A small herd."
"I'm thinking they'd not like to lose them. Might even pursue cattle thieves."
"The Black Douglas." Will chuckled. "Always full of plots, my lord. I think you be right."
James strode to the edge of the woods. Hand on a trunk he paused, studying Will. "I'm your friend, too, I hope, Will, because I won't speak as your lord in this. But I'm going to see Alycie now. I'd not like that to harm what's between us as lord and man or as friends."
"We talked, Alycie and me before I left. I've felt strange to tell you of it. She says that after what she suffered, she should have the right to find her own happiness. I can't deny there's truth to that or that our father would be right pleased if you love her. But just treat her--" He cleared his throat. "I'd have you treat her as a lady."
James sucked in a breath at the thought of how he'd had to treat a lady he'd loved. "I'll treat her the best that I know how, Will. And I pray it's for good and not ill."
"It won't be a bad thing for the two of you to have time alone. I'll go along to the camp for the night then."
James nodded. He waited until Will rejoined the men, and the tramp of hooves faded away into the darkening woods. James walked slowly to Alycie's door, taking his time to savor the feeling. Mayhap this was what going home meant.
He knocked. She opened the door, light spilling out, and was into his arms.
Historical Notes
I have tried as much as possible to weave my fiction into the known facts of this immensely complex period of history. Much information has been lost to time and the destruction of wars and some points, such as the complex history of the battle for the throne of Scotland, I admit to simplifying.
One point which I want to emphasize is entirely fictional is James Douglas's murder of Isabella MacDuff. She was imprisoned by the English as I describe under circumstances which, considering the winters of what was then part of Scotland, it would be unlikely someone could long survive. Although there are a few references to her later, none is absolute proof, in my opinion, that she was still alive. I believe, but could not prove, that she died fairly early in her cruel captivity. There is no record of her death or the circumstances of it, so I felt free to invent what might have happened. She certainly was not returned to Scotland several years after the events of this novel when other Scottish captives were finally freed.