The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Robbie Boyd muttered, “Did he have to tell us what we already signed our names to?”

  James grunted. “All to convince the Pope, I suppose. Remind me why I prefer this to fighting battles?”

  Boyd made a choking sound as he stifled his laugh.

  Once the restless muttering in the immense nave quieted, the chancellor stepped to the foot of the dais. “Your Grace.” He held out a parchment to the King. “This letter requires your royal attention and that of the parliament.”

  The Bruce took it and bent his head over it briefly. At last, something that wasn't old news. James crossed his arms and Boyd raised an eyebrow at him.

  The King scanned the throng, his face bland. “From Philippe le Bel of France. It is addressed to Lord Robert, King of the Scots.”

  James took in a sharp breath. That was a victory all in itself and one not to be ignored. Forcing the rulers of the realms of Christendom to recognize the rightful king would help more than anything except the recognition of the Pope himself. Ignoring the discourtesy to speak over the King, the room buzzed with whispers.

  The Bruce held up a hand for silence. “The King of France asks me to join my realm with his in a crusade to retake the Holy Land.”

  On the other side of the room someone gave a single loud bark of laughter. James blinked and shook his head. Absurd. They were hard put to hold the kingdom. To be honest with so many castles still in English hands, one could hardly say that they did so.

  To empty the land of its fighting men for a foreign crusade? Was the King of the French mad?

  “This is a request, however mad it may seem, which we may turn to our good. Let us think on it. It is no secret that Philippe le Bel of France has his own concerns with Mother Church...” The King gave a wry smile. “...as do we.” That the Pope had excommunicated the entire Kingdom of Scotland was more than a sore point. “A crusade would benefit him with the Pope, besides serving God. So perhaps we should agree to aid him in such an endeavor.”

  A low murmur of protest ran through the room. The Bruce waved away their concern. “All the King of France need do is send us such aid as will help us clear Scotland of our enemies first.”

  “Not in a hundred years,” Boyd grumbled softly. “The damned French King betrayed us before.”

  The herald shouted down the tumult so the King could continue. “I see that you, as do I, have doubts that we may count to the French to remember their treaties of aid with us. But with such an answer, none can say we Scots are loathe to help the Holy Mother Church against the infidel. Indeed, were it possible, I would lead a crusade. I pray that the day will come when I may do so.”

  David de Moray sprang to his feet. “Your Grace, I beg you, let me speak.”

  The King nodded. “My lord bishop.”

  “We fight a nation that despoils not only our people and denies, nay, would slay our rightful King, but despoils and robs our churches, abbeys, and monasteries, as well. Has held two of our bishops in durance vile. Killed priests in every part of the nation. Nuns homeless and raped. Churches burned. Long since, I've declared the war against this invader—this cruel oppressor—to be a crusade, and I tell you today, so it is. We already fight a crusade.” The bishop gave a brusque nod of his head and sat down.

  "Yes!" James shouted, jumping to his feet. Then he realized the entire parliament was shouting and cheering alongside him. Boyd bumped his shoulder his shoulder against James's. Irvine raised his clenched fists over his head as he shouted. "Scotland! Scotland!"

  The master of arms and the herald were yelling for silence.

  “Hear me!” the King shouted in his battlefield voice. James sat down in a hurry and the cathedral filled with the rustle and scrape as hundreds did the same. “We have a holy duty to protect the realm. Accepting this proposal from the French King—or saying that we do—will only aid in performing that duty. Our crusade, as the good Master David says, is to our kingdom and people. Our first duty is to protect Scotland. I will lead no man on another crusade until the crusade to secure my realm and the church within it is done.” The King held out the letter to his chancellor. “Master Linton, I believe the parliament is agreed. Answer the King of France that we shall be most pleased to have him send aid to us in order to clear our enemy form our lands. Then we shall most heartily join him in his holy endeavor.”

  Once Linton had taken the letter, the King leaned forward, hands steepled before him. “Now to other matters. The earldom of Carrick is mine to confer, handed down from my mother and her Gaelic line. Not long since, I promised it to my dear brother, Sir Edward, as a reward for his valor in defending our realm. I, therefore, require that this parliament confirm my gifting of it to Sir Edward de Bruce. And because my only child, my dear daughter Marjorie, is in the hands of the English, he must also be declared my heir. I'll not chance the kingdom falling prey to the vultures of England should God so ordain that I die.”

  James poked at a back tooth with his tongue. Edward had disliked him since the first day they laid eyes on each other, but he could hardly protest. Forbye, the man had fought for the King as bravely as anyone could. If he was a bit of a fool and greedy, well, they hadn't much of a choice. Most people liked the man well enough, especially the ladies. James snorted in amusement and added his shout of agreement to the rest of the cathedral that rang with it.

  The King waited until they quieted to continue. “Another urgent matter before us is the lack of a Lord Warden of the Marches. In the past there have been three Lord Wardens, of the Western, the Middle and the Eastern March to protect the realm from encroachment from our enemies to the south. The lack is dire in these times. We have no doubt that the English King intends to lead a new invasion to secure the castles they still hold. To reconquer our lands and people. Whoever is Lord of the Marches will hold all of our lives in his hands. My lord of Douglas holds those lands now and to him that I give this heavy duty. Does my parliament agree?”

  James's face burned. His chest seemed not to work as though a band compressed it. When Boyd elbowed him hard in the ribs, grinning, James took in a breath with a whoosh. He laughed as everyone around him shouted. Irvine slapped his back. Even Thomas Randolph turned and nodded to him, smiling.

  There was more business and speeches, but it all passed in a buzz. Lord Warden of all Scotland's marches, the entire border under his command—if he could win it. No man had ever been named to such power in Scotland. He was drunk with the honor and wondered if wine would sober him. The thought made him laugh.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  James ran a hand down the front of his tunic. He'd sponged it and donned velvet hose, doeskin thigh boots and a short satin-lined cloak slung over one shoulder. It was lucky that there were at least a few English tall enough for him to help himself to their finery. He let the flow of the gaily-dressed crowd carry him toward the door of the Priory. Angus Og, one shoulder draped with a multi-color plaid over a saffron tunic, upper arms bound with gold bracelets, gripped a hand on James's shoulder. “Bedecked like a swan, my lord warden.”

  James eyed Angus's finery and twitched a smile. “You're one to say so.”

  “If you think I'm bedecked, wait until you see Lady Christina. I swear the woman brought every gem in the isles.” Angus raised his eyebrows. “I think she means to renew her acquaintance with Lord Robert, forbye that she didn't trust young Raurie to attend the parliament without her oversight.”

  James scanned the crowd that was filing through the wide-flung doors. “Are they here?”

  Angus Og, who overtopped even James by an inch or more, gave him a light shove by the back of his neck. “She is already inside making sure the musicians will play music fit for our dancing.”

  James took a stumbling step with a laugh. “Jesu God, you Highlanders are ruffians.”

  Angus snorted. “I'm an Islander, you heathen of a Scot.”

  Indeed, the Lord of the Isles, as he styled himself, wouldn't claim to be a Scot if the devil himself demanded it, even if he
did fight at the King's side. Strange people, the people of the isles. James shook his head as he passed into the high-beamed Great Hall of the priory. Servants scurried carried huge platters heaped with food to fill tables that lined the walls, scenting the air with cinnamon and apples and savory smells of roasted meats. Playful notes of a lute drifted over the chatter of hundreds of voices. James, the High Stewart, as glittering as the rest of the throng in blue so dark it was almost black, and a hat with a peacock's feather and young Walter at his heels, called for James to join him. James looked longingly at the wine flagons, but the High Stewart had been his mother's brother and was his own god sire, so strolled in that direct. “My lord uncle, you're looking well,” he said with a slight smile. Considering his long stay in the English King's peace, he was more well than many another.

  His uncle shook his head. “Don't use that tone to me, James.”

  “Your pardon, uncle. I meant no tone at all. I'm pleased to see you in good health.” He tilted his head and smiled at his cousin. The lad was well-grown and in his twelfth year if James's memory was true. “You serve as your father's squire, Walter?”

  Walter pulled a sullen look. “Still a page. And I shouldn't be. No other my age is better on a horse or with a sword at practice.” The High Stewart made a sound of protest, but his son turned his glower upon his father. “You know it's true, my lord.”

  The High Stewart gave a fatherly sigh.

  James patted Walter's shoulder. “I'm sure you'll make a braw squire. I was squire to Bishop Lamberton and learnt much in his house though he's no knight.”

  The lines in his uncle's face deepened. He studied his son for a moment and shook his head. “The danger... but I suppose you're right.”

  James almost laughed at the look of shock on the lad's face. “You... you mean...?”

  “I'll talk to James tomorrow. I'd trust him with your safety, and he can teach you what you need to know.”

  James opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  Walter let out a short yelp of laughter. “Thank you. My lord, thank you!” He was practically bouncing with eagerness. “Sir James, when will we leave? I swear, I'll be a good squire. The best. My word on it.”

  He had well and truly walked into that one. His mouth twitched. “You'll need to go home for your gear, I suppose. I'll ride with you and talk.” He grasped Walter by both shoulders. “It's no game. Don't mistake.”

  The High Stewart cleared his throat. “Have you seen Bishop Lamberton tonight? He's an old friend.”

  James was happy to seize the change in topic and scanned the eddying crowd. “No, I don't see him, but there's Master David de Moray.” James raised his eyebrows. “And a very lovely lady on his arm.” David de Moray might be more warrior than a priest, a leading light of the Church Militant, but his attention to the woman beside him was most particular. Moray patted the hand tucked into his arm. The woman's full, silken rose-colored gown brushed about her as they strolled; her head was bent, listening to something the bishop was saying to her.

  “She's a beauty,” Robert Boyd said as he joined them.

  James bit the inside of his cheek as he studied her. Truly, she was lovely. Perhaps even more so than his own Alycie. Her hands wouldn't be roughened from caring for villagers. Not strong enough to rub out the pain of shoulders knotted from the weight of his armor. Her hair wouldn't Alycie's sweet scent of green grass and herbs when he held her against him—

  A fanfare blared out. A herald next to the door announced, “Lord Robert, by God's grace, King of the Scots and Lord of Annandale.”

  James bowed as Robert the Bruce swept into the great chamber. He was smiling, talking to William Lamberton who walked by his side. To the soft strains of the lute, he strolled toward the throne at the head of the hall. He paused his progress to speak to Christina MacRaurie, bowing over her hand. The head of the MacRauries was a handsome woman in the fullness of her power, striking in a velvet gown of black with red undersdress peeking out. Her neck and arms were gold and jewel bedecked. James sputtered a laugh as the King peered down her bodice in open admiration.

  His uncle cleared his throat. “They say the King is free with his attentions to the ladies these days.”

  “He's no monk,” James said. “And his lady wife has been stolen from him for too long. What can you expect?”

  The King took Christina's hand and drew her along as he and Lamberton continued through the throng. As soon as he reached his throne, the King called for dancing. The lute faded away, and the sound of the musicians tuning took its place. The King led Christina onto the cleared floor. He turned and frowned at the glittering crowd. “Don't stand about like dolts. I said we will dance. Tonight is a time for gaiety.”

  James looked about for a partner as they pressed back to give the dancers room. The fact was he knew few women of noble birth.

  His uncle nudged him. “James, here is Isabel de Strathbogie, and the lovely lass has no partner yet. You'd best make up the lack.” As James bowed over the dark-haired woman's hand, over her shoulder he saw Edward de Bruce scowl at him and then turn to another woman to take her hand. Typical. James smiled and led the lady onto the floor. The musicians struck up a reel, and the King led them through the twists and turns of the dance. As they wove past, James noted that Boyd's eyes followed the lady in pink. Boyd was right. She was beautiful.

  The dance ended, and James ran a hand over his dripping brow as his partner returned to her brother. “Give over this dancing,” Boyd said. “Let's find some wine.” But a herald edged up to them and said the Lord Warden and Sir Robert were to attend on His Grace.

  The Bruce was seated on the throne at the end of the hall with Christina MacRaurie seated on one side. David de Moray and his companion stood on the other.

  “Ha! Lads, you remember Lady Christina, I vow.”

  James bowed. “I can't imagine a man in the kingdom who could forget her, sire.”

  “But this lovely lady with Master David, the two of you may not know. Lady Caitrina has been in France for several years past. Master David's good-niece.”

  Robert Boyd's mouth dropped open. He snapped it closed, his face flooding with color. James raised his eyebrow as the normally cool-headed Boyd stammered. “Lady Caitrina? Jesu God forgive me. I didn't recognize you after such a time.”

  “Robbie Boyd.” She swallowed. “Seeing you brings back... happy memories.”

  Boyd took both her hands and kissed them. “You look...” He laughed. “You look wonderful. I'd heard that you were in France.”

  The Bruce was beaming. “Musicians,” he called, “another dance.” As they struck the notes, he motioned a peremptory hand to the two. “Take yourselves off to the dance floor. And do the pretty to the lady, Robbie. I'm going to talk to my new Lord Warden for a moment.” He cut his eyes toward the bishop whose mouth was twitching in a wry smile.

  Once the two were swirling through the pattern of a dance, Moray said, “I confess it, Your Grace. You were right. It's been too long she's been a widow, but finding her a good husband in the midst of a war... one who might be killed as poor Andrew was. It has been a hard thing. She can be stubborn as a mule and wouldn't consider a husband from the French.”

  “After the man who was her first husband, you couldn't offer her hand to just anyone, my friend. But death will come to all of us,” the King said. “We'd best find what joy we might between our labors. And I expect my nobles to do their duty. That includes marrying and having heirs.” The King gave James a pointed look. “I do mean you, Jamie.” The King snorted. “And that brother of mine.”

  James turned to watch Robbie Boyd laughing as he and Caitrina glided past. “It may be you're right, sire. I'd not thought of marriage. Or an heir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  August, 1311

  James slithered his way up the hill across a padding of old pine needles rubbing into his chest. Wat bumped his leg as he struggled behind. Beyond the flat top of the hill, sounded a crashing tide of noise, a
rumble that blotted out any other possible sound. Everything had fled from the coming flood. Not just the people, but animals, birds. Nothing was left.

  He sucked a breath through his teeth. Jesu God have mercy on us, he thought. Not that God seemed in a hurry to grant such a prayer. An army spread across the vale below James, moving in waves of divisions, one after another. On in on. An ocean of men and horses. To past the horizon. Like sunlight shimmering on wavelets, it caught the armor, the weapons, the harness. Banners flowed about it like brightly dyed sails. The leopard banner of the Plantagenet King was so large he might have reached out and touched it, beside it the red on white Cross of St. George. Smaller he could pick out John de Warrenne's black and gold checky banner, the red and gold of Aymer de Valence, the starling banner of the Cliffords, and the gold cross of the Earl of Ulster. Between them danced smaller banners too far away to make out—hundreds of them. No. Thousands.

  “How many you think?” Young Walter muttered in a tone of awe.

  “It doesn't matter. More than we can hope to take on.”

  On the other side of Walter, Wat grunted.

  James twisted his neck to peer at the rear of the army where it flowed out of sight. “Damn Sassenach breed like rabbits.” How far back could the English army go? There was no sign of the wagons that must be there somewhere out of sight in the van of the army. Wagons with what supplies they carried with them that soon must run low.

  A stick thumped to the ground next to his head. James jerked around, dirk free in a breath. Gelleys motioned from the foot of the hill. James nudged Wat and squirmed backwards until he could slide down. He gained his feet and crouch ran to Gelleys. “Anything?”

  “A group split off an hour back.”

  “Scouts or foragers?”

  Gelleys shrugged. “Two score. Moving south and west.”

  “Foragers then. We can cut them off. Let's move the men.” James gathered his reins. His horse snorted and bared its teeth. He swung into the saddle.