by J. R. Tomlin
“Aye. They'll be into the Fells tomorrow. But they sent some ahead.” He frowned as he climbed from the saddle. “Ready for plunder, it looks like. Welsh archers and English foot. Two hundred or near enough. Fifty horse with them. Gelleys was tracking them and sent me ahead.”
Wat shouted for the horses.
A wind flapped James's cloak. “How far?”
“An hour behind.”
One of the men led up his devil of a mount, looking wary when it bared its teeth at him. James took the reins. “Not much cover for an ambush that way,” he said more to himself than the scout.
“Not much in the way of trees, but they're into Campsie Fells.”
James nodded thoughtfully. It might be possible to attack the English from both flanks. The Fells were hills with sharp, narrow glens between. Not so bad as where he and the King had been caught in an ambush at Dail Righ, but bad enough if they could catch the English unawares.
James nudged his horse to a walk and led them down the braeside amidst the creak of saddle leather, jungle of bridles and thud of horses' hooves on the hard earth. As he passed a thick clump of bracken, a grouse leapt into the air with a whirr of its wings. It was nearing noontide when Hew pointed down a narrow glen with a small stand of scrawny beeches.
As they approached, Gelleys stepped out of the shadows. He motioned north with his chin. "Philp is keeping watch up there."
Philp stood and waved an arm over his head. "They're still a bit to the north. Horse in the van and the rear. Near two hundred. Mixed Welsh archers and English pikes."
“Must be mad sending out a small force like that,” Wat said. “You're sure it's not a trap?”
Gelleys's face turned as dark as his freckles, and he gave Wat an indignant look. “Been at this long enough to know a trap when I see one. We scouted in all directions. It's just this one division.”
James made a noise in his throat. “I trust you to scout. That's your job.” He twitched a smile. “Wat's to make sure I'm not a fool for trusting you.”
Gelleys nodded. “Would seem mad. He's right but they're looking to plunder food most like. Horses look bad and men no better.”
“Our horses can make it down the slope of the glen?”
“Oh, aye. It's steep, but they can make it.”
James thrust his chin toward the brae out of sight beyond the glen. “Wat, you take half the men to the other side of the next ridge. Move into position fast, out of sight, and attack their rear on my shout. We'll take the van. Gelleys, you watch on the far ridge. On your way, tell Philp to give me a wave when the English are in sight.”
Wat bellowed for his men and whipped his horse to a run. Scree flew from the hooves as the horse scrambled up the slope, men trailing after him. Gelleys paused to speak to Philp and then followed. The thud of hooves faded into silence.
James trotted his horse halfway up the braeside and motioned for his men to form a wedge on him. Fergus took his left, his tangle of red hair and beard jutting from under his dented helm. Allane muttered a Pater Noster as he took James's left. Another formed on them and then another until they'd formed a deadly spearhead. Then they waited. A horse whinnied. James drew his sword. He worked his arm through the straps on his shield. Leather creaked behind him as his men readied. His mouth was dry, and he smiled to himself. It was always dry before battle. He adjusted the reins in his shield hand.
A gust of wind rustled the heather and blowing needles of snow stung his face. Come now, James thought ruefully. Let's get this over with. And he tried to count the battles he'd been in... large ones... small ones. Tonight he'd try to number them, when this one was over.
Philp waved an arm high over his head. James kicked his horse into motion. He kneed his horse from a walk to a trot, wheeling wide around the crest of the brae. The ground was frozen and slippery under the heather. His horse's hooves sliding on the icy slope; James kicked its flanks and it surged forwards, churning the earth. They rounded the braeside and ahead of them were the English, a mob of foot soldiers surrounded by mounted knights and men-at-arms. A shout went up. They were stopping and bracing for attack.
James lifted his sword and shouted, “Douglas!” Voices took up the cry, “Douglas!” He kicked his horse to a gallop and the spearhead of thundering hooves and blades flew. Ahead he spotted a knight in a yellow surcoat scattered with starlings. A Clifford, James thought, but too young. Not Sir Robert, Baron of Clifford. A pity, but still, he could die. James slashed the man in the throat beneath his helm with all the weight of his charge, taking his head half off.
Wat and the men he led thundered, screaming over the opposite ridge.
An arrow thudded against James’s shield. Fergus galloped beside him hacking every enemy they passed. James wheeled to the left where the arrow had come from. An archer raised his bow. James rode him down. A pikesman came at him and James opened him from neck to belly.
“Retire!” a knight was shouting, standing in his stirrups. The man whipped his horse and galloped away. The knights were fleeing.
“Let them go!” James shouted. The wedge broke apart in a chaos of killing. James spurred his over a body slashing off an arm that swung at him. He cracked a head with his shield. He smashed a raised shield and cut down the man who held it. His men were shouting, “Douglas! Douglas!” and “Scotland!” Shot through the shouts were the screams of dying men and the song of steel upon steel.
In front of him, a pikesman buried his weapon in the belly of Fergus's horse. As Fergus tumbled free and scrambled to his feet, James hacked the man's arm. He dropped his pike as Fergus turned to another man-at-arms running at him. Another pikesman came at him, but James had no more time. A man-at-arms grabbed his bridle and swung a sword at him. James kicked him in the chest, and his rearing mount also kicked the man's chest. Blood gushed into the gory, ice-slick ground. Snow flurries floated around a sea of madness. He slashed and hacked. Men came at him, or he rode them down. His horse jumped over a body and stumbled to its knees. It lurched to its feet again as he slammed his shield into the face of a screaming enemy.
He looked around for another enemy to kill. He wheeled his snorting, dancing horse in a circle. The churned ground was rimed with red ice. Wat rode toward him, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek, past bodies thrown down like broken dolls, past his men slumped wearily in their saddles, some afoot, leaning on their swords. Richert knelt next to Allane pressing a rapidly reddening cloth against his chest.
James nodded. “Well done,” he croaked. He cleared his throat, worked spit into his mouth. “Very well done.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The snow squeaked underfoot as he trudged toward Sean Smith, bundled in plaids in the black opening of the cave. Snowflakes feathered their way lazily through the air.
“Sean, is Alycie inside?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to his men unloading a hart they'd brought down and few bags of barley. Pickings from the English had been scant since the invaders were near out of food. “We've supplies and need to talk about plans.”
Sean's face wrinkled up like a fist. “She's past the ridge...” His mouth worked.
What was wrong with the man? “Why is she out in this weather? Is Will with her?”
When Sean nodded, James said, “Get the men together to bring in the food.” The cold stung his wind raw cheeks as he turned and tromped past the cave opening.
His feet slid on the icy ground as he clambered past gray rocks that stuck up through the glimmering white. A dozen steps and his toes were icy numb. He chewed his lip trying to decide what to do about his people. The trip to the village through ice and snow to destroyed homes might kill some of them, but so might the rest of the winter sheltered in braeside caves. He'd give Alycie a good scold for being out in this.
“Alycie! Will,” he called as he topped the ridge.
Down the braeside, Will, wrapped tightly in a faded plaid, turned. He stood still, a big gray stone in his arms.
James half ran and half skiddin
g down the slippery brae. The cold air burned his throat. “Where's Alycie?”
Will's voice was thin in the icy air. “She's... here.”
James frowned, looking back and forth. Will kicked the snow clear from a spot and knelt to fit the stone into place against another. He looked up. His eyes were red rimmed. “We must have a wall. Or the priest won't consecrate the ground.” His voice broke.
James chest tightened so hard he could barely speak. “Where is she?”
A blanket of snow covered mounds. Six. No, seven. One very small. Will pointed to the nearest. James couldn't breathe. He gasped for air, heart thundering in his ears. Little lights flashed behind his eyes. His knee hit the ground. He plunged his hand into the snow. So cold. Oh, God. She must be so cold.
A raw sound ripped out of his throat. Out here alone with no one to comfort her. No one to hold her. In the dark cold and alone. How could he leave her so?
“After the lad died... We tried to nurse her...” Will's voice was hoarse with grief.
James nodded. He had sent her into the hills. Sent her to die. What else could he have done? God! He slammed his fist down on the frozen ground. Drops of red from his split knuckles splattered onto the white snow...
Damn the English for the mongrel curs that they were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
June, 1312
James looked down at the tumbling waters of the River Esk from the top of a beech-topped rise, riding silent beside Robbie Boyd. Behind them a dozen banners whipped and snapped in the summer breeze over their well-armed and armored troop.
In the long shadow of Hadrian's Wall where it dipped down the slope, King Robert de Bruce raised his arm over his head to call a halt. He turned his prancing mount in a tight circle as he looked back over the long file of men-at-arms, a thousand strong. “Lightly water the horses. Commanders to me,” he called as he swung from the saddle. He tossed his reins to a squire and strode into the shade of the high beeches beneath a flurry of fleeing larks.
James jumped from the saddle to follow. He shouted for Wat see to the men whilst the King finally divulged his plans for bringing a thousand men to the border with England after a year of dodging battle with the English army that still sulked at Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Thomas Randolph sent a cool glance James's way walked beside Boyd. Gilbert de Hay trailed after the two men.
Boyd nudged James with an elbow. “Turnabout that we invade England. I've known a plump English lass or two I wouldn't mind looking up.”
James snorted what he hoped sounded like a laugh and shook his head.
Boyd smirked. “Just because you have a lass waiting doesn't mean I don't like a nice armful.”
“We're about business here,” the King said. “I'll give the English something to think on forbye invading our land. And Clifford's priory of Irthing is near here. As often as he's burned Douglasdale and my own Annandale, we owe him a turn.”
James felt his shoulders go rigid under the weight of his armor.
“He burned my Nithsdale this summer past,” Randolph said.
“Moreover, James has word that much of the church goods they stripped from our own churches are at Lanercost Abbey. By the Rude of St. Margaret, we have every reason to see that abbey isn't enriched at Scotland's cost. How much of our downfall was plotted in its walls...” Bruce's face closed like a fist and he stared for a few moments beyond the stones of the long wall.
James's lip curled in a snarl. “We'll give them a taste of their own foul deeds, my lord.”
“James,” the King snapped. “You're like a hound with a burr under its tail these days.”
James felt a flush climb up from his neck as he scowled at the King.
“I'll not repeat Wallace's mistake. He let his men pillage and rape when he raided into England. He could not keep them under control. Instead of fear, he left boiling anger. But no one—” The Bruce gave each of them a searing look. “—no one will say that of me. We're here for policy, not for revenge.”
James folded his arms and stared sullenly at his feet. Then why the hell are we here?
“You understand me, my lord of Douglas?” A ray of sun gleamed on the King's golden surcoat.
“Aye, Your Grace,” James said through stiff lips.
“God knows we have cause for revenge, but it would use gain nothing but more bloodshed. I mean that for all of you. Keep control of your men. No rapes. No killing, except those who resist.”
“Why?” Randolph asked sounding truly baffled.
“I have two purposes. We'll convince the English camp at Berwick that they cannot leave the North of England undefended, so that they don't march against Scotland again. And we'll regain at least some of the riches they've stolen from us. They enriched themselves to our cost.” A grim smile twitched the King's lips. “Now we begin to take our own back. Today, Lanercost Abbey and Gilsland. Tomorrow Hawtewysill. They to serve those purposes. Robbie, you with me to Lanercost. Jamie will go to Gilsland and Thom second in command. We must do what we came for before there is time for word to reach Chester Castle or Berwick.”
“I don't think I...” James frowned. “We're to attack but not kill them?”
“Sweep in. Give them no chance to resist. These aren't knights or fighters. Take what plunder you can easily carry, destroy and burn what you can't except for the holy precinct itself. I'll join you at Gilsland and we'll ride for Hawtewysill.”
James sucked in a long breath. “We'll let them see how it feels.”
“Remember. It is for the Lord Treasurer's use so that we can fight the damned English. Not in your purses. You all understand.” The King gave him a long, considering look and nodded brusquely. “Heed my commands. Questions?”
“What of Thirlwall Castle, Sire?” Randolph asked. “They'll see the smoke from the burning, if nothing else.”
“They've not a large force,” James said. “Not enough to be a threat.”
“We haven't time to spare.” The Bruce strode toward the river where the horses were being led from being watered. “My horse!” The King mounted and yelled for half the ranks of the men to follow.
The men were ranged along the bank, watering the horses, chewing hunks of hard bannock, talking, pissing, laughing, and shouting. At the command, the talk died and amidst the creak of leather they climbed into the saddle.
“Come on. We've work,” James muttered to Randolph. He swung ahorse and spurred his black devil toward the ford. James kneed his horse to a canter through the bracken, brown already in summer's heat. Randolph rode beside him. Dense stands of beeches cast long shadows along the high stone wall. A covey of partridge took whirring flight from under their hooves. James's horse snorted and danced and he gave it a sharp tug.
“Think they'll fight, Douglas?” Randolph asked.
James grunted. How did the man expect him to know? “The King said not.”
They topped the hill and below stretched a rich patchwork of fields and pasture in the golds and greens of early summer. The River Irthing made a narrow blue-green ribbon that meandered to a score of gray stone houses and the priory spire catching the noon sun a little beyond. In a field, two men threw down scythes and ran. A dozen brown flanked cattle scattered, lowing, as the Scots cantered by.
“Philp, take a couple of men to round those up cattle,” James called over his shoulder and the man shouted, as he peeled away to thunder after the fleeing cattle.
Near the shadow of the woods, a swineherd stood gaping, his sounder of dun-colored pigs snorting around him.
“Keith, Hew, take care of those. Then start firing the fields.”
A yellow dog darted out from behind a field hedge, snarling and barking behind James. His horse lashed with its rear hooves and the cur ran yelping. He pulled up his dancing mount and stood in his stirrups to shout, face stiff and grim. “Quiet. Now, you lot listen to me.” He waited until the only sound was a horse stamping and the creak of saddle leather. “There's to be no killing unless they resist. Anyone
lays hands on a woman or wean, I'll hang you with myself. So don't put me to it.” He glanced at Wat. “Half with us, Wat, and the others will follow Sir Thomas.”
As Wat shouted to the men, dividing them into two troops, Randolph stepped his horse close and said in a low voice, “We might should see they don't flee and warn the castle.”
“No point in that. The smoke will be warning anyway.” He raked Randolph up and down with a look. “You know you have to burn the whole town after you have anything worth taking. You can do that, can you?”
Randolph's eyes narrowed. “I'll obey the King's commands.”
James thought about making the point that Randolph would also follow his as he was in command, but it wasn't worth arguing. Not as long as the man did what needed to be done. “Good. Anything they can carry, they can take if we don't want it. It's the priory will have riches for the treasury.” James wheeled his horse. “Form up on me!”
A bell clanged and clanged, the sound drifting from the priory. James clapped his heels to the horse's flanks and it took off with an arm-numbing jerk at an open gallop. He led through the deserted street and then past green fields, pounding down the brown dirt road. They must reach the gatehouse before the monks had time to bar their gates. His starred pennant snapped in the wind as they rode. Black-robed friars threw down scythes and dashed toward the walls of the enclosure as they passed. Wat fell in beside him. Behind James, “Scotland!” his men shouted raggedly and “Douglas! Douglas!”
A tonsured, black-robed porter had the wooden gate pushed half closed. A friar, robe flapping around his shanks as he ran, darted through. Fergus was off his horse and backhanded the porter, knocking him out of the way. He pushed the gate full open and they swept through. A moon-faced monk watched from the steps of the chapter and turned to flee through the door. It slammed behind him. A dove cooed from the top of the gatehouse roof. Like a clutch of black quail, a dozen monks huddled together in a far corner of the courtyard.
“Fergus, take fifty men. Fire the buildings outwith the walls,” James ordered. “Barn, granaries, as long as it's not sacred. Then fire the fields. Spare any horses. We'll use them.” James fastened a cold, hard look on the monks. “Where is the abbot? Either bring him before me, or I'll send my men for him.”