The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Fergus shouted for a file to join him and didn't wait for further orders.

  “My lord, look,” one of the men called, pointing to the west. Smoke boiled up, thick and gray, and spread in a streaming river across the sky. Thinner ribbons twisted around it from nearby.

  A tall man, hawk nosed, his shaven pate surrounded by thin, gray hair stepped through the door to face James. He folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his finely woven black robe and inclined his head slightly. “Sirrah, you called for me I am told.” He gave James an assessing look. “Excommunicants are not allowed on church grounds.”

  James bared his teeth in a smile. “We won't be staying long, priest. Since, unlike we Scots, you have treasure in heaven, you have no need for what you've stolen from us. So I'll have it. Coin, jewels, plate. You give it over freely or we'll tear the place apart searching. Your choice.”

  The man was trembling with anger, his face pale and gaze boring into James's face. “How dare you! This sacrilege. How dare you!”

  James went cold with rage, his heart thumping hard enough to tear from his chest. He reached a hand out and grabbed the man's robe in his fist, lifted the priest from his feet. Gave the man a savage shake. “You'll live through this day. Be grateful.” He tossed the man onto the ground.

  The abbot lay there, still shaking with anger and glaring up at James.

  “My people—ones I loved—driven to their deaths. A priest of my barony nailed to a church door. The church goods taken, our own Rude of St. Margaret stolen, every abbey in Scotland despoiled. Pah.” James bent to spit on the ground next to the man's head. He shifted so that his mount sidled, snorting. “Hypocrite. Moneys, plates, chalices, ewers... I'll have it all. Give it up or my men will do what they must to find it.”

  The abbot tore his gaze from James's face to stare at the smoke rising from all directs. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, lines graven deep about his mouth. “You burn Lanercost Abbey. It's beauty...” His head shook with tremors. “You'll spare the priory?”

  “Wat, you help the good abbot with gathering our goods. Use the packhorses that they're so kindly giving us and join me. I'll be awaiting the King.” James's lip curled in a sneer. “Remember the name Douglas, Abbot. You'll hear it again.”

  James wheeled his horse around and trotted out of the gate. He looked up as the rolling clouds of smoke joined overhead. A cow lowed as one of his men slit its throat and jumped back from the splatter of blood. Fergus shouted as he jumped from the hayloft of a barn as flames broke through the wooden roof and leapt into the sky. Sparks flew like fireflies, landed in a haystack. It smoked and then was flames crackled in it, too.

  Allane thrust a torch into the fire and threw it, overhand, into a field of yellow-green barley. Another followed. He turned and saw James. “My lord. The curst field will nae catch.”

  Even from this distance, screams and shouting carried from the town. A mob of townspeople had gathered in the bend of the river. Above the roofs flames burst through, playing hide and seek in the in the roiling smoke.

  “Get more men. Trample it.”

  James sat ahorse as around him the valley became a smoking ruin. His men laughed and cursed as they galloped back and forth across a field, flattening the grain. Another field caught and sent up thick gray smoke. Iain galloped up chasing a bawling cow and hacked its head half off with a brutal swing of his sword. The air stank of ash and burning and blood.

  Hacking from the smoke, Wat rode up beside him. “Ten sacks of anything worth sending to the lord treasurer. Gold plate, silver ewers, gold candlesticks, a few bags of coin.”

  James laughed. “The King will have done better at Lanercost. Half the treasure in Scotland ended up there.”

  The burning barn collapsed with a deafening crash. Sparks gusted on the wind, whirling like sparkling pinwheels.

  James's horse danced and snorted. “Time to go. Blow retiral.”

  Wat shouted to one of the men and his horn blew. It was growing as dark as sunset with smoke covering the noonday sun as they rode toward the town, Richert bringing up the rear with the packhorses of looted treasure. James hacked as he rode and leaned to spit the taste of bitter ash from his mouth. Thomas Randolph led his column out of the burning town, his banner streaming overhead. The King's force rode into view over a distant rise and James shouted a command to ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  That night they made a rough camp in the defile of the Tibalt Burn, cooked oak bannocks over small campfires and slept in their armor wrapped in their cloaks.

  A rock dug into James's back. He pulled his cloak closer around him and rolled over with a grunt. In the darkness, someone snored and grunted, another hacked and the footsteps of one of the sentries whispered through the grass. A warm night wind that carried a stink of fire rustled the branches. The moon, old and tarnished, hung high in the sky.

  James rolled onto his other side and then gave up with a long breath that he kept from being a sigh. What good were sighs or groans? What was lost was lost. He got up, sure there was still some wine in the cask the King had liberated from Lanercost Abbey, Malmsey, red and fruity, meant for the abbot's table. A few more drinks might let him snatch an hour's rest before the early summer sunrise.

  He poured himself a cup and settled cross-legged by the dying campfire, a red ember peering out. A sharp rap on the back of his head made him jerk. “Robbie,” he grunted.

  “Did you leave any for me?”

  “Check for yourself.” He shouldn't take his foul mood out on Boyd. God knew...

  The tun of wine gurgled as Boyd emptied it into a wooden cup. “The King has the right of it. You're as sour as a fishwife lately.” Boyd folded himself into a slouch on the other side of the campfire and the silence stretched out. An owl hooted from a tree. “You're not like yourself.”

  “It's been...” James turned the crude cup in his hands. “It's been a hard year.”

  “When has it not been a hard year since most of us can remember?” He took a drink and his eyes gleamed, looking feral in the moonlight. “What happened?”

  James didn't want to talk about it. He most definitely did not want to say the terrible words, but Boyd sat waiting. Finally, James said, “Alycie...” To his horror, his voice broke. It felt as though a rock lodged in his throat, blocking his voice, his very breath. He gulped down some wine to wash the damned rock away. He forced his voice to be hard. “Alycie died. Whilst they were in hiding.”

  “Sometimes, I'm not sure if I'm lucky to have never cared deeply or cursed,” Boyd said softly. “You seemed happy and I envied you, seeing how you were the little that I saw you together. Laughing and all. Though...”

  James looked up and considered how strange that the stars held their course, unchanged. They should have fallen like rain. When it hurt so much just to look at them and be alone.

  Sounding amused, Boyd said, “The King says I should marry. Too many of us haven't and we must.” He snorted. “When has there been time, but Master David brought his good-niece back from France.”

  A grim laugh came out and James wasn't sure where it came from. “Yes. I know.”

  “I suppose that he's right. With the English mostly out of the land, we need to build... something. But...”

  “But you're damned if you know how, you mean?”

  Boyd took a drink and seemed to think it over. “Something like that. When have we done anything but war since either of us was a lad? And Jesu knows, I'm older than you. An old man, near enough.”

  “Not that old.” He thought about it. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “I was nineteen when we lost the Battle of Dunbar. Fourteen years since we've been fighting this war. If that doesn't make me old, what would?”

  “I was with my father at Berwick then. Before he sent me to France. I was ten.” James counted, a little surprised because it had been a long time since he'd thought of how old he was. “Twenty-two now but I feel—older.”

  Boyd snorted a l
augh. “Do you? Well, with some luck you may live to be old.” He leaned back on an elbow and saluted James with his cup. “Not that I'm so old I may not yet enjoy that wife Robert says I must have. I've a mind to ask for her hand. Caitrina. A nice name. She is...” His teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Oh, she is a fierce one.”

  Boyd got up and took both their cups to refill. Already there was a rime of gray dawn at the edge of the sky. “No point in trying to sleep. Wonder if they'll make any fight of it at Hawtewysill.”

  “Probably not. Well... if they got reinforcements form Thirlwall Castle they might. But most of the forces from Thirlwall are with Edward of Caernarfon in Berwick, so...” He shrugged. “Probably not.”

  Boyd grunted an assent and fell silent. In the quiet camp, someone groaned in their sleep. A nightingale trilled and whistled. “Jamie...” Boyd said in a hesitant voice. “How did it happen?”

  James swallowed so that his voice would hold firm. “The wonder is that more didn't die. Hiding in caves. The cold. Not enough food.” His voice wobbled and he took a breath. “She sickened. Just... sickened.”

  Boyd threw a stick into the dead embers of the fire. “Only two hours to the town. Do you know what he plans?”

  James grasped the change in topic gladly. Talking about Alycie just was like peeling the scab from a wound nearly mortal. “Just that they'll be the devil to pay if we don't keep our men in check.”

  “The King or the devil... I think I'd take the devil's bad side.”

  A rumble of voice across the camp made James look up. Against the gray light of dawn he saw the King. “He might send us there if we're careless.” He stood up, stretched his back and kicked dirt over the ash of the campfire. He picked up his sword belt and unsheathed the weapon, turned it in his hand. He tossed it from his right hand to his left and tried a cut. “Time to rouse the men.”

  The men muttered curses and crude jokes as they mounted in the faint light. Wisps of fog drifted through the sweet morning air. The King called his commanders to his side as they rode in ranks, hooves drumming on the stone of the old Roman road as it twisted through the hills. A spire poked into view and a church bell tolled the Angelus. The morning sun gleamed the roof and the narrow burn was a silver ribbon.

  “Look,” one of their outriders shouted.

  A line of horses cleared the hill. “Fools,” James muttered. Those were no knights nor even men-at-arms, but they had helms and weapons in their hands. There were twenty or so, burghers most likely thinking they could defend their town.

  “James, your men take care of those,” the King said brusquely. “We'll secure the town.”

  “Front three files to me,” James called. He clapped his spurs to the horse's flanks. “A Douglas!”

  The burgers sawed at their reins, mounts rearing and sidling. By the time James reached them, many had already thrown down their weapons and scrambled from their horses. “Yield,” James shouted. A big-shoulders man swung a falchion and James rocked back. He ducked and hacked backhand and slashed to bone and gut. The man slid sideways, foot caught in his stirrup. The horse pounded away, leaving a glistening trail of crimson.

  “We yield,” a gray-haired man was shouting. He raised empty hands over his head. “Please. We're not fighters.”

  James gave the man a hard look. “Be sensible and no harm will come to you.” He turned his skittering mount in a tight circle. “You men, gather the mounts, their weapons. Escort our guests back to town. Gelleys, with me.” He flicked his reins and cantered to catch up with the King's party.

  Ahead he heard a din as he rode past a stone sheep pin. A cow lowed inside a wooden barn. The cobblestone street that wound up a grassy hill lined with stone houses with thatch roofs. At the summit stood the large church, which they'd seen from a distance.

  Men and women were being rousted from their homes with some shouts of the men-at-arms. A bairn wailed at the top of its lungs as its mother whirled to scream at the man who shoved her into the street. One of the men was thrown struggling onto the cobblestones. When he pulled a knife from his belt, Philp kicked the weapon from his hand and skewered him with a hard thrust to the gut. He jerked his sword free. The man scrambled crab-wise back, blood leaking down. A woman screamed, “Murderers!” and pulled at his arm as he crumpled.

  “James, you see to things here and keep tight control,” the King said. He motioned to his men to follow as he turned his mount. “That church belongs to the See of Aberdeen and owes their tithes.”

  “Hear you,” James shouted. “Anyone who raises a hand against us will die.”

  The defeated burghers were beginning to straggle into sight.

  “Gather those people together outwith the town,” James said to Wat. He raised his voice to be heard over the murmur of voices and weeping of the knot of townspeople. “Search the houses. Make sure none are hiding. And make a good job of searching for valuables.”

  A ululating scream so high and piercing it raised cut the air and the hair on the back of James's neck. He pointed to the open door of the house. There was another long scream that must have ripped someone's throat.

  “If that's what I think...” James threw himself from his saddle and sprinted through the open door. Within, a low fire burned on an open hearth and a wooden table was overturned, a chair tossed aside. James saw only the man's back as he humped and white legs spread beneath him. There was a broken whimper. James pulled his sword, reversed it and hammered down with the hilt on the man's dark head. He flattened with a grunt.

  “God damn me,” Wat said behind him. “The King will have our heads on a pike.”

  James gave the fallen man a vicious kick in the side to roll him over and expelled a long breath of relief to see that it wasn't one of his. “Drag him outside.”

  He looked down at the woman who had curled herself into a ball on the floor, shoulders heaving. He rubbed a hand over his face. He'd send one of the townswomen to bring her out, but there was business to take care of first.

  Wat grabbed the miscreant's feet and backed his way out. The man's head thudded hard on the doorstep and blood dribbled from where the blow had split his scalp open. James sheathed his sword, shook his head, sighed again and followed. He climbed into the saddle feeling unreasonably weary. This was somehow much less satisfying than it should have been.

  Wat had already tied the man's hands behind his back, though he still lay limp and slack. James nodded brusquely and their gazes locked for a grim moment. “Bring a rope.” He looked around for a good spot for the job. There were trees between the houses, oaks mostly with branches too low to the ground. He turned his horse and beside the largest of the houses, one with three stories that must belong to a wealthy burgher, he spotted a tall pine, thick and hoary, the lowest branch higher than a man could reach sitting astride. “There.”

  The man groaned and shook his head. Gelleys and Wat pulled him to his feet. He jerked, looked around eyes rolling, showing the whites. “It was play! Just a little play... our right. We took the town.”

  Philp ran up with a chair and rope. At James's nod the other man uncoiled the rope and threw it over the lowest branch of the pine. A sparrow flew out with a flash of black and white wings, scolding with an angry cree cree cree. The rope's end was knotted around the tree. The man began to toss and lunge. He was dragged as he kicked and tried to dig his feet into the stones. Under the dangling rope, Wat jerked the man around to face James where he sat in icy silence.

  James let the moment run out as a breathless silence fell over the town. “You disobeyed the commands of your lawful lords and commanders. You broke the law of God and of Scotland. In the name of Lord Robert, King of the Scots, I sentence you to death.”

  The man's mouth worked and wordless croaks came out as he was hoisted onto the chair. “Mercy,” he pleaded.

  Philp jerked the chair free. The man swung once. Wat grabbed his body and pulled, lifting his own legs to give his full weight.

  It was done.

  James backe
d his horse up a step and wheeled to face his men. He looked from one to another, pale faces, open mouthed. “The next man who commits rape will have the lash before he is hanged. Now search the houses. Seize any money, jewels or plate. Wat, find a woman to care for that lass and get her with the others. Then fire the town.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Standing in the broom beside the Tweedside road, King Robert narrowed his eyes at his nephew. “See you move them well away.”

  The sun was already low to the west and the beeches cast long, dark shadows.

  Randolph scowled at James, but nodded to his uncle in grudging submission. “Yes, sire.”

  James could see him biting back an argument at being sent ahead with their hostages and the gold they'd taken in tribute for leaving at least part of Durham and the Tyme unburnt.

  “I'll not chance losing what we went for while I'm taking Berwick. You hurry them as far to the east as you can before you make a cold camp.”

  Randolph pulled a small grimace that the King ignored as the man swung into the saddle and shouted for the half of their men who would ride with him to mount. Half a dozen finely dress lads, heirs of burghers who would be held until ransom was paid, bunched together on their horses. A couple glared but most kept their eyes down from the fearsome Scots. James's mouth twitched. The fact was they'd be well treated. King Robert did not take revenge on children, however much his own family had suffered. Besides they were worth gold only alive.

  They watched together as the troop of five hundred clattered their way around the hill. James prodded a back tooth with his tongue as he turned his attention to the silver river that flowed nearby, splashing over gray outcroppings. “We need the most of the men near enough to come on our call when we open the gate. But not so close they'll raise a warning.”