The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  The sky was deep purple, strewn with stars and a thin crescent of moon hovered at the top of the trees. Men muttered in the winter chill. Armor was donned, rope ladders sorted, and dirks sharpened. James looked around for Walter and saw the lad still kneeling over his armor. “Hurry,” James said. “We haven't all night.” Syme came trotting out of the darkness carrying one of the ladders he took such pride in making. “I want ten for the attackers. Do we have that many?”

  “More than that,” Syme said. “Do you want to take all of them?”

  “No. But see that they're well wrapped so they don't rattle.”

  James sat on the edge of a boulder and stripped off his leather shoes. “Where are my boots?” he barked at Walter. “No, not the mail for climbing. The leather.” Walter helped him to don the hauberk over his head and knelt to shove the boots onto his feet. It was tempting to make the lad stay behind, but he'd pleaded until James finally gave in. “You stay well behind me, lad. You're not a knight yet and don't forget it.”

  “Do you want your sword or just your dirk? And your helm?”

  “No helm. Dirks for tonight's work, my black cloak and I'll carry one of the pikes. And blacken your face and your hands.” He raised his voice over the camp's clamor. “All of you who are going with me, wear your darkest cloak. Use the ash to blacken your faces and hands and bring only your dirks.”

  He tested the point of his dirk on this thumb and sucked away a drop of blood. He'd never led a riskier attack for if they were spotted it would be too late to retreat. If they were spotted... He expelled a long breath. No point in thinking of that. It would be what it would be. He knelt and scooped up ash and smeared it until only his eyes gleamed in the faint light.

  James stuck his dirk in his belt and motioned Wat over. “If the attack goes against us, get the rest of the men away. Do not, and I mean this most direly, do not try to come to our aid if we're captured.”

  Wat sucked a whistling breath through his teeth and opened his mouth to object.

  “I don't want to hear it. You have your orders.” He fastened his cape and pulled the hood up over his head. “Let's go,” he called and strode through the trees for the road, ice sheathed leaves crunching under his feet. Behind his men hurried after him, icy bracken crunching underfoot. Bear branches scraped overhead with a sound of rattling bones. James wondered whether this was the last night they would see... whether he was at last leading his men to disaster. Syme fell in behind him and the rest of the men followed, silent in their own thoughts.

  In the dark, James didn't see the end of the trees until he stepped into the open. “On hands and knees,” he whispered to Sym. “Pass the word back. Follow in twos and threes and spread out when we reach the moat.”

  James dropped onto the hard rimed ice. He tucked the pike under one arm and draped his cloak over it, letting it drag a behind--awkward as Hades. He began to creep up the slope, angling into the meadow away from the road. The cold burned his fingers. He crawled. The hard ground scraped his palms and his knees until they were on fire. The head of the pike smacked his chin and he sucked in a breath and kept crawling.

  When the ground slanted downward under his hands, he dared a glance ahead—the ice surface of the moat reflected the thin sickle of the moon. From inside the castle, James heard laughter and what sounded like drunken singing.

  “What's that?” a loud voice said overhead.

  James froze in place, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest.

  Another voice brayed a laugh. “Crofter Duncansone and that boy of his must be making a merry Shrove Tuesday. Too drunk to take in their cattle.”

  “God damn.” The voice became fainter. “Wish I was.”

  “If you hadn't pissed off the sergeant...” and the men were too far to hear. James strained his ears and let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

  Now would the ice over the moat hold their weight? The best he'd been able to do was toss a heavy stone to test it as he'd left at first light. It seemed thick and Jesu God but it felt cold enough. He rested the weight of his hands on it. His body shook with the chill as he crept forward, now his knees. Another creep forward and another. He climbed onto the narrow ridge of earth between the moat and the wall and leaned his back against the cold stone. As he untangled the pike from his cloak, Syme knelt, untied from around his shoulders the bag that held the ladder, and held up the hooks. James fingers were so numb it took three tries to wriggle the point of the pike into the hole as Fergus worked a pike's tip into the other. Fergus's eyes gleamed as they exchanged a glance. James nodded and together they lifted it. He let the pike lean against the wall. That always made catching the hook easier. It clattered once and James jerked. He nodded. Syme grinned before he clamped his dirk between his teeth and scrambled up. James followed close at his heels and could feel the warmth of Fergus, right behind.

  Syme swung a leg over and grunted and whispered, “Hell mend it.”

  As James threw his arm over through the crenel, a guard raised his sword over his head. James froze with nowhere to dodge. The sword started down. Syme thrust, throwing his arm around the guard’s neck to grab his mouth. Blood gushed as James managed to jerk back. Syme held on as the guard jerked. Philp ran up behind.

  A rush of dark silhouettes spilled over the battlements. “Hell mend it,” James muttered as he threw his leg over the gore-slimed stone. “Go. Go. Clear the walls then follow to the gate.” He pointed in the direction he'd heard the other guards walk. Fergus hoisted himself over the edge. “Syme, Philp, Fegus, with me.” He paused until Gelleys and Walter hove themselves over. “You two, with me. Hoist up the ladder. We'll need it.”

  Fergus worked the hooks loose and pulled the ladder up. James heard grunting and the sounds of a scuffle past the far corner tower. Even drunk, soon the keep would hear. “Hurry.”

  He dashed along the parapet to the narrow stairs, took them three at a time and ran to the inner wall. They'd have to manage without pikes this time. The sounds of a lute and voices raised, in a bawdy song, spilled over the inner wall.

  “I can do it,” Fergus grunted. He grasped the two hooks and strained overhead. “Curse it. Can't reach.” Syme knelt and got onto his hands and knees. Fergus stepped onto his back and reached high overhead. The metal scraped on the stone. James was already shoving past him as Fergus jumped down. He scrambled up the ladder and swung a leg over. He dropped, bent kneed, onto the ground.

  The door of the keep was thrown open and spilled a path of light across the bailey and the sound of fiddles and pipes, laughing, calling, chattering. A man stumbled drunkenly out, unlacing his hose. Piss splashed onto the cobblestones. James eased his dirk out of his belt. A rumble of laughter boomed into the night. The man didn't look at James, turned back into the keep and the door banged shut. James expelled a long breath, stuck the blade of his dirk between his teeth and felt for the heavy bars that fastened the gate. He lifted the first and eased it to the ground. The second followed. He pushed the gate open.

  “Sir James...” Walter yelped.

  James cut him off with a hard hand across his mouth. “Quiet.” He jerked the lad through the gate and held his dirk in one has as he shoved the lad against the wall. “You stay behind me.” His men rushed through the gate in a dark wave. “Half on one side and half on the other,” he commanded. “Through the door and you take that side to clear it. I'm through first.”

  The wave of men parted, half to the near side of the door. James waved the others away and they dashed for the other side. He took a breath and burst through the door.

  Dozens of brightly dressed men, wine goblets in hand, eddied around the crowded hall. The bones of a boar, picked clean, and broken bread scattered the side tables. A few men sprawled on benches. One lay amidst the rushes on the floor, mouth open, snoring. Atop one of the tables, a squire stood spinning in a jig. A gray-haired knight at a side table had fallen forward, face in a puddle of spilt wine. The room reeked of the smell of sweating men, win
e, roasted meat and wood smoke.

  “God in heaven!” one of the English shouted. “Scots!”

  A din of confusion and shouting broke out. The black-robed friar dropped a goblet of wine on the floor. A figure dashed through the door, shouting for a guard. One of the English knights leapt onto a table that overturned with a crash. He flung himself forward as the table went to use its momentum. James dropped to a knee and brought his dirk up with a grunt. It ripped through satin and the gut beneath. James rolled to the side away from the gush of blood.

  A foot kicked at his head and James slashed the back of the leg, jumped to his feet, and hammered his hilt on a bare head as another man went down.

  Sir Guillemin bellowed, “Out! To the East Tower. Now!” He plowed into Gelleys with a shoulder. Gelleys flew backwards with a yell. Sir Guillemin pounded for the door, jumped heavily over a body, and slashed at a reaching hand.

  An arm encircled James's neck, a blade at his cheek. He slammed his elbow deep into a belly and brought his heel down hard on a softly shod foot. “Get him,” James grunted as he slashed at his attacker’s face. The man stumbled back. James plunged his dagger down into his throat and ripped it free. He kicked aside the gurgling body.

  Gelleys was picking himself up off the floor, shaking his head like a stunned calf. Fergus bawled, “Come back here, you Sassenach scum,” as he ran out the door. A dozen of James's men followed in his wake. A cold wind cut through the fug of the great hall.

  The friar knelt next the fireplace, hands raised, whimpering, “Misericordia... Misericordia...” Firelight gleamed on his sweaty face. Walter sat on the chest of a knight, his dirk at the man's throat. “I took him prisoner,” the lad crowed proudly. Philp was kicking a man into submission as the man crouched, arms over his head. The drunken knight crashed to the floor and looked blearily around.

  “So you did. Well done.” James's mouth twitched. “Philp, enough. Get the prisoners bound. Walter, you help him.” He strode to a stone basin beside the keep door and plunged his hands and dirk in, splashing them until the water was died red. He flicked the water off. “After that's done, Philp, take half a dozen men and go for Wat. We'll want all the men here.” He strode out.

  “Don't, you fool,” one of his men yelled as he ran.

  James looked up in time to see, silhouetted against the sliver of moon, one of the English atop the battlement climbing a merlon. He jumped. A scream echoed.

  “Here,” Fergus called standing in front of a corner tower. He kicked the door with a resounding crack and kicked it again. He backed up a few steps and ran at it, bounced off with a yelp of pain.

  “Never mind.” James frowned up at the height of the tower. “They've picked a tight hidey-hole. Fergus, take a dozen men and make sure they don't decide they want a fight.” He looked around at his men gathering, their breaths smoking in the icy air. “The rest of you search every corner. Make sure we haven't missed a single enemy.”

  Fergus stomped and rubbed his hands together. “Rotten way to spend a feast day.”

  James snorted a short laugh. “I'm thirsty. Think I'll try out that wine.”

  “What about us, my lord?” Fergus called to his back.

  “I'll send out a flagon but you'd best not get drunk. Call me when our men arrive.” Inside the great hall, he slammed the door behind him. A knight knelt, hands bound, heaving into the rushes. Gelleys had one of the bodies by the arms, pulling it was he backed toward the door. Walter knelt behind the friar as he bound the man's hands. “Make sure those are tight,” James said.

  Gelleys slammed the door behind him and grunted as he grabbed the hands of another body to drag out into the cold.

  The friar stared at him, his mouth working before he managed to stutter, “What... what will you do with us?”

  James scowled, tempted to frighten the cleric into pissing himself. Instead he said, “I don't kill friars, at least not unless they're trying to kill me.” The room stank of blood and shit. All except the table on the dais was knocked over, food trampled into the rushes and wine puddling with splashes of blood. James strode across the long hall and sprang onto the dais. He sniffed the half full flagon. The wine had a scent of grapes and cherries and violets. He picked up a silver goblet, tossed the dregs onto the floor and filled it.

  A deep drink and he sighed. It warmed his belly and spread through his body like a caress. He drained the cup. “Walter, fill a flagon and take it out to the men. After tonight they deserve to have their bellies warmed. See if there's any food left fit to eat.” He nudged a broken loaf with his foot and then threw himself down in the lord's chair, refilled his flagon, slid down in the chair and sprawled out his legs.

  Fire crackled on the hearth. It felt good to be warm and the wine was sweet. He drained the goblet again and let it drop from his hand beside him in the chair. He closed his eyes. They would call him when the men arrived. So much to do...

  Alycie's arms were soft around his waist as she leaned into his chest.

  “They told me you had died.” He breathed in her scent of grass and lavender, but an icy river of horror washed through his veins. “How could I not know you were alive?”

  “Whist, all is well," she whispered.

  “It isn't.” He wound his fingers into her hair. “How could I have thought that you dead?”

  "My sweet lord...” Her voice was a rustling of wind.

  Walter said, “My lord?”

  James jerked his eyes open, heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. He sat straight up and the goblet clattered to the floor. “What?”

  “I found rounds of cheese and bread and apples still in the kitchen.” Walter sat a platter piled with food on the table. “You never ate. I thought you must be hungry. I took roasted chicken and wine to the men on guard.”

  James rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. He wasn't sure why dreaming that she was alive always left him with such a feeling of horror.

  One of the prisoners, the knight, hands tied but asleep by the fire snorted in his sleep. The friar had his back propped against the wall and watched James, face knotted in a scowl. “What of the dead? The men you killed? Will you deny them a Christian burial?”

  James got picked up the goblet, strolled to the table and filled it. He tore off a hunk of bread. “If you want to stand in the cold, I'll let you say words over them.”

  “King Edward is raising an army, you know. He will make you pay for your treason. And hell will welcome you all.”

  His mouth full, James took a swallow of the red wine to wash the bread down. “Why I am sure he will try, priest.” James cut a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He chewed lazily. “I'm sure he will try.”

  The door opened and Wat stepped inside slapping his hands together. “Jesu God, it's cold out there.”

  “Warm up by the fire. I'll get the men set. We have a right nest of asps trapped in the tower.”

  James slapped Wat's shoulder as he passed and strolled out, surprised to see that he'd slept long enough for golden fingers of dawn to have reached into the eastern sky. He jogged up the steps to the parapet. The eastern tower had a high slit window. He squinted into the dim interior. A face peered out at him and jerked back. “Where is Igram?” he called down. “I want him.” He strode past the tower and looked up at the other side—another slit but this one higher. If anyone was near, he couldn't see them.

  His tall, lanky archer hurried up the twisting steps to the battlement.

  “My lord?”

  James pointed to the other side of the tower. “Over there. I want you to watch. Anything moves inside, you take a shot at it. Put one of your men on this side as well, but that has the better line of sight.”

  “I'll need a brazier to keep my hands warm enough for an aim.”

  James looked up at the cold, clear winter sky. A few stars were still scattered across the deep blue of the western horizon. He shrugged. “Take what you need, but keep a close watch. If it moves, shoot it.”
/>
  Igram gave one of his brisk nods and bent to shout down, “Niniane, come up here.”

  James reached the bailey yard and called to Fergus, “Take your men inside. We'll stay warm whilst we can and send Philp out to take over the guard. Where is Syme?” He spotted the blacksmith near the door as he pulled it open. “Syme, I want you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Come. The King will reward you right well for bringing this news to him at Perth.” James kept going toward the narrow stairs that led up to where the lord's chamber would be. “You may tell him yourself that we have taken the royal castle of Roxburgh and I await his command. But I'll give you a letter to carry as well.”

  * * *

  James leaned back against the wall of the keep and propped up a foot. He glowered at the tower.

  Wat sat on the step, running a whetstone alone the edge of his blade. “Bad luck they had food and water in there.”

  “Not luck. Sir Guillemin is no fool and headed for where they had stores. But Igram said he's had at least two hits. They'll give up soon.”

  A bow snapped and an arrow clattered on stone. Above on the parapet, one of the archers cursed at his miss.

  “They must be short of food by now anyway.”

  “Mayhap. No way to be sure.”

  “How long you think until the King sends word what we're to do with the place?”

  James shrugged. “He'll order it slighted, but—a royal castle?” James reached for his own whet stone and sank down beside Wat. He whisked the stone along the gleaming edge of his sword. “I must have his command.”

  A white cloth waved in the window slit. Released, it drifted down to the parapet and caught on the edge. James grunted as he stood. “Hold,” he called up to the archer and took the stairs two and three at a time.

  The edge of a face appeared in the narrow opening. “A truce? Whilst we talk?”

  James craned his neck back and stared into the slit. It was a younger face, thin and anxious, not Sir Guillemin. “Talk then.”

  “Is it the Black Douglas I speak to?” The voice wavered a bit.