The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  The Bruce was silent for a moment. "Are you unwell, Jamie?"

  Startled, James turned from staring ahead. The king was examining him oddly. "Pardon, my liege. I’m weary… Only weary. Of fire and smoke and ash and laying waste and too many weeks in the saddle." He shook his head and managed a wry chuckle. "Once I would not have felt so. I fear I’m getting old."

  "He’s been prickly as a blackthorn bush for the past weeks," Randolph said as they rode into the palace bailey yard.

  The king was silent as he swung from the saddle. He stood gauging James, frowning, his eyes narrowed. "I put much upon you, James. I always have. Do you think I don’t know that?"

  "Forgive me. You know I’m your man. I remember my oath. In life or in death… or so weary I feel I could die of it." James slid from the saddle, too tired to worry if it showed. He tossed his reins to a stable boy and turned to the king, forcing a smile. "I need to rest and to see my son." He might hope to see Marioun as well though. The sight of her face made him remember why he did this. "That’s all. Whatever you ask of me, it’s yours." If he hoped the king might not ask anything of him for a while and that Marioun might be glad to see him, that was his own affair and not to be mentioned.

  "Good," Thomas said with one of his half-smiles. "Then you’ll stop chopping my head off at every word I say."

  James craned his neck to look at the slate sky and blacker clouds moving in from the sea. But they’d be dry soon with wine warming their bellies. A wry chuckle worked its way out of his chest. "As though you gave any notice of my foul temper, my lord earl."

  "Aye, but it’s not like you," Randolph said as a guard threw open the door. Sir Symon was ordering the men to the stables with the mounts and Archibald was grumbling as he followed his brother inside.

  James strode into the Great Hall covered in the dirt of the road and unshaven for days, past tapestries of feasting and great hunts into ease and laughter. High above, halfway to the vaulted ceiling, two minstrels strummed lutes in the gallery. A servant placed a flagon on wine of a long table at the side of the room. Elayne talked with Lady Elizabeth and Marioun before a roaring fire in the wide hearth that gave off a pleasant scent of pine as a retainer knelt to pile on more logs. Andrew de Moray, lean and blond and so like James’s memory of his father it made him blink, stood laughing with one of the king’s sisters.

  Roger de Mowbray swaggered to meet them at the door. "I see you found them, Your Grace."

  Elayne turned and a frozen smile moved over her face. "My lord husband, welcome back. Praise God you are safe."

  "You look well, my lady." James brushed by Mowbray to cross the room and leaned down to buss her cheek. Over her shoulder he saw color rush up from Marioun’s neck and stain her cheeks as she swept him a curtsy.

  Behind him, he heard Christina de Bruce greeting her nephew, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Marioun. He took her hand and kissed it as she rose. "Sir James, we’ve missed you, so little have you been here these past months," she said.

  Andrew joined them with Lady Christina’s hand on his arm. "A welcome addition to the court. I’m pleased that you’re safely returned."

  "We were in little danger." James smiled at Marioun before he tore his gaze away and smiled at Andrew. "But it’s welcome to see something more pleasing than the smoke of burning villages and men in filthy armor."

  "You’ll find few and few in filthy armor here," Christina said. "Especially Sir Andrew who wears finer clothes than any woman in the court."

  It was true that Andrew was finely clad. James knew that the Moray’s of Petty had long been as rich as Croesus, though much had been lost in the war with the king of England’s special enmity for the family. But Andrew was in blue velvet with stars embroidered in silver thread on his tunic and a finely worked silver belt held his dagger. "I wear armor at need," Andrew said with a laugh. "When there’s no need, I prefer wearing my best."

  Lady Christina laughed at him. "Gilded armor even finer than the king’s is what you wear to fight in."

  "Mayhap he means that we women of the court do not look our best and should spend more gold on our clothes," Marioun said with a smiling glance at Moray.

  Lady Christina tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Why that is an excellent thought. I believe I shall take his advice." She was still a handsome woman though she had lines deeply scored about her eyes and gray streaked her blonde hair.

  The king took his sister’s hand, grinning. "I beg you do not give her such ideas. My sister is already trial enough upon my purse."

  "You’d think a king would speak truly. Why I hardly spend any merks at all," she replied with a perfectly straight face, although she ran her hand down her silk gown.

  "Moreover, any man I propose for her to marry, she turns up her nose and refuses. What am I to do with such a sister?"

  "Let me do as I please, Your Grace, though I still say I'm little trial upon your purse. You should thank me. "

  Thomas was laughing, and even Elayne managed a smile as the king shook with laugher and wiped his cheeks. Marioun’s lips twitched in a droll smile.

  Christina made a fluttering sound with her lips. "Why only last week I refused a merchant who offered a sumptuous—"

  She was interrupted by the footsteps of two men and the chamberlain bowing. "Your Grace’s pardon," the man said, "but there is a friar with a letter from Bishop Lamberton. He says the message is urgent and insists he must put it in your hands."

  The chamberlain bowed and stepped aside for the brown-robed friar, sturdy and broad of face with a tonsured head. The Bruce greeted him pleasantly and held his hand out for the letter. The chamberlain led the man away to the kitchen for ale and a meal as the king broke the seal of the bishop of St. Andrew with his thumb.

  Holy St. Bride, James thought, let it not be bad news.

  Within was another letter. The king read the outer, frowning and then he unfolded the second. He stared at the letter, seemed to read it once more, and barked a triumphant laugh. "They want a truce. Clerics brought letters from Edward for Lamberton to forward to me. They’re asking for a truce for two years."

  "A truce?" James stared at the king. "A truce…"

  "Isn’t that what the Pope asked for?" Andrew asked, and Mowbray’s eyebrows climbed.

  "Before we took Berwick, aye. Then such a truce would have been a disaster. Now we hold all of Scotland, and Edward is admitting defeat―for now. It’s not the peace-table, but it gives us time, time we sorely need."

  Thomas Randolph was nodding thoughtfully. "Time for letters to the Pope, it seems to me."

  "Two years." Mowbray crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. "There is much that might be done in that time and much that might be changed."

  James stared at the man. Why would Mowbray speak of changes? James had no interest in changes except to rebuild their strength and to enjoy being at peace—for the first time in his life.

  * * *

  When James stepped out of the tower doorway onto the snow-covered parapet walk, two small figures wrapped in thick cloaks darted ahead of him, one limping behind the other. William giggled and pressed his hand to his mouth. James smiled. What were the lads up to? There was a command shouted from below. The two paused to watch drilling in the bailey yard. In boiled leather and mail, squires grunted and cursed as they swung staves and wooden swords under the severe gaze of Sir John Thomson.

  William shrugged and crouched dashed to the wall of the next tower. He threw himself flat and motioned his cousin down. Young Robert squirmed onto his stomach, and James heard a giggle before William shushed him.

  Mischief. That was clear. James softly clicked his tongue to his teeth. He’d told William to take care of Robert, not to teach him how to find trouble. He should put a stop to whatever to do they were about, but instead he crossed his arms and leaned against the icy stone of the tower doorway and ruffled Mac Ailpín’s ears as the deerhound sat at his feet. A smile twitched his lips. The holy God knew he’d done worse, poaching the
French king’s forest, than any trouble they could find.

  William waited until the guard on the next parapet marched in the opposite direction. He jumped up and fumbled at his lacings as his cousin was still pushing himself to his feet. He was no sooner unlaced than James was striding toward the two. A second yellow stream splattered on the yard below.

  William stared down as he pissed and yelped in surprise when his father grabbed his arm. John Thomson was shouting, "You imps from Hell!"

  James shook both boys by the arm. "Lace yourselves," he ordered as he desperately swallowed a grin.

  "I thought it would freeze. I wanted yellow icicles," William said, blinking up with a look of practiced innocence. "Icicles make good spears."

  "Lace yourselves, I said." James shook them again, although it wasn’t a hard shake if he were to admit the truth. They were both lacing as fast as they could. "I arrive and seek my son to find him acting a villein. You’ll both make your apologies to Sir John for pissing nearly in his face." He gave them a push on the napes of their necks. Holy Mary, he dare not laugh. Yellow icicles...

  He followed the two as they trudged dolefully down the stairs. In the yard, one of the squires sniggered but bit his lip when Sir John gave him a sharp look. "That will be all," Sir John told the score of squires he was training. "This afternoon you’ll work at the quintain. Any one of you that eats dirt will spend the rest of the day cleaning tack in the stable."

  As the squires hurried through the yard to the armory, James said, "You have something to tell Sir John."

  William flicked his father a glance, and James frowned at him. "I’m sorry, Sir John." There was a quiver in the middle, but no tears.

  James nodded and squeezed his shoulder as he nudged the king’s grandson. "Robert."

  The lad echoed his cousin, looking stubborn, just like the king did at times. James ruffled his hair.

  "They have spirit," Sir John said crossing his arms over his barrel chest. "But a daily birching would not be amiss to teach discipline."

  William’s mouth had dropped open, and he stepped behind his father’s hound for protection.

  "I’ll think on it," James said in a serious tone. He prodded both lads toward a side door and waited until they were out of hearing of the irate master at arms. "I suppose you might still have the gifts that I brought, though I’m sure neither of you deserves them."

  "Truly, my lord?" Robert asked, beaming up hopefully. "Gifts?"

  "Your lord father gave me something to bring you as he cannot leave his duties."

  "Me too?" William asked in a forlorn voice. "Please…"

  The lads were being pampered by the women beyond reason, James thought, as he shook his head. William’s wheedling was too practiced. Not that he’d deny the lad a gift—the look of him, so like James’s own father made him dote upon the lad himself. But he would speak with the king. Both were too young for taking up duties as pages, yet mayhap it should be considered. They had heavy duties to grow into and sooner than anyone would want. "Aye, you may have it." The wooden knights with their swords that worked by a lever might interest them enough to reduce the mischief—for a few days. He chuckled. "Come, you imps. They’re in my chambers."

  He took each lad’s hand and slowed his step to Robert’s pace, but the lad’s limp did not seem to reduce his speed when it came to finding trouble.

  * * *

  It was too seldom that he drank uisge beatha, James decided, as his listed and caught himself on the wall. Robbie snorted with laughter. "I always could drink you under the table."

  James straightened and gave Robbie a dignified look. "I am not under the table." He grinned. "Albeit my legs don't want to cooperate in walking straight."

  They both laughed and James leaned back against the wall. When Robbie belched, they both roared. James wiped his cheeks with the heel of his hand. It had been a better night than James could remember having in many a year. Peace. He hadn't known it could be such a joy. They’d drunk deeply and talked of the battles they'd won and ignored the ones that they'd lost. "Do you need a hand up those stairs?" Robbie asked him. "It would be a shame to fall and break your neck when we're not fighting for once."

  "No, go find that lady wife of yours though she may kick you out of her bed―coming to her stinking of drink."

  Robbie waggled his eyebrows, no mean feat in his condition, James thought. "She is not so particular how I come to her as long as I do. And..." Robbie's fond smile sat oddly on such a war-worn face. "I'm happy to go to her, whatever my state."

  "Pah! You're getting to be a sentimental old man." James gave him a shove toward the corridor. "I'm fine to reach my chamber without you playing nursemaid."

  "There are worse things than living to be an old man, Jamie." He punched James's arm and turned to swagger away, listing into the wall and then straightening. James smiled, shook his head and rubbed his stinging arm. Getting to be a sentimental old man or not, when Robbie gave you a thump, you felt it. And there were worse things indeed than living long enough to have peace. James had gone three steps up the narrow stairway when someone whispered, "Sir James."

  A skinny, red-haired lad in the livery of a king's squire motioned to him as he hugged the wall, one of the Campbells, Lochloinn by name James thought. "My lord, I come from a certain lady with a message." Eyes glittering with delight at the intrigue, Lochloinn held out a folded and sealed letter.

  James took it and, bemused, watched the youngster tip-toe away before he used his thumb to slit the seal. It was hastily written, or perhaps the lady did not have a fair hand, but James smiled, intrigued. He knew the place she had set for a meeting, a bower outside the walls where in summer a noble might have a quiet meal. Marioun had only asked him for a few moments to speak privily, but he was never for a moment alone in her company. Even that day in the garden they had not been truly alone.

  If he'd had a taste too much of uisge beatha, that no longer mattered. He took the stairs two at a time, whisked on his fur cloak, and closed the door quietly behind him so as not to waken his snoring squire. She'd asked for discretion, so he took the winding back stairway and went through the kitchen yard, past the well and dark outbuildings. At the postern gate, a guard nodded to him as he passed, breath fogging in the icy air. He strode through a pleasure garden where the snow-covered bushes made strange white shapes in the flickering moonlight. A building loomed before him and a shape in the doorway, outlined by the light of a fire.

  "My lord," she whispered.

  He took her hands, icy in the chill night, and closed the door behind them. "My lady." He smiled. "No need to whisper, I think. No one is near and the palace was silent. You have nothing to fear."

  She was looking intently at his chest. "Don't I? Alone with you here." She gave a trembling laugh. "I think I may have much to fear even though it’s my own fault."

  "From me? Marioun—" James chafed her hands between his to warm them. "You're freezing. Come closer to the fire." He led her nearer to the flames on the small hearth. He'd thought so many times of being alone with her like this, dreamed of sending her such a note. But it was she who had a warrior's courage to do what he'd only dreamt of. For how long had the thought of her made his heart try to beat its way out of his chest? Courage, he thought, was easy in battle. Not so much so in matters of love.

  She pulled her hands free and held them toward the fire. He felt her shivering even though the room was no longer so cold. She shook her head. "I never thought I'd play the wanton, not for anyone."

  He grasped her chin and turned her head to make her look at him. "You're no wanton. I know that." When she didn't try to turn away, he rubbed his thumb along her soft cheek. "We've neither of us had a choice..." He paused, swallowed, and started again. "Marioun, I've few soft words for wooing. I’m better at battle than courting, but since that day in the garden I've watched you."

  He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head, so he pressed his lips to her cheek, not letting her go.

  "Why?
The Douglas―the great friend of the king―you can have any woman you want."

  He captured her mouth for a soft kiss. "They wouldn't be you, Marioun. Kind, gentle, beautiful..." He kissed her again and she opened her lips for him so sweetly.

  But when he released her mouth, she turned her face away to press it into his shoulder. "But I need more than that you—want me. I want… more."

  "You think that I don’t, as well? Marioun. I want everything there is. I’ve loved you. I don’t know how long, your beauty, your sweetness, but what we have is only this. Would I could change it." He kissed her hair and her ear and her cheek.

  "Love? Truly?" She pushed back from him to look up into his face in the dancing firelight. "I know that men want me. My husband did. Other men. And you. But love?"

  "Dear God, Marioun, my love for you has kept me alive. Lust? For that, there are others. A coin in the street takes care of lust. You don’t want to know, but I’m no better than most men." He gave a wry laugh. "Worse than many, but what love I have left in me. That is for you."

  She slid her arms around his neck as he pulled her gently to him.

  "James… Sweet God…"

  He bent to kiss her and slowly pushed her cloak from her shoulders and shrugged off his own. His mouth and his tongue claiming hers, she tasted of wine and berries, and her fingers trembled as they threaded through his hair. He tugged at her gown and was on his knees tasting her soft breast, trailing kisses over her belly, as she bent over him and pressed her lips into his hair. She was on her knees, and he knew not how or when. He was lost in her, but their cloaks were warm and soft to receive them. His hands glided along her sides, a sweet smoothness.

  A million sparks lit his senses on fire all at once, his shudders, her fingertips on his back, the sound that she made when he licked the hollow of her neck. He burned at her touch. It sent his senses soaring, wild, tethered only by her arms around him, by her lips murmuring his name to guide him back.