by J. R. Tomlin
Sir Ingram de Umfraville jumped to his feet. "Not Brechin. The Flower of Chivalry and a hero of the crusades, and my friend. He must not be put to death." Hawk faced and with silver hair, Sir Ingram was a striking figure as James pondered him. An Englishman by birth, it was becoming clear to James where his true loyalty lay.
Sir Ingram said, "He did not take active part. Punish him. Imprison him for a time. But do not put him to death."
Randolph rose slowly to his feet with a drawn and solemn face. "I cannot agree with Sir Ingram. There are two we must spare, I fear, though I have no pity for them. We cannot condemn a woman to the scaffold. And Soules bears royal blood in his veins. If we execute him, it will be said it was because we feared his blood and this must not be. The others…" He shrugged. "As the good bishop said, such treachery must be stamped out."
"Wait, my lords." Gilbert held up a hand. "The penalty is not for us to decide. That is his grace’s decision. We must declare their guilt or their innocence." His face tightened. "My vote is for guilty."
"Guilty!" James shouted. The refectory was a tumult of shouts. "Guilty!" "Guilty!"
The king held up his hands for silence. It took a few moments as the Master at Arms thumped his staff.
The king’s face was haggard, the lines deepened in the past weeks. He voice was stern and even as he said, "I thank you for your verdicts, my lords. Maxwell and Graham shall be released from their chains and restored to their estate according to your verdict." He paused and seemed to draw a deep breath. "William de Soules and the Countess of Strathearn should die. But because she is a female and he…" The king paused before he nodded toward Randolph. "My nephew spoke truly. I will not have it said I killed Soules because he was of the line of King Alexander. They both shall suffer imprisonment in the Castle of Dunbar for as long as they live."
A scream and sobbing came from behind the screen. Soules seemed stricken mute.
Beside James, Randolph nodded his head in agreement, but Robbie had a frown. James wasn’t sure how he felt about this doubtful mercy. If it were him, he would rather die. They deserved whatever fate their liege lord decided. James was glad it wasn’t his decision.
"Malherbe, Logie and this Broun are guilty of the most heinous of treason. They would have turned the kingdom over to chaos and war once more. And for what? For the son of a man who gave up the throne? They would have given Scotland over to the English. And for their own profit? I have no more mercy upon them than they would have upon me, my followers or upon Scotland. Their lands and titles are forfeit to the crown. They will be dragged to the place of execution to be hanged, drawn and quartered this day."
Logie moaned and sagged to the ground, but the rest of the room was silent.
The king inclined his head toward the bier. "I will not sentence mutilation upon a dead man. Too often my own family has suffered such a fate. His lands and titles are forfeit. I turn his body over to the church for burial, and may God have mercy on his soul."
"Sir David de Brechin." The king looked at Brechin and the lines in his face were even more deeply graven. "It is a sad day to sentence a knight honored for his courage fighting for the church. But he put his loyalty to a friend above his loyalty to his liege lord. He would have seen Scotland go once more into fire and chaos and lifted not a hand to stop it."
Brechin held his head proudly high as Robert de Bruce continued.
"I sentence him to be dragged from this place to be hanged and beheaded like the traitor he is."
"No!" Umfraville jumped to his feet. "This is wrong. I tell you, you must not do this. Not to Brechin. Withdraw your words. Show him mercy."
The king’s face hardened. "Sir, you heard my sentence."
"This is the act of a villein, not a king. To kill such a man. I will not stay to serve someone who would send David de Bruchin to such a vile death."
"Then you have my leave to take quit of my realm. I will not hinder you." Robert de Bruce looked quietly around the room. "I require loyalty of my nobles. We have no room in Scotland for traitors. Not if we are to survive."
July, 1322
Near Carlisle, England
For four days they had ridden, burning as they went. Behind them they had left a swath of destruction. For miles, fields were burnt and trampled, the trees of the orchards blackened hands that grasped at the sky. Behind them they left villages empty, shops plundered. The people ran into the hills and the forests, and James let them flee.
The land around them was an anthill of riding men. A hundred trampled a field, whooping and laughing, driving a herd of lowing cattle before them. Another field was alight. Further up the stream at the edge of a beech copse, a forester’s cottage had logs piled high ready for burning. His men surrounded it, throwing torches into the wood and onto the roof. Flames shot into the sky as trees around it caught.
The air reeked of smoke and ash. James leaned and spit the taste from his mouth. But what would it take to cleanse the taint of ash and burning from my soul? He felt his mouth tighten. Perhaps he would carry it with him to Hell. So be it. In this life, he had his duty. "How many do you think men do you think King Edward has raised?" James asked.
Robert de Bruce grunted a response and watched as Gawter tossed a torch, its flames trailing, onto a thatched-roof cottage. A raven went flapping into the sky. "More than they had at Bannockburn. Can’t your spies tell you a number?" The flames caught and began to dance across the roof, blowing in the wind.
James snorted a laugh. "They don’t count that high, Your Grace. I have only heard that the line of it stretches far out of sight."
"I always said that Lancaster was a fool." Randolph coughed as a thick wave of smoke blew over them. "Now he is a headless fool."
James knew that Randolph was still provoked that he had convinced the king to involve them in Lancaster’s rebellion against King Edward, but anything that hurt the English king could only be to Scotland’s benefit. Lancaster might have taken the English throne had he been smarter, and at the least, until he was captured by Harcla and had his head chopped off, he had been a distraction. Now it seemed that Edward was so swollen with pride that he would try another invasion of Scotland even as the Scottish army put the north of England to the torch.
"Is King Edward truly so witless? All of the English? That they can’t see…" James let his horse drop its head into the blue-green trickle of water to drink. "All they have to do is come to the peace-table."
The two men didn’t answer because there wasn’t an answer to a question the Scots had pondered for eight years.
Walter Stewart trotted up, Andrew de Moray behind him in gilded armor. "There’s another herd of cattle beyond the hill." Walter pointed to the east.
"They should have already been taken" the king said. "How many?"
"A hundred mayhap. Enough to speed up trampling the fields."
The king climbed from the saddle with a tired sigh. "We’ll camp here whilst our men finish their work."
James slid to the ground. A camp would be little more than cook fires and cloaks to wrap in, even for the king. He watched their men gallop across the field of golden grain. Torches spun through the air as they were flung. "Richert," James shouted. "Send men for those cattle Sir Walter spotted. And have someone bring wood for a fire."
He led his courser across the pebbly finger of a stream. There would be water for drink and use in their bannocks, and the men could spread along the stream with their mounts. "Three days to finish burning Carlisle."
Randolph nodded and flung himself onto the grass, stretching out his long legs. "Next we burn Scotland before them."
David came to lead their horses to picket. The king looked around but there was nothing to serve as a seat. He grunted as he sat on the bare ground. "I’m getting old for this."
"Lothian. We must burn as far as the Firth of Forth," James said. One of their men was carting an armful of wood and dumped it onto the ground. James snorted. "I must burn it. In the March, the duty is mine. And Edinbur
gh must go. What about the court at the palace, Your Grace? They’ll be in danger, surely. Should they be sent north?"
"I’ll think on it, but… let’s see what Edward of Carnaefon does first. When we return, the fiery cross must be carried across Scotland." The king nodded. "It is as you say, Jamie. Thomas and Walter and Andrew, I shall send to carry the fiery cross and raise all the powers of Scotland, of the Highlands, of the Isles. I shall hold at Culross and send a force to hold Stirling, but everything below the Forth will be left bare—of man or beast, of crop or habitation. That I leave to you."
James drew his dirk and tested the tip on his thumb. The king would also expect the spears of Douglasdale and all of his lands. But first more burning.
September 1322
Edinburgh, Scotland
When he shimmied up to the highest branch that would bare his weight, James could see the castle rock rising into the sky topped with a rubble of boulders left from the slighting. The tall marble spires of the Abbey of the Holy Rood were nearer. Below the foot of the rock, broken chimneys poked up through the trees. Burnt roofs clustered along the edge of the Firth of Forth, and dozens of wooden piers thrust into the blue-green water. No ships were tied up, and single fishing boat bobbed in the waves. He bent further out and the branch wavered beneath him. Hundreds of thin curls of smoke rose from cook fires. There was movement on the shore, but it was too far to see what. He bent, grasped the branch and dropped to the ground with a grunt.
There were no earthworks around the city. That would make things easier as they scouted. He must know if the enemy had any food left. How near to starving? How near to retreating to their own land?
Behind him was desolation. Villages, cottages, farms, fields, and barns, if it would burn, he and his men had burnt it, whilst all the people of the Lothian fled, herding their animals and dragging scant few possessions into the hills and the broken lands. On the night he led his men out of Edinburgh a month ago, the flames of the burning city had leapt so high that the water of the firth itself had shimmered as though it were on fire.
James squinted up at the sun. "Dusk is the best time to sneak in," he said to Archibald.
"What if we’re questioned?"
"You sound like a damned Sassenach. You’ll pass as one of them. Just say we’re looking for our companions."
Archie glowered at him. "You sound like one too when you want to."
"I don’t want to—unless I must. You do the talking."
Without waiting for an answer, James pulled out his dirk to drop on the ground, kicked some dead leaves over it, and walked off. His sword could pass for that of any well-armed soldier. They were both wearing unmarked leather brigandines studded with steel such as a man-at-arms in any army might wear. He scrambled down a steep braeside, using brambles as handholds. Archie stomped behind.
The sun had fallen behind the tops of the trees and dark would be upon them soon. James sniffed. "I smell smoke."
"We burnt the town and there are cook fires. Thousands of them most like. That must be what it is."
James grunted skeptically. "Follow behind me." He darted away, silent in the thick padding of leaves. He used the widely spaced trees, slipping from one to another in the shadows. As they grew closer the reek was strong, fresh smoke from something larger than a cook fire and more recent than a month old. There was little he’d left for the English to burn.
At every tree, he paused to listen. At the fifth one, he heard the hooves of hundreds of horses and men’s voices. And the stink of smoke got stronger. He’d fired too many buildings himself to mistake it. They’d fired something. But little was left unburnt except the Abbey of the Holy Rood.
A hawthorn thicket shielded the way ahead on the edge of the city. By the time he reached it, the lavender tint of dusk had darkened to black, but a fire lit the shells of cottages he could see through gaps in the branches. He twisted through, the thorns tearing at his hands and face.
He stepped boldly into the open and gave a jerk of his head as Archie forced his way through. They had to blend in with the crowd of soldiers laughing and jeering as flames wrapped around the Abbey. James’s heart sped up and tried to rip its way out of his chest. He’d spared many and many an abbey and church in England. He knew they couldn’t expect the same of their enemy. Flames wrapped around the magnificent spires.
"Most of it won’t burn…" Archie mumbled in an undertone.
James gave a sharp nod. They’d removed all of the treasures for safekeeping, and the friars had fled like the rest of the city. But the burning of such a place… He gripped the hilt of his sword and turned to dodge around the edge of the crowd toward the town proper. There was naught he could do here, and Archie was right. The damage would be shameful but would be repaired. A wind blew off the firth and threw sparks high into the sky as James put his back to the flames and strode into the remains of the city.
Well beyond the burning abbey, a line of guards in mail stood leaning upon pikes around pavilions as large as houses. Banners flapped from tall poles driven into the ground. On one James could make out a hint of red and gold in the flickering light from a campfire. The other was paler, perhaps blue and white. They might have been the banners of the Plantagenet king and John de Warenne, earl of Surrey or mayhap it was that of the earl of Richmond, but in the dark of evening, he couldn’t be sure. Beyond them between burnt out cottages, tumbled stones, and blackened foundations, the common men camped in the open or in crude tents squatting helter-skelter like mushrooms.
James grinned at his brother and sauntered up to one of the guards. "Damn lords. They’ll have ale. But none for the likes of us."
"They have fine wine." The guard glanced around for listeners before he hawked and spat. "Though not more beef than the rest of us. I hear Warenne is having horsemeat for his dinner. At least he has that. And the rest of us not having more than beans for dinner in weeks—if we were lucky."
James elbowed his brother. "Whose horse did they eat? I’ll wager it wasn’t that of my lord Goddamn earl."
Archie laughed and punched James back, and they both laughed hard when the guard joined in. James wiped his face with the heel of his hand.
"Nae, it’s cart horses they’re slaughtering." The guard motioned with his head and James stepped closer. "I heard we’re breaking camp tomorrow before the war horses are so thin they can’t make the trip."
"About time," Archie said.
"Hoi!" A voice cut through the night like the edge of a sword. A compact man, hard and spare, stomped toward them. "What’s to-do here? You’re supposed to be on guard, not gossiping like a henwife." He glared at James. "And who are you?"
"James of York," James said, tugging his forelock. "Meant no harm. Just stopped to pass the time of night."
"Be on your way," the sergeant said sharply.
James gave the guard a wry smile and sauntered away just as a party of knights and men-at-arms thundered up. A tall man in azure silk and a white satin cloak threw himself from the saddle, cursing. "That was the most expensive beef I’ve ever seen, I swear it. We found one lame cow to feed the entire camp."
Out of the corner of his eye, James saw someone throw back the door covering of the largest pavilion. He decided it was time to keep walking.
"Wonder how long it’s been since a ship got through," Archie whispered.
"Whist. Talk about that later," James said as he wended his way between men lying wrapped in cloaks, tents, and cook fires. He hadn’t seen a dog since they’d entered the town, so he raised an eyebrow when one of the men squatting by a fire stuck a hunk of meat on the tip of his knife into the flames. The camp was quiet for so many men. They sat huddled about their fires or crawled into their crude tents with feet sticking out. A snore grated the air. He heard someone in the distance bellowing a curse. He passed horse lines, quiet except for an occasional stamp or whicker. The air reeked of horseshit and men with a hint of hunger and sickness beneath.
When he came to the shoreline, they strol
led until the night was ink black. Not a single ship was at anchor nor a light anywhere in sight on the firth.
"I’ve learned what I need to know," James said.
"You mean you’ll attack—"
James gave him a thump on the back of the head. "Watch your tongue."
"I thought I was supposed to do the talking," Archie said.
James chuckled and shook his head. "I changed my mind." His brother was loyal, but it would be nice if he had sharper wits about him.
October, 1322
Hambleton Hills, England
Kneeling on the soft sod, the Bruce thrust a finger at a spot on the map. "You’re certain he is at Rievaulx Abbey?" Even kneeling, Robert de Bruce was a tall man with long legs and massive shoulders, his arms were thick and corded with muscle, but his once golden hair was now streaked with gray. Lines were carved deep around his eyes and his mouth.
"My spies say with few of his forces, Your Grace." James snorted. "And his queen. By the dysentery finished with his army, it was broken, and Warenne left for his own lands. John of Brittany’s joining him stopped my advance." Thick smoke from a burning field wrapped itself around them, and James rubbed his stinging eyes.
"Such modesty, Douglas," Thomas Randolph said. "You don’t mention the beating you gave his light cavalry at Melrose."
James shrugged. "They deserved it. I was—angry. Bad enough that they burnt Holy Rood but to burn Melrose Abbey as well." He ran his finger along the line of Humberton Hills before them. "Here." He stood and pointed, sweeping a long line toward the dark and tree covered brae, hunched like a whale back. "John of Brittany has formed a line and holds the way all along the crest of Sutton Bank."
Iain Campbell, Ruairi Macrauri, Hugh of Ross, and Gilbert de la Haye rose to their feet and spread frowning, doubtful looks between them.