The Black Douglas Trilogy

by J. R. Tomlin

  Shouts behind him rose "To the king!" Horns blew, an urgent shrill that cried Awake and To arms. But he hacked a second rope and a side of the pavilion collapsed to the ground. A beefy man clad in a hauberk ducked out of the opening, sword raised, hauling the tousle-haired boy-king in a fine white shift behind him. A man with only a dagger in his hand, naked as a babe, flung himself in front of the king to shield him, knocking the boy to the ground. The lad gaped up from the ground as James thrust into his protector and jerked his sword free. The lad scrambled backwards, crablike, but a guard with shield raised grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. Another guard flung himself in front of them.

  The English horns blew again, brazen and desperate. A mob of Englishmen rushed toward the pavilion, screaming and bellowing, and behind James, Gawter screamed, "Help me!"

  James wheeled his horse. He saw a tall Englishman who'd managed to reach a horse swing at Gawter and the lad dodged, raising his shield. James charged.

  His quarry met him with a slash at his head, but James slammed it aside. Tall and in a hauberk but with no helm, he bared his teeth in a snarl as he hacked at James. He bellowed, "Damn Scot!" and shoved in close, slamming a blow. James parried and buried his sword in the man's throat with a backslash.

  "Retire!" James roared as he slapped Gawter's horse on the rump. The horse plunged to a gallop. "We're out of time. Retire! Retire!"

  His men came sweeping past him at a gallop, flying by a flaming pavilion that threw sparks high into the air. All two hundred men surged past him, thundering silhouettes that rode down anyone who got in their way, jumping bodies that sprawled on the ground. He wheeled to be sure no one was left.

  Suddenly, he felt a sickening crunch on his back. His vision wavered. He lurched in the saddle but managed blind a swipe with his sword.

  Someone jumped back, dodging, and James raked his horse with his spurs. It took off at a gallop that nearly jerked his arms from their sockets. His stomach pitched. He clutched his horse's mane as he swayed half out of the saddle.

  Behind him, he heard shouted commands and screams and moans as he galloped into the darkness. After a minute, he slowed to a trot. It wouldn't do to break his horse's leg by a gallop in the night. He flexed his back, twisting first one way and the other as he rode. No, nothing was broken, but his back throbbed at each thud of the horse’s hooves. He'd be sore as the very devil for a few days.

  At the ford, his men milled, and James heard voices raised in an argument. "We need to go back for him," Symon said.

  "His orders were to wait―" Archibald's voice faltered. "But―"

  "No need to go back," James called out. "I'm here. Back to camp."

  When they reached their camp, Thomas was waiting, arms crossed over his chest, his face clamped in a frown. "What happened?" he asked as James climbed painfully from the saddle and grimaced.

  "We drew blood."

  "We should have gone together." Randolph paced in an angry little circle before he turned to face James. "We could have defeated them all. Now the chance is lost."

  "It might have turned out well. Or we might instead have lost all. We risked enough. If we'd been there and defeated yonder, all would have been lost."

  Thomas picked up a piece of wood and flung it into the bonfire. Sparks flew into the air and fluttered through the air. "If we can't defeat them with your tricks, then it's time to face them in battle. I shan't sit here and let them starve us into surrender, Douglas."

  "A battle would be folly!" James shouted. He took a deep breath and gathered his patience, staring into the bonfire until he could look at Thomas without yelling. "We're outnumbered, and they're stronger every day. Merchants are bringing them food and supplies whilst we use ours up. You've seen the swarms of them. And we're in their country where no aid will reach us. We cannot count on rescue. We cannot forage. Supplies almost gone—" Now Thomas was nodding and listening, so James grinned. "So let us do to the English what I heard years ago that a fox did with a fisherman."

  "A fisherman…?" Thomas said. He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he gave a little laugh through his nose. "A fisherman."

  James kicked a log closer to the bonfire. He motioned, and Thomas dragged one over and sank down, still shaking his head, his mouth twitching.

  "So what did the fox do?"

  "Once years ago, a fisherman lay by the banks of a river gathering in the catch from his nets. He had a hut there, a simple place with a fire and a door and a bed, nothing more. One night the fisherman was at his nets late, but when he returned home, by the light of the little fire burning bright, he saw a fox gnawing hard at his salmon. He ran to the door, so the fox couldn't escape, drew his sword, and yelled, "Thief, I have you now!" The fox looked about to find some bolt-hole, but the only way out was through the door, past the man and his sword."

  James rubbed the side of his nose and winked. "Sound familiar?"

  "So…" Thomas shook his head again.

  "So the fox spotted the man's gray mantle lying on the bed. He grabbed it in his teeth and dragged it into the fire. The mantle caught fire, and the man gave a shout. He ran to grab his only mantle, jerking it out of the flames, and beating it out. The fox was away in a flash, through the door and to his lair. And the fisherman thought himself sorely used to since he lost his salmon, had his mantle scorched, and the wily fox got away."

  Thomas shook his head. "No, I don't see where you're going with this children's tale."

  "We're the fox and yon English, like the fisherman, think they have us trapped, but it won't be quite what they expect. I found a way out days ago." He chuckled at Thomas's growl. "We'll wet our feet, but we won't lose so much as a little page."

  "Go on."

  "After my surprise attack, our foes will think we're so stupid with pride that we'll give them open battle. Let them think so. On the morrow, we'll make merry, and at nightfall we'll build up our bonfires, blow our horns and keep them occupied whilst out of sight…"

  * * *

  It was the black of the night, a warm wind blowing scudding clouds across the tiny sliver of moon. James walked out from under the huge beeches into the clearing where a dozen bonfires roared, sending flames dancing higher than his head. He propped a foot on a woodpile and gazed around the camp. The bodies of half a dozen calves, throats slit, lay next to the fire. A lone cow bellowed and thrashed to escape, spooked by the scent of blood. It was the last to be slaughtered. A man cursed as he struggled to hold the ropes and another ran up with a knife. The camp stank of blood. He'd leave nothing, not even a single cow, alive for the English.

  Richert came out of the shadows, leading his mount. His face reflecting the bright light of the fire. "We're loading the last of the split logs onto the horses, my lord." He handed James his reins.

  James nodded. They had no time to lose, so he called to Lowrens, "Here. I have something for you."

  The man swaggered over, grinning, his arm wrapped around his bagpipe and David at his heels, a trumpet under his arm. "I'll not give you my bagpipe, my lord, no matter what you pay me."

  "Just don't give it to the English. They might try my trick next time." James laughed as he took a handful of siller from his purse. "The two of you split this and hide it about you. You'll need it on your way home. I'll reward you well when you reach Lintalee."

  Lowrens winked. "Don't fash yourself, my lord. We'll reach home."

  James could only hope they would, but for their army to retire, he needed horns to blow through the night, so the risk had to be taken. "At daybreak, ride down to the camp." He grinned. "Ask them what they are waiting for since the Black Douglas is on his way home. We're leaving you sturdy mounts, so if the thieving English don't take them, you'll have an easy trip."

  Lowrens nodded, his face becoming solemn. "Thank you for trusting us with your backs."

  "We do." James turned to blink into the blackness, blind for a moment from looking at the light of the fires. Then he made out thousands of shapes under the huge tr
ees, awaiting him, the long columns of his army ready to retire. He strode into the night. Behind him Lowrens's bagpipe skirled and the trumpet joined in.

  "Let's go," Thomas said.

  The two walked, leading their horses, at the head of four columns of men. As the ground under their feet squelched, water soaked into James's boots. He had scouted this bog thoroughly; he could lead them through it. When the water came to his calves, the sliver of the moon was reflected in the first dark pool. "Lay logs across," he said. "They'll reach." It would be a long night, but by daylight they would be miles to the north, foxes escaping to their lair.

  September, 1327

  Norham Castle, England

  The camp was buzzing with activity. Haunches of beef on spits sputtered as fat dripped into the flames, sending up mouth-watering scents. Squires dashed to and fro leading horses and raising pennants. A guard with a young pig under his arm bowed to James as rode by. "Riding in the tourney, my lord?" he asked as the pig squirmed and squealed.

  "Indeed, I am," James replied with a grin.

  Pennants outside the tents indicated their occupants: three pillows on yellow of Randolph, the stars on a blue field of Andrew de Moray, the white boar of Symon Loccart of Lee, the blue checky banner of James Stewart of Durisdeer, the blue of the knight of Liddesdale, James’s mad cousin, the white and black banner of William Sinclair, the blue with a yellow bend of the earl of Mar.

  On a hill overlooking the square red towers of Norham Castle, a long trestle table covered with a snowy white cloth was set up between two spreading pine trees. There beneath a fluttering banner with the royal lion of Scotland, King Robert de Bruce beamed genially as they broke their fast. James swung from the saddle and tossed his reins to a squire. Thomas Randolph, Donald of Mar, James Stewart and a handful of others had already taken places on the oak benches.

  The cooks were setting the geese stuffed with onions and platters of immense salmons cooked in wine on the table.

  "Your pardon, sire," he said taking a place. The scents made his stomach grumble and Symon Loccart elbowed him in the ribs as James filled his cup with ale.

  The king nodded and said, "Thomas, I have decided that Norham Castle shall be yours, but I give the forests into the keeping of good Sir James."

  "You always give him the forests, so he has better hunting," Randolph complained with a sly look at James.

  "That’s because I’m a better hunter." James watched William, a squire now, cut into the goose, and his mouth watered as a trencher of steaming meat was set before him. "I’m a better hunter than any of you, including his grace."

  A gust of laughter went up around the table. Randolph smiled and shook his head. Neither of them expected to hold the lands they were taking in Northumberland, but the policy they’d both suggested of pretending to seize Northumberland, whilst holding tourneys and giving out grants of land had the king laughing as he hadn’t since he’d first been ill. Even his cough seemed to be better these past few days.

  The king was eating goose from his trencher and roaring as he jested. "It is a shame we have no English riding in the jousting. Where was the last you saw of Lord Percy? Mayhap I should send you to him."

  "He was making a night march toward Newcastle when he realized my men were between his forces and Alnwick." James took a bite of the goose and chewed it. "If I go hunting him, I’ll miss the tourney myself, sire."

  "I won’t allow you to miss the jousting, Jamie. You’ll ride against my nephew. I remember the tourney after my coronation. You hit him solid and knocked him flat onto his pride." The king was laughing so hard that tears ran down his face and James and Randolph laughed with him, remembering that spring day.

  This was the strong king he had sworn to as a lad, James thought. His fears for the king’s health were heedless worries. He would be well again, and the war would end. They would have peace to rebuild and to sail, even if his stomach roiled, in the king’s birlinn to Moidart where they’d fled so many years ago. The young prince would have time to grow into a man to govern as well as his father. William would kneel to give him his oath. James could see it all.

  "There are none of our ladies to admire our victories though. How can I enjoy defeating your nephew without a lady to applaud me?" His smile went deep.

  Randolph snorted. "You always want there to be ladies. I think you still pine for not having captured Queen Isabella at York."

  William bent to fill James’s cut, his eyes bright with excitement, and whispered "Will you win the tourney, father?"

  James laughed into his cup and drank before he said, "I always beat Randolph."

  The laughter came freely and food tasted sweeter than any James had eaten in months. There was no need to pretend. When it was time for the tourney, James and Randolph mounted their coursers and rode with the Bruce down to the field together. The king took his place on a raised stand at the end of the field, his face flushed with laughing.

  A horn winded long and low in the distance. James froze, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword. The guards surrounding the king’s dais, turned their heads to the south, raising their pikes. Men stood still, listening. The horn came again.

  The king stood. "Two. It is friends."

  But James had ceased trusting years ago at the Battle of Methven. "To the king," he shouted to the pikemen who idled in the stands to watch the nobles ride at each other. "Now!" Men in studded leather jumped to their feet and pikes rattled as they were pulled from the stakes. Foot beats were like hail. A brisling hedge of steel three deep formed around the seated king.

  Donald of Mar in his glittering armor sat gaping at the far end of the tourney field. Randolph nudged his horse and sat next to James as they watched. A horse stamped and whickered. The royal banner cracked in the wind above their heads.

  James could see a banner flying as riders emerged from the green of the woods. Only one banner he thought as he leaned forward, straining to see. Dust kicked up under the hooves of the horses as they cantered in a long dusty column.

  Randolph shaded his eyes. "Only one banner?"

  James edged his courser a few steps ahead. "Not a banner," he said, his voice hoarse. "They fly a white flag."

  The Englishmen spurred their horses, flag rippling over their heads as they came. In the lead was a lord, his armor enameled and burnished and with him two men in black gowns, fine wool under the dust, pleated and belted and sleeves with a touch of ermine at the wrists and hats formed in elaborate folds. The leader rode a black stallion with a flowing mane and tail as dark as night. His yellow silk surcoat bore the blue lion rampant of the house of Percy and a yellow silk cloak was draped around his shoulders fastened with a sapphire broach.

  So Percy had stopped running, James thought, as the man removed his helm. Beneath, his face was tight and grim. He had a few streaks of gray in his brown hair and an unlined face with eyes as dark as a moonless night.

  "My lord Percy," Randolph said.

  "I’m sent from the Queen Regent to Lord Robert." The man’s horse made a restive step, and he took it in hand with a jerk. "On behalf of King Edward, I am to invite you to negotiate terms for a peace treaty. The Queen and Lord Mortimer would see the war between our kingdoms come to an end. If it should please his grace, Lord Robert, to receive us."

  Percy’s jaw was so tight, James thought his teeth might shatter, but it was the words that mattered. His heart thundered in his chest. This will mean peace after a lifetime of war. "I believe it will please his grace to hear your terms," James said mildly, careful to keep his face blank. Blood roared like a tide in his ears.

  Peace.

  "My companions are William of Dunham and William de la Zouche to aid in the negotiations. Terms must include a marriage between King Edward’s sister and the young prince of Scotland."

  James thought of his father the last day he had seen him before he was taken in chains to and English dungeon, of William Wallace screaming as he died, of young Andrew de Moray in his heroic pride, of Bishop W
ishert going blind in a dungeon, of Simon Fraser and the gallant Christopher Seton following Wallace to his fate, of all who had suffered and died. Of his lifetime’s struggle. Vindicated. At last.

  September 1327

  Cardross, Scotland

  The king swayed in the saddle. James moved closer with a nudge of his knee and caught him to hold him erect in the saddle. Cardross was within sight and James said a prayer of thanks to St. Bride. The king had refused to stop to rest since a messenger had brought news as they rode that the queen had fallen and was giving birth, more than a month before the bairn should have come.

  The king pushed his hands away. "I’m able to ride, James," he said but his words were hoarse.

  Their army trailed a mile behind them in dusty columns. James exchanged a glance with Randolph who turned his horse’s head and rode back along the lines of weary, silent men, giving orders for camp. In the distance, a bell was tolling. Robert de Bruce cursed and jerked erect. He put his spurs to his horse. It surged ahead. James kicked his horse to a trot and kept beside the king, ready to catch him if he fell as they clattered into the bailey yard.

  The Bruce held onto his saddlebow as he climbed painfully from the horse’s back. He dropped the reins and ran for the door as a guard threw it open. A knot of servants at the end of the hallway dropped bows and curtsies. For a moment, the king staggered and James reached for his arm. The Bruce caught himself with a hand on the wall and shot James a scowl as he hurried on. He blew out a relieved breath when Lady Christina stepped into the doorway of the queen’s bower. Her face was calm though tear streaked her cheeks, her eyes red.

  She held out her hands. "Robert—" she said.

  The king shook his head. "Holy Jesu, no," he whispered. His sister rested her head against his chest for a moment, wrapping him in an embrace. His shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. "I should have been here."

  "Whist…" Christina said. "You could have done nothing more than the midwives did. The birth… It was fast but the bleeding was terrible. It wouldn’t stop. I’m sorry. I swear they tried everything. I made sure they tried everything." She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. "I never left her, Robert. Not for a moment. She didn’t die alone, and she knew you were coming. But at last she closed her eyes, and they never opened."