by Jack Whyte
“I have been marveling, Sir James—evidently too openly—at the way you speak. Your French is perfect—flawless—and I was wondering where you learned it.”
Douglas laughed. “In France, of course. Can you think of any better place to learn it? I spent five years in Paris when I was a boy.”
It was on the tip of Will’s tongue to point out that the young knight was still little more than a boy, but he thought better of it and allowed Douglas to pull the doors open for him, waving aside the guards who stepped forward to attend him.
“We’ll go down to the wall, there.” He pointed and moved on, leading the way down the wide wooden stairs for a few paces before stopping halfway and looking about him. The rain had stopped long since, although a cold wind was still blowing fitfully from the northwest, but the few remaining clouds were scattered now, glowing pink and golden in the late-afternoon sun, and both men inhaled the clean, briny air.
The young knight continued where he had left off. “I came home three years ago, just before my eighteenth birthday.”
“What sent you there, may I ask?”
“Not what, Sir William—who. Edward Plantagenet did. He liked to call himself Malleus Scottorum, the Hammer of the Scots. And he did not like the idea of my remaining alive after the death of my father.” He glanced sidewise at Sinclair and his face twisted into a humorless grin. “Another Sir William, my father, and a rebel, dyed in the wool. Sir William Douglas was no man’s puppet. He died in London’s Tower, some say of grief at being caged. Others say he died demented. And there are others, well placed and of good character, who have told me Edward had him murdered. I may never know the truth of that. But the truth in force at the time led to my family sending me to France, for my education and safety, and there I spent five formative years in the household of William Lamberton, Archbishop of St. Andrews and Primate of Scotland. Do you know the Archbishop?”
Will shook his head. “I have heard his name spoken, but have never met the man.”
Douglas set off again, down the steps to the courtyard of packed earth and across to the earthen parapet that backed the fronting palisades of recently hewn logs. There were others about, talking in twos and threes, but none of them paid the two newcomers any attention, and Douglas kept moving to where they could stand alone on the top of the defensive wall, their view over the bay uninterrupted. Will laid one hand on the sharpened top of one of the heavy log palisades, then turned from the sea to look about him.
“Where did the trees come from?”
“The English cut them and hauled them here from the uplands above the moor on the west side of the island. There’s a forest there on the slopes—or there was, before they cut down all the biggest trees. They must have shipped the logs down around the south coast …” He fell silent, crossing his arms on his chest, then looked at Will speculatively. “So tell me, Sir William, how does a Knight Commander gain superiority over the admiral of the Order?”
Will smiled. “It is all a matter of degree, Sir James. I am a member of the Governing Council of our Order, and was sent here by our Grand Master, Sir James de Molay himself.”
“Which means you stand high in the Master’s esteem, even if it says little else that I can understand.” Douglas inclined his head, then asked, “Why are you here, Sir William, in King Robert’s Scotland, accompanied by the admiral of the Temple fleet? You may speak plainly, for we are alone here and I command on Arran.”
Will looked at the young man, pondering his next words, and Sir James Douglas seemed content to let him take his time. “I will tell you, bluntly,” Will said eventually. “But before I do, I would appreciate your courtesy were you to answer several questions that you might think impertinent.” The younger man cocked his head. “How come you to hold the command in Arran?”
“I hold command in all the southwest, at King Robert’s pleasure. But as to Arran, I took it in January of this year—both the island and the title. We came to steal supplies, but the garrison of Englishry here was busy building the fort. We threw them out, then captured the ships that came to reprovision them and declared Arran ours, a part of the realm of Scotland. Merely reinforcing a point … Arran has been a possession of the house of Bruce since King Alexander defeated Haakon and his Norwayans at Largs, forty years ago. The English may come back, but we’ll be ready for them, and they’ll be less confident than they were before. The King has made some notable advances here in the south these past few months, and elsewhere as well.”
“So where do you keep your prisoners?”
“What prisoners? We have none.”
“I—” Will caught himself. He chose his words carefully. “You sent them home? To England?”
“No. There were no prisoners.” He saw the disbelief in Will’s eyes and added, “We took none.”
“You … took none.” Will could think of nothing more to say for several moments, but then he cleared his throat. “This may offend you, my lord Douglas, but it seems to me you are very young to be so …”
“What, cynical?”
“I was about to say merciless.”
“Ah. Merciless.” The young man grinned again, the same humorless grin with which he had spoken of his father’s rebelliousness. “How long have you been gone from Scotland, Sir William?”
“Many years, now, more than twenty.”
“And in France throughout that time?”
“Most recently, yes. But I served throughout the world before that … before we lost the Holy Land.”
“And how closely informed have you been about matters in Scotland during that time?”
Will shrugged. “Barely at all. My duties and my concerns have been with the Temple throughout, in accordance with my vows. My sole source of information has been a younger sister. She writes to me sometimes. Those letters, I fear, contain my entire knowledge of the state of affairs in Scotland, their contents filtered through a woman’s eyes.”
“I see … Well, sir, believe me when I tell you Scotland has seen savagery during those years the like of which was seldom seen in the Holy Land, even at the sack of Jerusalem. Unforgivable savagery, right here in this small kingdom, meted out against helpless folk by a man once known as the foremost knight in Christendom. Edward of England taught me and mine all about mercy and its uses. And his barons and their armies refined my education. We Scots are small in numbers and at the mercy of the English when they choose to march against us, as they have these past ten years and more. And in the years to come, more than ever and despite the death of the Plantagenet, they will come for us again, in ever greater strength and with ever greater hatred.
“You think me merciless. Well, I admit I am now. For I have learnt, in a hard and bitter school, that showing mercy to these enemies gains nothing for us but contempt, and ultimately death. The Englishry, be they king, barons, or earls, have no regard for us as people, let alone as a race. To them we are vermin, and they treat us as such, burning, raping, hanging, and plundering, slaughtering our folk wholesale without regard to their own humanity or ours.”
He held up a restraining hand, although Sinclair had made no attempt to interrupt. “I know what you are thinking, because I myself once thought the same way … long ages ago, when I was eighteen. You believe I am defiling the knightly code. Well I, too, once thought that way—jousting and tilting in the lists, making grand gestures, living my life according to the code. But once I returned to Scotland, England and its minions quickly taught me the error of my ways. There is no knightly code in Scotland today, my friend—certainly not among the English in Scotland. Oh, they all pay it lip service, and it fuels the fires of their outrage against what they call our atrocities.” He flung up his hand again, this time to interrupt himself. “Ach! There is no point in talking of such things. It only makes me angrier.”
He fell silent for a space of heartbeats, his young face dark and scowling, then resumed. “Let me say but one thing more, and then I will leave off. I have released English prisoners before—men of good birt
h and fair repute—and I have seen those self-same men come back and vent their spleen on helpless innocents—women and children and old men too spent to fight. And I have known whole towns, like Berwick, razed to the ground and all their burghers and their people slain, scores of them burned alive, walled up within a church where they had sought sanctuary. And all of this for no crime other than jeering at the Plantagenet when he brought his armies to their walls. So, if it please you, speak no more to me of mercy and the lack of it.”
He spun on his heel and glared at the small number of curious onlookers attracted by his raised voice, even though they understood not a word of what he had said. Abashed by his obvious anger, they scuttled away guiltily, and he turned back at length to Sinclair, who had barely moved. But Douglas had mastered himself by then, and the grin he offered this time was genuine, if rueful.
“I know what you are thinking, sir, and I acknowledge it. I am young.” He spoke in Scots now, as though that language were more suited to a gentler mood. “Hotheaded, King Robert says. But I swear to you, Sir William, I am bent on learning better.” He squared his shoulders suddenly, raising his head as though dismissing such intimacies. “Now, it strikes me we have business to conduct, you and I, and here I have been wasting your time. My question to you was, why have you come to Scotland, with an admiral at your command?”
Will turned away from the sea and leaned back against the palisades, crossing his arms over his chest, and he, too, spoke in Scots, keeping his voice low. “I come in search of your King, in hope of finding sanctuary.”
Douglas’s mouth fell open, and it was clear that nothing William Sinclair had said could have surprised and confounded him more. But before he could find words, the hall doors opened above them and noisy men came spilling out, among them the knight called Robert Boyd of Noddsdale. Facing them as he was, Will saw immediately that although the men around him were gone in drink, the Scots knight was sober, and his eyes found Douglas immediately.
“Sir James,” he called. “A word with you.”
Douglas beckoned him forward, and Boyd came down the stairs, nodding to Will as he arrived. He was concerned, he informed them, that instructions to the cooks should be issued now if, as he suspected, Sir James was to entertain his guests that night. Douglas agreed, and issued crisp instructions to dismiss the crowd above, bidding them return that night to eat as usual, and then to offer his apologies to the admiral and explain that he and Sir William would return very soon now. In the meantime, he added, Boyd should also ask the admiral if he would care to invite his men ashore, to share in the food and festivities. He watched Boyd hurry away, then turned to face Will again. The knot of men who had left the hall with Boyd were now drifting down to where Will and Douglas stood, and they were followed by others, voices raised in good-natured argument. Douglas ignored them, confident that they would not interrupt him.
“Sanctuary. You seek sanctuary in Scotland. Amid a civil war. Are you mad? And from what would the Temple require sanctuary?”
“It is a long story, but quickly told, once we have rejoined Sir Edward and the crowd has broken up. Where may I find His Grace the King, do you know?”
Douglas shook his head, glancing at the crowd. “That I cannot tell you. The King finds little comfort in his own realm nowadays. There’s a price on his head, and he has more enemies among the Scots, it seems, than among the English. He has been campaigning in the north, east, and west these past few months.”
“Against the Comyns.”
“Yes and no. Not yet against the Comyns, though their time is coming. And yet yes, against the Comyns and their ilk, John MacDougall of Lorn and the MacDowals of Galloway among them. The MacDowals are cowed for now, but not yet finished. Their land of Galloway is a smoking ruin, but they might yet rise again. Part of my task is to make sure they do not. His Grace spent much of his time in the past avoiding them while trying to raise an army with which to fight them, but he is ever sore pressed for funds and ye canna buy many good men with mere promises. But for much of the past autumn the MacDowal lands have paid the price of treachery.”
Will made a quick decision. “Aye, well I might help him there, could I but find him.”
Douglas was instantly alert. “What mean you, help him there? In Galloway?”
“No, with funds. I have a treasure for him, aboard one of my ships.”
“One of your—?” But Douglas had already jumped forward in his mind to the meat of what he had heard. “What kind of treasure?”
“A substantial one, of the kind that will buy men and weapons. Six chests of gold, in bars and coin, and five of silver, likewise divided, brought to him by one of his most leal subjects, the Baroness St. Valéry, youngest sister to Sir Thomas Randolph.”
“The King’s nephew? That cannot be. Sir Thomas is in England, captured at Methven fight last year—” He shook his head. “But he has no younger sister old enough to be a baroness.”
“No, sir, you are mistaken. Sir Thomas is my age, perhaps five years older. He was never nephew to Bruce and he has a brood of sisters.”
“Ah! Two different men. That Sir Thomas is dead, I fear. His son is now Sir Thomas Randolph.”
“His son? Then he cannot be much older than you.”
A smile flickered at the corner of Douglas’s mouth. “Younger, I believe. I have never met him, but I’ve heard tell he is a young man with the spirit of chivalry burning pure in him. You’ll never find him refusing mercy to an enemy.”
Will was unsure how to respond to that, so he ignored it, saying instead, “Sir Thomas the elder. He had a younger brother, Edward. Know you ought of him?”
Douglas looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Aye. He, too, is dead. Killed at Methven.”
“Ah!” There was pain in the soft exhalation. “Then Peggy is alone … My sister. She was Sir Edward’s wife.”
“So, I am the bearer of bad news again then, even unwittingly …” It was clear from his saddened expression that he was thinking of a number of other times when he had delivered similar tidings to women awaiting word of their menfolk.
Will cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You speak of this Methven fight as though I should know of it. But I know nothing. What happened at Methven?”
Douglas’s blue eyes met Will’s eyes squarely, and it occurred to Will that here was a singularly honest young man, who could accept his own shortcomings and proceed with what he had to do in spite of them.
“You know nothing of Methven? Forgive me if I appear to disbelieve you, but it seems incredible to me that there could be a knight alive, let alone a Scots knight, who has never heard of the Methven fight. Plainly I was wrong … Well, we received a lesson in English honor, chivalry, and the knightly code there. Do you know the place?”
“No.”
“It is close by the town of Perth, the first Englishheld stronghold King Robert challenged after his coronation. You’ll have heard of Perth, I hope?” Will nodded, but the younger man was being facetious and had not waited for a response. “Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke and commander-in-chief of the English in Scotland, was occupying the town and was caught unprepared for our arrival. He had been harrying the countryside in a punitive campaign and had merely stopped at Perth in passing and hence was in no great condition to withstand a siege. We arrived in front of the town on a Sunday afternoon to find it shut and fortified against us, and the King, in the spirit of the knightly code, rode forward alone and challenged de Valence to come out and fight. De Valence declined, since it was the Sabbath, but said he would meet us on the following day. His response was reasonable, and we withdrew as far as Methven, about five miles away, to set up camp for the night … And as we were settling down, our horses unsaddled and in picket lines, our army preparing for sleep, the English attacked in the dark—a full cavalry attack. It was a rout and the attack was dastardly, devoid of any trace of honorable conduct or the knightly code. We lost hundreds of good men, and King Robert, sorely wounded, barely esc
aped alive, carried out by a few others and myself.”
“Where did you go, with the King wounded?”
“We ran into the forest. Once we were assured the King would live, we spent the next three weeks making our way north and east in secret, towards Inverness.
“Why Inverness? That is a long way from Perth.”
“Aye, but it was also a long way from Aymer de Valence. But the King had made arrangements to meet his womenfolk there.
“His womenfolk?”
Douglas nodded. “Aye. The Queen was there, and the King’s daughter Marjory, along with his sister Mary and Isobel, the Countess of Buchan, who crowned King Robert when her brother the Earl, whose duty it was, refused to do so. He is a Comyn, of course. The Countess herself is a MacDuff, of the ancient lineage who crowned the kings of Scotland since the days of Kenneth MacAlpine. Aye, we had a dozen women in our train after that day.”
“That surprises me … that the King should take his women with his army, I mean.”
Douglas looked at him wide eyed. “What else could he do? Where could he leave them in safety, when all the southern regions of his realm were either in English or in Comyn hands? The only place they might be truly safe was by his side.”
Will nodded, beginning to have an inkling of what Douglas had been saying earlier about the conditions in the land. “I see. So what happened then?”
“Folly, treachery, and more dastardy. Less than two weeks after Inverness, we rode into a trap in the Valley of Glenfillan, near Glen Dochart in Macnab country at a place called Dal Righ. Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, good-brother to the Comyns, had sent a thousand men there from his own lands to gut us, with the blessing of Macnab, whose land it was. But we fought our way out, though it lost us four-fifths of our strength. Suffice it to say that we split what was left of our small party after that. The King and a dozen others of us took to the heather afoot. The Queen’s party, much larger and stronger, took the horses and rode north and east to safety in Kildrummy, in the earldom of Mar, escorted by the King’s brother, Sir Nigel Bruce. With them went David, the Bishop of Moray; John de Strathbogie, the Earl of Atholl; Sir Robert Boyd; and divers others.”