A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Near Dail
Righ, Scotland: August 1306

The air in the dim kirk smelled of mold and
something had managed to make the stones under James's knees even harder than
stones usually were. He shifted his weight, glancing out of the corner of his
eye to see Isabella kneeling close to the queen, hands meekly folded. He smiled
secretly at her ability to look innocent when she wasn't in his arms. Beyond
them knelt the princess, too small and frail to be with an army. But what could
they do?

At the altar, his hands raised, Abbot
Maurice droned on, his gray beard down to mid-chest and long hair cloaking on
his shoulders. Beside the altar knelt the Dewar, in a ragged robe and his gray-streaked
red hair and beard even longer than the abbot's. The Dewar grasped a relic of St.
Fillan. The king hadn't moved or even twitched the whole time.

How long had it been? James hadn't known
the king was so devout, but he'd insisted they stop for a blessing from the
Abbot and to venerate the sacred relic. Mayhap, it was word that the Pope had
excommunicated him. James had noticed the king didn't like to talk about that. James
thought the murder of the Comyn was nothing more than an excuse for the Pope to
give aid to King Edward.

The king had talked about it one night as
they camped rough in the forest, staring into the campfire. "Mayhap I'm
cursed from it." His face had been as hard as the sword he grasped in his
hands. "He sent King Edward the agreement between us, knowing it would
mean my death. Mine and others. He thought--God knows what he thought! But I
meant to kill him that night. God forgive me. I meant it, and I fear I'd do it
again."

But he had confessed and had absolution for
the killing from Bishop Wishart. He'd pledged a dreadful penance, James
suspected. What more did the pope want? No, it was no more than excuse for
siding with the English king.

James shifted his shoulders. It was the
benediction so they should be back in the sunlight soon where the men-at-arms
took their ease. James envied them.

At the Abbot's signal, the Dewar stood and
displayed the coigreach, the ancient staff of St. Fillan, worn and faded. The
man held it above his head, turning slowly from one side of the kirk to the
other so all could see the precious artifact. It was one of several of the
saint that the Dewars spent their entire lives guarding.

James breathed a sigh of relief when the
Abbot bowed his head and gave the final blessing, "Benedicat vos
omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spritius Sanctus."

Saying a grateful amen, James sprang to his
feet.

The sun was already halfway up the morning
sky, but there was still time to move further into the mountains. The sooner
they reached the purple heights to the west the better. Boyd had said it was
called Ben Lui. It loomed high, a formidable obstacle, more so with women and a
child, too. The mountains peaks reached so high they pierced the thick mat of
white clouds that topped them.

He frowned as he studied the pass they
would use, a narrow track with a sharp drop on one side. Still to the west they
must go. Sir Niall Campbell's lands lay that way on Loch Awe. Then they’d press
onward to Dunaverty Castle on a rocky headland jutting out into the sea. A long
trip through lands held by Comyns and their relatives the MacDougalls, deadly
enemies of King Robert. But the king counted that Angus Og MacDonald of the
Isles would hold fast for him if only they could reach the sea.

James twitched with impatience. They
couldn't rush with a party such as this, but the delays were as much as he
could bear. Just the day before their scouts had spotted the English under Lord
Percy passing through the narrow gap at the head of Glendochart. They were no
more than a day away. That way was closed even if King Robert had wanted to go
back. So westward was their only choice, through the lands of the king's sworn foes.

Isabella laid a hand on his arm as they
walked towards the horses and the men-at-arms roused themselves, standing and
stretching. "Worried?" she said.

He shrugged. "No more than always. I'll
be glad to get you safely within castle walls."

The king waved to the trumpeter and the horn
blew a long note to signal them to horse. The Abbot followed them out and once
more made the sign of the cross over them and gave them another blessing.

James boosted Isabella into her saddle and
mounted. He gathered his reins and turned his horse to ride with the king's
guards.

"Robbie, you'll take the vanward,"
Bruce said. "Naill, you and your men the rear guard."

Boyd led two lines of men away as the
ladies and the king formed their party, the king in the lead, even in defeat
magnificent in his cloth-of-gold tabard with the lion embroidered on its chest.
James took his place to the rear, guarding the king's back. With a wave of his
hand, the king started them forward.

"What strange lands, your Grace, even
if Scottish," James said. "These mountains press down like monstrous
beasts. I miss the hills of the lowlands."

"It's not gentle country of a truth,
Jamie. But you must admit it has a wild beauty to it."

"I'll better enjoy their beauty with
more men at your back."

Behind them in rows of three, the
men-at-arms formed a tail immediate behind the small group of ladies and the
child. The sound of the women's talk drifted towards him. He heard Isabella's
voice and the Marjorie's giggle.

The valley made a steep climb over loose
scree and the horses labored, tumbling stones scattering from their hooves,
until they reached a rocky ledge. The gorge to the left dropped straight down. Below
in the deep gorge the river crashed and surged over boulders. As they traveled
along the narrow path, James kept scanning the sharp slope that rose on the
other side. A turn hid what lay before them.

A horn sounded. Ahead, someone shouted and
a horse screamed. James grabbed his sword. He pulled up sharply, horse
slithering in the loose stones, and looked over his shoulder at Isabel. God's
wounds, what could they do if they were attacked?

The king had already pulled his horse
around and Sir Edward galloped up, his own sword drawn. "Boyd's in trouble.
Let's to his aid."

Bruce pointed to the women. "Look you.
We must have a care. You take a score of men and see what's happened. And
return to me after."

The king turned his horse in a circle, eyes
darting. He unsheathed the great sword he wore across his back and nodded
towards the upward slope, too steep for any horse. "An ill place for a
fight."

Above them, someone yelled, "MacDougall!
MacDougall!" Another horn ululated. A long line of highland warriors,
caterans, leaped over the crest above. Their short saffron tunics fluttered as
the slithered downward. Then more. The crest was covered with men and long axes
catching the light.

The king cursed. "Trap."

Now shouts came from behind, hundreds, mayhap
thousands of them.

The king pointed ahead. "Ride,"
he shouted. "Nigel. Thomas, take the front."

He waved the women forward and the men
formed up around them just ahead of the running, bounding highlanders. They
swung long hooked lochaber axes. One hacked at James's horse. He hauled back
hard on the reins, rearing the animal. Its hooves smashed into the man's head. Another
grabbed his stirrup but he jammed his spurs into the horse's flanks and
galloped to catch up with the fleeing party.

The men-at-arms swung their sword
desperately. They were flooded by the seething mass of warriors. Screams and
shouts echoed off the mountain as the men were overwhelmed by the vortex of
swords and axes.

 
James reached over to slap the young
princess's horse on its flank. He bent over his horse's neck and spurred,
jerking the reins to turn and reach the king's side where he guarded the rear
of their flight.

"Ride," the king said. "Don't
stop."

James paused.

A man grabbed the king's stirrup. The king
swung and he fell, blood gushing. "Go!"

Hands shaking, James jerked his horse
around and obeyed. He raked his spurs into this horse's flank. They thundered
towards the chaos of men in front of them. Hundreds? Thousands? The narrow gap
was filled with struggling, hacking warriors. From the shouts, Boyd and his men
had to be in there somewhere, still fighting. God in heaven. James gripped his
sword, sweat running down his face. But where were they?

The king swung his great sword in a huge figure
eight as he plowed into the fight. Blood splattered across his horse. It was
covered hock high in blood. It reared and smashed a screaming highlander's face.

More and more men were pouring, screaming,
down from the crest.

"On," The king said. "We
must break through."

The princess screamed, high pitched,
terrified. James hauled his horse around, sword swinging wildly. Someone
grabbed his reins and James smashed his face with his shield. The women were
still within the circle of the men's horses. Nigel, Edward, and Alexander all
flailing desperately as they spurred their struggling mounts. The king held the
rear, his sword swinging, hacking at anyone who came within reach--a flashing
island of mail in a sea of highland caterans.

A highlander swung his long axe for
Edward's horse. James spurred and rode into him from behind, trampling him into
the bloody stones. Warhorns blared.

Then he saw Boyd, standing beside his
gutted horse. Alone. Boyd took a blow from an axe on his shield and it
splintered, splinters flying.

"A Douglas!" James bellowed and spurred
his horse. Boyd jumped aside from a blow that would have split his skull as
easily as it had his shield. James swung as he rode. He hit the back of the
man's neck. He went down, just another body in the bloody muck.

James grabbed Boyd's arm and the man flung
himself up. As he did, from the other side an axe swung past. James felt the
wind from the blow.

"Fool." Boyd clung behind James.

He wheeled, thrusting his sword at the
sound of a shout. An axe slashed his side. Red pain lanced through him. Boyd
hacked down. James saw the axe fall to the ground but reeled sideways. His foot
lost the stirrup.

Boyd grabbed his waist and hauled James upright.
He groaned, pain tearing as he was held in the saddle.

Bent over the horse's withers, he managed
another hard kick into its flanks. It screamed in protest as it surged through.
Then they were beside the king. With Boyd propping him up, pain kicked his
stomach. James managed to jerk his horse into formation behind the king,
rejoining the struggling group. Blood dripped down the horse's flank, but James
couldn't tell whose it was.

The king slashed from side to side as he
rode, not hesitating, keeping the horse moving. A highland cateran jumped into Bruce's
path, jabbing with his axe but the massive horse reared and a hoof caught him
in the chest. James gripped the reins and slashed down when hands grabbed at
them. A sorry blow but enough. Behind him, with one arm holding him upright and
the other wielding his sword, Boyd shouted, "Devil take you" with
every blow. Battle screams from hundreds of throats pounded at James from every
direction. His head reeled.

"Faster," the king shouted. "Ride."

Boyd shouted, "For Scotland," in
James's ear. He feared if he shouted he'd use breath he needed to stay a-mount.
He swung his sword. They were everywhere. No need to aim.

A high pitch voice shouted, "MacDuff! MacDuff!"

Behind a war horn sounded and then another.
They rounded a bend as though cleaving through a last wave of the ocean. A
slope, unimpeded, led down. They raced, hooves scoring deep scars in the scree.
Rocks flew. An opening beside a high crag gaped before them. Beyond stood
towered hills dotted with woodlands in the distance.

The king kept them at a gallop out into the
open and towards the birch forest. Past the trap, only screams and shouted
insults followed them--for now. Long ululating warhorns sounded and James
prayed it was a retiral.

The king slowed to a canter and soon they
were within the thin scattering of trees, a handful of horsemen with the women
and child.

Bruce stood in his stirrups searching
behind them and shook his head before he climbed from the saddle.

Boyd jumped down. James threw his leg over
to slide off, gripping the horse's mane as he tried his legs. But the worst of
the shock from the wound had passed, and they were steady under him. The Earl
of Atholl, gray-haired and the oldest of the knights, squatted by a tree, head
in his shaking hands.

Boyd squeezed James's shoulder. "You
shouldn't have done that, but I thank you for my life." Then Boyd sat
down, blood dripping from the slashes in his armor.

Isabella was already flying towards James. "Holy
Mary." She jerked the covering from her head and wiped at the blood on his
side.

"It's nothing," he said.

"Take off your hauberk. I must staunch
that bleeding." She tugged at his sword belt.