A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (4 page)

A few minutes later, James rode out the postern
gate, nodding to the guard. For a moment, he paused on the road and looked at
the moon reflected on the gray sea below. The crash of waves was carried up on
the night wind. The road showed clear in the light. James grinned as he clapped
his heels into the horse's flanks and took off at a canter. A shout welled up,
and, at last, he couldn't contain it. "A Douglas! A Douglas!" His
battle cry echoed in the night.

The second daybreak after leaving St. Andrews,
James stood at the top of the Arrackstone looking down the long slope of the
hill. Dawn tinted the eastern sky all shades of gold and rose. He breathed in
the heather scent of the morning air and dismounted. Leading the bishop's horse
beside the road, he let it crop at some golden gorse. It shook its mane and
gave what James would have sworn was a reproachful look. Surely, it had never
been ridden so far and so fast with not even a curry. He patted its neck apologetically.

To the south, all of Annandale stretched
away, hills covered with green--pastures and pines like waves of the sea. Patches
of gray and purple. Rocks? Heather? From this height, he couldn't tell one from
the other.

How long did they have before an English
army marched across it? Weeks? No, probably longer. But they would come.

The wind ruffled his hair. It brought a
green scent of growing springtide and underneath somewhere rain from clouds
over the distant mountains. From that direction, Robert de Bruce, Earl of
Carrick, Lord of Annandale, soon to be King of the Scots would ride.

James unhooked his water flask from his
saddle and filled a palm for the horse to drink and then bent to pour half of
it over his head and smoothed his hair back. After such a long ride, he'd like
to look at least presentable to greet the earl. He rubbed his chin, rough with
stubble. Time to grow himself a beard. He grinned.

Squinting, he looked down to where the road
curved around a hill in the distance. The sun rose in the sky, and morning wore
on, a spring warmth soaking in. An eagle circled high overhead, screaming as it
rode the wind. James shifted. Patience, he told himself. They would come.

At last, in the distance, horsemen turned
into view, banners fluttering over their heads. James waited. A gust caught one
of the banners, and it showed clearly even in the distance--the great gold and
red lion banner of Scotland.

Well out from the road and before the main
party, outriders in mail armor paced the throng. One in the lead turned his
horse to gallop back, and a shouted warning drifted to James's ear.

James gathered his
horse's reins and walked towards the entourage. A tinkle of music came to him,
minstrels playing as they went. Robert de Bruce, tall and ruddy golden, upright
in the saddle, rode in the lead. He wore a cloth-of-gold tabard that outshone
the sun. Embroidered on its breast in crimson was a lion, roaring its defiance.
Beside him rode a lady clothed in purple. Behind, putting the peacock to shame,
trailed a hundred men and women under dozens of banners and pennons.

After a glance, James's
eyes returned to the man all in cloth-of-gold. This was what a warrior king
should look like, he thought as the man rode towards him.

James stopped in the road. Waited. His face
went hot and then cold. What if this king didn't want him? He brought nothing
but his good hands with a blade. Lord of Douglas as he should be, yet no men
behind him. And not even himself yet a knight. The lord of Douglas who should
lead a thousand spears into the field. He tilted up his chin, searching this
soon-to-be king's face as he neared.

Bruce raised his hand and a trumpeter
sounded the halt. He rode a little further until he was past the minstrels,
looking down on James and finally beckoned him forward. A smile touched the
broad planes of Bruce's face, teeth gleaming against his tanned skin. "Do
I know you, friend? You seem familiar."

Douglas bowed deeply. "You know my
former lord, Bishop Lamberton, and I guarded the doors for the two of you one
night in Stirling town. He sends you greetings and a message that he will see
you at Scone."

Bruce leaned back slightly, raising his
eyebrows. "That's good news indeed. But your former lord? Now I remember. You're
James Douglas. Sir William le Hardi's lad."

James met Bruce's blue eyes. He knew this
was the right choice. "Now I would serve you, Sire, as your loyal man. As
my father would have. To the death if that be God's will." He found a lump
strangely lodged in his own chest. "I've waited for a king these years. I
know I bring you nothing--no people, my lands stolen. I have only my own sword.
Yet, I would serve you, and I pray you will have me. I'd fight for your kingdom
and my own people." James stopped and swallowed, his face scalding. Bruce
must think him witless. "Forgive me, Sire."

"I would to God I had more such to
forgive." Bruce stood in his stirrups and swung from his saddle, tossing
aside his reins. He held out his hands. "Come, lad. Give me your oath."

James took a step and dropped to both knees,
his heart racing, reaching up to place his hands between those of his king. "I,
James of Douglas, become your man in life and in death, faithful and loyal to
you against all men that live, move or die. I declare you to be my liege lord
and none other--so may God help me and all the Saints."

"By the favor of God, I take you as my
man." For a moment, Bruce's big, sword-calloused hands tightened on his. "Now,
rise."

CHAPTER FOUR

Scone,
Scotland: March 1306

Below the hill, every sort and color of
flag and banner and pennant flew over a city of tents. From it streamed smiling
and laughing men and women, gaily dressed, up the hill and into the Abbey. James
found a place at the back where the warm March sun poured through. He wouldn't
put himself forward. That was a right he would win, he knew it. But there might
be days--not often, but a few--when being young and dispossessed was an
advantage. He'd see them all as they passed. He rested his back against the
wall near the door to watch.

Bruce's brothers, dressed in flamboyant
velvets, came in, laughing loudly and talking. Nigel Bruce was the oldest of the
four, big and broad-shouldered, looking every bit the jouster that James had
heard he was. Alexander, the slender one, was said to be a scholar. Edward
Bruce was tall and golden with flashing blue eyes, and the other, Thomas, was a
leaner, dark-haired version of the king.

James recognized Sir Niall Campbell from
when the muscular, red-haired highlander had called upon the bishop, and with
him was the blond Englishman, Sir Christopher Seton. Today, the Campbell was
fine in a gray silk tunic and on one arm a lady who James supposed was his
wife, Mary Bruce, the king's sister. She was bonny, all dressed in blue and
laughing up at her husband. Behind them strolled the gray-haired Earl of Atholl.

"Enjoying the minstrel show?" a
voice said, close at hand. James turned and faced a man of middling height,
sharp-faced with long brown hair going gray and a scar angled across his cheek.
"If there weren't a show, someone would say he wasn't the king."

"But a king must be crowned." James
blinked, confused at why the man would call the coronation such.

"You don't remember me, do you? Robbie
Boyd." He held out a hand.

James' eyes widened as he clasped the man’s
forearm. He hadn't recognized Boyd at all from those days when this man and his
father had been close companions of Wallace's. "You were a friend of my
father's. I remember you well." He grinned. "I was but a lad, and I
thought you were eight feet tall."

Boyd laughed. "Then you must have
thought Wallace was a true Goliath." He poked James with an elbow and
nodded to a scowling man with Sir Philip de Mowbray at the front of the Abbey. "Look.
The Earl of Strathearn with a face like someone threatened to cut off his head."

The man's face was furrowed in a scowl.

"Why would he look like that?" James
asked.

"Because I told him I would if he
didn't pay homage to the king. Lennox said killing him was a bad idea, but I'm
not so sure. Puling weakling. We had to kidnap him to get him here, but we
needed to make a good show. Not that it isn’t war. But they won’t say earls
weren’t at our king's crowning." Boyd's eyes narrowed. "Even if it's only
four."

The thought of the Earl of Lennox and Sir
Robert Boyd kidnapping the Earl of Strathearn had him speechless. He stared at
Boyd. "You kidnapped him?"

Boyd's teeth flashed in a grin, stretching
the narrow scar on his cheek.

James scratched his new beard that was
itching like a wolfhound pup full of fleas. True, most of those who should be
here weren’t, but the idea of kidnapping an earl was more than he could fathom.
Then it hit him that the MacDuff wasn't here. Of course, he was still a lad and
in English hands. But who would place the crown on the king's head? It had
always been the right and duty of the MacDuffs.

He started to mention it to Boyd just as
trumpets, two lines of them, blared a fanfare that made James's ears ring. They
resounded again.

Robert de Bruce strode between them into
the Abbey and past the spectators up to the high altar. There he took his place
on a massive throne. A low murmur went through the crowd. James glanced at Boyd,
and the man met his eye, shrugging.

"No piece of rock makes a king,"
Boyd muttered.

No Scottish king had ever been crowned
before without being seated upon the Stone of Destiny that King Edward
Longshanks had stolen. It didn't matter, surely, but it left a queer feeling in
James's belly anyway.

The new queen, Lady Elizabeth de Burgh,
entered through a side door to take her seat on a smaller throne to the side. Then
Bishop Lamberton came out followed by the stooped, gray-haired Bishop Wishart
and brawny Bishop of Moray, all in richly embroidered, scarlet ecclesiastical
robes. The chant of a choir floated through the abbey as the bishops clothed
the king in the gorgeous purple and gold royal vestments. The Abbot of Scone swung
a censor. The sweet scent of incense filled the air.

Lamberton's sonorous Latin Mass rolled over
them, full of swelling anthems and dramatic pauses. Halfway through, James smothered
a laugh at Boyd's sigh. As dramatic as the coronation was--it was long. But
James caught his breath when the choir broke into a swelling Gloria in Excelsis.

The bishop brought the sacred oil and
anointed the king.

James jumped when the trumpets sounded. And
again.

Bishop Wishart strode to the altar and took
the crown. It was a simple substitute for the one stolen by the English king,
nothing more than a golden circlet. Again the trumpets sounded. The bishop
placed the crown on the head of Robert de Bruce.

All around him, people jumped and cheered.

"God save the King," James roared
with everyone in the Abbey. Boyd was grinning again as he joined in the shouts.
"God save the King!"

Someone pushed past James and a line began
to form. Soon it stretched out the door. James craned to see what was
happening. The Earl of Strathearn stood first in place and Philip de Mowbray
behind him.

Boyd was worrying his lip with his teeth,
and James raised his eyebrows at him.

Boyd shrugged. "Mowbray is kin to the
Comyns. Can't say I trust him, but he's here."

Bruce took Strathearn's hands in his, but
the mumble that followed was indecipherable from where James stood. From the
look of it, the rest of the day would be homage taking. James elbowed his way
to the door with a wave to Boyd. James's homage and his loyalty, the king
already had of him.

Below the buildings of the Abbey of Scone
where it thrust into the sapphire sky, James wandered through the tent city
that sprawled on the flats of the river. Near the slope of the hill, colorful
silken pavilions of the lords and ladies sat under flapping banners, Bruce, Mar,
Atholl, Lennox, Stewart, Hay, Lindsay, Strathearn and Campbell and the bishops
and abbots. He passed tent booths where merchants cried, hawking their wares. Meat
sizzling over braziers, sending up a scent that made his mouth water. Boys
wander through the growing crowd crying pies for sale. James stopped under a
merchant's sharp-eyed gaze to look at a brooch with a fine blue stone, but he
had no lady to give it to or money to buy it. He strolled on.

Anyway, what was important lay ahead beyond
more flying banners. The tourney grounds stretched out to beyond his sight.

The silver that the bishop had given him
along with a gift from the king had bought a charger after he had returned the
bishop's palfrey to the horse-master. James chuckled at the memory of the man's
glare. Earlier in the day, he'd paid for a new shield and had it painted with
the blue chief and three white stars of Douglas. Tomorrow would be the tourneys,
and he would have his first chance to show what he could do.

* * *

James ran a hand down the mail that covered
his chest. The new armor was a gift the king had sent along with a sword finer
than James had ever held. He'd spent hours in the night polishing them so that
they gleamed.

The tourney had been delayed because of a
second crowning.

The night before at the end of the homage
taking, Isabella MacDuff had ridden in on a warhorse she had stolen from her
husband, John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, with a troop of her own MacDuff men-at-arms.
She'd claimed her family's right to place the crown on the king's brow.

She was dark-eyed and had laughed with
pleasure when the king said they'd have a second crowning. James was hard
pressed to picture her married to the doddering old Comyn of Buchan. She would
be with the queen today, for the queen had taken her as a lady-in-waiting.
Isabella had smiled at James when she'd passed him. He hoped she'd be pleased
if he won the squire's tourney. But most likely she'd be more interested in Sir
Edward Bruce. All the women seemed to watch him from the corners of their eyes.

Even now the horns blew. A scream went up
from the stands and hooves thundered.

The knights rode first. James would have liked
to watch, but his nerves jangled too much to be still. Anyway, hours standing
around in mail would have him sweating like a horse, hard-ridden. He intended
to show himself well to his new liege. It was worth missing the older men
pounding at each other. The king's brother Nigel, the Campbell, and many of the
lords were riding now. Everyone said that Sir Nigel would win, that he was
second only to the king in the tourney. Of course, the new king would not ride.
It wouldn't have been fair since none would dare strike him. To strike the king
was lese-majesty and treason.

James hadn't broken his fast when the
others had, his stomach all knotted with nerves. He passed one of the braziers
where a man turned sausages over a flame. Fragrant smoke of pork and sage rose
from the dripping fat. His stomach rumbled. It was no good having a belly so
empty that his hand was unsteady, so he bought a sausage and swallowed it down.
He licked the grease off his fingers.

The merchant gave him a friendly smile. "Luck,
young sir."

"I'm no sir yet. But if I please the
king--" James waved as he went on.

He came within sight of the lists and the temporary
galleries packed with people. At the end in their own stand, sat the king and
queen surrounded by their familiars. The king's three younger brothers, Edward,
Alexander and Thomas, stood about talking. Near the queen sat Isabella MacDuff,
slender, full-breasted in her tightly-laced gown, graceful as she leaned to
whisper to the queen, a honey-colored braid falling over a shoulder to her waist.
He'd heard whispers that she'd never return to her husband, who'd sworn to kill
the king for the death of his cousin at Greyfriars Church. James caught his
breath, but grunted softly. This was no time to be thinking of a woman. Winning
to show the king what he could do should be what he thought of this day.

He walked along the edge of the field,
leading his charger, smaller than the destriers some rode. He liked one light
enough to take a turn when needed. The monstrous destriers, once started, were
lumbering oxen that took yards to change direction.

The lists were torn from the pounding
hooves of the huge beasts. A servant ran out and raked at the ground to smooth
it, but it wouldn't last. James walked down the line of lances, now only a
quarter filled, running his finger up one here and there. At last, he took one
and hefted it.

The purse for the squire who won wouldn't
match that of the knights, but winning it would still be a fine thing. The king
had forbidden forfeiting armor or horses. They rode for gold and glory.

At the other end of the field, Thomas
Randolph paced. He was a year older and heavier through the shoulders, the
king's nephew. His armor gleamed silver in the sunlight. Mayhap later, they'd
tilt against each other.

At the end of the field, all a-dazzle in
gold, Sir Nigel Bruce raised a hand to the cheers and screams of delight from
the gallery. He kicked his horse to a thunderous gallop, lance couched. Sir
Niall Campbell leaned sideways adjusting his aim. Nigel shifted and kicked his
horse to an even faster gallop. They crashed together. Nigel's lance exploded
from the impact. Sir Niall Campbell seemed to fly from the saddle and land flat
with a jarring thud. The gallery erupted in cheers. Sir Niall's squire ran out
to him to unfasten his helm and lift his head. Nigel rode a victory circuit of
the field bowing as he went, stopping to bend down and kiss one of the women. Finally,
he stopped in front of his brother. As the queen gave him the champion's purse,
Sir Niall limped off the field.

Now the squires had their turn, and James's
heart was thumping in his chest. Only a score had entered the lists. Many
didn't have the armor or mount for it, but this was James's first chance to
show the king his mettle. He wouldn't waste it.

James jumped into the saddle, shoving his
feet into the irons and glancing towards his opponent, Sir Nigel's own squire. Riding
a caparisoned destrier, much heavier than James's charger, the squire couched
his lance and nudged his horse to walk to the end of the field.

James settled into the high-backed saddle. On
that beast, his opponent could hit like thunder but once started it couldn't
swerve. If his opponent landed a good blow... James laughed. He'd see that
didn't happen. A trumpet blew. James kicked his lighter steed to a gallop. Steady,
letting him get a good aim, James rode straight ahead. At the last second,
James jerked the reins and his horse danced aside. With every bit of his strength,
he turned his lance to land a blow. It slammed into his opponent's shield and
lifted him out of the saddle. The squire landed on the ground with a crash.