A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (6 page)

The king snorted. "Edward would try a
saint, which Alex is not. But he'll return with troops once the women are safe."

The thin Englishman didn't look fierce but
he could shout with the best of them, it seemed. The man whirled and stormed
towards the door, banging it open.

"Happen my good-brother is an idiot."
He came to a halt and jammed his fists on his hips. "Mayhap he thinks I
can't take care of your sister."

Lamberton bit his lip. The lilting
Yorkshire speech always made him smile, and he shared a glance with the king.

Bruce stepped to throw an arm around his good-brother's
shoulder. "Of course not. He's just prickly as a hedgehog and you know it.
You and Nigel ready to be off?"

The young knight shook his head. "Waiting
for our ladies to join us."

Lamberton raised his hand to interrupt
them. "And your grace will want to tell your lady farewell, so with your
leave, I'll be off as well."

Seton gave him an embarrassed-looking
smile. "I'm sorry, my lord. I forgot what manners my father beat into me. Put
me with Edward and I'm sure to lose my temper."

Lamberton had to laugh. "He's driven
his brother to do the same. Always was a hotheaded lad. I'm to St. Andrews to
see to raising men. God keep you both." He signed a cross in blessing and
farewell.

* * *

James walked slowly through the noise and
chaos, feeling strangely alone. A wind swirled through the trees and around
corners as though to blow them on their way. He patted the neck of one of the
horses hitched to a wagon as servants threw cases into the rear.

Edward Bruce was in the middle of it all, shouting
angry commands. "Robert Boyd was looking for you, Squire," he said to
James. "He wants to be off within the hour."

"I know," James said. "I'll
find him." He looked around at all the noise and confusion and tried to
make himself a part of it. Past the men, horses, wagons, and noise, a woman
stood amongst the trees. Her dark blue gown blew around her legs and her veil
streamed behind her.

James left Edward standing there and heard
him shout at his men to hurry their saddling. He wended through the confusion
towards the trees. Isabella caught her veil with a hand and held it against the
tugging wind. He thought that she shivered.

Isabella looked behind her, saw James, and
smiled. She held out a hand. "I didn't think I would see you again before
I left."

James took her hand and ran a forefinger
over the back of it, wondering at the silken feel. "I wanted to tell you
I'm sorry." He smiled wryly. "If I embarrassed you last night."

"Did you hear me protest?" Something
sad moved in her eyes as she took her hand back and looked back to where the
sea licked up onto the rocks far below. "I feel very alone even with all
these people around me, you see. My lord husband and I..." She held her
veil against another gust of wind. "We have never had fondness for each
other, but I tried to be a good wife. And he was kind enough. Now, I'm his
blood enemy. He would kill me if he could, you may be sure of it. My home is
closed to me. Even my brother will be my enemy." She laughed a little. "You
may say it was my doing, but I feel strangely grieved."

"I understand feeling alone only too
well." His face heated at the admission.

She looked at him and a wry smile curved
the corners of her mouth. "Forgive me. Of course, you've felt alone."
She tilted her head, regarding him silently with her dark blue eyes. "How
old were you when they killed your father?"

"That was long ago. There is nothing
to forgive."

The wind whipped her veil again and she
reached up, unpinning it with a frown, and folded the wisp of silk. Uncovered,
her hair corn-silk hair was braided and pinned into a heavy knot at the back of
her neck. "I have no right to complain. I'll be with the queen and Lord
Robert's sisters. And his daughter." She laughed. "And the child is a
handful."

 
James found himself grinning like an
idiot. "So I will see you again. The king will rejoin them, and I'll be
with him."

Suddenly her face tightened as though she
kept back tears. "Here." She put the silky cloth into his hands. "You'll
see battle before then. So you'll carry my favor."

He swallowed hard against tightness in his
throat. "It's too great an honor."

She gave his hand a last squeeze and the
memory of it warmed him as he strode through the confusion to find Robbie Boyd.

CHAPTER FIVE

Perth,
Scotland: June 1306

The dark walls of the city of Perth hunched
above the banks of the frothing River Tay and the wide dusty road that went
past its gate. The gate had closed like dragon's teeth. At the top of the
tallest tower, the leopard banner of England flapped and cracked in the wind. Near
it flew the starling banner of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, holding the
city with his army of thousands. Beyond the stone merlons, the parapets
bristled with crossbowmen, lining the walls.

James had been riding with Boyd as part of
that man's command and happy enough for it. A good man to learn from, he
thought. Boyd motioned with his chin for James to come up beside him. He was
lucky in his father's friends. They'd been ever loyal.

James shifted in his saddle, and Boyd grinned.
"Aye, it's all boring nine days out of ten and the tenth someone is trying
to gut you."

Around James, armor creaked and horses
stamped, restless in the heat. He could smell his own sweat, sharp, amid the
competing odors of horseshit and leather and pine trees. King Robert sat his
charger only a rank ahead, the battleaxe he favored resting across the saddle
in front of him.

Black storm clouds crouching on the horizon
meant rain during the night. But mayhap they would fight before the rain came.

James chewed his lip. The English had
captured Bishop Lamberton only the week before. Bishop Wishart had been captured
in Fife while besieging Cupar Castle. Mayhap Valence had the churchmen within
Perth if he hadn't already sent them south to King Edward for punishment. Surely,
they wouldn't hurt the bishops. Not men of God and the Pope would take such as
an offense. When they defeated Valence, they'd take the city. At least, there
might be a chance to rescue Lamberton.

Overhead, his own three-starred pennant
snapped. Ahead, the king's lion banner flew and all around dozens blew and
rustled in the rising breeze. Along with Boyd, James had ridden with Sir Edward
and a party south to raise men from the lands of Carrick. At the same time, the
king raced north to Kildrummy Castle where he raised more men and the ladies rode
to safety with his brother Nigel holding Lochmaben Castle.

Now the king said they must face the army
King Edward had sent north. Trumpets blared and Bruce's herald rode towards the
barred gates of the city.

Weeks in the saddle and never out of armor
had accustomed James to the weight of mail, but the heat of summer made it a
miserable, itching business. Sweat trickled down James's face and his ribs. The
approaching rain made it muggy under the summer sun. Again the trumpet sounded.
Words of the herald drifted back to the awaiting army, although James couldn't
make out what they said.

Overhead, a hawk shrieked. James would have
liked to wipe the sweat that dripped into his eyes and pooled in his beard, but
his gauntlets prevented it. He gave a wry laugh. Why did men wear beards to do
nothing but catch sweat and dirt? But Isabella had stroked it when he kissed
her.

He shifted his weight in the saddle. God's
wounds, but he wished they could do something. No one had ever mentioned how
much waiting was a part of war.

At last, the herald galloped back towards the
king. King Robert had sent the challenge to Valence to fight or surrender the
town. The man was said to be proud and stiff-necked, but enough to take such a
dare?

The king's brothers with the Earls of
Atholl and Lennox and Sir Niall Campbell all in polished mail that gleamed in
the sunlight rode to the king's side. James would have loved to hear what was
said. If he had been his father--

But he wasn't, and they gave him little
account. Well, he'd prove himself soon enough. He was lucky Boyd wanted him.

Scowling, King Robert made an emphatic
gesture and pointed down the road.

Sir Philip de Mowbray, beside a bannerman
carrying his griffon banner, rode to the king and motioned to the east. Bruce
dismissed him with a frown.

"That doesn't look good," James
said.

Naill Campbell turned his horse and rode
back to them, pulling up beside Boyd. "Robbie, take a score of men to
patrol the road. We'll camp for the night on that ridge by the river south of
Methven Castle. Valence has agreed to battle tomorrow." He made a clicking
sound as he thought. "Watch for any English movement. And be careful. I
trust Valence like I trust a dog with a bitch."

"The king goes to Methven Castle?"
James kneed his horse to come up beside Campbell.

Campbell shook his head. "Mowbray
suggested it and King Robert said no. He stays with the army though I'd sooner
have him safe within walls. Robbie, if you don't mind, I'll send James with the
king. I'll leave Sir Gilbert de la Haye with a score to guard him and James amongst
them."

James waved to Boyd as he shouted to men
behind him to join in the patrol. Nudging his heels to his horse's flank, James
rode to the king. It was an honor to guard the king, even if riding patrol
might be less boring.

The king signaled the trumpets to sound
their move. The long train of horse and infantry left the road, and started up
the slow slope to a ridge dotted with pines. Startled, from every thicket and
from beneath the boughs of the hawthorns, birds fluttered. The muggy air
shrilled with birdsong, whistles and trills and angry twitters, adding a
strange counterpoint to the sound of the moving army.

James grunted when the first drop of rain
hit his face. At least, it would mean no biting midges to add to the misery. His
stomach grumbled as he dismounted. Taking off his gauntlets to wipe the sweat
and rain from his face, he wondered what they might have left for dinner. Not
much, he feared. The army had moved far and fast with no chance to replenish
their stores, and the noise would have chased away any game.

The king and Sir Christopher Seton, his good-brother
by his marriage to the king's sister, a slender blond Englishman, stood, heads
together, talking, whilst their horses cropped at a bush. James shrugged and
bent, picking up sticks for a fire. The other men scattered beneath the trees. James
grimaced when he realized that most of the wood was half-sodden. It would have
to do. The king needed a fire and food. It would be an uncomfortable night.

He kicked a spot clear and knelt, laying
the fire and struck flint to steel. The fire sputtered in the light rain, but
he struck again and again until the tender caught. The king's voice at his back
made him start. "You're a practical lad, Jamie."

James smiled up at him. "Even more
practical would be some dinner for my liege lord."

Bruce pulled his cloth-of-gold tabard over
his head, and his mail hauberk followed. "It won't be the first time I've
fought on an empty belly. Not much left in the larder. We'll have to do
something about that, but Valence first."

The fire sputtered to a low flame, the best
James could do. He took the king's mail and shook it slightly. "This could
use cleaning, your Grace." Then he looked down at the sputtering fire,
nearly out.

Christopher Seton rode towards them on his
big roan. "The men are foraging. I've ordered them to not stray from the
ridge though."

The king nodded and Seton rode past. "May
as well give up on the fire, Jamie," the king said. He pulled his red
cloak close around himself in his light tunic and sank down to sit with his
back propped against a large hawthorn, a few white petals fluttering down. "I'm
going to sleep. We'll need to be ready for battle. My axe is sharp, and I'm not
worried about my mail shining."

Nevertheless, James laid the armor out
carefully near where the king sat staring into the gathering shadows. It wasn't
so dark or so cold they needed a fire anyway. James pulled out his own sword
and tested the edge with his thumb. He snorted. As though riding around the
country raising levies would have dulled its edge, but when they fought tomorrow,
he wanted to be sure. He loosened his dirk in its sheath.

He walked a little way from where the king
rested. Looping his horse's reins to a branch, he leaned back against a pine. The
snick of his whetstone as he drew it along the blade was a comforting, homey
sound. A warm, stray wind carried the scent of rain as it spattered. It smelt
green and fresh and was warm on his face. Then it stopped. One last time, he
glanced towards the king through the growing gloom, still awake but his mind
obviously elsewhere. Worrying about the battle? About prisoners the English
might have already sent south?

James closed his eyes and felt under his
hauberk where Isabella's favor was tucked. He'd tie it around his arm for
battle. He had kissed her. Just that once, her lips soft against his. He'd
stroked her yellow hair, silky under his calloused hand. She moved against him,
fingers caressing his face. Her breath was sweet when she murmured against his
mouth. He pulled her against him.

James jerked awake. He leapt to his feet,
heart hammering, not sure what that sound had been. Someone shrieked. Gulping
in a breath, he strained to see through the murk. In the darkness somewhere,
steel screamed on steel. James spun trying to tell where it came from.

"To arms! Attack." A voice came
out of the darkness.

"Blow the alarm." The king's
voice came from his left.

The trumpet sounded--two long blasts, the
call to arms. Another horn answered. Someone darted across the clearing, James
couldn't tell whom in the dark, just a figure running.

Cursing, James grabbed the reins of his
horse and ran towards where Bruce had rested. Where was everyone? The clouds
cut off all light from the moon.

In the dimness, he saw the dark bulk of the
king struggling into his mail. James helped him jerk it into place and knelt to
fasten his sword belt.

"My horse." The rumble of hooves
was clear now. The ground trembled. "Mount up," the king shouted. A
figure ran up out of the darkness with the king's destrier, and he vaulted into
the saddle.

James sprang onto his mount, drawing his
sword and thanking the saints he hadn't unarmored before he fell asleep. His
eyes darted in every direction. Where was Gilbert de la Haye? He should be
leading the king's guard.

The Maol Choluim, Earl of Lennox thundered
up, horse rearing. "They're almost on us."

"Lennox, take the right flank." The
king raised his voice to a shout. "Edward! Left flank. Campbell. Where in
Hades is Gilbert? Haye. To me!" He kicked his mount and spun it in a tight
circle.

"Here, Your Grace," Haye galloped
up. "Campbell is trying to rally the men. But they're scattered." His
sword scraped as he drew it and pointed downward from where they sat.

English knights charged out of the darkness.
They covered the entire lower ridge, hooves thundering. Shouts of "England!
Valence!" carried on the air. Trumpets blared.

Bruce said, "We'll have to break
through. Form a wedge." He hefted his battleaxe in his hand. The king
jerked his reins and gave his horse a savage kick. Clods flew. He charged
towards the oncoming line. James dug in his spurs. His horse snorted, plunging
to a gallop. The king was just ahead and to his right, the point of a wedge to
punch through the onrushing English line. James dug in his spurs even harder. On
the other side of the king pounded Alexander Scrymgeour, the royal banner
raised high over his head.

The king slashed his axe as he galloped. A
man-at-arms fell, belly laid open under a blow. James concentrated on staying
at the king's side, shield raised to protect his flank.

A knight in a blue surcoat swung at Bruce
on the other side. The king leaned, dodging. The blow hacked into his horse's
neck. The animal gave a hideous scream. It fell like a boulder.

The king tumbled over his horse's head,
rolling in the dirt in front of James. He jumped his horse over the king,
barely missing him. The English knight turned for another strike. James managed
to catch the blow on his sword. Their blades screeched as they scraped. James
leaned in hard. From behind, Scrymgeour drove his blade deep into the man's
back.

Their wedge had crumbled with the king's
fall.

James jumped from the saddle to straddle
the fallen king, shield raised. The entire wood was chaos. Knight hacked at
knight on each side of him. Screams and shouts came through the shadows. Two
knights turned their charge, hooves kicking up clods of dirt, to ride at him.

"To the king," James shouted,
desperate. Bruce moaned and rolled onto his side.

Scrymgeour turned his rearing mount, sword
flashing. But a bannerman carries no shield. "A Bruce! A Bruce!"

Out of the darkness, a horse galloped, lance
couched. James raised his shield, but it would be useless--the mounted knights
against the two of them. They had no chance. He sagged with relief when the
lance took one of the English knights in the side. It shattered.

The second Englishman swerved to meet the
threat. Before their rescuer could get his sword out, his opponent swung a
mace, smashing his helm in. Blood and flesh splattered.