A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (7 page)

The victorious knight reared his horse to
turn it towards them. As he galloped, James dashed at him. Bringing down the
horse was their only hope. He ducked a blow of the mace and dropped to his
knees, slashing up into the horse's belly. Hot guts and blood gushed over his
arms as the animal went down. James rolled out of the way. On the other side, Sir
Alexander leaned down and struck a killing blow.

"To the king!" His shout would
bring more English but they had to have aid. Where were the others in this madness?

The king scrambled to his hands and knees. Scrymgeour
grabbed a downed knight's horse. Bruce held onto the saddle, swaying, as James
boosted him up. James grabbed his own reins and vaulted into the saddle. Campbell
drew up, horse snorting and dancing.

Gilbert de la Haye and a score of his men
hacked down the last of their opponents. "They flanked us with another
division. They'll hit again. We have to get the king out of here."

Bruce straightened in the saddle, giving
his head a hard shake. "Where's Thomas? Edward?"

"I don't know. I don't know where
anyone is. We're scattered."

The king pointed eastward where the woods
sloped thickly down towards the river. "That way then. It's the direction
my brothers were. We must find them."

A trumpet blared nearby. "There. It's Bruce,"
a black shape in the lesser darkness yelled.

Bruce whipped his horse to a gallop,
weaving back and forth between the trees. "To me!" Bruce had a battlefield
voice. It carried like a trumpet. "A Bruce! A Bruce!"

James tried to stay by the king's side but
weaving through the woods made it impossible. Still he kept the king in sight. They
had to get away before it was light. The only thing that had kept them alive so
far was that most of the English hadn't recognized the king without his tabard
or crown.

From behind them, shouts to swing to the
east followed from English voices.

Sir Edward shouted and rode towards them
with a dozen of his men around him and Thomas and Alexander behind. James
sucked in a breath. Two hundred men should have been with those brothers. Another
knight joined the flight. The shouts and horns behind them were closer. Ahead,
James saw a score of knights and men-at-arms riding at them under a fluttering
griffon banner--Mowbray.

"It's Bruce. On him," Mowbray
yelled. They charged.

James went cold. The only chance was to
break free. Otherwise, they were dead men. All of the attention was on the king
as the knights charged straight at him. James crowded in, raising his shield
and trying to protect Bruce's flank as they slashed their way through the line
of attackers. One hacked at the king. James caught the blade with his shield,
thrusting under to send the man reeling from his saddle.

The king jerked his reins and kicked his
stallion to the right. As the animal turned, rearing, Bruce stood in his
stirrups. He reached high and slammed his battleaxe down on the helm of an
English knight. The helm crushed, a bloody mess.

James saw another circle behind the king
and yelled a warning. Ducking low, Bruce rode straight at a sword-wielder who'd
reared his horse to get above him. The king slashed through his throat. The man
slid to the ground under the horses' hooves. The one behind swung hard across Bruce's
back as he wheeled. The fierce blow threw the king over his horse's withers. He
slumped in the saddle.

James swung his shield above Bruce and
grabbed his arm. With a grunt, James hauled him up.

Mowbray jumped from his horse and grabbed
the king's reins. "I have him!"

Sir Christopher rode at Mowbray, scything
his sword. "Die, traitor!" His blow hit Mowbray on the side of the
head and he went over sideways, blood dripping down his chest.

"I'm all right." Bruce pushed
away James's hand. "We fly."

He swayed in the saddle as they galloped. In
the dimness of near dawn, the English had lost track of the king, James was
sure, or else they'd never have broken away. He looked over his shoulder at the
thin line of knights and men-at-arms stretched out behind and groaned. But no
time to think of how few they were left. Surely, not all who were missing had
died. How many? God's wounds. The king leaned in his saddle, nursing the
shoulder that had taken the last blow, but he waved James away when he reached
to help.

As the sky lightened, the king swung back
westward to splash through the moors. The rank smell of rotting plants rose as
muck covered their horses' bloody legs. The purple of the heather-covered hills
in the distance made a grim contrast to their state. The king led them without
stopping until it was full noon.

Finally, he drew up next to a tiny stream
and climbed gingerly from the saddle, looking around him.

James dismounted. He'd been afraid to count
their losses. Now he looked for Alexander Scrymgeour, for Alexander Frasier,
for Sir Hugh de la Haye, for Sir John Somerville, for Thomas Randolph, for the
Lord of Carnwath and for the hundreds of men those had led. In his exhaustion,
James felt light headed. Most of their army was lost--more than half, surely. He
breathed a sigh of relief to see the king's brothers. But where was Alexander
Seton. He'd been with them. Now he was missing. So many missing.

Pray God they'd died on the battlefield,
because he knew the fate that King Edward would deal any prisoner he laid hands
on. Some nights, he still awoke with Sir William's scream echoing.

The king pulled off his helm and let it
drop to the ground as he turned in a circle, slowly. Finally, he threw his arm
across his horse's withers, covering his mouth with a hand, and stood. Silent. A
pair of larks flew from high in a birch tree trilling, the only sound but for a
creak of a saddle. The king straightened, mouth set and pale skin ringing it in
his grief.

"This--" He turned in a circle
again, catching their eyes one by one. "This is a desperate plight. Our
losses are terrible. You see that. But I may still raise men from my own lands.
I will not give up. I'll free Scotland or die trying. I swear that to you. I
won't give up. We'll grow strong again, and last night I learned what will let
us win."

He paused and moistened his lips. "I'll
never trust English honor again. Not any of them. It's to my blame for having
left the lesson late. King Edward has never shown his honor to us Scots. Didn't
he break his word to your father at Berwick, James? Slaughter the city for no
cause?"

James stared in surprise. He hadn't
expected the king to call on him. But those days in Berwick were ones he would
never forget. "You know that he did, Sire."

"I fear for any left in their hands,"
the king said in a low voice. "But our enemies will pay for the deaths and
the treachery. For King Edward trying to steal our land when we were left with
no king, and for every broken oath since. Whoever trusts them rues the day. I'll
fight them however I may. I'll use their very deceit against them. And we will
win."

Then James realized the king was looking at
him.

"My lord?"

Bruce unsheathed his sword. "Do you
think I don't know you stood over me? Took blows on your shield that would have
killed me?"

James opened his mouth, not sure what to
say. "You're my liege."

"Kneel." James dropped to his
knees, and the king tapped him on each shoulder. "I dub you knight. Be you
good and faithful until life's end, Sir James."

A ragged cheer went up, weary sounding. It
was a brutal day to think of being cheered--a brutal day to get his knighthood.
As James stood, the king led his horse into the trickling water of the stream. He
bent to scoop some up with one hand to drink, the other close to his side. James
followed. Some dropped where they were in exhaustion and a few wandered towards
the water's edge. But where the king went, so would James. The king must live.

"My lord, let me look at your back. You
risk a wound fever or worse," James said.

Bruce shook his head. "I've had worse
in tourneys. Feels like the shoulder is broken. Not the first time."

Whilst his horse drank, Bruce squatted and
splashed water in his face. He scraped his wet hair back and looked up at James
with a wry smile. "I'm sorry for doing it this way, Jamie."

"Sorry?"

"No man should receive his knighthood
after such a rout. It shames me. You deserve better, but it's the best I can
give you--for now. One day you'll get your Douglasdale back and more. You have
my word on it."

James knelt on one knee beside the king. "I
hate even the thought of the English in my home, my people at their mercy. I
swore a sacred oath to recover everything that was stolen from my father. It's
true." A rustle in the bushes caught James's eye, and he jerked for his
sword. But it was just a cuckoo fluttering from one branch to another. He
breathed in relief before he looked at the king. "But lands or no, my
sword is yours, and I'm your man. Where you go, Douglas follows."

The king gripped his arm in silence.

CHAPTER SIX

Carlisle
Castle, England: July 1306

The bailey of Carlisle Castle was still as
a guard dragged Bishop Lamberton towards the doors of the keep. The dazzling
mid-afternoon sun hung low over the walls, ripening the day into sweaty idleness.
On the ramparts, a man-at-arms in dark armor paced his rounds.

The great hall of Carlisle was in a massive
square fortress that hulked behind walls eight feet thick and a wide sluggish
moat. A knight guarded the doorway, steel armor blinding in the sunlight.

Within, Lamberton blinked in the dimness. The
guard gripping his arm jerked him to a halt. Lamberton watched a drop of blood
weep its way down his hand from under an iron shackle before he raised his
eyes. At the end of the hall, King Edward Longshanks sat glowering, seated upon
a throne. Behind King Edward hung the leopard banner of the Plantagenet and
beside it the banner of the dragon, fire gushing from its mouth, raised only
when no quarter would be offered to taken enemies. Lamberton's own protection
was absolute--that of the church and the pope. He feared no one else would
survive capture.

Before King Edward, held between two
men-at-arms, sagged Alex Scrymgeour dressed in black sackcloth that came to
mid-thigh above a gray and blood-streaked bandage. Chains dragged at his feet.

The sides of the room were packed with half
the nobility of England, aglitter in velvet, silks and satins adorned with gold
and silver and jewelry. Beside the English king stood his son, Edward, Prince
of Wales. Blondly handsome like his father had been as a youth, tall and broad
shouldered, but his eyes looked sullenly out on the world. He chewed on a lip
as he watched.

Soon the nobles would take up their armor
again when the march towards Scotland resumed. For now in Carlisle Castle, they
rested whilst King Edward meted out his own wrathful justice.

The king waved a dismissive hand towards a
man standing near the door. "A friend of the miscreant Wallace. I should have
killed him beforehand. See to it."

Lamberton tightened his mouth as Alex was
jerked around to be dragged towards the door. Alex's eyes were wide in his
pallid face and his lips moved as he lifted a clanking, shackled hand to cross
himself. As he was dragged past, Lamberton spoke loudly enough to be sure that
Alex heard his words, "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et
Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." All he could do for another old friend
going to an unimaginable death.

The man-at-arms behind Lamberton drove a
fist into the small of his back. The jolt of pain took his breath. Stumbling
forward, he fell to his knees, feet caught in his chain. "Shut up,"
the man growled. "Speak to no one."

King Edward's teeth flashed in a smile. "Bring
that one forward. Only seeing Robert de Bruce on the scaffold would give me
more pleasure."

The guard grabbed Lamberton's arm, mailed
fingers digging in hard, and jerked him to his feet. Another bruise, minor pain
compared to being tortured to death, it meant nothing except penance for his
sins. He struggled to get his balance as the man dragged him forward, shuffling
against the confines of the short chain.

King Edward's hair had gone completely gray
and his face was gaunt, but the fury in his eyes had abated not at all. A grim
smile curved his lips. He made an abrupt motion to one of the tonsured clerics.
"Show my lord bishop," his voice dripping poisonous honey, "the
document we found concealed at St. Andrews."

The simply-clad priest thrust a parchment
into Lamberton's hands. He tried to keep them from shaking as he scanned the
brief agreement. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Here
was an end to lies and scheming. The seals and the signatures were his and
Bruce's. Nothing could explain his agreement. And King Edward wouldn't forgive
this time. It was as well. He was weary beyond telling of deceit; yet, if
another lie would save a single Scottish life, he would have told it.

He opened his eyes and raised them to look
into the smirking face of the English king. "It is mine." He extended
the parchment to the man who'd given it to him.

"You confess to your treachery, then."

Lamberton paused. Mayhap he should try to
appease this man. Humility might gain him some degree of freedom. Being a
bishop protected him from a death sentence. A hard glitter in King Edward's
eyes stopped him. He'd deny Edward Longshanks the pleasure of his begging. "My
only loyalty is to the lord Jesus our Savior and to the Realm of Scotland. All
other vows were given under duress."

King Edward's smile hardened and became
even fiercer. "I am the Realm of Scotland," he said in a low voice. "There
is no other." He glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Ned."

"Yes, Sire." The prince gave a
petulant twist to his lips.

"Go. I'll follow at my leisure to
finish these Scots. Take the army I've given you. Ayr, Annandale, Carrick, they
are to be ground into the dust. Leave them nothing. They'll never rise against
me again."

The prince glowered. "Why can't
Valence--"

"Go!" The king's face reddened.

Lamberton followed the prince with his eyes
as the young man swaggered towards the door, one of the nobles joining him, arm
around the prince's shoulder and whispering as they went. That part hadn't been
meant for Lamberton, but he was sure that the other had been. The sight of the
prince being sent to savage the land was intended to torture him. Something
inside him twisted, but he kept his face blank. He wouldn't let King Edward see
how well he'd succeeded.

King Edward lifted a hand to point at
Lamberton, his teeth bared in a smile. "You-- You will never see light of
day again. I can't kill you. But you'll wish that I had."

* * *

James ducked under a low-hanging branch of
an aspen, shifting the weight of the red deer slung over his shoulders. Blood
dripped down his half-exposed chest. He'd shed his armor for leather breeches
and a belted shirt for hunting and carried a good yew bow in his hand.

Even with so few in their army remaining,
it wouldn't fill their bellies. Mayhap the trap he'd set for fish in the river
would catch something. He splashed into the water and walked along rocky edge
of the tumbling Dochart, spume spraying where it leapt and gurgled over rocks
in the warm August sun. Bees hummed, hovering and darting about the gorse on
the banks of the river. He might think later of finding a hive. Honey would
make a welcome addition to the table. Sparrows flittered like blowing leaves
above the purple carpet of the heather. Whistles and trills filled the warm
air.

 
James knew that by noon the sparrows
would fall silent, but for the moment, he felt like leaping to celebrate with
them. He was alive. And Isabella would soon be here.

James dodged through the sprinkling of
pines and aspen and up the green and purple slope to reach where King Robert de
Bruce paced. "Dinner, Sire," he called as he ran.

James was panting by the time he reached
the king. Below them spread the camp of some five hundred, all that was left of
the king's great army. For the moment, they had set weapons aside, but on the
edges of the glen, sentries paced. Men gathered in groups about the small
fires, all with arms stacked near to hand. Ribbons of smoke and the sound of
weary voices drifted over the glen.

"Jamie, if it weren't for you we'd
have empty bellies more often than we do."

James dropped the hind to the ground and
flexed his shoulders. He'd soon have the carcass hung and slaughtered. "Not
enough, Sire." He frowned. "When the ladies arrive, I'll have to do
better."

"We all will. I would there were any
other choice, but I don't dare chance their being taken. And I want Nigel with
me as well." The king scanned the horizon to the east as he had since day
broke. "The dishonor. To declare women outlaw. The English king runs mad."
He growled deep in his throat. "There was a time I counted him an
honorable man."

James waved to Sir Gilbert de la Haye, the
craggy knight talking to some of his men-at-arms. "Sir Gilbert, if one of
your men will take this hart, I've a mind to see about some salmon."

The knight pointed and one of his men ran
up the slope as the king shaded his eyes with a hand.

"Look." The king pointed to a
distant slope. James squinted. Sun glinted on steel.

His heart missed a beat. It must be the
women and Sir Nigel. "I'll tell Sir Naill." He sprinted down the
slope into the camp, weaving between the men. A few minutes later Sir Niall Campbell
led a score of men out to be sure it was the expected friends, amongst them his
wife, and not their enemies yet again on the king's tracks.

Hurrying to the river, James pulled his
fish trap out of the water, hand over hand. The cold spray into his face felt
good. Even in mid-summer, the Dochart ran cold. It always had plenty of fish,
and a salmon as long as his arm flapped and splashed in his trap. This would
make dinner for the ladies, no fine fair but the best they had in this rude
camp. He'd tell one of the men to put it over a fire. First, he'd clean
himself. He couldn't let Isabella see him like this, dressed like a servant. Stripping
off his shirt, he splashed into the water and dunked his whole body to come up
shaking and tossing his hair.

He ran back to the fire where his armor was
stacked, no longer shining but at least whole. Spotting the soldier who had
finished hanging the hind, James called him over and sent him for the fish for
the newcomers with strict orders it was for them alone. Pulling his mail
hauberk over his head, he felt like a knight again. His blood was racing and
for some reason his breath seemed much too fast. You'd think he'd never seen a
woman before. He laughed at himself, trying to pretend his stomach wasn't in a coil.

James was still belting on his sword when
Sir Niall shouted and rode in. The women, all in plain dresses, wide of skirt
for riding astride, followed. The king ran down from his perch on the hill.

Sir Niall leaped from his horse to hold the
queen's bridle. Before he could help her down, she jumped to the ground and ran
towards her husband. The king stopped and held his arms out. She ran into them.
James looked away. Truly, everyone said it was a love match.

But there were other women to be seen to. Nigel
Bruce was helping his sisters, Christina and Mary, from their horses whilst Sir
Niall lifted down young Marjorie, a slender, dark-haired child of ten by King
Robert's first wife. Seeing his chance, James hurried to Isabella and took her
reins. She smiled. He reached a hand up as she climbed from the saddle,
exposing fine ankles under her wide brown riding skirt.

 
He ran his thumb down her fingers. "My
lady. It pleases me more than I can say to see you safe."

"We heard rumors so many were killed."
She squeezed his hand. "And when the king sent word, he didn't say who--who
was still with him. Except poor Sir Christopher." Her voice choked with
tears.

James sucked in a breath through gritted
teeth. He knew too well what Sir Christopher Seton had suffered after he saved
the king on the battlefield. Captured. Hanged, drawn and quartered. Tortured to
death. He glanced to where the king had put his arms around his weeping sister,
now Sir Christopher's widow. His daughter stood close by his side, looking
doubtfully around the camp, a strange sight to the child, no doubt.

"I must greet the king." Isabella
squared her shoulders and went to him where he was surrounded by his family,
curtseying low.

James watched after her with a bemused
smile. He'd never been in love before. He'd thought it was something the
minstrels only sang about.

Robert Boyd punched James's arm with a grin.
"Looks like she used a poleax on you. You're that stunned."

"She'd never look my way." James
shrugged. "But, I didn't know a woman could be like that. She's amazing."

"She's not bad--though I like them
plumper of a bosom. She has you dancing to her tune of a surety."

James scowled at the knight. "Don't
insult the lady."

"Hoi, now. I wasn't insulting her."
He threw up his hands with a wry grin. "Leave hitting me to the English. They're
willing enough."

James snorted. Then he laughed. Isabella gave
the two chuckling men an odd look over her shoulder, and the king raised his
eyebrows. The laugh felt good.

The scent of roasting venison began to
drift across the camp. Sir Nigel Bruce had brought five sumpter horses loaded
with supplies, wine and grain. It wouldn't last long but they could celebrate
being together and being alive.

"Naill, have the men set up tables. We'll
feast tonight." Bruce's face had lost the grim look that had hardened it
for the last weeks. He took the queen's hand. "It's a good thing our young
James is a knight. He'd have made a fine poacher, otherwise. He supplies much
of the food for our table these hard days. You may thank him for your dinner."

The queen held out her hand. "And I do
thank him. But I'm sure that's the least of your skills, Sir James. His Grace
jests."