A King Uncaged Read online

  "Have you achieved what you wanted, James? Was it worth the cost?"

  "I believe that I have. They know that the King's Grace means what he says and that the law of the realm is nae to be defied. And the Earl of Ross now owes me a debt, for it was of his ilk whom Campbell had murdered, though he could nae exact justice for it. So, aye, the realm is strengthened this day."

  Chapter Twenty

  June 23, 1429

  Trumpets resounded and cut the air of the summer evening. Sendaris paled, jumped to his feet, and grabbed James’ sword belt. James held up his hand and listened. There were shouts of "Mar! Mar!"

  "Friends," James said. "I shan't need my sword yet. That will be the Earl of Mar."

  James emerged from his tent into the translucent light of Lochaber. He gazed out over the sapphire ribbon of Loch Leven and the vast mountain vistas beyond and could almost forget he was here to kill his enemy, an enemy who had left a burning ruin behind them.

  The earl clattered into camp and swung from the saddle; behind him were fifty knights and what looked like at least a thousand mounted men-at-arms strung out on the road. "Your Grace!" Mar called. The earl was even balder than the last time James saw him, but his short beard was still full. In his gilded armor, he strode toward James as hearty as ever. "You look well, Sire. Is it true Her Grace is with child again?" He handed his helm to a squire and wiped the sweat from the bare top of his head with a swipe.

  "Three daughters in a row! Her Grace is praying daily for a son this time." He clapped Mar on the shoulder. "Come inside so we can talk."

  "Aye, a son would solve many of our problems. Johne the Fat still has friends in the Highlands who would like to see him on your throne." Sendaris was pouring wine for them. "Have your scouts brought any word of that fool, Alexander MacDonald?" Mar loosened the clasp and tossed his cloak onto the bed.

  "He left a clear enough trail after he burned Inverness. How far ahead of us, that they haven't yet brought back word." Ross had left the burgh of Inverness a smoldering ruin, although he hadn't been able to take the castle. James gave Mar a considering look. "Do you think it is a conspiracy with John that has the Earl of Ross rebelling?"

  "I think he's merely a fool. What would burning Inverness do for putting that glutton John on the throne?"

  "I confess that I rue that I didn't listen to you and accepted Ross into my peace. I'm a fool as well for trusting him."

  Mar shrugged, took off his gauntlets, and took a cup from the squire. "You weren't reared by the Wolf of Badenoch."

  "Nae, I was reared by the English, and they fed me on more scorn than Ross has seen in all his life," said James with a grim laugh. "He was offended because some of the nobles mocked his way of speaking. So he rebels. Damn him."

  "How many men were you able to raise?"

  "Three thousand. Most Douglas men and five hundred follow the Earl of Angus. Douglas is out with a scouting party now."

  Mar drained his cup and tossed it to Sendaris. "Four thousand with mine will leave us a smaller force than Ross will have. So we must needs out-think him. That shouldn't be hard." Mar sat himself on a camp stool without awaiting permission, but James decided to ignore it. "He has raised a number of the smaller clans."

  James tugged on his lower lip. He had never gone wrong taking Mar's advice on battle. The man was a savage, nearly as bad as his father, who was called the Wolf of Badenoch for good reason, but he knew as much about war as any man in Scotland, a good deal more than James did. "Douglas is scouting toward Loch Lochy. The scouts said their tracks led in that direction."

  "And the scouts did nae know how many they followed? They should be able to tell that."

  James lifted his cup and took a swallow. "Some thousands, but we have no way of knowing who has joined him. Who could have said our number before you joined us?"

  Mar shrugged and took a fresh cup of wine from the squire.

  "Do you have a plan for our strategy? If we are to out-think him?"

  "Let us find them first. It's no use making plans in the dark. I learned that the hard way. If I had been wiser when I fought the Battle of Harlaw, I would have won instead of–merely not losing. My mistake was splitting my army in three. It seemed like a good plan before I kent Ross's strength." He snorted a laugh through his nose. "Many good men and friends died because of it. Dinnae plan before you ken your enemy's strength. And his weakness."

  "Whatever we do, we need to do it quickly. I can't afford for the realm to be weakened with Johne Stewart still lurking in Ireland." He smiled. "And I want to return to Edinburgh and my Queen."

  "The queen thrives being with child again?"

  "She is radiant, always her most beautiful when she's increasing." Last night he had dreamed that he took too long returning and she and the children had been stolen away. In his dream, he had used the Sword of State to slaughter every man in the castle in his rage. "The sooner we finish, Mar, the sooner I'll be back where I need to be."

  There was the sound of hooves, the clatter of harness, and loud voices outwith the tent. John Cameron ducked his head inside. "Sire, Lord Douglas requests that you would join him. There is someone he says you should speak with."

  James raised an eyebrow at so odd a request, but he went out to find the Earl of Douglas. Standing beside him was a tall, scrawny, stooping man in a rusty mail hauberk. Douglas called out, "Sire. We return with news." He led over his odd companion. "This is King James," he said as the man looked at the king with squinty, close-placed eyes. "This is Brian Cameron, Sire. He gave me news of the Earl of Ross that you need to hear."

  Almost shyly, the man stepped forward and gave an awkward, bobbing bow. "The Ross, he has his men away yon to the north near Loch Lochy, and my chief, Donald Dhu, he be wi him."

  "And you're betraying your own chief?" Mar barked in a horrified voice.

  "I widnae betray him!" the man stuck out a stubborn chin. "He never wanted to follow the MacDonald, any road. He received word you needed men and raised our spears, but then the MacDonald came wi his whole force, so he joined them meantime. But I know he means to join you—" He wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement before he seemed to remember the right form of address. "Sire."

  Mar spat. "You cannae trust these Highlanders, and I've told you so before, Your Grace. This Cameron and his chief would stab you in the back the first chance. And certes they'll betray you in battle."

  The man paled in the face of Mar's rage, but he answered anyway. "I never. I never betrayed no one, nor would I. Nor Donald Dhu."

  James rubbed his palms together as he considered. "The question is do we trust Brian enough to send a message to Donald Dhu? He swore fealty to me at Stirling and behaved honorably at Inverness when he attended the parliament. So… Douglas, I heard Mar's advice. What say you?"

  "You may strike me down if I'm lying," Brian insisted.

  "That is easy for you say as we do not ken if you are lying," Douglas said thoughtfully. "If we send a message to the Cameron and he betrays us, we not only give up any chance of a surprise but give Ross a chance to attack us. But Ross must have a larger force; I expect he will have twice our numbers. I think…" He looked a long time at the man. "I think we must take the risk."

  "My lord… Sire…" Brian stuttered. "There is something else that would be worth knowing. The Ross summoned the Mackintosh of Clan Chattan from Badenoch. He arrived the day. He has no love for the earl, and he and Donald Dhu both are loyal men if you gie them a chance."

  "So…both Clan Cameron and Clan Chattan." He tilted his head, examining the man's face, trying to decide if this was worth a huge risk. "How many men does Donald Dhu Cameron have at his back?"

  The man scratched the back of his neck. "I have nae numbers that big. Every fighting man of our clan is wi him."

  Mar made a sound in his throat as though he were beginning to consider the idea. "Probably a thousand from what I know of the Camerons. A few more caterans would follow Mackintosh. But if Clan Chattan has arrived, why has Ross's army
not moved?" He glared, hard faced, at the Cameron.

  "They arrived the day wearied from the long trek. The earl is nae going to discuss his plans wi the likes of me, but I suppose he wanted them to rest for the next march."

  Mar's grunt was reluctantly in agreement that this made sense.

  For another minute, James fingered his short beard. "I find him convincing. We will take the chance. But we have little time, so we must not delay."

  With James harrying them, they broke camp within the hour. Cameron and Douglas's scouts led them first up the first ridge to the east and then north, squelching through bogs and clambering through hollows, as they skirted Ben Nevis, forced to lead their horses most of the time. It was ten long and weary miles of slogging, dripping sweat, and swatting midges that plagued them. But there was no time to lose if they were to reach the army of the Earl of Ross in time to take advantage of their plan.

  When they reached the edge of the emerald-green Glen Nevis, Mar stated that with their numbers, if they went closer, the enemy would certainly hear their approach, so the Cameron and two of Mar's men went ahead, Brian Cameron with orders to return to his Clan Chief to warn him of their approach. The short time stretched like an eternity, but the scouts returned with word that Ross's army was still camped with no sign of moving and indeed at least twice the number of their own.

  With the earls of Douglas, Mar, and Angus and Sir David Douglas of Whittinghame, James made his way to the crest of the ridge and, on his belly, peered over at the army below. It was chaos, with hundreds of campfires, men lounging and drinking, some bent over their fires cooking their dinner. The paths between the campfires were brown earth, torn by hoof and boot. Horses were picketed on the edge of the camp, but others were tied at the scattered tents. Cattle roamed the edge of the glen, booty from ravaged villages and valleys. A great pavilion stood at one side with a pole that flew the black galley, sails furled, on white that was the banner of the chief of Clan MacDonald, the Lord of the Isles and Earl of Ross. James grunted in satisfaction; in one corner of the camp there was quiet bustle as horses were led from the picket and caterans gathered near two small pavilions, but by no means was this a camp expecting an attack.

  James scooted a short way down the slope, out of sight. He nodded to Mar to give the orders. James was not fool enough to think he was a better tactician than the earl.

  "We need to reach our positions as far as we can from the camp. Move quickly and quietly. Whittinghame, you take your men to the right flank. Angus to the left. Every banner and pennon should be flown to make our force appear as large as we may. We'll watch for smoke to signal you're in position. Once we top the ridge so the king's banner is shown, ride out and signal. If Cameron and Chattan do as they should…" He grimaced. "If they do as they should, then we'll charge. If they fail us, we'll know soon enough, and it will be a fight for our lives."

  Since this was the third time Mar had gone over the battle plan, the two men asked no questions. They ran hunched down the slope. While they waited, James moved the few thousand horsemen into position out of sight at the base of the ridge. It was a long wait as the sun sank until was a mere hand's width above the horizon. At last, a narrow stream of smoke wafted from the flanks.

  James climbed into the saddle, drew his sword and waved it overhead to signal the trumpeters. Scrymgeour lifted the huge royal banner on its pole. Up went the banner of Douglas with its stars and crowned heart and the blue and white checked banner with bars sinister for Mar and a dozen pennons for the lesser lords and knights.

  Haroooo The trumpets blared out a challenge. James touched his heels to his horse's flanks. At a fast walk, they rode up the slope and pulled up when they topped the ridge. Below them, the camp was chaos, men running for horses, shouting, grabbing pikes and Lochaber axes. James raised his sword over his head once more and waved it. Again the trumpets rang out and seemed to echo off the mountains.

  On both sides, from the flanks men burst out from the trees and galloped toward the camp to pull up a short distance away, shouting, "A Cameron! A Cameron!" and " Mackintosh!"

  Within the camp, Donald Dhu and his clansmen leapt onto their waiting horses, the foot soldiers grabbed up their axes, and they ran, joining in the shout and adding ululating shouts in Gaelic and bloodcurdling shrieks. Nearby, Mackintosh had turned his rearing mount and rallied his men. Like a surging wave, they ran toward the flanks, screaming war cries and howling as they went.

  Alexander of Ross was standing in front of his pavilion, cursing and shouting. When a squire ran up with a horse, he threw himself into the saddle. "To me!" James heard him screaming over the pandemonium around him. "To me!"

  "Attack!" James shouted and put his spurs to his horse. Before them, Alexander Stewart, Earl of Ross, turned his horse's head and fled. The Highlanders were reeling from the shock of the attack and of two clans leaving the field. In only the time it took to take a breath, the battle was a rout. Every many who could reach a horse flung himself upon it and rode desperately after the earl. The caterans threw down their weapons, or some ran, only to be cut down.

  Mar cut down a cateran who was fool enough to run at him. A thrown axe rattled on James’ shield. James wheeled and raced after the thrower. When the man turned to run, he fell and James rode over him, wheeled again and rode for Ross's tent. He slashed the ropes and it collapsed in a heap. Riderless horses neighed and bolted, dodging the fleeing men. The stolen cattle stampeded and ran pell-mell, knocking down anyone in their path.

  James pulled up and slowly circled his mount. There was no one to fight. The battle, such as it was, was over. James snorted, sheathed his sword, and threw back his head as laugher rolled out of him in waves.

  Mar trotted up and shook his head. "You were right, Sire. I confess it. Now we must pursue them. See that they dinnae rally! Smite them whilst we may."

  "Aye, no doubt you're right." James breathed another faint chuckle through his nose. "Take your own men and smite any enemies you can find, but I suspect these Highlanders may be good at fleeing through their own bogs."

  James looked around. A golden sunset spread across the western sky and purple shadows were creeping across the wide glen. A fine night was upon them, and the utter humiliation of Alexander of Islay felt even better than killing him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  August 28, 1429

  In his finest robes, Bishop Wardlaw, still sturdier than one would think a man of his age could be, was conducting the Mass. The church of Holyrood Abbey was filled with the pleasant scent of beeswax candles and frankincense, and a hint of the rose scent that Joan wore as she sat in a throne beside him added a fillip to his pleasure in their place before the high altar.

  James couldn't help the pleased smirk even in the midst of a celebration of the mass. It had taken two years, two frustrating years, but at least the Pope had needed support from James enough to give in to his insistence. John Cameron was now Bishop of Glasgow and assisting Wardlaw in the Mass. At last, only yesterday, James had officially named him Chancellor of Scotland and Keeper of the Great Seal.

  He looked out over the crowded church filled with his court in their finery. The realm was at peace, and if Alexander, Earl of Ross, had escaped the campaign of the previous summer, that was a problem that did not seem very serious at the moment. Rarely had he felt so at peace with himself and the world. Bishop Wardlaw was intoning a prayer: Misereàtur nostri omnìpotens Deus et, dimìssis peccàtis nostris, perdùcat nos ad vitam aetèrnam. James let the sounds and the scents wash over him.

  Suddenly there was an uproar outwith the church. A guard shouted, and the door was flung open in an unpleasant reminder of the parliament at Inverness. James started upright and put a hand out to Joan, laying it on her arm.

  A man strode in, a guard trailing behind and protesting. "My lord! You cannae go in dressed so!"

  James stood. Alexander of Ross stood stock still, dressed only in a loose shirt, legs and feet bare, but with a sword in his hand. Joan made a
gasping sound and James stepped in front of her. But the sword in Ross's hand was reversed, and he held it—very carefully—by the point. James raised an eyebrow as he motioned the guard back. Another trick by the Earl of Ross, but James thought he would let it play itself out. Joan stood close behind him and grasped his arm in both hands.

  All around the church, men were rising to their feet. Murmurs and whispers went through the crowd, but no one wore a sword to church. But Ross simply strode up the central aisle, looking neither right nor left, keeping his gaze humbly down on James’ feet. James wanted to laugh. He would never believe humility in the Lord of the Isles. But when he reached James, Ross dropped to both knees and offered the sword, hilt first.

  "I beg Your Grace to admit me to your peace," he said, his voice was shaking. A good act, James mused. "I confess my faults and my crimes and submit myself to your justice. I beg your royal mercy, Sire."

  A rustling of whispers went through the church as everyone craned to see this strange and unexpected spectacle at the same time a sigh of relief sounded as well. James stared at the man kneeling at his feet. If he had ever thought Ross was stupid, this proved him wrong—unless someone had suggested this stratagem to him. James looked from Ross to Joan. A slight smile curved her lips.

  "You beg mercy after the crimes you have committed.?” James shook his head. "I do beg your compassion and pity. I place my person in your hands, my king. In token thereof, I beg that you take my sword."

  He extended it and James looked at it with a grimace of distaste. This was the veriest playacting, all deceit with no honesty in it. By surrendering in a church where he could not be seized, was in fact in sanctuary, he had managed to put James in a difficult position. His wife knew him well. "I pardoned you once, even took you into my household. Yet you burned the burgh of Inverness, killed, stole, and ravaged the north of the realm. Defied my justice. Raised your hand against me. Why should I touch your sword, blemished as it is with sin and crime?"