A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland Read online

  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 d
rew 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.

  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."