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

  "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."

  James strode to them and bent over her hand, his face burning. "I'm honored to serve my lord however I can. Even if it's only finding dinner."

  The king laughed but it was harsh. "I never said it was his only skill. He shielded me whilst I lay on the field. I would have died that day but for my good Jamie. And but for my dear good-brother, Christopher." The king cleared his throat, his face twisting. "We won't grieve tonight. I swear it. It's a night for joy that you're with us."

  "I said that day on the road that you'd serve us well, did I not?" She squeezed James's fingers. "I was right. We owe you a great debt."

  "No debt--only my duty."

  He pretended Isabella wasn't watching as he backed away.

  Every day, word had filtered to them of another execution. They'd had much of grief and nothing of joy. James paced, muttering under his breath. The food really wasn't enough. It had never been enough since they'd been routed at Methven. He stood by the fire where the venison was spitted and a man turned it. Grease sputtered as it dripped and sent up a savory smell.

  He spotted Boyd directing his men with the newly arrived horses. "Robbie," James called. "That man of yours--there's one who sings. He knows some fine ballads. He was singing just a night or two ago."

  "Yes, Cailean has a mellow voice. He'll entertain the ladies. I'll be hard put to wait on that venison though. I swear my belly thinks I've given up food for lent."

  James laughed. "It's not lent."

  "Don't tell my belly that."

  James joined in kicking out some fires so they'd have room for tables. Shadows grew long from the pine trees around the camp, and the wind cooled from the heat of the day. Their men pulled rough hewed boards together and set up tables, a high table for the king and long side ones for the men.

  The salmon lay ready for the ladies on a wooden trencher. A keg of wine sat at the end of the table. On the purple-carpeted hill, Bruce sat, daughter in his lap, his four brothers, his two sisters, his wife and her lady-in-waiting, Isabel, seated on the ground around him. The ladies had changed from their traveling clothes into gay colors. Isabella wore the blue that matched her eyes. James pretended he didn't watch her and kept pacing, checking that all was ready for the feast.

  There was no seat of honor for the king, and they'd all share crude benches. James propped his foot on one and pressed, testing its steadiness. Only a small wobble on the uneven ground. It would have to do.

  In the distance, a nightingale began its trilling, chirping evening song. The king led them down from the hill, and they passed no more than a foot from where James stood next to the tables. First, the king with the queen on his arm. A golden coronet gleamed amidst the piles of the queen's long hair. The king kept her close as he led her to the head of the table, and she never took her eyes from his face.
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  Next came Sir Edward, even after weeks in the field his blond head gleaming, younger and gayer than the king, with Isabella on his arm. James narrowed his eyes, gauging him. He held Isabella much too close to his side. This is what a man looked like when he seduced a woman, James brooded. She didn't even glance his way but kept her eyes on Sir Edward's face, laughing up at him.

  After them came the others, the other brothers with their sisters between them, putting on happy faces at the king's command. And some of the laughter even rang true. Alexander, the slenderest and least warlike of the brothers, had his arm around his sister's shoulder, talking as they went. She was a wisp of a woman, her hair a tumble of auburn curls. Sir Niall was talking to his wife.

  One of their men played a pipe whilst Cailean sang in a sweet voice:

  A knight's young, when he thinks money's for burning;

  When ruined, he smiles without a trace of ruth.

  He's young when he throws stakes all on a bluff,

  And feels that no fine armor is good enough.

  He's young, if he's skilled in all lovers' passion,

  And he's young, if he knows war is what life is for.

  James looked once more towards Isabella laughing up at Sir Edward. He found he had a thirst so he pulled a flagon of wine over. He poured himself a cup. Swallowing it down and refilling it, he stared into the bonfire that crackled, flames leaping into the air, lighting the table as the late summer light failed. Then he poured another and drank it.

  There wasn't any reason she should be with him, not when she could sit with Edward Bruce. What was he but a lowly knight, ruined by their invaders?

  "You making a dinner of that wine?" a voice said at his shoulder.

  Boyd stood over him and gave James a light cuff. One of the knights paused in the midst of the bawdy story he'd been telling to scoot down and make room. Boyd straddled the bench. He reached for the wine flagon and poured himself a cup. "I told you she'd lead you a dance."