A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (15 page)

Wat shouted, running ahead to call back the
men who were only yards form the castle already, slapping their backs and
grinning.

"Look you." James said to Boyd, pointing
with his sword to the ships where men were hacking at the lines in a frenzy and
shoving away from the wharf with oars.

"Ah, well. We have a good haul here. But
we aren't yet through with this day's work," Boyd said. "Wat. Get
those men back on the slope. Here comes company."

A knight rode out the gate armored in mail,
a boar on his shield, riding a heavy charger. Behind him formed four rows of
men-at-arms.

"Back." James pointed with his
sword. "Make them come to us."

Wat hustled the men onto the slope as James
and Boyd dashed into the trees. The knight probably thought it was nothing more
than local raiders. Let him think so.

A horn blew and the men-at-arms ran towards
the beach with a shout.

"Wait. Hold," Boyd ordered.

The English would have to run up a slope to
reach them and it was poor footing for the single knight's horse. He held back
and seemed to want his men to do all the work. Forty men-at-arms. If they could
finish these off, it would leave the castle almost unmanned.

They'd have no worry about a counterattack.
James caught Boyd's eye. Boyd nodded.

"At them." James yelled. "A Douglas!"

They smashed into the English. Claymores
swinging, screaming. They were outnumbered nearly two to one. But on that rocky
slope, the force of the charge hit the English hard. The line of English
stopped, faltered. The highlander next to James swung his claymore two-handed
slashing open an Englishman's throat. Within seconds, half the English were
already bleeding on the ground. James skidded on the bloody rocks as he dashed
towards the Hastings.

The man shouted something James couldn't
make out over the caterwauling and screaming. The horse reared and then danced
as the man raked it with his spurs. It bunched on its haunches and plunged to a
gallop.

A single knight only but could make a
difference, possibly turning the tide. The pebbles skittered from its digging
hooves as it hit the slope. James crouched. The horse was on top of him as he
rolled to the side. Hasting's sword swished by his ear. A hack took the
animal's rear leg off at the hock. It screamed as James rolled the rest of the
way down the slope. He came up sword in both hands. Hastings had thrown himself
clear. He scrambled to his feet and skidded in the scree as he ran at James.

Hastings swept his blade hard and level at
James's belly. James sidestepped, sweeping his sword up and around. Hastings
met the scything stroke with a block that sent sparks flying. They both swung
and the guards locked, James, nose to nose with Hastings, staring into the
man's desperate eyes. "Yield you," James said.

Hastings broke away. He swept his sword
toward James's chest but James had his blade there to block. As Hastings
stepped back to try a swing from the other side, James swept his own sword in
to leave a crimson grin across Hasting's throat.

His men's shout of triumph nearly deafened
him.

Hastings tried to raise his sword again,
but it slipped from his hand and a blank look spread over his face. He dropped
to his knees and then face down into the dirt.

James shook his head as he kicked Hasting's
sword away. He would have let the man yield though it would have been foolish. Boyd
was clapping him on the shoulder and his men were laughing and drumming their
swords on their shields.

"Fine job here, Jamie."

"Wish we could take the castle." James
frowned at the closed gate. Crossbows still showed in the embrasures.

Boyd shrugged. "We couldn't hold it
and we'd lose men doing it."

James knew he'd spoken truly. They couldn't
take the castle. Even with most of the garrison dead, there were tall walls and
at least some archers upon them. But it was too bad.

"We lose any?" James scanned the English
bodies that littered the ground. Partway down the slope, one of their
highlanders lay, belly rent open. One man sat on a chest whilst a fellow
bandaged a bloody rip in his arm. Further up the beach a couple more were
bandaging wounds. Already there was a stink of blood and loosened bowels in the
air--the same stink as when he'd looted the bodies in the dark at Dail-Righ. "They
broke easily. Would all battles cost so us little."

The English could hold the Castle. They
couldn't possibly have enough left to attack.

A wind whirled dry leaves around them. Even
his heavy sheepskin cloak flapped like a flag. Over the water, a bank of black
clouds boiled towards the beach.

"We'd better get these supplies
moving," Boyd said. "Half our men to carry and half to guard."

James nodded and Boyd had Wat divide the
men up. They quickly began carting the scattered supplies. James was anxious to
get back and go through their haul. Much of it was barrels, certainly food. But
the cases and chests would hold arms and armor, which they could sorely use as
well. Some of it was still stacked along the beach and he ordered that moved
first with the breakers swelling in front the rising wind. Frothing surf ate at
the sand near the stacks of supplies.

"Ho. Sir James." Wat pointed at
the mouth of the bay where the dark foamy waves had begun washing over the
ships. James frowned out at them. They foundered and wallowed, tossed by dark,
foam-edged waves. Water dashed over the decks.

"Are they mad? Why don't they put out
to sea?" As he spoke, one of the ships rolled over. Men jumped clear.

Wat squinted to make out the wreck. "Seems
to me the wind has turned against them. Probably can't get past the breakers. And
most like they're afraid to come back."

James shook his head in bafflement. But mayhap
facing drowning was better than facing these highlanders. He remembered feeling
not so different from that himself at Dail-Righ. Crates and barrels dashed
about on the heaving seas. At least some would wash ashore.

Soon they had all the barrels and crates
moved to the hill where they'd hold until the king came. James left a dozen men
to salvage anything that washed ashore. Yet another ship had capsized, but one
had finally made it past the breakers and was wallowing away.

Cloak whipping around him, James started
for camp. A victory. A small one, true. Very small. But they'd won. Now to wait
for the arrival of the king. He set a couple of men prying open some of the
barrels. Soon they were passing around apples and slicing off chunks of sharp,
yellow cheese. They'd hunt tomorrow and mayhap see if they could buy supplies
from the farmers. Tonight his men deserved a celebration.

With little worry about an attack from the
castle, he had a bonfire built in the middle of the hill. Boyd broached a keg
of ale. It was two weeks until the king arrived, but they'd spend it in
comfort. He'd keep sentries out, of course, but at least here on this little
island and for a few days, the English were defeated.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Arran,
Scotland: February 1307

Eight days later, James stood at the top of
the hill. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, wine they'd taken from the English, dark
and tart on his tongue. The morning wind blew in his face and he breathed it
in, savoring it. The sun had risen, covered with streaky dark clouds. Yet the
entire sky was dyed shades of gold and rose. By the rood, but it was the most
beautiful morning he'd seen since Scone.

The English still skulked in their castle
afraid to venture out. He and his men had enjoyed what they needed of the
spoils, most of it still in crates and barrels stacked high around the camp.

A wailing horn sounded. Boyd stood up from
where he had hunkered by a fire.

"The king." James threw down his
cup. He ran down the hill. The horn blew again. He loped through the oaks and
pines towards the sound. Bursting through the brush where they'd left their
galley, he saw the king standing on the beach surrounded by a dozen of his men,
Edward, Campbell and some others.

"Your Grace." He raced down the
beach and dropped to a knee in front of Bruce.

"Jamie Douglas." The king smiled.
"Get up and tell me what goes with you and Boyd."

Boyd thrust his way through the gorse. "We
have a goodly store of food and arms for you. Jamie did well."

Bruce smiled. "You both did well. Jamie,
I'm pleased. And the supplies are much needed."

The sea behind the king teemed with slender
galleys like a pack of deerhounds on the hunt, their masts a forest thrusting
into the sky. "Your Grace, how many galleys did the MacDonald send?"
James asked in wonder.

"We have thirty-three including four from
Lady Christina. And more with Alexander and Thomas in Kintyre."

"How so? I thought they were to meet
us here," Boyd said.

"That's changed. I'm hoping for a
two-pronged attack. If things appear ripe for it, we'll attack Turnberry whilst
they attack with their gallowglasses in Galloway. That way Percy will be forced
to divide his forces." The king motioned south. "Further down the
island we're within sight of my earldom. I've sent a spy to see if a landing is
wise. I need to know how many men Percy has there. If it's too strongly held,
we'll hie ourselves down to my brothers and join forces though it will be a
harder fight."

Wat soon had the men pushing the hidden
galley into the water and a line of them loading their booty.

James and Boyd boarded the king's galley. They
sped through the dashing seas towards Angus Macdonald's tiny keep of Kildonan. It
was so small that probably it was thought not worth taking by the English. James
stood at the narrow curving prow as it plowed through the swell, cold spray
blowing into his face. On days like this, it seemed fine to have been a sea
lord like the MacDonald.

Soon the four stories of the weathered keep
came into view. The oarsmen took the galley scrunching up into the shallows. James
jumped off, wading through the icy surf.

Only a handful of MacDonald's men held the
place, expecting Bruce and his men. The keep was cold and dank and smelled of
mold. A roaring fire in the hearth and an opened tun of wine had it seeming less
drear after a bit. The king set a lookout on the top of the keep and sentries
about. The caterans spilled out of the galleys to fill every corner of the little
place, sharpening their dirks and claymores. Blasts of wind buffeted the
shutters that groaned and banged.

The spy the king had sent across was to
light a fire in the night if the English forces in Carrick were few enough for
them to defeat. The sentries had orders to watch for it. They could only wait.

Bruce spent most of the night staring into
the fire. Every hour or so he got up to pace upstairs and check the sentry. James
was awake, feet propped on a stool as he checked the edge on his sword, too
restless to sleep, when the king came down. The only sounds were the howl of
the wind and the king's footsteps on the stone stairs. He waved James back to
his seat when he jumped to his feet. No matter how long they lived rough, James
couldn't feel convinced that sitting before the king was right. Bruce took a corner
and seemed to sleep. At last, James drifted off. When he awoke in the early
dawn, he went seeking the king. Bruce was watching from the roof of the keep
again. He stared across the sea towards his home.

"No sign, my lord?" James asked. The
wind had dropped but the sea was still a green broken bed of choppy waves and
swells.

"No. Nothing. We will wait two more
days." Bruce shook his head, his jaw knotted. "I was born there--grew
up there, you know. My mother brought it with her marriage. She was of the old
blood. Those are the hills I climbed as a boy."

From here, Carrick was a dark hump on the
horizon.

"And Nigel with me," the king
muttered and James suspected it wasn't really to him. "Following me
wherever I went like a pup at my heels."

The king never said, but they all knew that
Nigel had to be dead, that he had died under the knives and torture of an
English execution. His own brothers, thank God, were hidden in England and too
young for even the English king to hunt them. Or so James had to hope. A wind
caught James's cloak and it snapped around him. "Will you come in, Sire?"

"I like the fresh air. You go. Break
your fast. It may be a long wait." He didn't turn from his vigil, staring
towards the mass of Carrick in the distance.

James stomach grumbled and the king gave him
an amused look. James rubbed his flat stomach. Hungry again.

Bruce finally came down and was in a corner,
talking to his brother Edward when the watch shouted, "A light." The
sentry clattered down the narrow stairs, but the king was already dashing
towards them and pushed past the man. The men watched, but some began checking
their weapons, muttering to each other. James and Campbell dashed up the stairs
after the king.

Dense clouds hid the sun. In the dimness, a
dancing point of light was clearly visible, a blot of yellow against the
blackness of the hills.

Campbell stroked his red beard. "It'll
be a rough trip with the cross current and ill winds. By the time we man the galleys
and reach Carrick, it'll be dark if we leave now."

"So it will." The king stepped to
the stairs and bellowed, "To the galleys."

Below, there was a clattering dash for the
door. Men whooped eagerly as they ran. For the Islemen and highlanders, war was
a sport they savored.

 
In an hour, the galleys were loaded with
men. The king stood in the prow, staring ahead. The ships tossed, waves dashing
over the sides, as they fought the tide towards the opposite shore. Ahead the
flames of the fire arose then fell, yellow and orange. They headed straight for
it. James balanced at the prow as wind and spume lashed his face. The blanket
of night dropped over the sea. They swung hard around the white reef where
savage waves dashed higher than the masts. Oarsmen pulled hard to the beat of a
drum, fighting the sea that pulled them towards the rocks. Then they were
around it. The breakers smoothed. Ahead, the fire burned on a long stretch of
beach that gleamed white under a dark cliff. The galley's prow slid onto the
sandy beach with a splash.

James was already soaked through, armor and
face dripping from the sea spray. He jumped off into the shallows and splashed
ashore towards the fire that had burned down to a smoldering pile.

Against the sky, on a cliff top in the
distance, loomed Turnberry Castle.

"That's a hut," he said, puzzled.
He turned to the king who was splashing ashore a couple of steps behind. "Your
man burnt a hut?"

A figure ran out of the darkness from
behind the smoking ruins. James's sword scraped metal as he jerked it free.

"Sire." The man threw himself
down on both knees a few feet back, out of sword's reach. "Sire, I swear I
didn't set it."

"Put away the sword, James." He
motioned to the man, stocky in plain jacks and a helm. "Up with you,
Cuthbert. What goes here?"

Cuthbert sidled closer with an uneasy
glance towards James. "It was the English. They seized a man who lived
there. Said he was a rebel and fired the hut."

"Called here by accident?" Edward
exclaimed.

"Wait." Bruce held up a hand. "But
you scouted? Found what?"

"There's a large force under Lord
Percy. Hundreds."

"How many hundreds though? What kind
of force? Knights? Men-at-arms?"

Cuthbert shook his head. "I didn't
dare enter the castle. I'm not sure. But four or five hundred at least."

"How fare the people here? Will they
rise for me?"

The man's Adams apple bobbed as he
swallowed. "You can see what's been happening, my lord." He motioned
to the burned hut. "A priest was killed when he was caught preaching your
cause. Other houses burned. Women raped. They're afraid. Some will come to you.
A few men with no wives or children to be harmed like me. But-- No."

Bruce pounded a fist on his thigh. "It's
what I feared."

Maol of Lennox pushed past Edward Bruce. "There's
no way we can take the castle with that many. It's impossible." He held up
a shaking hand. "We have to turn back. Join your brothers in Galloway."

"No, my lord," James said. "We're
here. We have a strong force. We should use it." No more running. It was
time for action.

"He's right." Edward Bruce
gripped the hilt of his sword and glared. James had to suspect the man loathed
agreeing with him. "I'm not turning back. I'm tired of playing the craven."

The king was staring up at the castle, arms
crossed. "Cuthbert." He turned back to his spy. "Five hundred or
more. That's a goodly number, true. Are they all in the castle?"

"No, my lord. It seems as though the
castle won't hold them all. Many they've housed in the village. Two hundred
mayhap."

Bruce turned to the group of captains
around him. "I'd have council on this. Edward, you're fixed that we should
not turn back? Even though the fire was a mistake?"

"We're landed. And Percy. We have
scores to settle with that man."

"The rest of you?"

"It's unwise. They're too many," Maol
of Lennox said. "Another defeat would destroy you."

King Robert looked at the others.

"I say, go on," James said. It
was a strange thing to agree with Edward Bruce. Mayhap that meant he'd lost his
mind. But they couldn't run forever and who knew whether they'd land in
Galloway unopposed as they had here.

"I'm not sure," Boyd said. "To
attack the castle with so few-- I can't advise it, but they're right that we're
here and unopposed, too."

"No, not the castle." The king
paused, frowning. "I told you after Methven that I'd learned a hard lesson.
Aymer de Valence taught it to me. But I should have learned it from Edward
Longshanks and Wallace beforehand. How many years has this truth been staring
at us, and we didn't see it? We can't meet them in the field and beat them. Can't
lay siege to castles and defeat them. There are ten English for every Scot. They'll
do what ever they have to in order to destroy us."

Bruce paced back and forth. He bent and
picked up a rock, rolling it in his hand. "It's hard. It's not how we were
taught to fight. But either we change or we die. A nation that fights for its
very existence doesn't have the luxury of chivalry."

Boyd said, "You know that I'm with
you, my liege."

"It's how Wallace almost won--would
have if all of us had been behind him. Now I'll do it his way. So-- Will you
follow me in this war? Fight secretly? In the dark? Because from tonight, that
is how I fight the English. We attack the village. At night. As they did to us
at Methven. And I'll take what victory I can."

Edward Bruce made a sound in his throat. "I
don't like that kind of sneaking, Robert--my lord. I won't say that I do. But
if it's fighting, then, all right. I'm for it."

"I'm your sworn man," James said
but it was more than that. What the king said made sense. He'd not worried
about honor when he was hungry and alone in Paris. Now he wouldn't worry about
it to save his own lands or the people there who counted on him. This was how
it must be. "Where you go, I follow."

There was a muttering of agreement, except
from Maol of Lennox but even he nodded at last. They would attack.

"We'll hit fast and quiet. Unless our
own villagers fight, spare them. I've not come to kill my own people."

Their three-hundred highlanders had
disembarked in the meantime and gathered into a dark, silent mass. The king
quickly divided them; Lennox and Gilbert de la Haye with a score of men to
watch the road to the castle and make sure no one got past to give the alarm. They
trotted up the winding road to hide along the tree and gorse lined track that
led to the cliff-top citadel. A hundred men were for Edward and Campbell to
ring the town and keep guard whilst the others went in to do the dirty work.