A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (16 page)

Those two with their men headed towards the
valley where the town of Turnberry nestled within a ring of woods. After giving
his brother and Campbell a few minutes, the king divided the force between
James, Boyd and himself. The first assault would be silent and unopposed. After
that, no doubt, things would get hot, but it had to be done quickly before the
castle was aroused and help arrived.

They followed a whispering stream to the
castle's village. One of Edward's highlanders, a dark shape crouching next to
some broom near the road, nodded to them as they trotted past. An owl hooted
somewhere in the woods, and the wind rustled the branches high overhead. They
came within sight of the village from the sheltering trees. It was small
cottages. Bruce pointed to the larger buildings--the kirk, a stable, and
maltings to make a goodly establishment supporting the keep. He waved a couple
of scouts ahead. Any village dogs must be silenced. A half-moon peeked through
the heavy drifting clouds casting strange shifting shadows and gave their only
light. The huts were dark and silent. The shadow of an owl crossed the moon.

They gathered around the king. "We
can't guard prisoners. You understand that. Quick. And quiet." He gave his
final instructions in a low intense voice.

James walked to the side and motioned his
three score men to join him. He worried at his lip as he waited. He'd slit a
few throats on their flight through the mountains but a night attack? A bead of
sweat trickled down his rib and he took a deep breath. How did one go about
this business?

"Wat," he whispered, "we're
to take the place on the right. The malting. What say you?"

A yelp cut off told that the scouts had
found a dog. James looked towards the king who held up his hand to wait. Another
few minutes passed and the scouts trotted back. To the left lay the village
kirk. The king waved to James and then turned that way, his men following. Boyd
had divided his men into two groups to attack the houses faster.

"We kill whoever is in it," Wat
said with a shrug.

"Aye. Let's get to it." James drew
his dirk and crept towards the door. It opened with a squeak. He stepped aside
to let the rushing men flood by him, a grim menace in their silent dirk-laden
rush. James followed them in. Blind in the dark after the moonlight, he stopped.
Blinking, he tried to make out what lay around.

The Highlanders seemed to have no such
trouble. A coughing choke from one side said the killing had started. A short
scream was cut off. James made out lumpish figures in the darkness where his
men were at work. In a corner, someone shouted, "Help." A thrashing
struggle started, soon finished.

Overhead, rustling and footsteps sounded. A
lighter patch of dark, James at last made out the stairs. He headed towards them.
A black shape hurtled downward, shouting, "What goes down here?"

James threw himself forward. He hit the man
in the chest with his shoulder and thrust his dirk. It sank deep in the man's
belly. He scrambled to hold the man down with his knee. A startled shriek rose
that James cut off, jamming his hand down on the open mouth. Teeth sunk into
his hand and James jerked his dirk out. A hack to the man's throat and the
teeth parted. Upstairs, there was shouting and the clank of metal.

Panting, James stood but the highlanders
were already running past and up the stairs. Crashes and cries came from above.
James reached halfway up. A fleeing figure leaped onto the stairs and slashed
at him with a sword. James dodged backwards. He went sprawling his length when
his foot caught on a body he hadn't seen in the dark. The sword whistled over
his head. On the stairs, the swing overbalanced him and his man stumbled down the
steps and half-fell past James. Scrambling to his knees, James twisted. He
slammed his dirk downward into the back of the man's neck. He jerked it free
and let the body bump the rest of the way down the stairs.

James jumped to his feet. Outwith screams
and shouts came from every direction. A horn trumpeted nearby. Wat ran down the
stairs at the head of the highlanders.

"All dead. No sign of villagers
though," he said.

"Sounds like the others need a hand,"
James said. "Go."

He slapped their shoulders as they ran by. Wat
burst out the door with the men at his heels. James followed. He glimpsed a
highlander impaled on an English sword. The king caught a spearman as the fool
ran at him. His battleaxe severed through mail and leather and muscle and ribs.
James sprinted towards a knot of the enemy fighting, back to back. His world
shrunk to a few feet of ground within reach of his sword. A man-at-arms thrust
at his chest. James lopped the head off the spear, and shattered the man's face
with his backslash.

An arrow hurtled at James from the right. He
whirled, looking for where it had come from. Wat brought the archer down with a
plunge of his sword.

Breathing hard, James turned in a slow
circle. In his part of the village, not a single enemy remained, except for
corpses he could count in the gray of pre-dawn. The king leaned on his sword
not far away. He saw Robbie Boyd going from cottage to cottage. From a house
across the road, a woman screamed--shrill and long.

The king pointed in that direction with his
battleaxe. "Boyd, see to that," he shouted. "These are my
people."

At the edge of the village, Edward had
brought up his men in support of the attack. Some of them had a handful of
English trapped with their back to a wall of the kirk. They were swinging
claymores, chopping at the thrusting pikes. Then the English were surrounded.

Trumpets sounded from high above, and James
turned to the castle that massed against the sky atop a cliff. A watch fire
blazed up on one of the towers and then a second. No surprise though. They'd
been bound to hear the fighting.

He went looking for his men. In the
maltings, he found Jonat on the second floor in a pool of blood, his arm hacked
off at the shoulder. He found another slumped under a tree, skewered by a pike.
The rest of the highlanders were looting the bodies of the dead. Of the three
score who had followed him into the fight, only two had died.

The king put his horn to his lips, a gift
from Angus Og, the curling horn of a highland bull. He blew the retiral. James
trotted towards him. How soon would there be an attack from the castle? They
wouldn't stand a chance against mounted knights.

His hand throbbed and he realized of a
sudden that it was covered with blood. When he poked at it, he discovered the
bite from the fight on the stairs had slashed open his palm. A wound all too
likely to fester. He cursed under his breath and then put it from his mind.

The king waited until most of his men
gathered around him. Now fires blazed on the all towers and light shown through
the window slits of the castle.

"Hurry. I want any supplies we can
carry with us. James, Percy won't take a chance on attacking at night without
knowing our numbers. Find Lennox. He must return to Angus MacDonald and gather
more force if Angus will send them. You and Robbie Boyd hold our rear as we
move. We aren't to be followed into the hills. And mind, warn the people and
then fire the village behind you. We'll leave nothing they might use against
us."

James yelled for Wat to gather the men. He
trotted up the road towards the cliff-top castle. Sleet began to whip at him. It
cut at his face. The cliff wasn't high but the castle walls rose blackly into
the sky at the top.

 
Lennox's men jumped out from some broom,
weapons raised.

"Where is his lordship?" James
shouted before they quite got to head-splitting.

"Ho, Jamie. Where's the king?" Lord
Maol stepped out from the trees with Campbell following.

"We're to move and hold the rear."
He looked at the rise and fall of the watch fires on the castle towers that
flared and whipped in the sleet. Under their feet, it formed a rime of ice. "Any
sign of they're finding their courage and coming out?"

"Horses and harness noises. A few
shouts. Percy will have scouts out at first light, I'm thinking, and he with
his full force once he knows our numbers. That will be strong enough," Maol
said.

"Then best they don't find us here. The
king says we go--for Loch Doon." He relayed the king's instructions for Lennox
and clasped the man's hand. In the dark, they parted ways.

Campbell loped ahead to find the king. James
rubbed his cold benumbed face thoughtfully. Fire the village, the kind of work
they'd have to do much of to rip the land from their conquerors, but not to be
relished. He looked towards Wat. "We need torches."

An hour later, James stood in the middle of
the village, heat bathed as flames leaped skyward whipped by the icy wind. "Let's
go," he said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Carrick,
Scotland: March 1307

James scrambled between high crags of rock
above the narrow valley. He ran slantwise downhill over rock falls and scree. At
the bottom ran a burn that gurgled over a stony path. Squatting, he splashed
the frigid water on his face, washing off the sweat and grit. He breathed in
the green smell of pines; it was good to be alive.

At last, he sighted a sentry beside a tall boulder.
James jumped down and the man whirled but then relaxed when he recognized the
knight. The man nodded so James turned to trot past a sharp turn with a shallow
dip. It that led to a hidden green hollow in front of the yawning mouth of a
cave.

Before he went back, he'd check the sentry
above the loch. For a half-mile, he followed a small side glen. During the week
since the attack on Turnberry Village, they'd seen no pursuit. But Percy and
Edward Longshanks were not going to let such an offense go unpunished. Every
morning and nightfall, James made a tour of the sentries. They wouldn't be
caught unawares. A disaster like Methven would not happen again. The furthest
sentry was at the top of a gorse-covered rise. He waved frantically to James
when he spotted him. It was no friendly hello. James ran to the peak. The
sentry pointed.

From here, you could see down the valley. Coming
up the track two miles away where sunlight turned Loch Doon into shimmering
silver was a party of forty horsemen. The sun struck arms and armor adding to
the sparkle.

The party flew no pennon or banner. Only
forty. Surely, Percy wouldn't have sent such a paltry force against them. Even
though the king had divided their force, Percy couldn't know this, and he was
too cautious a man from everything people said to take such a risk.

Two days before, a week after the attack on
Turnberry, the king saw that only a few men were trickling in to join them from
his earldom of Carrick. He sent Sir Edward with three-score highlanders to try
to raise fighting men in his lordship of Annandale. Sir Niall Campbell had gone
off with a few of his own men to try to locate the other two Bruce brothers who
had landed with Irish gallowglasses in Galloway. The king had fretted and paced
at the lack of news.

James chewed his lip. Men-at-arms in this
desolate wilderness must be looking for them. If it wasn't Percy and the
English then it had to be friends. Friends they needed desperately.

"If I signal, light the warning fire,"
James said pointing to the pile of wood ready for use. He ran down the slope to
the birch woods still bare of leaves. Beyond were dark thickets. Slipping into
the thick branches, he made for a curve in the road where the riders would have
to pass. Crouching, he parted the leaves and waited.

In a minute, James laughed. Niall Campbell
rode at the head of the troop and a woman beside him. James jumped to his feet.
"Naill, what goes?" he yelled.

Naill's horse whickered and pawed as he
jerked and pulled it to a halt. "By the rood, James. You move like a ghost.
I've brought Lady Margaret of Carrick with men-at-arms for the king." He
frowned. "And news."

James didn't like the sound of the way
Niall said that. It had been long and long since news had ever been good. The
look Niall gave him was tense and grim. James started to ask what news and then
closed his mouth on the words.

The woman, only a few years older than
James and dark-haired, had a look about her eyes that reminded him of the king.
She offered James her hand to kiss and had one of her men loan him a horse so
he could return to the camp with them. "The king is my cousin on his
mother's side," she told him as they rode.

"He'll be right glad to see you, my
lady," James said. "Even here in his own lands, the people have been
slow to rise for him."

She shook her head. "And I bring few
enough but as many as I could from my small glen. It's been a hard war. People
are too frightened to act until they see that Robert has a chance against the
English. They are many. So many. And what they do..." She trailed off and
looked away.

James knew well enough what they did. Yet
it seemed to him that he'd rather die than live under their heel with them claiming
everything that didn't belong to them. He wondered if he'd feel different if he
had a wife or bairns to worry about and then he thought of Isabel. But she was
in Norway, safe. Yet, if she were in danger, that would be a dagger in his
heart. He'd been tempted to leave the king that day when they sent the women
away.

They picked their way on the narrow path,
one at a time and James waved away the sentries as he passed. He gave a shout
so they'd know friends approached as they came to the dip. The king stood in
the wide mouth of the cave. A haunch of deer dripped fat into the cook fire
behind him and gave off a scent of dinner.

"Margaret," he said. "I
can't believe to see you. And Naill, of a mercy this is a fine sight you bring
me though I thought you were off finding my errant brothers."

The king was helping Lady Margaret
dismount, hugging her, saying how fine she looked. Niall signaled one of his
own men to show the newcomers the hollow nearby where the horses could be
hobbled along with the ones from the Turnberry raid. James stood silent,
stroking his short beard. He caught the look that passed between Lady Margaret
and Naill. The king must have too. He stepped back looking from her to his good-brother.

"Robert--" she said, her voice
wobbling a little. "My liege. I've had news. So dire, I hardly know the
words." She paused, blinking.

Robert de Bruce paled. Dire news was likely
to be dire indeed. "Tell me, Maggie. Of a mercy."

"Your wife and all who were with her. Marjorie,
Isabella MacDuff, your sisters. All were captured."

Bruce put his hand on the rocky edge of the
cave and sagged against it. "No--even Edward Longshanks wouldn't kill
women. A child."

James stomach lurched. He remembered too
well the women and children screaming as they were murdered by King Edward's
troops in Berwick.

She reached out and took his hand in both
of hers and her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Marjorie he sent to
London Tower." She sobbed and then caught herself. "They are building
a cage by his order." She pressed her hand to her mouth and turned to Naill.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell it."

Campbell squared his shoulders and looked
at the king with eyes that might have been facing death. "They were trapped
as they fled to the north. Atholl who led them is hanged, drawn and quartered. And
your sister, my wife--" His chest heaved and he took a grating breath. "She's
caged, hanging from the walls of Roxburgh Castle. Day and night. Isabella MacDuff
caged outside the walls of Berwick Castle."

James gasped for breath. A cage? Isabella in
a cage? Hanging outside? He had chosen to let her go. Had stayed with the king
when he might have protected her. His gut twisted so hard he clamped his teeth
to hold in a groan. He felt dizzy with the pain of it.

Bruce jerked back as though Lady Margaret's
touch hurt and took a shuddering breath. "My wife?"

"By God's mercy, or mayhap of a mercy
from her father, sent to a house in Holderness to be held under close guard
with no comforts. Lady Christina to a nunnery to be confined."

The king shook his head as though he
couldn't take in what he was hearing. "But they were away to Norway. To my
sister."

"It happened four months ago after
they fled Kildrummy Castle. They were betrayed. By Ross. Dragged from the
sacred sanctuary of St. Duthac." A look of hatred twisted Naill's normally
calm face. "Ross--"

Bruce stared at them, his face chalky. "Caged.
My Marjorie caged. Even Edward--to do that to a child? All these months that I
thought they were safe--they were captive. And Atholl--Edward's cousin. Executed?"

But James could only see Isabella when she
said that she loved him, tears running down her face.

"Sire, there's more." Naill's
words rushed, tripping over each other as though the news was forcing its way
out. "Worse. The landing in Galloway--a disaster. Lame John MacDougall's
men attacked them as they landed."

Bruce stared, but James could hear the
king's breath coming in gasps as though he was strangling. It seemed to James
as though the whole world must have stopped to listen to this tale of horror. Even
the birds were silent and the wind listened. Mayhap they had all died of the
hurt.

"He captured your brothers, sore hurt.
Sent them in chains to King Edward at Carlisle Castle."

"God have mercy. No." Eyes wild,
the king stepped towards Naill.

Naill gulped, his throat working, his face
as pale as the king's. "King Edward still flies the dragon banner. He'll
give no quarter."

The king's cry was that of a wounded animal
with no words in it. He plunged across the glen and into the trees. Lady
Margaret took a step to follow him, but Niall put a hand on her arm. He shook
his head, but no more words came. The ones he'd uttered had killed speech.

Thomas. Oh, merciful God. Wily Thomas to be
caught so. James felt like he was choking. His beautiful Isabel... He stumbled
to a pine and leaned against it.

A twittering chirp above made him raise his
head. A lark. God in heaven, how could a bird be alive in this desolation? His
dirk was in his hand although he wasn't sure how. He stabbed. Deep into the trunk.
Jerked the knife free and stabbed again. And again. But it did nothing. Jammed
it back into his belt. Whirled.

Boyd came to him, gripped his arm hard. "The
king will need us, Jamie. We'll have to be strong enough to bear this--if there
is to be hope."

When James had been younger, he had dreamed
of doing great deeds in battle as a lad did. He had dreamed of a lady smiling
and giving him her favor to carry. The details changed with every dreaming. Sometimes
he had dreamed of freeing his father from London Tower. Still alive. Afterward
they would ride together to their lands in Douglasdale and friends would crowd
around them. The dreams had never had friends tortured to death. A lady in a
cage. The dreams had been a lad's folly; no one returned from the dead.

"God save us, lad. Do we give up on
all those still alive?" Boyd's hand clamped on James and tightened until
it hurt. "Your father was my friend. William Wallace. Chris Seton. And
they're dead. For nothing? And what of the queen? Of Bishop Lamberton? What of
my people if I stop fighting? Do I give them up to--" He growled deep in
his throat. "Do I give up their only chance at freedom because it hurts?"

"No." James forced the word. He
had to think of it that way. James gulped down a long breath and looked towards
where in his agony Bruce had crashed through the gorse and into the trees. "But
what of the king?"

Boyd shook his head. "I don't know. Three
brothers dead and friends beyond count. His sisters--wife--daughter imprisoned.
My mind won't deal with that much pain."

James thought of the tun of wine sitting
inside the cave near the cook fire. He pushed Boyd aside. "You're right. But
I can't think on it now. I can't think on it." Inside the cave, he grabbed
up a cup and then stopped to stare at it. It was one of the loot from
Turnberry, silver marked with the crest of Bruces. He ran his finger over the
slick polished surface. Loot. The whole country torn apart because a foreign
king would rule them. Would kill them if they wouldn't bend their knee to him. Their
country, nothing but loot. His throat hurt from a lump of stone inside it,
stopping his groans. He had to wash away the groans and the stone both so he
grabbed up a flagon, too, and filled that.

He met no one's eye, heard not a word as he
found the shadows under a beech and wrapped himself in the silence. Never had a
camp been so quiet. Like a pack of hounds too wounded to whimper. He gulped
down the wine, sweet and fruity on his tongue. Too sweet. It should have been
bitter as gall. He refilled his goblet and drank again. Light twisted through
the leaves in strange shapes. A wind carried Isabella's voice whispering his
name, so he downed another long pull. His stomach was sour with bile but he'd
drown it. Drown himself in the wine until he felt nothing. He stumbled to his
feet and carried the flagon back for more. He started back towards the tree
where the goblet was but his legs wobbled and it was too hard. So he sank down
with his back to the cliff and drank deep from the flagon.

He dreamed of a better place, a forest
beside a frothing river. The ground was a soft, a fragrant mat of fallen leaves.
Isabella looked at him sadly though. Her face dissolved as tears ran down it
like rain. Even when she had faded into mist, he could hear her voice, calling
to him. "Remember, I love you. Jamie, I love you."

Somehow, it had grown dark. When had that
happened, he wondered. Yet darkness--darkness suited what was inside him. He
forced himself to his feet and staggered a few steps. He spewed bitter wine and
bile onto the ground. Grasping at the cliff face, his stomach roiled and
twisted. He spewed again, only a few foul-tasting flecks. He threw himself down
to lean back against the cold rock and gasped in gulps of the cold night air. In
the sky, stars spun and he watched them coldly, eyes narrowing. Grief was for
puling babes.