A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (19 page)

James licked at his sore lip. "No. I
need to see what they meant about clearing the Scots."

So they started northeast again on the
rutted road. Where were the travelers? Merchants? People on their way to
market? They kept trudging. Once in the middle of a dark stand of pine, they
came face-to-face with two men laboring to pull a cart of firewood. As soon as
the men saw them, they dropped it, backing away. Then the two turned and ran. James
looked after them and Wat made a sound in his throat.

"Dead frightened," he said.

It was a long day's walk. They passed under
the limbs of a dense stand of oaks, the ground littered with brown leaves and
rotted acorns. Through the trunks, James saw a village or the smoke that rose
from it. There was something wrong with that, rising in a thick column. Not
wisps from a chimney.

It was the first village they had
approached since leaving the king's hiding place. James skirted it to the right
whilst he sent Wat the other way to make sure no one lurked in what was left. Sliding
in and out amongst the beeches and oaks, sword in hand, he startled a hind that
leapt away and bound through the gorse. James watched after it for a moment. Wat
waved to him, so he turned and went in. No one was in the village but they
hadn't been gone long. Three of the houses were still smoldering, their roofs
fallen in, a column of smoke drifting in the breeze. The air was thick with the
stench of smoke and death.

The huge oak in the middle of the village
was full of bodies. The crows had started on them and one flew away, squawking
when James neared. Flies buzzed in a dense black cloud. Rope cut deep into the
swollen flesh of their throats. They twisted and turned as the air stirred. In
front of one of the cottages, a dog growled over a man's sprawled body, his
belly ripped open. A string of gut hung from its mouth.

Wat shouted a curse at it and it ran.

"Nine." James spat a mouthful of
bile on the ground and cleared his throat. "Surely that wasn't the whole
village. No children. Thanks be to God."

Wat turned in a circle, scanning. "Some
must have run--gotten away."

James plunged his hands into his hair. Madness.
"What sense does this make? These weren't fighters."

Wat squatted, looking up at the bodies that
swayed in the breeze. "Do you know why your father surrendered Berwick
Castle?"

James started to say because they were
under siege, but then he thought about it. He remembered standing on the walls
as people were cut down--thousands of them--in the city outwith the castle. The
screams had gone on until he had thought they would never stop. But it had been
worse when they did.

"He could have held the castle longer,
couldn't he? He could have held it a lot longer." James had never thought
of that before.

Wat nodded. "Now mind, I'm not saying
Longshanks wouldn't have taken it and that played into the thing. He bargained
himself to save the garrison. But some will tell you that this--" he
motioned to the bodies "will only work on womenfolk. Don't you believe it.
Any men still alive will think hard before they risk their village and family
rising against the Sassenach."

"I suppose. But there's the other side
too, Wat. They'll never forgive it. So if we can show we can win, then they'll
rise. They'll follow the king."

"Well, now, showing that will take
some doing." Wat scratched the back of his neck. "Are these your
Douglasdale people?"

"I don't remember this village, but,
yes, we're in Douglasdale. But why here? Where there's been no fighting?"

Wat shrugged.

James crossed his arms over his chest
tucking his hands into his armpits. He wouldn't shame himself by Wat seeing his
hands shake. "We can cut them down. But we have no way to bury them."
James nodded towards a stone kirk at the side of the village, still whole and
unburned. "Mayhap at the kirk."

"Do we have time for burying, James?"

"No, but I can't leave them for the
crows and the dogs. These are my own people. It's up to me to care for them."
He gritted his teeth to steady himself and strode towards it. He came to a halt
when he got to the front. The man nailed spread-eagle to the door of the
building wore a priest's robe.

"Mother of God." Blood had
dribbled down the wood from his hands and his feet.

"Wat," he shouted and ran to lift
the priest's head. "He still lives."

Wat loped towards him and then broke into a
run. "How do we get him down?"

"God damn them." James pulled out
his dirk and began trying to lever out one of the spikes driven through the
priest's hand. "See if you can find something better to use. I'll do what
I can." He cursed. The spike held against the thin blade.

After what must have only been a few
minutes but had seemed like days, Wat ran back with a thin bar. "He has a
bothy in back." He went to work on the other hand. By the time James
pulled on the one spike, Wat was pulling out the one driven through the priest's
feet. James grabbed him around the chest and they lowered him to the ground as
blood dripped to sink into the dirt. The man moaned. James realized that his
hands were shaking as he grabbed off his cloak. He used it to cover the priest.

Telling Wat to go cut down the corpses,
James lifted the priest gently. He carried the man around back to kick open the
door to the hut, leaving drops of blood in the dirt.

The place held nothing more than a cot and
table. James settled the priest under a blanket. Wat was right, for a certainty,
that they had no time for burying and they couldn't give rites as should be. But
they could lay the bodies safely in the kirk. The question was how badly was
this priest hurt? Some of his villagers would creep back when they thought it
safe. James grabbed the table and dragged it closer. There was a flagon of
water. He filled a wooden cup that sat there. He looked at the wounds, bleeding
but not so bad that the priest was like to bleed to death. Wound rot and fever
was more a problem. Using his dirk, James cut strips from the bedcovering. He
wrapped them tightly around the bloody holes.

The priest's eyes fluttered open. "What..."
His tongue was thick and he couldn't seem to get words out.

James sat beside him and lifted his head to
let him drink. "You're all right, Father. The Sassenach are gone."

Water dribbled from the man's lips as he
gulped thirstily. "You're-- You're--"

"No southron, Father." James let
the man's head down and refilled the cup. At least, they'd leave him with water
and he could only hope that would be enough. "What happened here?"

The priest rolled his head back and forth. "I
had a message from the Bishop of Moray. Saying to preach to rise for Bruce. But
there are no fighters here. Not even a lord. All gone. I--I didn't. But they
came anyway." A tear rolled down his face. "They came anyway."

"I think some of the people ran away. They'll
be back."

The priest's eyes opened and widened. "Who
are you?"

"Just say I know the Bishop of Moray
and leave it. I'll not bring more troubles on you. We'll move the bodies safely
into the kirk before we go. There's no more I can do." He patted the
priest's shoulder. "There's water here. Rest."

But the man's eyes had closed, his face
went flaccid. James put a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief to
feel it rise and fall. He itched to leave and to reach Douglas Castle. If this
was done in such a small village, his stomach knotted to think what might have
happened there. He'd help Wat move the bodies into the kirk. Then they'd be
off.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Douglasdale,
Scotland: March 1307

James crawled through the drizzling rain. The
brown carpet of dried leaves squished under him, wet oozing into his jack. Huge
bare oaks and tall pines cast dark shadows. On a slight hill above them was
Castle Douglas, old and solid, with faint light shining out of the slit windows.
On the wall, the silhouette of a man-at-arms moved as he walked his watch.

James' stomach lurched. From a tree beside
the keep, two bodies hung, swaying in the rising wind. He ground his teeth. The
truth was he'd wanted a sight of the castle. Home. A home he couldn't hold. But
if he couldn't hold it, he could still see the English burning in hell for what
they'd done. He tried not to remember which of these trees he'd climbed as a
lad.

By the time he made his way back to the
glen where he was meeting Wat, darkness had fallen. The black clouds hid the
moon. Thunder crashed and lightning slashed the sky, lighting the night like
daylight.

"This is going to get worse," Wat
said. "Looks like a good storm."

James had to agree with him. The village of
Douglas was only two miles away and Thomas's farm just beyond that. They needed
to find shelter. The rain had turned to sleet slashing at him by the time they
passed east of the village. When the lightning flashed, the small timbered
house was a welcome sight at the end of the muddy path. A glimmer of light
shone through the shutters.

Wat crept ahead to scout whilst James
crouched in the driving sleet, his cloak flapping around him. He grabbed it
close more to still it than for warmth and listened. The howl of the wind and crack
of branches was all he could hear. Wat was back after a few minutes and tapped
his arm to give him the all clear. They'd already agreed James would go in
alone in case something went wrong.

James wondered why his heart was hammering
so hard. He was just going to talk to one of his father's men. It shouldn't
make him feel like a nervous lad. So he stood up and strode to the door. As he
hammered on it, another crash of lightning lit up the sky.

"Who is it?" a voice shouted from
inside.

"An old friend." James hoped. He
couldn't recognize the voice from the muffled shout over the sound of the
storm.

"What old friend?"

"Thomas Dickson, is it? Open the door."
Thunder crack again. "Thomas, you knew my father."

The door opened halfway and Thomas Dickson
looked out. His father's man had a craggy face. His nose was hooked and he had
a beard down to his chest though now it was streaked with gray, but there had always
been a hint of laughter in his blue eyes. James stood with his hand on the doorway,
his hair crusted with ice.

"Thomas," James said.

The man looked him up and down, no smile in
his eyes now. He frowned in puzzlement.

"It's Jamie."

Thomas's eyes widened. "By the rood."
He grabbed James's arm and pulled him inside. First, he took a quick glance
into the darkness and then he slammed the door.

"Jamie." He threw his arms around
James, pounding his back and laughing. "Lad, you're alive."

James laughed and pounded back. "Unless
you break something, pounding on me."

"We have to talk, lad." Thomas
shook his head. "It's my lord now. That's hard to remember. I still think
you an imp following your father about."

"Ah, it's good to see you, Thomas. It's
good to be home--even if it is in secret."

"You've been gone too long. I never
thought to see the day a Douglas would have to sneak into the dale. But get you
out of that wet cloak and beside the fire. We'll talk."

"Let me get my man first." James ran
out through the sleet whilst Thomas held the door open. As they went in, he
stepped out to walk around the house. James smiled. Thomas was always a
cautious man and in these foul days, that was a good thing. Once Thomas
returned, he dropped a thick wooden bar across the door. The room was snug with
a fire burning on the hearth and stools to pull in its warmth. Water dripped
from their hair as Thomas took their cloaks to hang.

Soon the three of them were sitting with
ale and James gave a profound sigh. The house had a scent of a sweet wood fire
and fresh bread.

"This is the best thing I've felt in
many days, my old friend," he said. "In spite of how I came here."

Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"They said you were wi' Bruce. But none knew if you still lived."

"I was with him at Scone when Bishop Wishart
crowned him and then Isabella MacDuff put the crown on his head again. And
afterward until two days ago when I swore to him there were loyal men in my
Douglasdale. I came to find them."

"So it's true then. He's making a
fight of it? After so many died at Methven and after, I feared. The English
said he'd fled to Ireland."

"A lie. We never left but were in the
North Isles. He'll make a fight of it. And we've learned what we needed to from
our defeat there and from Wallace. We can't beat the English in the field. But
we can beat them." James stood and walked to the fire. He turned to face
Thomas. "We mean to."

Thomas's face was flushed with excitement. "And
you're to claim Douglasdale? As your father's son?"

"That I am. It is mine. The king has
sworn to restore it to me though I'll have to fight for it."

"A Douglas. Returned. Take my oath
then. We need you, Jamie." His face split into a broad smile. "My
lord of Douglas."

If only his father were here to see him
receive his first oath-- Thomas knelt and put his hands between James's and
swore to be his man and James swore to protect him. So simple, but now they had
a duty to each other. James sat back and looked into the dancing flames of the
fire. It was a duty that he feared might cost them both much.

Thomas stood. "I've saved something
against this day. Something for you." He went to a chest under a window
and opened it, pulling out some blue cloth. Holding it out he said, "I
took your father's pennon the day he was taken prisoner."

James' chest squeezed tight. He took it and
ran his fingers over one of the white stars. "Thomas." He stared at
the silky cloth so the man wouldn't see tears start in his eyes. "I thank
you."

Thomas busied himself at a shelf getting
down bread and cheese for them. "What am I thinking? My lord in my house
and I've not offered him food."

James took a deep breath and took a slice
of bread and hunk of soft yellow cheese. But one hand slid over something that
his father had touched.

"How has it been in Douglasdale?"
James asked after a few minutes. He told Thomas what he'd found on their way.

"Bad enough. After it was noised that
you were with King Robert, my cousin Iain was hanged for no more reason than to
warn us. Two of the smith's sons hanged. Thom Miller. Iain of Lannock. Women
have been savaged." His mouth twisted in pain. "The commander does
nothing or less than nothing. Of a mercy, the priest has been careful, mayhap
too much so but I cannot blame him."

James thought on that for a while. "Thomas,
how many men does Lord Clifford have holding the castle?"

"It's a small garrison, my lord."
Thomas's eyes sparked with delight at the title and James had to chuckle. But
James hadn't felt much different when Bruce became his liege lord, now that he
thought of it.

"Thirty and a handful of servants,"
Thomas said.

"So can I gather enough men to play a little
game with these thirty Sassenach?"

"What game did you think of playing?"
Wat had kept quiet sipping his ale and eyes going back and forth between the
two men.

"That I've yet to decide. But I'm sure
we can think of one. If I could take my castle, I'd couldn't see no English
ever sat in it again. But at the least, I'd like to give them a good lesson."
His voice hardened. "There's a Douglas once more in his own lands."

A sly smile slid across Thomas'sface. "I
know men who will rise for you. And I may know a way to get at the English. Palm
Sunday is only a few days away. The commander sees that his men attend holy day
services. By the saints, they're godly men to rape of one day and pray on the
next. But none dare abide wi' out attending the kirk." He gave a bark of
laughter. "On Epiphany Day they left the keep unguarded so all could go to
their prayers."

James leaned back and stretched his legs
out. "Did they indeed?" He smiled into the fire as he sipped his ale.

James wanted to curl up in front of the
fire to sleep, but Thomas wouldn't have it. His lord had to take his bed. The
house was a large one for the village, with three rooms and the unusual luxury
of a wide hearth and chimney. A gift from James's father for Thomas's service. Thomas
showed him to his own bed on the other side of the hearth.

Under the bearskin coverlet, James sank
into the feather mattress. After days of weary travel, sleep came easy. The
sight of Isabella hanging from an oak tree, a rope digging deep into her white
neck jerked him awake. He was on his feet, panting and his heart racing. He lay
back down and threw his arm across his eyes. He wouldn't see that. Thinking on
it would destroy him. Hours later, he slept again.

Bars of sunlight in his eyes awoke him the
next morning. He jerked upright in bed. How late had he slept? Padding into the
main room in bare feet, he found himself face-to-face with a young woman who
looked him up and down. He blinked in confusion before he remembered that
Thomas Dickson had a daughter, and a fair one now it seemed. Alycie had been
but a nuisance when he'd last seen her, always following her father, asking
questions, and getting underfoot.

Her hair had the color and sheen of
cornsilk piled atop her head and her face and neck were creamy and smooth. Her
simple blue kirtle was modest, but still shapely enough to give him pause.

He bowed slightly. "Forgive me."

She put her hands on her hips and shook her
head. Her blue eyes had exactly that same hint of laughter as her father's. "Have
you not changed at all, Jamie Douglas?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Mayhap a
bit, Alycie. I've grown a taller." He looked down at her. "And you've
grown fairer."

Her father came in carrying an armful of
logs and bringing a scent of fresh pine with him. "Lass, show a little
respect to Lord Douglas."

James threw his arms wide. "Here I am
in my bare feet, Thomas. I don't blame her for thinking I look a careless lad."

"No, my lord. Father is right. You
just seem so like you did when you were a lad. I'm more glad than you can know
that you've returned." She tilted her head to look at him. "More glad
than you can know."

"Being a fine lord hasn't been my lot
lately, but I can do better than this. I'm pleased to see you here. I suppose I
thought you'd be wed and in your own house." In truth, he hadn't thought
of it at all, but he wouldn't say so.

The laugher in her eyes faded with her
smile. "There have been things that happened." She shook her head and
picked up a pitcher to pour him a mug of ale. "You'll have a long morning.
There's bread and cheese to break your fast. I'm sorry I teased you. It's hard
to remember we're not children any more."

He took the mug and tilted her chin up with
a finger. "I've fond memories of being a lad here, Alycie. I don't mind
being teased. But you were a troublesome lass and always underfoot." He
winked at her and then took a drink of the ale. He hid a smile when she
blushed.

James sat the mug on the table and broke
off a hunk of bread. "Thomas, I'll try to make myself look more like the
Lord of Douglas. But she's aright that there's much to be done. I want to meet
with our men."

"Aye, my lord. I sent Will to three I
trust. I fear if too many come of a time, it might be noticed."

Wat looked up from where he sat cleaning
his armor. "That's a wise thought."

James swallowed a mouthful of bread and
motioned with the rest in his hand. "The luxury of breaking my fast is
welcome, but I can't be slothful. Here's Wat hard at work and I'm still idle."
He picked up his mug of ale and took it with him. His hauberk was rust specked
from the rain. With a sigh, he took a cloth out and a bit of grease to do
something about it. It would take tumbling it with sand to get it truly clean. He
remembered thinking as a lad thinking he'd have a squire for such tasks, as his
father had. Now that he remembered, he'd spent much time polishing his father's
armor. James's sword was in better case but the edge could be sharper. The
whetstone was making a comforting whisk as he ran it down the blade when he
heard voices in the outer room.

Buckling his belt and checking the hang of
the sword, he stepped in to see four men had joined them. They stared at him,
looking him up and down.

"God's wounds," one of them said
in a low voice. "I didn't truly believe you, Will."

Alycie clanged the lid down on the steaming
pot she was stirring that hung over the hearth. She stood up straight to glare
at the man. "I'll thank you not to use such language in my father's house,
Gib."