A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (27 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Somewhere in
Scotland: June 1307

Smoke rose from castle walls, horses crashed
on pikes, a lady sobbed. Men groaned and screamed. James hurt. When James
moved, pain hacked at his shoulder and he moaned. But he mustn't let anyone
hear. He was the Douglas of Douglasdale, son of his father. Nearby, someone
started cursing but soon stopped, and James wondered if the man had died.

From the top of Loudoun Hill, he walked
down the heather covered slope. Crows billowed from feasting on bodies in
clouds so thick he couldn't see the sky. Corpses sprawled all over the field. The
sun was a watch fire that shone upon headless bodies
. Where are my men? Please, no. Did I let them die?

The caw of the crows was the only sound, but
then he began to hear the voices of the dead. Isabella wept and begged for
mercy. Thomas's voice called for his brother and ended on a scream. A voice
begged for help, and another cried out his mother. James's mother had died
birthing him. He would have called out for Alycie, but she should not come to
this place of death.

He walked through a field of bodies.
Did I kill them all or only let them die?
The king. If only he could find the king, he would ask. But the royal lion standard
stood at the top of the hill. Tattered and windblown. Abandoned.

He awoke in a tent with light shining in. He
saw the shape of an upright and the droop of the canvas over his head. He was
on a cot with blankets piled on him and a pillow under his head.

The blankets made him swelter, and his body
dripped with sweat. He felt dizzy and his shoulder stabbed when he struggled to
sit up. No matter how hard he tried to push himself erect, his arms were too
weak to hold him.

The battle came back to him in fragments. The
horses on the pikes screaming, a shattered skull, the knight swinging his sword.
But they must have won, or he'd be in chains or dead. If the king didn't live,
they would have lost. He felt pleased that he'd winkled that much out. His mind
wasn't totally fogged.

He blinked up when a he saw a face leaning
over him, scraggly beard barely sprouted on a young chin. Once more, James
struggled to sit up. "Wine," he croaked.

"Sir James," the boy stuttered. "The
king--Lord Boyd. They've ordered to know when you awaken." He scurried
away.

James thrashed his legs to rid himself of
the blankets. His fever must have broken, he thought dimly, because he felt
like to smother. He ran his hand across his chest but it was wrapped in
bandages, his arm strapped down. God's wounds, his mouth and tongue felt like
old leather.

The king bent to enter the tent and inside
his head brushed the roof. He knelt next to James.

"My liege," James croaked.

"What are you thinking?" the king
snapped at the boy dithering in the entrance. "Wine for him. Poppy in it."

The boy scurried over and scooted around
the king to kneel next to James so he could lift him a little and held the cup
to his mouth. It went down cool, stinging the splits in his lips. James tried
to lift the hand he wasn't leaning on before he remembered he couldn't.

The king waved the boy away and himself
supported James as he laid back. "Wound fever. Keep still, lad."

James's lips were cracked and dry so it
hurt when he gave a wry laugh. "No. Set. Battles."

"Aye, but it went well. And by the
Rood of St. Margaret, you're with us again." The king's face hardened in a
mask for a second. "I feared to lose you, too."

"My men. How many?"

"Not so bad. Ten of yours. Forty in
the whole battle. Valence lost four times that number and the rest fled. I
harried them well on their way. Gloucester was a day behind encamped. I sent
them both back to their master." He gave a grim laugh. "They should
be joyful Edward Longshanks is still at Carlisle, or he'd do Valence even more
harm as we did."

The tent spun around James, and he wondered
if he was dying. He thought to ask, but Isabella's voice stopped him. She
whispered words in his ear. He couldn't die without telling. He grabbed Bruce's
wrist. "I killed Isabel." He struggled against the king's hands,
pressing him down into the blankets. "Your grace, what could I do?" He
felt tears running down his face and a sob he couldn't stop wracked his body. He
clutched onto Bruce's arm. "I sneaked to her--in the castle. She begged me.
To end it. I couldn't get her out." His words were strangely muffled. "I
couldn't get her out. They hurt her. I had to."

He could hear the king's voice, but he
didn't understand the words. They buzzed in his ears like midges on a hot
night.

Through a haze of sleep, he felt someone
raise him. He remembered where he was and looked for the king, but the face was
the wrong one, not the king but a grizzled face with a short beard. How long
had it been?

"Do you thirst, my lord?" Wat
said.

He put a cup of water to James's mouth, and
he gulped it down.

He managed to scoot back and, with Wat
helping him, sat up. He ran his hand over his face. It was sweaty but the fever
seemed gone. His beard had grown. How long had he been ill? "Bad bout of
wound fever, Wat?"

He'd told the king about Isabel. Or mayhap
it had only been another fever dream. Had they given him poppy? He frowned,
trying to remember.

"Bad enough. I'll get you some broth."

"Wait." James jerked at the edge
of the bandage and cursed. He was too weak to dislodge it. "I want to see.
How bad is it?"

"Ripped open your shoulder good. Broke
the bone. The horse falling on you didn't help."

When James twitched the shoulder, it was
like someone drove a sword into it again. Sweating, he held out his hand. "Give
me your dirk. I'll see it."

Wat looked over his shoulder. "The
king will have my head if I make you worse." But he reached behind James
to loosen the linen strip, slowly unwinding it. It stuck. Wat grimaced as he
jerked to get it free.

As the bandage pulled loose, James felt
cool air on the wound and a jolt of pain. He clamped his teeth and ignored it. Wat
tossed aside the bandage, smelling of myrrh and vinegar.

James strained to see over his shoulder. Even
that was agony, but he had to know. A shoulder wound could mean losing use of
your arm. At least, it was his shield arm. He lifted it carefully. Where it had
been laid open was a long gash that went from his neck to his arm, red and
swollen and oozing pus. If it was better, he didn't want to think how bad it
had been.

James slid his feet from the cot onto the
floor. His legs wobbled under him when he stood, and the tent spun. He had to
grab Wat's arm to keep from plunging face down onto the ground. "Where are
my clothes?" Pain gnawed his shoulder like a hound on a bone. The pain and
the not knowing made him fume. "Get me my clothes."

"My lord, the king ordered..."

How Wat could be so good in battle and not
understand about getting dressed was more than James could understand. "Get.
My. Clothes." Wat dug through a pack and pulled out a shirt whilst James
swayed on his feet.

In the end, James settled for breeches and
a linen shirt that hung loose about his shoulder over the red, oozing flesh. Wat
pulled on James's boots whilst he sat and downed a goblet of wine to strengthen
himself.

Even so, he was dizzy by the time he pushed
aside the flap of the tent. Across the camp, crowded with men, the king stood
under a spreading oak, talking to Sir Niall Campbell. Wat wrapped an arm around
James's waist to steady him. Woozily, James realized they weren't at Loudoun
Hill any more. He hadn't known when the camp was moved. The walk towards the
king made James's legs tremble.

The king turned to watch his approach,
waving Campbell away.

"Let me go," James croaked to
Wat. "Leave me."

A stillness in the king's face told him. The
words had been truth and no dream. Near the king, he reached up and grasped a
branch to steady himself, clinging to it. Sweat beaded his face. His stomach
coiled and writhed like a snake. "My liege," He licked his cracked
lips. "What I told you. . ."

The king lifted his chin and his lips
formed a stern line. "You told me an ill dream, James. You'll not speak of
it again."

James shook his head. Now that it was out,
the king had to know. It had been no fever dream. He'd not lie. "It was. .
."

"No," Bruce barked out the word. "It's
your king's command. Had such a thing happened, think. How many are the lady's
kin? Can we afford another blood feud?"

James felt cold whilst sweat ran down his
face. Finally, he said, "No."

"It never happened. It was a dream. Now,
you'll never speak of it again."

James' lips moved, trying to form a protest
that his muzzy head wouldn't make for him.

"I command you, James, Lord of Douglas."

Tears prickled in James eyes but he forced
them back. She deserved more than weak tears. He'd never speak of it again. Yet,
he would pray for her. That he could do. "As you command, my king."

"Devil take it, sit, Jamie." Bruce
grabbed his arm. When he was safely on the ground, leaning carefully against
the rough tree trunk so that his shoulder didn't touch, Bruce knelt beside him.
He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Whether you were right, I don't know. I
pray to God I'm never put to such a test. But, mind, it never happened."

Wat ran up at the king's urgent motion. "My
lord, I told him to stay abed. I did."

James took a deep breath of the warm, summer-scented
air. "He did. But I needed to see my king's face. And to hear his command."
For a moment, he squeezed Bruce's arm. "Now I'll bide here a bit. The
sight of my liege and fresh air will be a remedy." The sun felt good on
his face.
"I think I could use that broth, Wat. And mayhap a bit of bread?"

* * *

July 1307

James ran his fingers over his face as he
looked in the silvered looking glass. His beard was trimmed back to the small
shape he preferred, his cheeks bare. He grinned to himself wondering why he
cared. This morning, he'd lead his men back to Ettrick Forest, but first he'd
say farewell to the king. Only the good God knew when they'd see each other
again.

Wat was preparing the men for the trip. He
had his orders, not that he needed them. James flexed his shoulder. The
half-healed scab on it pulled with a stabbing pain, and he sucked in a breath. He'd
have to hope he didn't need his shield arm for yet a while, but it would heal. If
the scar was ugly, well a man needed a few scars. He'd tell the king farewell
and take any last commands. The next months would be harsh ones, yet again.

A horn blew in the distance signaling
riders coming in as he emerged into the bright summer sunlight. He blinked in
the glare. They were camped on a low ridge between two rocky peaks. Horses
clattered in and soon the riders were dismounting, two knights and a score of
archers and men-at-arms. The force had grown since the battle at Loudoun Hill. Not
a day passed that more didn't ride in, mostly lower lords with small forces,
but their numbers had doubled. Wat had chosen a score to add to James's force. They'd
be ready to move fast and hard in Douglasdale and the Forest.

He'd had news from the south three days
before, a messenger that Will had gotten to him, that King Edward was said to
be yet at Carlisle, preparing a huge army to come against them. An army that
would make Valence's look like a man taking a piss compared to Loch Lomond.

King Robert planned a retiral with all his forces
into the vast mountains of northern Moray. There they would be hidden, deep in
mountain fastness. Only James and his men would stay behind to harry the
enemy's rear from the Forest as best he could.

The king strode towards the newcomers. They
dropped to their knees to make their pledge to him. As they arose, another horn
blew that more newcomers were riding in.

Three men rode hard towards the camp,
flying no pennant. James's spurs, new gold ones gifted from the king, rang on
the stones. He watched the approaching riders as he walked towards through the
crowded camp.

Then he recognized Gib and behind him,
struggling to keep up, rode Will and a priest in a gray robe. They weren't to
come themselves with messages, but neither was a man who'd lightly ignore his
orders. A priest with them was a strange addition.

Frowning, James waited whilst Gib pulled
his horse to a halt and dismounted. He ran towards James shouting, "My
lord." Then he seemed to remember himself with all the people staring at
him so he bent a knee. "My lord, we've news I had to bring myself. News
from Carlisle."

The king stepped beside James.

"What news then, man?" James
demanded.

"It's King Edward." Gib rose and
motioned to the wiry, tanned priest who'd dismounted and followed more slowly. "This
priest brought the news. He was there, he says."

The man looked from James to the king in
his armor and gold tabard in apparent confusion of whom should address.