A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (11 page)

James looked down to realize his
red-smeared sword was still in his hand. "Wait. I'm all right. In a
moment."

The king looked out at the hills behind,
grim-faced and jaw knotted. James sheathed the weapon and, holding his side,
walked to the king. In the midst of the men, the queen was helping Princess
Margerie from her saddle, the girl sobbing and hiccupping.

The king shook his head and turned to the
survivors. "Let her come to me." He squatted as his daughter ran into
his arms. He patted her back, but over her head, he was looking at his men. James
knew he was counting. Clinging to James's arm, Isabella made a choking sound. When
he met her eyes, they were wide and he could see the terror in them--and
terrified she should well be.

"Thank God." A shout came from
the top of a hillock. Campbell ran towards them with four men-at-arms beside
him. Four. James stifled a moan.

"Thanks be to God, indeed," Bruce
said. "I thought you were lost, man."

Campbell gained the trees and leaned back
against a trunk, face and armor blood smeared. The men-at-arms collapsed onto
the ground around him. "It was near enough. Your plunge through drew away
enough that we could fight our way out."

"God a'mercy," the queen said as
she pulled her stepdaughter away from her father and held the child close. "Those
were no English."

Campbell gave a grim bark of laughter. "No,
those were Highland warriors. MacDougall's caterans. He's a cousin to the Comyn,
I mind me. Devil take them--Lame John's men."

"I've made a bloody mess of things,"
the king said. He stood and turned in a circle as he looked at what was left of
an army that had been two thousand before Methven.

Now--James looked around. A hundred, mayhap.

"We're in desperate case." The
king chewed his lip, eyes narrowed. "I have no room for more mistakes. They’ve
already cost us too dear. We must reach Angus MacDonald and it can't be done
with women and a child. And--I won't endanger them any more than they are."

He looked towards Boyd and James heard him
blow out a long breath. "Robbie, how bad is that leg?"

"Once it's bandaged, I can ride."
Boyd laughed. "Or walk come to that since the curst MacDougalls gutted my
horse."

"James? That side looks a nasty wound."

"Nothing," James pulled his mail
hauberk over his head so he could let Isabella bandage it. "A shallow
slash. Hurts like the very devil, my lord. But it's my first. A man needs a few
scars."

A grim laugh went up from the men, but
Isabella didn't laugh. She was wrapping the cloth around the slash in his side
that still oozed blood. He took it from her to jerk as tight as he could. Then
he squeezed her hands and felt them cold as winter and shaking.

Atholl looked up. His face was as gray as
his hair. "I can't go on. Robert, my lord, I'm sorry. But it's the truth. I'm
spent."

The king paced around them, rubbing his
face. "God's wounds, what am I to do?" He looked at them and shook
his head. "This is my decision. The women under such guard as we can
manage will race for Kildrummy Castle and thence to Norway and my sister's
protection. I can't risk Edward laying hands on them. But I can't protect them
with us either."

The queen said, "Robert..."

The king held up a hand. "No. No
arguments. This is what has to be. Nigel, you'll take all of the horses that
are left sound, you, Robbie and my lord of Atholl." His voice was low and
considering. "Any others too wounded to travel on foot will go with you."
He nodded towards Sir Alexander Lindsay and Sir John de Cambo, both bandaging
dripping wounds. "And as many men as there are horses to protect the women."

Nigel turned, looking at what was left to
them. "With the women, we can mount three score men, Robert. But
Kildrummy? Edward is bound to lay siege to it."

"Of a certainty. It's well stocked and
prepared for an attack, but I don't want Elizabeth or the others there. The
castle should hold out for at least a year whilst I raise a new army. Atholl
must get the ladies safely out of the country once they rest and have fresh
horses. I charge you and Robbie both with holding the castle whilst they flee."

"The king's right," Boyd said. "And
no time to waste. Come dark the traitorous MacDougalls will be down on us like
foxes on a rabbit."

"Ride northwest as fast as you can for
the Mamlorn Pass and through the mountains east to my strong castle," the
king ordered. "Now. Whilst you can."

Isabella's hands gripped James's arm. Her
whole body trembled.

He pulled her against him and tried not to
limp as he walked her to her horse. He put his mouth to her ear. "Remember,
my lady, I love you." Hands around her waist, he lifted her into the
saddle. He could have said that his wound was too bad to go afoot, but that
would have been cowardice. And he was sworn to the king--first. Nothing else
could be as important. Not even Isabel. Closing his eyes for a moment, he
relished the pain in his side, let it wash through him. It hid the other that
he couldn't think about.

"I love you, James Douglas." Tears
ran down her cheeks. "Don't forget."

Her tears hurt. But there was nothing he
could do. He squeezed her hand one last time and kissed her fingers.

The king lifted his daughter into the
saddle, loosening her slender hands that clung to him. The queen motioned for
them to gather around her. She seemed calm to James, but she was a de
Burgh--the daughter of warlords. Grimly, James watched the guard form around
them.

"Let's move," Nigel yelled and
they rode into the trees. It seemed only a heartbeat, and they were gone.

"James," the king said.

He stood upright. "I'll keep up, Sire.
I give you my word."

"Then come help me out of this armor. We're
caterans now ourselves. It's the only way." The king gripped his tabard at
the neck, its cloth-of-gold dyed red and black with half-dried blood. He ripped
it down the front. "All of you. Out of your armor."

James knelt to unfasten the king's belt. Bruce
fastened the scabbard for his great sword over his bare back.

"We'll move further into the woods
here, but once it's dark we go down to the pass. Mayhap for once we'll have
some luck. If there are bodies to loot, we will."

"Loot caterans?" James stared up
at him. What could the highlanders have that he would want?

"They were in better case than we are.
Brogans we need for our feet. Sheepskins for cloaks if we get so lucky. Even
some of those plaids they sling about their shoulders. And, God a'mercy, food."

James choked back a reply. A king reduced
to this. It wasn't right. But if it was what it took to keep his king alive, so
be it.

Bruce tossed away his gauntlets. "Naill,
think you that you could make it through to your own lands?"

"Alone?" The muscular knight
threw down his mail shirt and scratched at his beard. "I'd have a good
chance of it. This is my kind of country, even if it belongs to the foul
MacDougalls. It would be a sad day that a MacDougall could lay hands on a
Campbell."

"We'll need galleys. I have family
ties enough in the Isles, especially with the MacDonalds and the MacRauris, and
they give a snap or less for the king of the English. But we must have ships."

"I can get them." Niall Campbell
laughed grimly. "I commanded my cousins to remain in King Edward's peace
for just such a possibility. But you, my lord?" Campbell sounded doubtful
about the whole idea.

"The rest of us have a better chance
of getting through Balquhidder and across Loch Lomond into Lennox. Even now..."
Bruce shook his head. "Even though the earl was lost at Methven, they
aren't enemies. It's our best route."

"I still think that lord may have
gotten away," Campbell said. "No one reported his being captured or
that the English found his body."

"He may be alive, and that would be
the first good news in a month, but I can't count on it. Still, through Lennox
we will go."

James had stripped the rest of the armor
from the king. He tossed away the mail chausses from his own legs. Soon he was
down to his trewes and a sword belt. "You think they won't take away the
bodies, my lord?"

Campbell sat, back propped against a tree
trunk as he tied up a shallow gash in his arm. "We killed a goodly number
and they're scattered through the pass. I'm thinking it will take some time."
He grinned up at them, white teeth gleaming in contrast to his red beard. "And
if we run into one or two MacDougalls recovering the bodies, I won't mind."

"Oh, that wouldn't be bad, now would
it?" James tested the edge of his dirk on his thumb. "But we'll have
to make it quiet killing. I'd as soon not meet the whole clan again this night."

The king nodded. "You have the right
of it, Jamie. Now, come. Let's further into the woods. We'll rest whilst we may.
And once dark comes, we're off."

It was a sorry remains of an army that
followed Robert de Bruce deeper into the shadows of the forest. James hung back
behind the others, sword in his hand to keep rear guard, but following a
defeated king. No one murmured or questioned his determination. Mayhap it was
that--the King's determination. That he seemed with every defeat to grow
stronger within himself. His resolve to defeat their conquerors grew deeper
with each day. Whatever it was, James could see it in his companions' faces. They
would follow Robert de Bruce to the death. And the truth was that he would as
well.

CHAPTER NINE

Near Loch
Lomond, Scotland: September 1306

James slid on his belly over the icy cold rocks
in the darkness. Snow flurries made an icy coating on his sheepskin cloak. They
had to get through to Loch Lomond, and the bastard MacDougalls had every way
guarded. James knew they wouldn't survive out here much longer with winter
coming on fast. James's ribs made hills and valleys up his sides. That didn't
worry him nearly so much as the king's gaunt face. Not that Bruce was so very
old, in his thirties. But that was too old for living like this, even though at
times it was fun.

James lay flat and peered over the edge of
the crag. A good ten feet below, a fire glowed. One of the three men huddled
over it slid a griddle in the fire. Muttering curses under his breath, James
wriggled his way backwards. They'd known this way would be guarded, too. Once
away from the edge, he rose to a crouch, making sure he stayed well below the
horizon. Even the dark, he wouldn't chance being outlined against the sky.

He trotted to the overhang where the others
awaited--now only thirty survivors of the king's entire army. He silently held
up three fingers.

James pointed to Thomas Bruce, lean as a
weasel, and the man-at-arms, Wat Bunnok, a wiry campaigner who'd been with
Wallace and could move silently as a wolf. James pulled his dirk out from his
belt behind his back. Thomas made a patting motion towards the others to stay
where they were.

"I'll go," Edward Bruce whispered.
He stood.

"No," the king said in a low
voice that brooked no argument. "I left this to Jamie." The king's
quelling tone silenced the man. Edward Bruce was a good fighter, but when it
came to sneaking, he'd be sure to rush in and give them away. They couldn't
afford to lose any more men. Just last night Giles Ledoub died, mostly from no
way to tend a slash to the shoulder bone he got a week past in a fight, but no
food or warmth had sped his death.

Finally, after dodging and killing their
pursuers, they were nearly to the loch. Across it might be help, mayhap even
some safety. James's stomach grumbled.

"Your belly gives us away, you'll get
a good clout," Thomas Bruce whispered.

"You'd have to wait your turn after
the MacDougalls." He crouched and motioned them to follow. James trusted
Thomas to do what needed to be done. He liked the way the man thought. Risks
were fine when you had to take them, but throwing lives away was stupid.

When James flattened himself on the ground,
Thomas and Wat followed suit. Sticking his dirk between his teeth to free his
hands, he slithered his way to the edge.

James pointed towards Thomas and the
cateran on the right. He'd take the one in the middle. He motioned Wat to the
left. James gripped his dirk and scooted a bit to the side so he'd drop behind
his man. He held up a hand. One by one, he folded a finger down. On the fifth,
James leapt off the edge.

The man started to his feet with a wordless
cry. Before he'd come half way up, James grabbed his chin and jerked it back,
dragging him off balance. A hard slice of the dirk slit his throat. James
jumped backwards, pulling the man with him so that he didn't fall into the fire
and onto the food. The man flopped and gurgled. His blood squirted twice over
James's hands. James whirled to see if the others needed help. They had already
done their work. Two more bodies lay in eddies of snow.

"Wat, run back and shout up to the
others," James ordered.

It was a long run to the narrow path they'd
found to the top, but a yell from nearby would bring the king. Whilst they
waited, James flipped the body over. The man had worn a better sheepskin cloak
than the one James had, but now it was blood soaked. A bag of oats tied to his
belt was a welcome find.

Thomas used a stick to pull the cooked
bannock off the fire. The oaty scent made James's stomach gurgle again and
Thomas gave the back of his head a slap.

"Hey, now. It didn't give us away."
He stood up and grabbed the dead man's limp arms, dragging him into the dry
gorse.

By the time he'd dragged all three away,
Thomas had another oat bannock on the fire. He handed James half of the first
flat oatcake. The two squatted by the fire breaking off pieces to eat and
soaking up the faint heat. James absently scratched at the itching, half-healed
scab that stretched across his side. They generally didn't risk a fire, hadn't
had a one in days. Suddenly, the others were jumping down from the crag.

"A fire." Gilbert de la Haye
moaned with pleasure as he handed the two men the swords they'd left behind to
depend on their dirks. A sword rattling in its sheath would have been disaster.

"And oats," James added pulling
another steaming hot bannock away out of the fire. He handed the whole thing to
the king. "More shortly. Should be some for everyone. Then we'd better
move on."

Bruce looked doubtfully at the bannock in
his hand. "Someone should have half."

"Eat," James said as he shoved
another into the fire.

The king squatted and broke it in two to
eat it. After a bite, he was shoveling it down. They all crowded close around
the fire pulling their sheepskin cloaks tight on their shoulders, hands over
the flames as James doled out halves of the bannocks.

"We need to look for a way across the
loch," the king said after he swallowed the last of it. "We can skirt
Ben Lomond from here, stay up a little way up on its slopes."

"We should spread out. Find crevasse
at least. Rest for the day and once it's dark again, we'll have to find a boat,"
Gilbert de la Haye said.

"Waiting is dangerous. And I'm tired
of it," Edward snarled. "We should find a boat tonight. Get across
the loch and head for Castle Dunaverty. Start acting like knights again."

Bruce rose and glared down at his brother. "Knights?
We're outlaws until we have an army at our backs and don't forget it. King
Edward would hang, draw and quarter us in a trice--no different than he did
Wallace or poor Chris. You can forget your knightly honor, Brother. Surviving
and building a new army is all that counts."

The king dropped his hand on his brother's
shoulder. "Yelling at each other will just bring our enemies down on us. We'll
do as Gilbert says. There has to be somewhere to shelter. There's not enough
time before daylight to search for a way across."

Edward looked glum but finally nodded in
agreement. "Then let's move."

James kicked rocks over the fire until it
was completely covered. No point in helping the MacDougalls find the bodies and
realize the king had been this way. They'd know soon enough. Then they started
down the slope of the mountain towards Loch Lomond, clambering over the boulders
that covered the foot of the great mountain. As they neared the loch, a break
in the clouds let slivers of moonlight filter through. The waters caught
glimmers of light like darting fireflies.

Climbing and scrambling kept James warm,
and a bead of sweat ran down his cheek and froze. He brushed a sprinkle of snow
out of his hair. They had spread out to look for anything that would hide them
for the day. He vaulted over a big rock hoping for something behind it, a cave,
crevasse, something. Nothing.

Then the king shouted from the distance, "Here."

It must be a good find for Bruce to chance
giving away their location but in the dark and the snow, no MacDougall caterans
were likely to be out searching yet. Soon enough they'd be once again sweeping
the land by the hundreds. James climbed towards the king's voice.

He heard quiet speech, the king and Edward,
as he climbed up the steep brae-face to get to them. "A cave," Bruce
said pointing behind him. "Big enough for all of us."

"I'll find the others." The rest
were searching further down the slope so he loped that way until he found
Thomas and Alexander Bruce. They quickly rounded up the rest of the men and ran
back up to where the king awaited. The first daylight broke through the clouds
across the vast waters of the loch, casting golden light onto it. Inside the
cave was a little warmer, and James was glad of being out of the wind and snow.
He rubbed his hands together. Hunching inside the sheepskin he used for a
cloak, fleece to the inside, he settled cross-legged on the floor.

Bruce set watches, one man per hour so they
could all rest most of the day. Hunger was eating at their strength. If only
James could hunt, he was sure he could find enough food. But they were the prey
instead.

Once Gilbert de la Haye awoke James with
his snoring and James gave him a kick in the ribs. The man snorted and opened
his eyes. "Quiet," James said.

Gilbert nodded and went back to sleep.

Mid-day, Edward Bruce poked James awake for
a turn at the watch. He stood in the shadows within the cave. From below along
the shore came a shout from one of the hunters who sought them. James gripped
his sword. A voice answered then their talk faded into the distance.

James chewed his lip. Escape was so close. The
MacDougalls wouldn't leave boats where one would be easily found though, he
feared. He eased his way to the opening, flattened against the cold rock to
peer down at the water. The snow clouds had cleared. The sun sparkled on blue
waters, ruffled silver by a sharp wind but nothing that would stop a row
across. It stretched to the horizon at its length. But it was narrower across, mayhap
only a mile in places. On the west side, he could see the earldom of Lennox
covered with dark pines--and safety at least for a time. Once they found a boat.

The king was right. This place had a wild
beauty that caught at his throat. And a wild danger.

Winter's dark dropped early and sudden like
a black curtain. Only a sliver of a moon lighted the night. Wisps of mist
drifted down from the peak. Wat scouted to the shore to be sure the hunters had
given up for the night. He whistled and the rest followed to the lapping water
of the loch.

The king waited while they gathered around
him. "Meet here at midnight. Half go east and half west. Spread out. Scour
the water's edge as far as you can go in the time, but carefully. They must
have our scent, have found those dead sentries by now." Bruce motioned
them away and crept himself to the west.

Hunched over, close to the ground, James
stole through a scattering of junipers to the loch-side. He twisted and turned
to be sure there was no one in sight. The only sound was the slap of the water
as it washed against the rocky shore. James drew his dirk and slipped through the
dark around hulking boulders. The moon gave just enough light that he could see
a few feet in front of him. He eased his way, careful not to stumble on the
rough ground. Finding a reedy spot on the loch edge, he sloshed through, hoping
someone might have hidden a boat. Then back onto the rocky ground, he glanced
up at the sky. There was still time.

Ahead, a glimmer of torchlight shone on a
man's face as he walked. A voice drifted over the water. James crouched even
lower, tossing his dirk to his left hand. Slowly, silently, he drew his sword. Cot-house
of the local clansmen? Or caterans hunting them down?

The torch extinguished. Or someone closed a
door on it. His heart thudded and he moved in that direction. If there was a
cot-house, they would surely have a boat. When he got within sight of the
cottage, he threw himself down on his belly. A dog would be a bad thing. Crawling
forward, he listened for anything--someone talking, a growl, a blade drawing. A
snore grated in the night and James almost laughed.

No sign of a boat. He risked crawling
closer to no avail and wriggled backwards to the loch edge. A loch-side cot
with no boat was a strange thing. There was a while yet before he need turn
back. Tomorrow the hunters were bound to range higher onto Ben Lomond. The king
had to get away. Tonight.

Turning away from the loch, James decided
to risk hurrying. He trotted into a scattering of shadowy birches on a hillock,
skirting around the cot-house. On the other side, he squatted near the water
and scanned the edge. Tall reeds further along caught his eye. A path was bent
and trampled through the middle.

Now why would someone have been plowing
through the reeds? A smile touched James's lips. He ran to it and followed the
crushed pathway knee deep into the icy water. Just at the edge of the reeds
where the water deepened, the path stopped. He felt around with his feet,
kicking underwater. He spiraled in circles. Something had to be here. He kicked
something hard.

Kneeling, he felt his find. He ran his
hands up a long wooden surface.

Yes! A boat. He wanted to yell with triumph.
Jerking off his sheepskin to throw onto dry land, he ducked under the water. He
grabbed the lower edge and tugged and hauled on it. Full of water, it didn't
want to budge, but he panted and pulled. Inch by inch, it gave way. When he had
it into shallow water so that the top half was exposed, he gripped the gunwale
and flipped it upright. Even the oars were tied to a ring.

Thanks be to St. Bride. It looked to be
whole. They'd scuttled it on the MacDougall's orders, most like. James took the
edge and heaved it sideways, spilling out most of the water. It floated. He
thumped his thigh with a fist in triumph. It would hold three at most, but
three would do.