A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (14 page)

"Not a new thought to me. But you're
right."

"On Arran, the force at Brodrick
Castle is small and vulnerable I've heard. We could attack, mayhap seize their
supplies. It wouldn't take a large force--the men to row a twenty-oar galley. We
could hide it and watch for a chance to seize what we could."

"Attack Brodick Castle?"

James shrugged. "That's not my
thought, my lord, but it might be possible. Attack a force that's been sent for
supplies is more likely or at least harry them. We have to scout the place
before we know. You could gather your forces on Arran Island when you're ready.
If we've seized nothing, then there's no loss. But there's a chance of gain."

"And you'd lead the attack force,
Jamie?" The king didn't sound unhappy at the idea, but James had never led
a thing on his own. Even forty men would be many to lose in their thin numbers.

"In part, my lord. I'd like the chance
to learn, but I talked the idea over with Robbie." He nodded towards Boyd
whom he'd avoided looking at. Boyd had said James should present the idea since
he'd thought of it. James took it as a kindness to have the chance to put
himself forward. Boyd had fought with Wallace and knew the ways of secret
warfare. "I think he would be willing to lead with me. I'd defer to his
experience in all things."

A smile broke over Bruce's face. "You
have the makings of a good leader, Jamie. And I like your idea." He turned
to Boyd. "You agree with his plan, Robbie?"

"Indeed, I do. He's right that we need
supplies, and if the English can give them to us, so much the better. I know
Arran well. It's a workable plan."

Edward Bruce was still giving James another
of his cold looks. James wasn't sure why the man had taken against him. Jealousy?
But Edward and his brother argued most of the time, so that didn't seem to make
sense. Anyway, at least the king looked pleased, and that was what counted.

"You have my permission," the
king said.

"Thank you, my lord." He grinned
and Boyd winked.

"Very well, then. Tomorrow, we split
in three directions. Arran, Ireland and I for Kintail. We assemble on Arran in
two weeks time. It's understood?" The king looked around his council
waiting for a response. When they'd all agreed, he rose and climbed the steep
stairs to the chambers above.

"Robbie," James said.

Boyd rose from his place. "You did
well. I agree with you that we've had enough being cooped up. Time to show the
English that there's a King of the Scots."

"Which men should we take with us?"

"What do you think?" Boyd gave
him a blank look and James knew he was being tested. Well, how did you choose
men for a job like this?

He crossed his arms and thought for a few
seconds. "I think I'd ask Wat to choose. He knows the men-at-arms and even
the caterans better than I do. Eats with them. Practices with them. And I trust
him. I'd like him as our sergeant, and he speaks some of their Gaelic. You know
I barely twist my tongue around it."

"Good. You take care of it. You'll
learn by doing, lad." The man grinned again as he left.

By the next afternoon, Wat had their forty
men ready to sail, the lightly armored highland caterans, many clothed in a
saffron tunics and some with a plaid slung over their shoulders and their
toughened leather jerkins. They all carried small round shields and claymores
and dirks. Along with that, they were tough and agile, as James had seen far
too often as the king had fled from the MacDougall's fighters.

Dark clouds scurried across the sky before
a high wind that snapped at their cloaks and faces. Waves rocked the galley. Water
slashed into their faces over the side. Boyd set two of the rowers to bailing. James,
peering into the dark, heard the sea crashing on the breakers. Boyd joined him
as the oarsmen eased them towards the sound.

"There." James pointed towards a
faint cluster of light that had to be Brodrick Castle.

 
"There's a good beach for landing to
the south. We can pull the galley up into the broom there," Boyd said.

Even through the dark, James could see the shimmer
of the white beach as they skirted the island. Another mile and they were able
to turn in around the eastern point of land. Boyd pointed towards a place where
the water was dark, but more sheltered from the wind. The heavy seas eased. At Boyd's
order, they slowed, the oars dipping lightly. Soon they crunched their way onto
the pebbly beach. James jumped over the side into the icy, knee-deep water. Boyd
followed. Another sweep of the oars had it as beached as they could make it. Their
men scrambled out. With all forty shoving, the light-hulled vessel slid slowly
up onto the beach.

Brush massed darkly on the rise. Boyd took
an axe to a small tree that blocked their way and then another, pulling them
onto the beach to use as cover. A full hour of struggle got the galley into the
thicket. James examined their work from the beach. He'd check it again tomorrow,
but for now, it looked good. He took a deep breath. Action, at last. Boyd
pointed them inland and led the way over the beach and the sea-grass into the
dense woods.

They made a long march in the biting cold
wind with occasional quiet curses as someone stumbled over roots or rocks. Pine
needles and blown leaves littered the ground and squashed under their feet, wet
from recent rains. They passed hosts of tall pines and giant oaks with bare
branches waving in the wind. Boyd led them to a wooded hill with a clearing at
the top ringed by weathered stones where they could set up their camp. The
caterans made a couple of small fires. Boyd left, saying he'd be back with
someone he trusted from nearby.

James walked the perimeter of the camp
speaking to the sentries one by one. Mostly they chuckled at his tries at
Gaelic, but in a friendly way. Near the fires, the others were already wrapped
in their plaids. A snorting snore broke the silence.

Wat poked up the flame of a fire and James
squatted beside him.

"Sentries are in good order,"
James said.

"I could have done that for you, my
lord." Wat sounded a bit put out.

"I know you could, but I like to see
to the sentries. I'll never been taken by surprise again, that I swear to you."

A branch cracked and Boyd speaking to a
sentry brought James to his feet. Behind him walked a man in rough homespun and
a short mantle. "My lord of Douglas here has some questions for you,"
Boyd said. "It's Lowrens Fullerton, James. A good man. Was with Sir
William and he can be trusted."

James offered his hand over the fire. He'd
learned long ago in France that there was no good in acting like you were
better than someone you were asking for help. The priests and most lords said
they were--but he wondered. James returned the hard man's hard grip on his
forearm. "We need what news we can get. How many English hold the castle?"

"Not too goodly a number, my lord. Mayhap
fifty. It's a smallish place but strong. That Sir John Hastings as commands
rides out of a morning every few days. They hunt for game though there be little
enough. And take our grain and hay when they run short. Galleys bring supplies
but sometimes they want more."

"Rides out, does he?" James
caught Boyd's eye. This sounded hopeful. "How many does he ride with?"

"Takes a score of men-at-arms wi' him."
He looked around at the camp. "Nothing you couldn't handle wi' a good
ambush."

"Takes the road south from the castle
until it branches off?" asked Boyd.

"Aye."

"We owe you a debt," James said. "We'll
see that you're rewarded."

"Aye, well. Getting rid of the English
wi' go a good way." He gave James a long look. "You're Sir William le
Hardi's lad, Boyd said."

James nodded. "That I am."

"Don't look much like him. You're a
dark one. But he was a braw fighter." The man turned and stomped away. Wat
was quietly laughing.

James raised his eyebrows and grinned at
Boyd. "Was that good or bad?"

"Don't expect any bootlicking from
these people. But they'll fight the English when it comes down to it. They
don't like anyone coming in and telling them what to do--their lords are their
own. That's different."

"We don't need bootlicking,"
James said. "Just fighters--and information. Tomorrow, we'll see if Sir
John Hastings takes himself a ride. Is there a hidden spot overlooking the
road, Robbie?"

Boyd agreed that there was, a sharp slope,
heavily tree covered above the road only just out of sight of the Castle as the
road skirted the loch. James wrapped himself in his sheepskin cloak and
stretched out under a tree, assuring Boyd as he did that he'd seen to the
sentries. There was yet time for a rest. A wind sighed through the trees, rich
with the scent of heather and pine needles, tugging at his cloak. Instead of
sleep, he'd think of his arms wrapped around Isabella under the pines.

By dawn, James and Boyd stood above a
single narrow path tracing its way near the water. James looked it over and
nodded in satisfaction. Boyd was right. They would be hidden from anyone on the
lower ground. And the view down the road was excellent; he could even see the
highest tower of the Castle thrusting above the trees. Leaving Boyd to command
the camp, James slipped through the woods. He hurried from trunk to trunk as he
scouted for any sign of the English.

At the point where the road a made a turn,
James crouched and began the hard part. Sitting there, he strained his eyes
down the valley in the light that came and went. Rain clouds raced across the sun.
It was a perfect spot. They'd set a sentry here to signal if the English rode
out.

Then something caught his eye-- a ship's
mast poking into the sky passing the breakers. Then two more. St. Bride. It had
to be supplies for the castle. Supplies that would have to be landed on the
beach.

James dashed back to his camp where the men
lounged amongst the trees. Boyd jumped up and James grabbed him by the arm,
pointing towards water. The tips of masts were just coming into view.

"God's wounds," Boyd said. "If
it's as I suspect, they'll start unloading supplies. Then we'll hit them."

"We need to move to be close to the
moorings." James motioned to Wat. "Get them up--quickly and quietly. And
we'll see action soon." James loosened his sword, flexing his hand as he
watched the approaching masts growing higher. These weren't his Douglasdale men--and
not fighting for his own lands. But he had leadership with Boyd and against the
English. He'd take it and happily. "Come, I saw a good place. Not as
hidden as the spot overlooking the road, but the wait won't be long, I think. It'll
serve."

He could have flown through the oaks and
ash trees, he was so anxious to get to the spot. Already the ships threw ropes
down and lashed them to the moorings. His men hunkered behind tall gorse and
the trees that thinned as the brae cut down towards the rocky beach.

Flat on his belly, James crawled to the
edge of the leafy cover under a small rowan tree. A flash of light on a weapon
came from the castle and soon he made out a line of men scurrying along the
road. He counted. Fifty men-at-arms but only in boiled leather armor. It must
be the almost entire garrison of the castle from what they'd been told. But
then this Sir John had no reason to expect an attack. They passed only a few
strides from where he lay under the low branches.

Waiting--the hard part. The crew of the
ship was stacking barrels on the white sands. Waves licked at their heels. Barrel
after barrel. Kegs. Wooden boxes. Chests. Oh, this could be a prize indeed.

The men-at-arms reached the growing piles
of supplies. One hoisted a barrel on his shoulder. Some grabbed a box or chest
to carry. Before the last had his load, the first started the plodding trip
back, slogging through the sand under the weight of his burden. Let them get
closer. He held up a hand high enough for Boyd behind to see and waved it back
and forth. Almost ready. When the first had passed him, he leapt to his feet.

"Now! A Douglas!" he shouted as
he ran.

Behind him ululating warcries mixed with
Boyd's answering, "Scotland. Scotland."

James slashed. A man-at-arms tossed a
barrel at James and he ducked at it hurtled past his shoulder. He swung through
the man's legs. Whirling, a thrust brought down another. Around him, chaos reigned
as the half-naked caterans hacked with their long claymores. They screamed
musical Gaelic challenges and taunts. The unprepared men-at-arms went down like
wheat being scythed. A dozen still on their feet tossed away their loads. They ran
frantically towards the castle gate.

"Hold." James yelled as his
highlanders ran after them. One swung his claymore and left another man-at-arms
twitching on the ground. James counted quickly. Twenty English dead, their
blood soaking into the sand.

"Back!" He motioned. "Wat,
get those men back. We can't take the castle." An arrow whistled their way
from the parapet, but fell well short. James bent to wipe the blood from his
blade on a tussock of grass. Nearby a wounded man-at-arms, face down, moaned. One
of James's men kicked him over and plunged a dagger into his throat. A distance
away, another crawled into the heathery broom, leaving a trail of red.