Scotland and the Crusades

Because of the huge interest and emphasis on the centuries of war between England and Scotland, that Scotland was part of the larger community of Europe tends to be overlooked. In fact, Scots were involved in European affairs and Scots took part in the crusades. 

The First Crusade was called by Pope Urban II at the Council of Clermont in November 1095. There are references to Scots being amongst the crusaders, but no specific names have survived so it is impossible to tell how many or who took part. After the end of that crusade, most crusaders naturally returned home, leaving the captured Jerusalem and lands known at the time as the Levant short of defenders, leading to the foundation of the military orders of the Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller. 

In 1198, Hugh de Payens, founder and master of the Knights Templar, arrived in Scotland and met with King David I. That meeting went so well, although there are no records of details, that the Scottish King gave the Templars their liberties of Scotland and land for their first Scottish preceptory (the word used for a monastery of the Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller) at what is now Temple in Midlothian.

There they built one of their typical eight-sided churches. Unnamed Scottish knights then accompanied him on his unsuccessful attempt to capture Damascus the following year. By 1239 the Templars had founded a second preceptory at what is now Maryculter. 

During the Ninth Crusade, led by the future King Edward I of England, we finally have names of Scots who took part led by the Earl of Atholl and included some of the most prominent names in Scottish history. It is a safe assumption that Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller from the Scottish preceptories were there as well. A main responsibility of the knights militant was recruiting members to fight, so without doubt there were at least a few Scottish Templars. The Stewarts and Balliols took part in that crusade. Robert de Bruce, the Competitor, and his son Robert, Lord of Annandale and (through his wife) Earl of Carrick, did as well. 

The widely told story that Marjorie of Carrick held him prisoner to force Robert de Bruce (King Robert's father) to marry her when he brought her word of her husband's death at the fall of Acre is certainly apocryphal as they married before that city's fall. However there are clear records that he did take part in the Crusade. 

The fall of the Templars came in the middle of the Scottish Wars of Independence and I will write about them and their part in Scotland next time. 

After the fall of Acre and the loss of the entire Levant, popes continually called for another crusade, but none happened to recover it. The European nations were too busy fighting each other to mount another crusade to distant lands, but that was not the end of Crusading. Any war against non-Christians or heretics was called a crusade and there again Scots took part.

Thus when James, Lord of Douglas, carried the heart of Robert the Bruce onto the battlefield fighting the Moors in Grenada, he was following his orders to carry it on crusade. He fell in battle near Teba where a monument to him has been erected.

Photograph by Diana Beach.

During periods when Scots could not prove their mettle against the English and there were no more crusades to the Levant, many joined in the Baltic Crusades against Baltic non-Christians. Though rarely discussed, they were every bit as violent and harsh as the crusades in the Levant. The last of the Baltic Crusades was the Teutonic Knights against the Lithuanians which lasted until 1410 in which a number of Scots took part. In 1391 William Douglas, Lord of Nithsdale, illegitimate son of the Earl of Douglas, set off with his companion Robert Stewart of Durisdeer. Douglas was assassinated by the English in Danzig. In gratitude for the efforts of the Douglases, the burgh added the Douglas coat of arms to the High Gate. Such was the end of Scotland's part in crusading.

Not for Glory Available in Paperback

I've had a number of requests for this and always intended for it to happen. The formatting was delayed by the pressure of other projects though. I apologize to anyone who was waiting for it in this format. Hope you enjoy it!

Not for Glory in Paperback from Amazon

New Cover for A Kingdom's Cost

This isn't up on Amazon or B&N yet, but will be within the next day or two. I'm very pleased with the illustration from artist Mark Churms and the cover design from J. T. Lindroos.

When I had the original cover done, I used black and white royalty-free art to keep the cost down, but I came to feel the original cover didn't do the novel justice. So I hope other people like this cover as well as I do.

Just Released: Not for Glory, a Historical Novel of Scotland

 

Book III in The Black Douglas Trilogy

 

 

 

 

James, Lord of Douglas, known to his foes as the Black Douglas, leads a flank of the Scottish army in crushing a vast invading English force at the waters of the Bannockburn. Fresh from battle, James revels in honors heaped on him by the Scots and in the hatred of the enemy. When King Robert the Bruce orders him to push their advantage and force the English to the peace table, they both know the only way he can do so is by fire and the sword--the only language King Edward of England understands.

 

Only $3.99 on Amazon!

 

Through tomorrow, February 21, the first book in The Black Douglas Trilogy--A Kingdom's Cost-- is only 99 Cents.

 

 

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Cover: Not for Glory

My new historical novel, Not for Glory, the last in my Black Douglas trilogy, is now being edited and soon will be released. Here is the cover:

The cover art is by artist Mark Churms. The cover design was done by J. T. Lindroos.

I have to say that I love the cover even if it is of my own novel.

Out soon: Not for Glory - an Excerpt

Not for Glory will be out in about three weeks. Here is one essential scene:

James heard a high, clear voice singing.

As I was walking all alone,
I heard twa corbies makin a moan;
The one unto the other say,
"Where shall we go and dine the-day?”

The voice stopped as well it should. James laughed under his breath. Was she truly teaching that song to the court’s children? He’d wager a gold merk the queen would not be pleased. A child’s squeal followed and a piping demand, “Sing more.”

 James snapped his fingers at his shaggy-coated deerhound that had stopped to nose a scent on the wall. “Mac Ailpín, come.” He rounded the corner of the thorny hedge into the pleasure garden.  The air was redolent with summer roses and violets and a bushy rue gave up a spicy scent. William again demanded, “Sing more,” hanging from hanging on Ysabella of Ramsey’s arm as little Princess Maud knelt pulling the blossoms from a wallflower and dropping them into the grass.

Ysabella. A perfect rose in the midst of the garden, and he had never before seen it. Fair Ysabella. Golden-haired Ysabella. Wide-eyed Ysabella. She was slender, straight as a blade, with a radiant face and hair like a pour of honey. No longer a child, she wore a wife’s vein of blue that matched her eyes bound by a golden circlet and a silken gown that shimmered in the sun. He stared at her as she laughed down at his son. There was joy in her face.

“Lad, you mustn’t pull so on a lady,” James said.

The lad turned loose and looked up. “Father!” And then his eyes widened. “A dog…” he said in a rapt voice.

Ysabella sent James a look that barely hid a grin. “Greet your lord father properly.”

William gave a good try at a bow. He slid a look at Yabella from the corner of his eye and frowned fiercely. “My lord father,” he said.

James squatted and held our his arms. “Come. Let me see if you’ve grown whilst I was gone.”

William ran to fling himself onto his father’s chest, wrapping his arms around his neck. “I’m very big now. Did you bring me something? I want to play with the dog. Is it yours? May I have one?”

“It depends on what I hear of you.” But a clear-eyed examination from his son showed the lad had every confidence in gifts from his lord father. Ruffling the lad’s hair, James couldn’t help beaming. How did a child grow so fast? Had that much time truly passed? In two years, he’d be of an age to take a place as a page. And James had to wonder how he himself had gotten so old. He hoisted the boy up as he stood. “Has he been learning his manners, Lady Ysabella?”

She wrinkled her brow as she pretended to frown. “He talks a great deal, my lord. Even sometimes when he should be silent.” James looked into her wide, blue eyes and it was as though she could see right through his eyes into him. But her frown dissolved into a smile.

William’s lower lip was trembling and he looked at Ysabella.

“But he behaves not too ill,” she gave in. 
James sank onto the stone bench beside her and sat the lad on his feet. He patted William’s bottom. “Play with Mac Ailpín and mayhap I have something for you before I go.”

The hound settled with a resigned sigh at James’s feet as William eagerly tugged on its ears. “Come look,” he commanded the Princess who’d apparently tired of destroying flowers and wandered over to crow at the dog's feathered tail.

“Where is Prince Robert…” He shrugged. The health of Marjorie’s son was a delicate subject. “Is he unwell?”

“He…” She lowered her voice. “He tries so hard to keep up with the others. But he still limps from the way of his birth, and yesterday he fell. He hurt his leg, so he’s abed.” Ysabella twined her long fingers together. She looked away and swallowed.

James rested his hand on hers to stop the twisting. “It can’t be anything serious. His grace would have said something.”

“No, but it’s hard to see him try and fail. And the other children aren’t always kind.”

William had straddled the big deerhound like a horse. The dog rose with a surge that sent the lad tumbling into the grass. He looked up, blinking at the indignity. James reached into his purse and brought out a top painted in stripes of bright blue and red. “I don’t suppose anyone might want this?” he asked.

“Mine!” William exclaimed. When Ysabella shook her head at him, he said, “Thank you.”

Ysabella rose and held out a hand to the Princess and William. “I married this year you know, my lord."

“I know.” He was still staring at her. 

She led the children to the entrance through the hedge, but she paused to give James a last look. "Welcome back." Then she was gone.

 

Coming Soon: Not for Glory, Book 3 in The Black Douglas Trilogy

An excerpt from Chapter One:

A pale-faced lad dodged backward. "The king sent me. He wants you."

An unhorsed Englishman screamed as his head was crushed by a slashing hoof. He fell atop a knight already dead. James's own men wore helms and studded leather brigandines, marked with the blue and white Saltire of Scotland under the streaks of dirt and blood and gore. The steel tide surged against the crumbling mass of a panicked foe. They heaved forward a step.

Six hours they’d fought, since the cool of dawn, hacking at an army that seemed without number. His arm suddenly was heavy with the fatigue from a day of hack and slash.   

The English war horns shrilled thin. Harooo Harooo… Retire… Retire…

He blinked the sting of sweat from his eyes. Where was Walter Stewart? In the chaos, James spotted Walter’s blue and white checky pennant. He grabbed Iain’s arm and pulled him out of the line of pikesmen. "Find Sir Walter. Tell him he has command." He shoved his sword into his black leather sheath and jerked a nod to the squire. "Lead on."

The lad turned and clamored across the broken sod, past a sprawled body of a knight, his armor still agleam as his blood soaked into the dry earth. For a moment, a wind from the east gust the smell of the salt sea and cut through the fug of blood and shit. Who could have imagined such a battle? A body in a ripped brigandine marked with a Saltire was pierced by the shattered remains of a pike next to a gutted stallion. A corbie, its black feathers gleaming in the sun, took flight from the guts spilled onto the ground with an angry kraaa. They trudged past it all and the uproar faded behind them into a rumble.

Beyond a ragged stand of alder, leaves drooping in summer’s heat, the king’s golden lion banner hung limp in the still air. The lad pointed. James slapped his shoulder and strode through the welcome shade of the trees as he reached up to wrench off his helm.

Robert de Bruce’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his head tilted, as he listened to what the Keith was saying. At the Bruce’s feet sat his helm topped by a gold crown. Enemy blood streaked his armor and cloth-of-gold tabard. He ran a hand through fair hair dripping with sweat. "Jamie," the king exclaimed.

James worked some spit into his parched mouth. "Your Grace."

"Bring him water," the Bruce called and the squire scurried away.

The Keith said, "King Edward fled the field and Aymer du Valence with him with five hundred guards."

James felt his eyes widen as he looked from his good-father to the king.

"Come." The Bruce strode a little way through the alders so they could watch the battle. On the distant hill, Stirling Castle loomed gray against a cloudless noon sky. The king shook his head.  "If someone took command they might still turn the battle."

"They’re in full flight." The Keith pointed toward the battle and past to the deep gully cut by the Bannockburn. "They’re forcing their horses down the gully into the Bannockburn. Already it’s mired with bodies. Some are fleeing for the River Forth."

"Our men so weary they can barely lift a pike," the king said, squinting at the roiling mass of the battle. "How many hours can a man fight? If it turned now, we’d be in desperate case."

The squire ran up with a cup and flagon and thrust the cup of water into James’s hand. He gulped it down. It ran down his throat like rain after a drought.  He held out the cup and let the squire re-fill it. "But without their king?"

"I want to pursue Edward," the Keith said. He slid a glance toward the king. "There is no one left who could rally them. We’ve won."

"We don’t know where Gilbert de Clair is or Robert de Clifford is or Humphrey de Bohun or Ralph de Monthermer. Any of those could rally them. Even broken, such a great army is dangerous. Like a wounded boar." His gaze was fixed on the chaos of the battle. The sound was a roar of a distant sea. Remorseless. "I won’t chance it."

"Did King Edward make for Stirling Castle?" James asked.

The Keith jerked a nod. "I pursued him so far. Mowbray must have refused him entrance. They turned south."

"No, Lord Marishcal. I’ll have sixty of your chivalry. That will leave you a full 400 knights if we have need of them." The Bruce skewered James with a look. "You’ll lead the sixty to follow the curst English king. Aught who lag, you will take but the king... Don't waste your life trying to take him."

James blew out a long breath. His whole body was a mass of weary aches. He looked at the cup of water in his hand, lifted it, and dumped the water over his head. It ran through his hair and down his cheeks to drip from his close-cropped beard, mixing with sweat until he shook his head hard like a wet hound.  

The king and his good-father were watching him. "We’ll skirt the battle and take the North Park road."

Coming Soon: Not for Glory, a Historical Novel of Scotland

The final novel in The Black Douglas Trilogy and still in edit but here is the opening:

June 24, 1314

The English were trapped against the Bannockburn. The hedge of Scottish steel shoved once more against the desperate knights, and Sir James de Douglas saw the banners flying above the writhing mass. Those banners included the huge scarlet banner with the Plantagenet leopards; that banner proclaimed that King Edward of Caernarfon was somewhere close in the chaos.  James bellowed his battle cry, “A Douglas! A Douglas!” battle fury sweeping through him. Rage and hatred unleashed for the losses and the pain. He smashed his sword into an English face. For Isabella. For his father. For Thomas. For Alycie. He swung again and again.

Around him his men screamed, “Scotland! Scotland! On them!” Hungry for revenge, they had spent their lives fighting the invader, and they had become savagely good at war. An arrow sliced in from the right, striking James’s shield. He lifted it, but no more came. Archers would have been the last chance for the English, but King Robert de Bruce had planned well for them, and held back his five hundred Scottish chivalry to sweep behind the English line and attack the archers.

James’s men shouted as they thrust their pikes into the belly and face of English horses, into the gaps in gleaming armor; they chopped with their weapons. And the English fell back, horses screaming as they went down the steep edge of a gully.

The English had nowhere more to go. Under the English hooves, men lay, dead, wounded, shrieking in pain. Their commanders were shouting to retire. And the Scots slashed into them. English knights shouted curses, thrust with lances, swung swords as they were forced back. Ribbons of scarlet waved through the Bannockburn’s waters. The English knights fought with the desperation of trapped men.

Next to James, one of his men grunted as he hacked his pike into the writhing mass of English. Another horse went down. Blood and mud splattered onto James’s helm. The rider threw himself free, landing flat on his back. James grunted as he slammed a foot on the knight’s chest and thrust his sword down through his throat.

“On them!” The bellows from his men were deafening. "They fail!"

"Sir James!"

James spun at the hand on his shoulder, jerking his sword arm into position.

A pale-faced lad dodged backward. "The king sent me. He wants you."

An unhorsed Englishman screamed as his head was crushed by a slashing hoof. He fell atop a knight already dead. James's own men wore helms and studded leather, marked with the blue and white Saltire of Scotland, now streaked with mud and blood and gore. The steel tide surged against the crumbling mass of a panicked foe. They heaved forward a step.

Six hours they’d fought, since the cool of dawn, hacking at an army that seemed without number. His arm suddenly was heavy with the fatigue of a day of slash and thrust.   

The English trumpets shrilled thin. Harooo Harooo… Retire… Retire…

He blinked the sting of sweat from his eyes. Where was Walter Stewart? In the chaos, James spotted Walter’s blue and white checky pennant. He grabbed Iain’s arm and pulled him out of the line of pikesmen. "Find Sir Walter. Tell him he has command." He shoved his sword into his black leather sheath and jerked a nod to the squire. "Lead on."

The lad turned and clamored across the broken sod, past a sprawled body of a knight, his armor still agleam as his blood soaked into the dry earth. For a moment a breath of a breeze cut through the fug of blood and shit. Who could have imagined such a battle? A body wearing a studded brigandine marked with a Saltire was pierced by the shattered remains of a pike next to a stallion, its guts spilled onto the ground. They trudged past it all and the uproar faded behind them into a rumble.

Beyond a ragged stand of alder, leaves drooping in summer’s heat, the king’s golden lion banner hung limp in the still air. The lad pointed. James slapped his shoulder and strode through the welcome shade of the trees as he reached up to wrench off his helm.

Title, Title, Who Has a Title?

I am deep into work on my next (and final) novel in The Black Douglas Trilogy. It isn't coming easy. I hadn't researched the years after the Battle of Bannockburn as deeply as I had the years before and I needed some additional books. I am still waiting for the part of Bower's  Scotichronicon that covers from 1320 to 1360 and the cost made me cry. But I have most of what I need and am just looking for bits and pieces I may have missed. Of course, much of it is open to question and a lot of details are lost in the shroud of history. All the more fun for me.

I am still wrestling with a big question. Who WAS the mother of James Douglas's bastard son, later  known as Archibald the Grim or Black Archibald? Admittedly it could have been anyone, including the local milkmaid, but the fact that Archibald grew up in the King's household is rather mysterious. Even King Robert's illegitimate children were not normally a part of the royal household. And Archibald eventually became the 3rd Earl of Douglas. A bastard becoming powerful and inheriting was not unknown in 14th century Scotland, but was a long way from the norm. This leads me to speculate that the mother had some power in addition to his being Douglas's son. But who would she have been?

Another big question is the title. I am wavering on choosing "The Hammer of England" in spite of some people saying that it sounds as though he was English. TheOldNat suggested Mell of England since I've been known to sneak in a word or two of Scots. Of course, hardly anyone would know what the title meant (it means a wooden mallet in Scots) but that might not be a big issue. Or it might be.

I'm open to suggestion on both questions. 

Anyway, I am researching and writing away at it. The artist is working on art for the cover and I have a cover designer ready to design the cover. My editor is ready. Unless something really unexpected happens the final book in The Black Douglas Trilogy will be out early next year.

Countenance of War: Sneak Peek

I'm still working on A Countenance of War, the next book in my series of Scottish historical novels. It takes up a few months after the end of A Kingdom's Cost, and I thought it would be fun to share a sneak peek with you.

Enjoy!


***

James de Douglas pushed aside a thick branch, heavy with spring-green leaves, to peer up the long slope. Draped in wisps of mist, Douglas Castle made a hulking shape against the the golden coin of the early morning sun. In the quiet, a lark trilled. James watched as it soared, reached a peak and plummeted towards earth. He breathed in the moist scent of morning. In the dense woods behind him, another lark answered.

He stepped out of the trees and turned in a circle to look over the field. The ground was broken and rolling here; soft and muddy from the spring rains towards the castle road, stony beyond it. A few trees dotted the hill near the castle, but most had been cleared past the forest's edge to permit a watch for approaching enemies.

Cattle lowed, deep and protesting in the distance. They cleared the rise and a man bent over his horse's withers to smack the lead cow, urging it to a faster pace. The herd was a mass of shaggy red hides and wide swinging horns. At the rear, two men waved their arms, shouting.

A horn blew in the castle. Shouts drifted on the sweet morning air.

The herd thundered past the castle. The rumbling mass gained the rocky road. James's heart pounded in his chest in time to the hoofbeats, and under his steel half helm sweat dripped down his brow.

The castle gate thudded open. Horsemen trailed over the drawbridge. Squinting, James counted. Twenty in all, armor glinting where it caught the rays of the sun.

The English had swallowed the bait.

James grabbed his reins and swung into the saddle. He jerked his horses into a turn further to edge into the dense forest. Dew-damp leaves slapped his face as he rode. He brushed them aside. It was dark amongst the trees, but he made out the shapes of his men. “Wat! Get set. They're moving.” He swung his small kite shield from his back, and flexed his shoulder as he set his hand into the leather straps. Thanks to St. Bride, it had been his shield arm that had been injured at the Battle of Loudoun Hill.

A horse snorted. Metal scraped as one of his score of men on small rough-coated horses pulled his sword free.

Wat said, “Steady, men. Let the thieving English get past us.”

James bent to pat one of his archer's shoulder. Beyond the man ten more in the green of Ettrick foresters stood, well screened by the heavy oaks clothed in the light green of spring from the oncoming cattle and their pursuers. “Nock and hold,” James said. “Easy, now.”

He heard a rumble of cattle hooves, still distant but growing closer.

“Hoi! Move you!” a voice shouted.

The rumble grew louder. Shouts came from further behind. James nudged his horse into the dense leafy branches and shoved them aside. The cattle, at a dead run urged by the shouting waving riders, surged past.

James drew his sword. “Hold,” he said softly.

The riders from the castle had strung out in a line. A bareheaded knight, blond hair streaming, galloped on a heavy bay in the front. James grinned. Thirwell.

“A Douglas!” James shouted and brought his sword down. He slapped his spurs to the horse's flank. It surged forward. “A Douglas!” James burst through the leafy branches, his men beside him.

Arrows sighed over his head. The morning erupted with the screams of men and horses. “Ambush!” the knight shouted.

Another flight of arrows arched up from behind James, from where his few archers stood. The English fought their horses into a turn, shouting. Another flight of arrows fell and two more men slumped from their horses and went down.

“Scotland and King Robert!” James screamed as he reached them. A man swung at him. James hacked and caught him full in the chest, shearing leather and bone and muscle. James wrenched his sword free as the man fell.

He stood in his stirrups, looking for the knight. He glimpsed Wat's horse gutted by an unhorsed Englishman, a swarm of their men hard behind him. Wat vaulted free as his horse died under him. He rose, untouched, laying about him with his sword. He caught an Englishman full in the chest as the fool came at him in a full run. A dozen others slashed wildly to fight their way free.

James shouted, “A Douglas! A Douglas! Don't let them get away.” Thirwell, horse rearing and hooves slashing, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. It shattered a man's head in with a kick. He wheeled and raced for the castle.

James lashed his horse and charged, cutting him off. Their horses slammed together. James's light garron went back on its hocks. His quarry met him, sword raised and swiped a blow at James's face. James slammed it aside. The knight was tall and burly, wearing a chainmail hauberk. Blond hair thrashed around his face as he dodged James's blow. “Douglas!” Thirwell screamed. “You're mine.”

James hacked at his head and shoulders. The man grunted, swinging at him, sweat dripping down his face. “Devil take you,” he knight panted, chopping savagely at James. James barely got his shield up in time and pain exploded in his half-healed shoulder from the jolt of the impact. The man bellowed as he raised his sword high for a blow that would have split James's head like a melon. James buried his sword in the knight's belly.

“He'll take you instead,” James told him.

As James jerked his sword free, Wat shouted, “After them, lads. They're getting away.”

A handful of horsemen galloped toward the castle, a good three horse's length ahead of Wat on an English mount. The rest of his men tailed behind. “Hell mend them,” James said through gritted teeth. No one remained here but a dozen bloody corpses. Pain shot through his shoulder when he moved his arm, but he clapped his spurs to his horse's flank. Bending over its neck, he galloped toward the dust of the pursuit.

Shouts drifted from the walls of Douglas Castle. “Ride!” The fleeing horsemen thundered over the drawbridge. Metal grated, iron upon iron. The castle gates slammed shut.

James pulled up and stood in his stirrups, glowering at the castle gate. Two of the towers still showed black stains from when he had burned the castle once in a futile try to keep it out of the hands of the curst English. A crossbow bolt thudded into the ground a yard ahead. He waved his sword over his head and shouted, “Pull back!” His men milled around him at the foot of the walls in a dusty fog. One shouted a curse up at the men on the parapet. A crossbow twanged.  

He'd have to do better. "Now. Move," he ordered and slashed his horse with his reins.

Wat's bellowed, “You heard him. Back.,” harrying the men into order.  They followed James out of crossbow range.

James reined in his mount and glared back at his castle. He flexed his aching shoulder. He'd not planned the ambush aright. If they'd been a little faster...

Wat pulled his shaggy-coated garron up beside James. He scratched at his beard. “Too bad we didn't get it, but that was Thirwell you took down back there. I'm sure of it. Six of his men I saw go down.”

“You have the right of it. I've rid my castle of one interloper.” James twitched a grin. “Once we're through here, lead the men back to camp. After dark, I'm going to make my way to Will's and see if he has gathered more news.”

Harness creaked and weapons clattered as James's men gathered around the two of them. James cast a glance over all of them looking for injuries. “All here? How many did we lose?”

“Johne,” one of the men said from the back of the throng. “Saw a damned Sassenach unhorse him.”

James circled his horse as he looked them over. Dauid leaned over his horse's withers, blood dripping from a slash to his head. James motioned to young Richerd, who had a good hand with wounds. “You see to the bandaging best you can. I think they won't be in a hurry to bother us, but we'll not tarry. Strip the English of armor and weapons. Wat, you see that any coin on them is evenly split.”

“What about your share?” Wat asked.

James thrust his chin towards the castle topped by a yellow banner scattered with starlings, flapping in the morning breeze. “I missed my prize this time. But I'll claim it the next.”

----

A Kingdom's Cost is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. A Countenance of War will be available January 3.

Sample of A Kingdom's Cost

I have removed the sample due to the terms of exclusivity I now have with Amazon. However, you can read or download a sample here on Amazon. The prequel, Freedom's Sword is also available on Amazon.

Conspiracy Begins in 'A Kingdom's Cost'

Chapter Two

King Edward's face empurpled with rage. "His father was always my enemy--always. A friend of the outlaw, William Wallace. I'll not have the boy. Get out. Out! Before he takes Wallace's place on the scaffold."

Lamberton bowed deep before he turned. Blaming James for his father was harsh even for King Edward. He'd forgiven men who'd been in open rebellion, but now the only choice was to get the lad out of the king's sight. Another plan ruined, but a small one.

With a hand on James's shoulder, Lamberton urged him towards the door, the lad with a ramrod spine of indignation. No one spoke. No one else moved. Lamberton barely breathed until they reached the shattered stone rubble of the gatehouse. He took a deep breath. They'd live yet another day.

James untied Lamberton's gray palfrey. His hands shook and his lips were white, they were so tightly clenched. For a moment, Lamberton got James's full stare, black, wide-eyed, and fuming. After a moment, he removed his gaze to scatter it over the shadowy reach of the valley.

Lamberton took the reins from his hand. "Don't take it so hard, lad. I'll find a solution." He swung into the saddle.

James gave a jerky nod. "I know you mean to, my lord." James jumped into his saddle, settled his feet in the stirrups and gathered the reins. "But I fear this I must solve for myself."

Lamberton sighed and then nodded down the rutted road towards town, its watchtowers and church spires dark against the gathering dusk. Stirling town had surrendered with no fight. Now it was full of English soldiery, but there were yet places a bishop could be secret. "I have someone to meet. After dark."

The city gate was open when they reached the bottom of the hill. Lamberton raised his hand in blessing as he rode past four drays lined up, loaded with barrels and bales of hay. A driver slipped a coin to one of the king's guards and was waved through the gate.

The guard looked Lamberton over, raking him with a narrow-eyed stare.

"Bishop Lamberton returning from the king," Lamberton said.

The man waved them past and turned back to the wagons.

Lamberton kept to the edge of the street, nodding as James dropped his hand onto the hilt of his sword. Down the street, a Gray Friar was praying loudly for the health of the English king, but passersby paid him no more mind than a howling dog. The town milled with the usual crowd even in the growing murk: mostly soldiery in their mail with swords rattling, but also baker's boys hawking their hot pies and breads and whores leaning out of windows with their breasts half-bared. He passed two men dragging a dead ass out of an alley by its rear legs and an acrobat standing on his hands to the cheers of drunken English soldiers. But no one gave Lamberton and James a second look.

Next to the high spire of the Church of the Holy Rood, Lamberton turned into an alley. In the deepening dusk, the way was dark. He dismounted and looped his reins to the rail of a walkway that ran along the building. At his nod, James swung off his mount.
Lamberton motioned towards the street. "Check to be sure no one is in sight."

James gave him a puzzled look but tied his reins and walked towards the street, keeping in the dense shadow of the church's walkway. He paused and looked back over his shoulder, then went on. Near the street, James stopped, watching for a moment and then returned the way he had come.

"There's no one near, my lord."

"Come." Lamberton shoved open the side door of the Church. Their footfalls rang softly on the marble floor as he entered, James at his heels. The rich scent of incense hung in the air. He stopped and blinked, letting his eyes adjust.

A man knelt alone at a side altar. Light from a row of candles reflected in his golden hair. Deo gratia. He is here.

Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick, looked over his shoulder. He rose, tall with a broad forehead and strong features, dressed in black silk and a black cloak. His blue eyes caught a gleam in the faint light. He took a step and grasped Lamberton's shoulders in a hard grip for a moment, then shook his head.

Lamberton nodded towards the high altar and led the way past it and through a wooden door on the far side. He entered a square room with plain wooden walls, one wall covered with hooks where priestly vestments of white, purple and red hung. Gold censors stood on a small table in the corner next to a stack of blank parchment and a stand of lit candles. He let out a small sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure that you'd come."

"I told you I would. We must be ready..." He paused to frown at James.

Lamberton smiled slightly. "William le Hardi's lad and my squire." He nodded to James. "Keep watch outwith the door. See that we're not disturbed. Or overheard."

James bowed quickly to both men and closed the door behind him.

"He'll serve us well one day, Robert. Now..." He motioned to the table. "I didn't care to have these prepared beforehand. I'll write the agreement now. But hear you, this will be treason that the leopard would never forgive. So put your mind to it. Yea or nay. There will be no turning back."

"Wallace agreed to give me his support. In spite of everything?"

"He was wroth when you bent a knee to King Edward. But after Comyn betrayed him at Falkirk, withdrawing his chivalry from the battle, Wallace would do anything to keep that man from the throne. Yes. He gave me his oath."

Bruce stared at a fist he clenched tight, seeming to study it. "What was I to do?" His voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "How could I lead a fight for a crown while my father lived, and I knew him too weak to hold it? When Edward had harried and pillaged my own lands to a smoking ruin? I had to buy time. That meant swearing to him."

Lamberton sighed. "I told Wallace as much. Now that he's returned from France, he can see you had little choice. He's a fighter. You know strategy was never his weapon."

"So be it." Bruce raised hot eyes to Lamberton's. "Write the words of our pact, and I'll put my seal to them."

Lamberton dipped a quill in ink. ...mutual help at all times and against all persons without exception... by solemn oath before God.

Bruce took the quill and scrawled his name.

Beside it, Lamberton neatly penned his own. It was done. If ever King Edward saw this before they were ready to make their move, Lamberton knew nothing would save him from a dungeon or Robert de Bruce from a scaffold.

Bruce frowned. "There's still John Comyn's claim to be dealt with. I doubt that he will agree to our bargain. Can you convince him, think you? With the enmity between the two of us?"

Lamberton allowed himself a smile. "A prize as rich as that? Your earldom of Carrick... Annandale... To be the richest noble in Scotland for giving up a crown he would have to wrest from Edward Longshanks. That's temptation indeed."

"If you hadn't stepped between us the day the he dared to strike me..." Bruce shook his head doubtfully.

"I know the man's greed. I'll pick the right time and put it to him. He'll agree."

As Robert de Bruce used a candle to drip hot wax onto the document and pressed his into seal it, Lamberton laid his hand on the man's shoulder. "The day will come, my friend. You will be the king who leads us to freedom."