How important was the Battle of Bannockburn?

It was a valiant fight against overwhelming odds and few Scots can think of it without pride. King Robert surprised as he surveyed the battlefield by Sir Henry de Bohun and killing him with a single blow of his axe in single combat. Earl Thomas Randolph reproached by the king for having let 'a rose fall from his chaplet' and rushing to cut off the English attempt to reach Stirling, winning the first fight of the battle. It is hard to think of any battle with a more stirring story.

King Robert in single combat with Sir Henry de Bohun

In one way, of course, the Battle of Bannockburn was vitally important. It proved to Scots that they could defeat the English. In a way the many smaller skirmishes and attacks on English held castles had not proven that. The devastation to pride and self-respect was redeemed by an overwhelming victory, but what else did Bannockburn give Scotland?

It returned the Scottish prisoners who had suffered immensely at the hands of the English. Gallant Bishop Wishart came home, blind but still one of Scotland's greatest patriots, as did Christine de Brus who would later hold Kildrummy Castle against an English army untl her husband defeated them in the battle of Culblean, turning the tide of the Second War of Scottish Independence. It returned King Robert's wife and his daughter who would be the mother of the Stewart line of Kings, so their importance cannot be overlooked.

One of the results was the profit from the spoils of the battle and the ransoms. Thousands of men took a share of the spoils home with them to help rebuild the kingdom that had been despoiled and the government took a large share of the spoils and received some vast ransoms to continue the fight. 

As nation building, it was vital. As a battle, it had no real results other than the surrender of Stirling Castle because it did not do is end the war. I have seen mistaken comments such as that "It allowed Robert the Bruce to secure Scottish independence" which is simply not true. Neither England nor the Pope recognized Scottish independence until fourteen years later, years spent in constant warfare.

I think that makes it less important as a battle than many people believe. So in the next few weeks I am going to write about the lesser known battles which were essential to Scotland's development and survival. 

Were Robert the Bruce and his captains fighting for freedom?

Someone recently put it to me that Robert the Bruce and his captains were fighting for power, not for freedom. He commented that it was just something that Gibson put in Braveheart. Considering that Gibson got almost nothing right about William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, or the start of the Wars of Scottish Independence, I can understand that skepticism. Certainly, William Wallace did not go around screaming "Freedom!" while wearing blue face paint. But is it just possible that they were fighting for freedom? And if so, what did they mean by 'freedom'? (For that matter, what do we mean by it?)

Well there were certainly mentions of freedom in the writings of the time. The first I am aware of was in the Declaration of Arbroath written in 1320. The word is part of the most famous paragraph of that historic letter, written to Pope John XXII and signed by eight earls and forty barons. It made a profound argument for the recognition of Scotland's independence from English rule and Robert the Bruce as Scotland's lawful king.

It was written in Church Latin, as one would expect in a document to be presented to the pope, and contained one of the most quoted sentences in Scotland's history.

Non enim propter gloriam, diuicias aut honores pugnamus set propter libertatem solummodo quam Nemo bonus nisi simul cum vita amittit. 

Translated into English, it reads: It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom, for that alone which no honest man gives up but with life itself.

There are other 14th century references to freedom.

Freedom is mentioned a number of times in the iconic narrative poem The Brus written by Johne Barbour in 1370 about four decades after King Roberts' death, when some of his followers were still alive and had spoken with Barbour, as he actually mentions in the poem. One of the best known references from Barbour's work is on a plaque over where the king's heart is buried in Melrose Abbey. The plaque entwines a carving of a heart (which you also see on the Douglas coat of arms) with a Saltire, Scotland's national flag.

In the original Early Scots it reads: "A noble hart may have no ease, gif freedom failye."

Translated, this reads: "A noble heart shall have no ease if freedom fails." 

However, that is only one line of Johne Barbour's paean to freedom.

Because of its length I will only include my own translation into English, but you can find it in the original Early Scots here.

Ah! Freedom is a noble thing.

Freedom gives man happiness,

Freedom all solace to man gives.

He lives at ease who freely lives.

A noble heart may have no ease,

Nor nought that may him please,

If freedom fail; for freedom to please oneself

Is loved above all other things. 

No, he who has ever lived free

Can not well perceive the nature,

The affliction, no, the miserable woe

That is coupled to foul servitude.

But if he had put it to the proof

Then he would learn it all by heart,

And would think freedom more to prize

Than all the gold in the world there is.

(This translation is my own work, so any errors are totally on me. If you believe you have a correction, please let me know.)

Thus, Barbour expressed pretty clearly what he thought freedom was, at least in part, the ability to please oneself or do as one pleases, although he certainly also believed in duty to lord and monarch. Probably like most of us who have duty to family and bosses as well as nations to which we are loyal, he and other medieval Scots had a somewhat confused definition of the word. But whatever they believed it was, freedom was a concept many must have fought and died for.

Scotland and the Knights Templar

First, I apologize for my several months' absence. I won't go into health issues, but there have been several. Happily, they were not life threatening but did give me a bit of a kicking. But enough about that. Back to the Knights Templar...

At the Council of Clermons in 1095, Pope Urban II called for the mobilization of Christians to invade the Levant and retake Jerusalem, which had been held by the Muslims since 638. This began the First Crusade. There was a huge reaction all across Europe. Some entire families joined in the vast army that marched for Constantinople. Much of the crusade was a horrific mess with thousands of crusaders dying of starvation at the siege of Antioch. The culmination was the attack on Jerusalem which combined bizarre fanaticism such as Peter Desiderius claiming to have a vision revealing that if they fasted and then marched barefoot around the city that Jerusalem would fall with interesting medieval strategy and viciousness. Of course, what took the city was when the leaders finally organized a concerted attack, including siege machines. They took Jerusalem in July 1099. Every contemporary chronicle states that the slaughter that followed was of nearly every man, woman, and child in the city. Later historians claim it was exaggerated. I suspect the people who were there knew what happened. And if anyone is astonished that the decades that followed were a quagmire of infighting between royal factions and often murderous intrigue, they need to take a look at the history of Europe.

It was in this state of affairs that the Knights Templar were established in 1118. Hughes de Payen with 8 companions took it upon themselves to found the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. De Payen proclaimed it their duty to protect the route to Jerusalem for Christian pilgrims. A decade later, they were officially accepted as a religious order. And this is an important point. Many people do not grasp that the Templars were exactly that: a religious order sworn to chastity and obedience. They were even forbidden to enter a home in which there was a woman to avoid temptation. (Always obeyed? Probably not always, but I would not exaggerate that. Certainly, the wild charges worshiping idols, devil worship, spitting on the cross, along with some less improbable homosexuality etc. were mostly nonsense made up by the French king to justify his destruction of the order.)

The Templars were very quickly introduced into Scotland. In 1124 Hughes de Payen visited Scotland and was received by King David I. King David made the Templars welcome, as did all kings across Europe. Their first preceptory, the land probably a gift from King David, was near Midlothian, and called Balantrodoch. A second preceptory was later established and much property across Scotland came into their hands. They certainly had lands in East Lothian, Falkirk, Midlothian and Glasgow. They had some status at the Scottish court as the head of the order in Scotland was the king's almoner (in charge of distributing alms to the poor), but that was not a particularly influential post. 

Temple Church, Midlothian 

The head of the Scottish preceptories were English members of the order, however, that does not mean that all knights at the preceptories were English. I have seen it claimed that there were no Scottish Knights Templar, but the idea that the Templars spend nearly two hundred years with a presence in Scotland and never gained a single member stretches credibility. It is in fact is false. Their main purpose was recruiting manpower for the defence of the Holy Land. It would have been a major failure had they not done so. However, Scotland had a small population so probably there were not many.

In 1302 a Scottish Templar called Richard Scoti was recorded as visiting the house of the Temple in Paris. In 1309, when Templars in England were being arrested for trial, one of the Templars arrested was Robert le Scot. Another Templar, Thomas Scot, managed to flee before he could be seized. Since only a very few Templar records survive in Scotland, how many others there may have been is impossible to know. As I mentioned, Scotland's relatively small population would probably make the number few.

Things changed drastically in 1296. The Knights Templar in Scotland under their English preceptor claimed they were subject to the master in England who was subject to the master in France. He in turn was subject to the master in Cyprus. So when active war broke out between England and Scotland, the Templars in Scotland along with the Scottish Hospitallers sided with England.

When in February 1306 Robert the Bruce, soon to be King of Scots, killed John Comyn in the chapel of Greyfriars Monastery, he was promptly excommunicated by the pope. This would of course even further cement the two military orders to the side of the English, but in France charges were already being discussed against the Templars. At first Pope Clement seemed to side with the Templars, dismissing the charges as false which most of them no doubt were. Certainly, King Philip of France was deeply in debt to the Templars. On Friday the 13th, 1307, King Philip ordered the arrest of scores of Templars in Paris. They were tortured and many confessed to the improbable charges. Eventually in November 1307 the pope gave into King Philip's pressure, ordering every king in Europe to arrest all Templars and seize their assets.  

However, Robert the Bruce was excommunicated and the kingdom of Scotland under interdict. The pope's writ did not run in Scotland. Scottish bishops had declared that because the pope had been deceived by the English that Scots could ignore the excommunication, which most did. Church life continued as it always had, at least in areas not conquered by the English.

What did that mean for Templars in Scotland? Well, much of Scotland was in English hands so several, including the English head of the Scottish preceptory, were arrested and tried in England. No Scots were arrested in Scotland which might mean that there were no Scottish Templars in Scotland at the time. A more likely explanation to my mind is that any Scottish Templars took advantage of the fact that Robert the Bruce was unlikely to arrest them. Although Bishop Lamberton could have held trials, no trials took place in Scotland.

In the meantime in Europe, especially France, those Templars not yet arrested were fleeing. There have always been rumors, both in Scotland and France, that some went to Scotland where neither the pope nor the French king could lay hands on them. True? It is certainly possible. It would be the only place they could possibly flee. 

Might some have fought at the Battle of Bannockburn? This is also a longstanding rumor. Again, that is possible, but they definitely did not fight as a separate division. The divisions that fought on the Scottish side are well known, but some individual Templars could have fought with one of the divisions which were led by King Robert, Edward de Bruce, Thomas Randolph, and and jointly by James Douglas and young Walter Stewart. 

In the rest of Europe, the leaders of the Templars met grisly ends. Grand Master Jacques de Molay retracted the confession that had been obtained under torture and was burnt at the stake, dying as he rained down curses on King Philip and Pope Clement. Geoffroi de Charney, Preceptor of Normandy, also repudiated his confession and was burnt at the stake.

Trials were held all across Europe except in Scotland, however, few former Templars other than their leaders were convicted. Most were eventually released (after a no doubt charming stay in a medieval dungeon) and assimilated into other orders, mainly the Knights Hospitaller.

The Scottish Knights Hospitaller after the Battle of Bannockburn decided they were not nearly as fond of the English as they had thought and shortly came into King Robert's peace. Were some of their members former Templars? I consider that very likely as they took in Templars in other kingdoms as well as receiving the Templar's properties. At any rate, the Hospitallers came to be a powerful presence in Scotland and influential in the Scottish royal court, free of being headed by an English master.

And is there Templar treasure hidden somewhere in Scotland? While I remain skeptical, it seems that much of the Templar riches were not accounted for, so it is not impossible.

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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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.

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.

Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER SIX

The morning dawned with a muggy heaviness. Sweat gathered under the iron bracelets on Andrew's wrists, stinging in the open sores they'd rubbed. A length of chain no more than two feet in length ran between the irons on his ankles. His hair, dank and matted, hung in his eyes. At full daylight, with fifty other prisoners, he was herded towards the rutted dirt road by a handful of mounted men-at-arms. His hands got clammy and cold as he wondered where they were being taken through the shadowy pinewoods. He pictured the piles of bodies after the battle and someone dragging Brian by the feet leaving a crimson track in the dirt. His stomach turned and he gagged.

This was the first time he and his father had been moved since they were taken prisoner. His father... the earls of Atholl and Buchan... and two hundred or so of their men... the ones who hadn't died in the fighting.

Back bruised black and stiff from the blow he'd taken, stripped of his armor, clad in a penitent's rough brown sackcloth, Andrew awaited the will of the conquering English king. Until now, the only change had been when Sir William Douglas, taken prisoner after the slaughter of the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had been added to their number.

A grassy hill opened before them and in the center stood Strachthro Church. Prodded by the pikes, he tramped toward the gray stone building, exchanging puzzled glances with the other men. Manacles rattling, he climbed the steps. His father stumbled over the chains on his ankles, and Andrew grabbed his arm.

Inside, a man-at-arms used the butt of his pike to jostle Andrew against the cold stone of the wall. As his father was pushed back, he gave Andrew a dazed look. His father had not been clear-headed since the blow that had split open his scalp in the battle. Blackened blood matted his streaky blond hair. None of the prisoners made a sound as they were shoved against the walls.

From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

"John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

"You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

"Continue," King Edward barked.

Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

He ducked under the pike's butt, but it caught his head. He was flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

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Freedom's Sword is available for only $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords in eBook form and in paperback for $8.99 on Amazon.

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part Two

Blàr Allt a' Bhonnaich, The Battle of Bannockburn, on 23-24 June 1314, was one of the most important occasions in all of Scottish history. I mention the movie Braveheart, because so many people take what is in that movie as truth rather than fiction. In the movie, Robert the Bruce hasn't quite decided whether he will fight the English or not. Finally, the Scottish army simply makes a pell mell, sword-waving charge at the huge English army and (miraculously) defeat it.

Ha! They would have been SO dead.

I think in Part One of this series, I indicated pretty clearly that King Robert made a lot of preparation for that battle, but that doesn't answer what happened at the battle itself.

Many people have the idea (probably from movies where it isn't practical to have enough extras to form a real army) that medieval armies were small. This was very often not the case.

A levy called by a king could form an army with a substantial portion of the entire kingdom's adult male population who owed him service. While the English army, very likely of about 20,000 men, was unusually large, it was not at all outside the range of what was possible with a year's preparation, which is what King Edward II put into it. It was led by the King Edward, who didn't have a great reputation as a fighter, but also by hardened fighters such as Aymer de Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke, Henry de Beaumont and Robert de Clifford, 1st Baron de Clifford as well as the earls of Gloucester and Hereford.

The Scottish army, made up of about every fighting man in Scotland, was about one-half that size, probably in the range of 8,000 to 10,000 men total. You can vary those estimates by a few thousand, but not much more than that. I find the possibility they were larger unlikely. It is also highly unlikely they were much smaller.

The Scots knew not only that an English army was on its way but very close to when they could expect it. However, they didn't know its makeup. On 23 June, King Robert sent one of his most trusted lieutenants, Sir James Douglas, with a small force to scout the approaching army. Even this doughty fighter was horrified at the sight of the medieval host they would face. There was debate about whether to retreat--always something King Robert was willing to do rather than have an army destroyed. King Robert the Bruce decided to take the risk.

On the first day of battle occurred one of the most stirring fights in all of Scottish history -- a fight witnessed and described by chroniclers with both armies.

The English vanguard was approaching the Scottish host. King Robert himself decided to scout the ground. No one knows quite how he got so far ahead of his commanders, but, alone, not wearing armour, on a regular steed rather than a warhorse and armed only with a battleaxe, the King was spotted and was identified by Sir Henry de Bohun, slightly ahead of his own army, by his crown and gold tabard.

De Bohun couched his lance and set his massive warhorse into a charge.

It is hard to imagine the horror of the king's watching lieutenants as Robert the Bruce sat calmly, watching the oncoming knight thunder towards him. When de Bohun was no more than a few feet away, King Robert turned his horse, rose in his stirrups, and slammed his battleaxe down on de Bohun's head.

The single blow split de Bohun's helmet and his head in two.

The Scot version of the fight says that when he was reproached for so risking himself, King Robert's reply was a complaint that he had broken his favorite battleaxe. Sir Henry de Bohun, nephew of the Earl of Hereford, lay dead. Only the king's command held the Scots back from a charge.

Thus began one of the greatest battles in all medieval history.


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Please check out my novels on Scotland's struggle against English conquest. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. My novel about Robert the Bruce's most trusted lieutenant, Sir James, the Black Douglas, is A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

King Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn and Braveheart Part One

Anyone who writes a about the Scottish War of Independence as I do in Freedom's Sword and A Kingdom's Cost can not ignore these topics so today I'd like to discuss them.

I'll start with the movie Braveheart to get that subject out of the way. I assume that many of you have seen it. In the last scene, Robert the Bruce. leading a ragtag army of Scots, can't quite decide whether he will fight for Scotland or not. He fiddles with a piece of cloth he somehow inherited from William Wallace. A glance from one of Wallace's men (who hasn't aged in spite of the fact that it has been nine years since Wallace's death) makes the royal Bruce realize that to retreat would be cowardice and he has this same ragtag, untrained army charge an English force of armored knights which vastly outnumbers them. They win because--well, for some mysterious reason.

Did you enjoy the movie? As movie it was probably enjoyable. As history--it was wrong in every implication and detail.

The Battle of Bannockburn was one of the most important events in all of Scottish history. It was certainly the worst defeat of the English/Normans during the middle ages. It absolutely did not happen by chance.

So what did happen?

During the years between 1306 when Robert the Bruce was crowned King of the Scots and 1314 when the English King Edward II marshalled one of the largest armies then ever raised in English history to attempt to defeat him, Robert Bruce had fought one of the most successful guerilla wars ever waged in Europe. Yet he also suffered terrible losses. Three of his four brothers were captured and executed. His wife, his only child, and two of his sisters were captured and imprisoned in England. In spite of it, he had driven the English almost entirely from Scotland.

In fact, no one would have criticized the king had he chosen to retreat because that was his usual tactic when faced with a large force on the field. His well-thought-out guerilla tactics come down to us today in a very old verse called Good King Robert's Testament:

On foot should be all Scottish war
Let hill and marsh their foes debar
And woods as walls prove such an arm
That enemies do them no harm.
In hidden spots keep every store
And burn the plainlands them before
So, when they find the land lie waste
Needs must they pass away in haste
Harried by cunning raids at night
And threatening sounds from every height
Then, as they leave, with great array
Smite with the sword and chase away.
This is the counsel and intent
Of Good King Robert's Testament

This is the tactic that had served Scotland's Good King Robert so well in defeating the English.

During those years, King Robert had captured and razed almost every major castle in Scotland. Stirling Castle with its strong walls high on a cliff overlooking the sea still held out. The governor of Stirling Castle had agreed that if relief from the English did not arrive by early July of 1314, he would surrender. This would be a humiliating blow that the English king, who was already in trouble with his nobles, could not endure.

For months King Edward II raised the English levies and prepared a huge army.

For months, King Robert the Bruce called upon the men of Scotland to rally to him. In the Torwood, a huge forest in the center of Scotland, he led his men as they worked to make the schiltron -- a pike square -- manueverable. Those same sixteen-foot pikes had brought down the English army at the Battle of Stirling Bridge under the leadership of Andrew de Mornay and William Wallce. But they had not charged. They could only stand and wait to be attacked.

Bruce was determined that a schiltron, with its multiple rows of deadly pikes, would charge the English, and King Robert trained his men until they could. Each of the four schiltron's was lead by one of his most trusted lieutenants. But they were still dreadfully outnumbered, at least three to one.

How to even the odds even more?

The land their wall, as his testament so famously says. Much of the land in the region of Stirling Castle was marshy, bad country for the huge destriers ridden by knights in their heavy armor. So the Bruce positioned his army so they would have to be attacked across bad country, but not bad enough. Then he ordered pits lined with sharpened stakes to be dug across most of the same area.

It was a horror waiting to happen for the English.

Yet even with all the training and preparation, the Bruce was willing to retreat. He would not lead his army to defeat merely for pride. Facing an army of that size and might was a terrible risk, but one that could have a great prize if they won. That night with the advisement of his faithful lieutenants, King Robert made his decision.

Before them stood an English army of unimaginable might. Against it, King Robert the Bruce was determined to stand.

King Robert was not a king who "led from the rear" and in another post I'll talk about what happened on that amazing day.
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Please check out my novels on Scotland's struggle against conquest. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. Please also check out A Kingdom's cost also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

#SampleSunday - A Kingdom's Cost -- Chapter Three

March 1306

Below the hill, every sort and color of flag and banner and pennant flew over a city of tents. From it streamed smiling and laughing men and women, gaily dressed, up the hill and into the Abbey. James found a place at the back where the warm March sun poured through. He wouldn't put himself forward. That was a right he would win, he knew it. But there might be days--not often, but a few--when being young and dispossessed was an advantage. He'd see them all as they passed. He rested his back against the wall near the door to watch.

Bruce's brothers, dressed in flamboyant velvets, came in, laughing loudly and talking. Nigel Bruce was the oldest of the four, big and broad-shouldered, looking every bit the jouster that James had heard he was. Alexander, the slender one, was said to be a scholar. Edward Bruce was tall and golden with flashing blue eyes, and the other, Thomas, was a leaner, dark-haired version of the king.

James recognized Sir Neil Campbell from when the muscular, red-haired highlander had called upon the bishop, and with him was the blond Englishman, Sir Alexander Seton. Today, the Campbell was fine in a gray silk tunic and on one arm a lady who James supposed was his wife, Mary Bruce, the king's sister. She was bonny, all dressed in blue and laughing up at her husband. Behind them strolled the gray-haired Earl of Atholl.

"Enjoying the minstrel show?" a voice said, close at hand. James turned and faced a man of middling height, sharp-faced with long brown hair going gray and a scar angled across his cheek. "If there weren't a show, someone would say he wasn't the king.”

"But a king must be crowned.” James blinked, confused at why the man would call the coronation such.

"You don't remember me, do you? Robbie Boyd." He held out a hand.

James' eyes widened as he clasped the man’s forearm. He hadn't recognized Boyd at all from those days when this man and his father had been close companions of Wallace's. "You were a friend of my father's. I remember you well.” He grinned. "I was but a lad, and I thought you were eight feet tall."

Boyd laughed. "Then you must have thought Wallace was a true Goliath.” He poked James with an elbow and nodded to a scowling man with Sir Philip de Mowbray at the front of the Abbey. "Look. The Earl of Strathearn with a face like someone threatened to cut off his head."

The man's face was furrowed in a scowl.

"Why would he look like that?" James asked.

"Because I told him I would if he didn't pay homage to the king. Lennox said killing him was a bad idea, but I'm not so sure. Puling weakling. We had to kidnap him to get him here, but we needed to make a good show. Not that it isn’t war. But they won’t say earls weren’t at our king's crowning." Boyd's eyes narrowed. "Even if it's only four."

The thought of the Earl of Lennox and Sir Robert Boyd kidnapping the Earl of Strathearn had him speechless. He stared at Boyd. "You kidnapped him?"

Boyd's teeth flashed in a grin, stretching the narrow scar on his cheek.

James scratched his new beard that was itching like a wolfhound pup full of fleas. True, most of those who should be here weren’t, but the idea of kidnapping an earl was more than he could fathom. Then it hit him that the MacDuff wasn't here. Of course, he was still a lad and in English hands. But who would place the crown on the king's head? It had always been the right and duty of the MacDuffs.

He started to mention it to Boyd just as trumpets, two lines of them, blared a fanfare that made James' ears ring. They resounded again.

Robert de Bruce strode between them into the Abbey and past the spectators up to the high altar. There he took his place on a massive throne. A low murmur went through the crowd. James glanced at Boyd, and the man met his eye, shrugging.

"No piece of rock makes a king," Boyd muttered.

No Scottish king had ever been crowned before without being seated upon the Stone of Destiny that King Edward Longshanks had stolen. It didn't matter, surely, but it left a queer feeling in James's belly anyway.

The new queen, Lady Elizabeth, entered through a side door to take her seat on a smaller throne to the side. Then Bishop Lamberton came out followed by the stooped, gray-haired Bishop Wishart and burly Bishop of Moray, all in richly embroidered, scarlet ecclesiastical robes. The chant of a choir floated through the abbey as the bishops clothed the king in the gorgeous purple and gold royal vestments. The Abbot of Scone swung a censor. The sweet scent of incense filled the air.

Lamberton's sonorous Latin Mass rolled over them, full of swelling anthems and dramatic pauses. Halfway through, James smothered a laugh at Boyd's sigh. As dramatic as the coronation was--it was long. But James caught his breath when the choir broke into a swelling Gloria in Excelsis.

The bishop brought the sacred oil and anointed the king.

James jumped when the trumpets sounded. And again.

Bishop Wishart strode to the altar and took the crown. It was a simple substitute for the one stolen by the English king, nothing more than a golden circlet. Again the trumpets sounded. The bishop placed the crown on the head of Robert de Bruce.

All around him, people jumped and cheered.

"God save the King," James roared with everyone in the Abbey. Boyd was grinning again as he joined in the shouts. "God save the King!"

Someone pushed past James and a line began to form. Soon it stretched out the door. James craned to see what was happening. The Earl of Strathearn stood first in place and Philip de Mowbray behind him. Bruce took Strathearn's hands in his, but the mumble that followed was indecipherable from where James stood. From the look of it, the rest of the day would be homage taking. James elbowed his way to the door with a wave to Boyd. James' homage and his loyalty, the king already had of him.

Below the buildings of the Abbey of Scone where it thrust into the sapphire sky, James wandered through the tent city that sprawled on the flats of the river. Near the slope of the hill, colorful silken pavilions of the lords and ladies sat under flapping banners, Bruce, Mar, Atholl, Lennox, Stewart, Hay, Lindsay, Strathearn and Campbell and the bishops and abbots. He passed tent booths where merchants cried, hawking their wares. Meat sizzling over braziers, sending up a scent that made his mouth water. Boys wander through the growing crowd crying pies for sale. James stopped under a merchant's sharp-eyed gaze to look at a brooch with a fine blue stone, but he had no lady to give it to or money to buy it. He strolled on.

Anyway, what was important lay ahead beyond more flying banners. The tourney grounds stretched out to beyond his sight.

The silver that the bishop had given him along with a gift from the king had bought a charger after he had returned the bishop's palfrey to the horse-master. James chuckled at the memory of the man's glare. Earlier in the day, he'd paid for a new shield with the blue chief and three white stars of Douglas. Tomorrow would be the tourneys, and he would have his first chance to show what he could do.

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