J. Tomlin - The Templar's Cross

“What the devil are you doing here?” said a voice near him. “I heard you’d died in France.”

Law turned to find at his elbow a big man, more gray than blond, decked in somber black like a crow amongst the glittering crowd. Richerd Kintour, the cousin who held what land in Buchan was left to their family, shook his head as he looked Law up and down.

“If you came thinking to beg for help from me, your luck has run out.”

“I no more thought to find you here than you did me, Cousin.” He carefully kept his voice even and face blank. “I have a duty here and once it’s done…” He looked around at the splendid confusion of the room, not sure what to say because he had no idea what he would do when this last duty to the lord duke was done. “When I am done, I shall serve my lord as I always have.”

His cousin snorted. “Serve how? From the look of that limp, you’ll fight no battles any time soon.”

Law’s face heated. “My leg is healing, but such wounds as I received take time.”

“My good wishes to you on that,” Richerd said stiffly. “So you hope for reward for bringing the earl details of his father’s death?”

“He must want the details of the battle, though the loss is hardly news now.” Several of the courtiers had sidled close, to Law’s annoyance, plainly taking in every word. “I dinnae ken though if any others who weren’t captured survived, so the earl should have the chance to hear it from me.” He kept his face blank.

“Sir Law,” Tam said from the doorway, “my lord Douglas will see you.”

With some relief, Law gave his cousin a courteous bow before turning to follow the sergeant out of the chamber.

Archibald, Earl of Douglas, with a full head of bushy black hair and dark eyes like all the Douglases of his line, stood in an antechamber staring out a narrow window slit. A beam of light gleamed on the blue brocade of his doublet and the gold of his earl’s belt. He was little changed but for a few more lines about his eyes in the three years since Law last saw him at the celebration of their great victory at the Battle of Bauge. When Tam closed the door, the earl held out his hand. “I would hear what you have to recount.”

Law knelt with a wince at a twinge in his thigh and bowed over the earl’s hand.

The earl’s face was tight, lips pressed thin. “You were with my father’s following when he fell.”

“Aye, and your brother fell beside him.” He hesitated. “And the Earl of Buchan as well, of course.”

“I recall you from the practice yard when you were a lad and a squire. Did my father knight you?”

“On the field at the Battle of Bauge. You were there in France that day, my lord, but many were knighted after the battle.” It had been a surprise and a welcome one for his connections were not so great he expected more than to serve as squire in the duke’s following. Bauge had been a great triumph for all of them.

Douglas studied Law for a moment, the sunlight from the window slit shining on the dark skin of his broad brow. “I’ve had no more than the bare bones of what happened. Most died and those captured…” He shrugged. “The English have been generous to captured Scots only with executions.”

The earl motioned for Law to rise. “I must return to the king and this is a tale he should hear as well. His grace will want to ken how such a loss came about.”

The inner chamber was crowded with courtiers and servants standing about. Near the window on the far side of the room, two men were seated at a small table covered with a silk cloth. A chessboard and pieces were on it. At the table could only be King James, in his middle years, perhaps thirty, with chestnut hair and large piercing blue eyes set off by a doublet of slate-colored silk and yellow velvet. He looked up with a curious tilt to his head as he watched them approach. The other finely dressed man, hulking, with short hair and beard streaked with gray, Law did not know. A cleric of no more than thirty in dark hair tonsured and in a fine woolen robe, though simply cut, stood next to the king, head bent as he whispered something into the monarch’s ear.

“If it is true, then I must have it, John. Gold must be found somehow, so put your-” The king glanced at Law. “-put your agent to finding the truth of the matter.”

The king was said to be in great need of gold to pay the ransom to the English for his release, and for a moment Law wondered how the king would raise such a great sum.

“The king’s secretary, John Cameron,” Douglas muttered. “A man on the make.”

As Cameron moved away, Douglas made a noise in his throat, and the king motioned them closer. Law knelt again, careful not to wince.

Douglas nodded to the king’s companion. “Mar, if you are interested, he has news of the Battle of Verneuil. He was there with my father.”

The Earl of Mar stood and offered Douglas his place. “None of mine have been fighting in France, so it’s your business.” He bowed to the king and strolled to a sideboard where goblets and wine awaited.

The king waved a hand to permit him to rise, so Law pushed himself to his feet with a shove on his good leg. The murmur of conversation around them paused and Law rubbed a hand over his bristly face as he tried to think of how to give an account of the worst day he had ever lived. The king gave him an impatient look.

He took a deep breath. “You ken the English attacked and took Ivry beforehand from our French allies as we marched that way.” At the king’s nod, he continued. “When Ivry surrendered to the English, the Earl of Buchan, my lord earl’s father, and the other commanders decided to take Verneuil in the west, instead of making a direct attack on their army. We used a simple trick. Some of us led a group of pretend prisoners and said we were Sassenach under Bedford’s command, so they opened the gates.” He smiled at the memory. “We easily took the town and the entire army entered it.”

Douglas watched him as he talked, frowning and intent. The Earl of Mar had returned to listen but turned to whisper to a servant.

The king was paying close heed, his expressive eyes wide with interest. “And then the Earl of Bedford attacked to retake Ivry?” he asked.

“I heard that it was the Earl of Buchan who insisted we make a stand and that the French commander argued against it. But I wasnae there when the commanders decided. Anyroad, we did make a stand on a plain across the road that Bedford had to take to reach the town gates. We were fighting afoot as is our wont.” Law slowly shook his head. “Our force was…disorganized. The French were supposed to take the left flank and we the right, but it was chaos. The Lombard mercenaries refused their orders. The French and our men were milling, commanders shouting, few of our men were where they should have been. Buchan was beside himself and…” He glanced at the earl’s tight grim face. “…your father, the duke, was sending messengers to and fro to try to bring order. Then when the English archers got within bow range, with no warning the French forces charged. They were supposed to hold our flank! We were…unprepared.”

He stared at the wall, the butchery that followed the charge still clear in his mind as though it was laid out before him. Battle shouts from the French that turned into shrieks as they were butchered. Screams of horses dying under them. “The English broke the French charge-” Law cleared his tight throat. “Chased them down and it turned into butchery.”

“By the Holy Rood…” Douglas muttered.

“Our Scots were rained with arrows but held our ground. After the damned English finished off the French, they charged our open left flank where the French should have stood. So we were surrounded.” These men had seen battle. No need to describe the stink of blood and shit. The sweat, terror, and blood-lust in hacking down man after man, his comrade-in-arms, Alan, lying at his feet, bleeding out. “We did not break, my lords. At the last, we formed a schiltron around our commanders as the Sassenach screamed for vengeance for the Duke of Clarence’s death at Bauge.”