Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

“A substantial one, of the kind that will buy men and weapons. Six chests of gold, in bars and coin, and five of silver, likewise divided, brought to him by one of his most leal subjects, the Baroness St. Valéry, youngest sister to Sir Thomas Randolph.”

“The King’s nephew? That cannot be. Sir Thomas is in England, captured at Methven fight last year—” He shook his head. “But he has no younger sister old enough to be a baroness.”

“No, sir, you are mistaken. Sir Thomas is my age, perhaps five years older. He was never nephew to Bruce and he has a brood of sisters.”

“Ah! Two different men. That Sir Thomas is dead, I fear. His son is now Sir Thomas Randolph.”

“His son? Then he cannot be much older than you.”

A smile flickered at the corner of Douglas’s mouth. “Younger, I believe. I have never met him, but I’ve heard tell he is a young man with the spirit of chivalry burning pure in him. You’ll never find him refusing mercy to an enemy.”

Will was unsure how to respond to that, so he ignored it, saying instead, “Sir Thomas the elder. He had a younger brother, Edward. Know you ought of him?”

Douglas looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Aye. He, too, is dead. Killed at Methven.”

“Ah!” There was pain in the soft exhalation. “Then Peggy is alone … My sister. She was Sir Edward’s wife.”

“So, I am the bearer of bad news again then, even unwittingly …” It was clear from his saddened expression that he was thinking of a number of other times when he had delivered similar tidings to women awaiting word of their menfolk.

Will cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You speak of this Methven fight as though I should know of it. But I know nothing. What happened at Methven?”

Douglas’s blue eyes met Will’s eyes squarely, and it occurred to Will that here was a singularly honest young man, who could accept his own shortcomings and proceed with what he had to do in spite of them.

“You know nothing of Methven? Forgive me if I appear to disbelieve you, but it seems incredible to me that there could be a knight alive, let alone a Scots knight, who has never heard of the Methven fight. Plainly I was wrong … Well, we received a lesson in English honor, chivalry, and the knightly code there. Do you know the place?”

“No.”

“It is close by the town of Perth, the first Englishheld stronghold King Robert challenged after his coronation. You’ll have heard of Perth, I hope?” Will nodded, but the younger man was being facetious and had not waited for a response. “Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke and commander-in-chief of the English in Scotland, was occupying the town and was caught unprepared for our arrival. He had been harrying the countryside in a punitive campaign and had merely stopped at Perth in passing and hence was in no great condition to withstand a siege. We arrived in front of the town on a Sunday afternoon to find it shut and fortified against us, and the King, in the spirit of the knightly code, rode forward alone and challenged de Valence to come out and fight. De Valence declined, since it was the Sabbath, but said he would meet us on the following day. His response was reasonable, and we withdrew as far as Methven, about five miles away, to set up camp for the night … And as we were settling down, our horses unsaddled and in picket lines, our army preparing for sleep, the English attacked in the dark—a full cavalry attack. It was a rout and the attack was dastardly, devoid of any trace of honorable conduct or the knightly code. We lost hundreds of good men, and King Robert, sorely wounded, barely escaped alive, carried out by a few others and myself.”

“Where did you go, with the King wounded?”

“We ran into the forest. Once we were assured the King would live, we spent the next three weeks making our way north and east in secret, towards Inverness.

“Why Inverness? That is a long way from Perth.”

“Aye, but it was also a long way from Aymer de Valence. But the King had made arrangements to meet his womenfolk there.

“His women folk?”

Douglas nodded. “Aye. The Queen was there, and the King’s daughter Marjory, along with his sister Mary and Isobel, the Countess of Buchan, who crowned King Robert when her brother the Earl, whose duty it was, refused to do so. He is a Comyn, of course. The Countess herself is a MacDuff, of the ancient lineage who crowned the kings of Scotland since the days of Kenneth MacAlpine. Aye, we had a dozen women in our train after that day.”

“That surprises me … that the King should take his women with his army, I mean.”

Douglas looked at him wide eyed. “What else could he do? Where could he leave them in safety, when all the southern regions of his realm were either in English or in Comyn hands? The only place they might be truly safe was by his side.”

Will nodded, beginning to have an inkling of what Douglas had been saying earlier about the conditions in the land. “I see. So what happened then?”

“Folly, treachery, and more dastardy. Less than two weeks after Inverness, we rode into a trap in the Valley of Glenfillan, near Glen Dochart in Macnab country at a place called Dal Righ. Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, good-brother to the Comyns, had sent a thousand men there from his own lands to gut us, with the blessing of Macnab, whose land it was. But we fought our way out, though it lost us four-fifths of our strength. Suffice it to say that we split what was left of our small party after that. The King and a dozen others of us took to the heather afoot. The Queen’s party, much larger and stronger, took the horses and rode north and east to safety in Kildrummy, in the earldom of Mar, escorted by the King’s brother, Sir Nigel Bruce. With them went David, the Bishop of Moray; John de Strathbogie, the Earl of Atholl; Sir Robert Boyd; and divers others.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Last July. More than a year ago.”

“And what has the King being doing since then?” “He played the cateran among the Isles last winter, raising support from the Islesmen, living off the land and fighting to consolidate his kingdom. And all the while straining to stay unbowed while new burdens afflict him daily.”

“Burdens such as what?”

Douglas looked away, clasping his hands about his upper arms, so that Will thought he was not going to answer, but no sooner had he thought that than the young nobleman spoke. “Oh, the loss of three of his four brothers, Nigel, Alec, and Thomas, all of them betrayed by Scots nobles and sent to Edward in England to be hanged, drawn, and quartered like brigands. And the capture of his wife, Queen Elizabeth, his daughter, Marjory, his sisters Mary and Christina, Countess of Mar, and the Countess of Buchan. All of them taken and sent to England likewise, this time by John Comyn, the Earl of Ross. The Queen, we have been told, is being held prisoner somewhere in the north of England. The Princess Marjory, at thirteen, is forbidden to be spoken to by anyone and is hung in an open cage from the outer wall of London’s Tower. The Lady Mary Bruce, the King’s sister, hung in a similar cage from the walls of Roxburgh Castle. The Lady Christina of Mar, his other sister, locked up in a nunnery. And Isobel, Countess of Buchan, hangs in an another cage from the walls of Berwick.”

“Good God! And this was Edward’s doing? But surely, now that he is dead—”

“Nothing has changed. Nor will it. Edward of Caernarvon is not the man his father was, but he hates just as hard. He left this land last August, with nigh on two hundred thousand men in his train. We thought for a while he would march north in search of us, for that would have been the end of everything, but thanks be to God his coronation had been scheduled for September in London. He had dallied too long without striking at us and marched away leaving us with the knowledge of the size of the force he had fielded. Two hundred thousand men, against our three thousand. They came and they left, but they’ll be back one of these days, though we have had word from England, from a trusted source, that he has problems enough with his own barons to keep his mind away from us for a spell.