James Stewart
The late afternoon sun shone brightly down on the town of Skipton as James put his binoculars to his eyes again, having already surveyed the situation without them. The device had been a gift from Callum years ago, and was one of James’s most prized possessions. They’d certainly come in handy in Ireland.
Robbie Bruce, who’d chosen to ride with James instead of staying with his grandfather to besiege Barnard Castle, peered south to where James pointed. “That’s the ground we want to claim.”
James turned to look at his former squire. Now that Robbie was a knight, he could have been forging his unique path, but he’d chosen to stay beside James, at least for now. James had stood in for Robbie’s father since his death, and James was not too proud to say that he’d learned some things from Robbie too.
“I agree. It would be madness to bear down on Skipton from directly south along the road.”
“So we go?” Robbie said.
“As soon as the sun sets. Two and a half miles in a straight shot.”
Robbie looked relieved, which James could understand. It would feel better to be moving decisively instead of the painstaking crawl they’d kept to as they’d circled around Skipton.
Huw’s arrival had not, in fact, caught James on the hop. He had known for the whole of the last week that Balliol had left Barnard. He’d sent his own messengers to David to tell him so, and he was more than a little disconcerted to learn they’d never reached him. He had to assume they were dead, possibly at Balliol’s hand.
James’s respect for John Balliol had grown significantly since Trim. And because he had considerable respect for him, newfound as it was, James had to assume that he knew they were coming.
Still, his forces had made no move in their direction, and over the last few days since Balliol had taken Skipton, James and his company of a hundred cavalry had been slowly working their way through the mountains to the north of the town, both aided and hindered by a covering mist that had dissipated today. Its absence was why they hadn’t yet crossed the river and taken the distant high ground, unimaginatively named Black Hill, a single mile to the southeast of the castle of Skipton.
It was a mighty fortress, well-guarded on all sides and built on the English side of the Eller Beck, which is why Balliol had taken it. James was a little annoyed that he’d been clever enough to do so. Not to mention his foresight in bringing in the Norwegians.
Meanwhile, the bulk of James’s army, composed primarily of pikemen and led by James’s brother-in-law, William Douglas, had camped on the high ground also above the town to the north. They were prepared to stop any retreat back to Scotland on the part of Balliol’s forces.
The Bruces hadn’t been idle either. Furious at the attempt on his life, Robbie’s grandfather was determined to take Barnard Castle, since Balliol had exposed it by advancing south. The man was eighty if he was a day, but he’d insisted on riding out on what James had to think might be his last journey. He was supported by his two younger sons, Bernard and William, and their five hundred men, which was plenty to maintain a siege. James had left them to it.
The rest of the army had been sent quick marching south into Yorkshire. A messenger had arrived an hour ago from James’s cousin Alexander, Earl of Menteith, that he was in position just this side of Bolton Abbey, ready to cut off Balliol’s retreat in that direction, or to advance and attack Skipton.
A great deal depended upon the location of King David’s army. James could sit in these mountains a little longer and wait for him to come, but not forever. Since Huw had arrived, however, James was considerably more cheerful about his prospects, and he found himself grinning at what his young charges had become.
“My lord!” A whisper came from behind him. “A scout has returned.”
This was the news James had been waiting for. He and Robbie retreated from their lookout point, heading into a fold in the landscape, and then came to an abrupt halt.
Callum stood before them, grinning. “Hello, my friend.”
James gaped at him for several heartbeats and then laughed. “You made it!” The two men embraced, pounding each other on the back. Callum had already seen Huw, who stood a few paces away, looking deservedly self-satisfied. James stepped back and went straight to the point. “How many men do you have?”
“We’re only the advance,” Callum said. “The main army is still a full march away, but they’re coming.”
James pursed his lips. “How is it that you are here at all?”
“Christopher sent us word too.”
James gestured to Huw. “I knew that, but how did you get here. How did you find me? We were trying to be secretive.”
“I can think like a Scotsman when I have to.” Callum grinned. “Huw says he hardly had to work to find you, since you’d already heard the news and turned south.”
James nodded. “We’ve been shadowing Balliol since he left Barnard.”
“We have four hundred mounted men.” Callum paused, allowing himself another smile. “And more than two hundred archers.”
Robbie gave a low whoop. “Morgan and his men are here?”
“Along with some who ran all the way from Gwynedd.”
“We have two thousand pikemen divided into two groups. Each is camped less than five miles from Skipton, and all are champing at the bit at the inactivity,” James said.
“The plan so far is simple,” Callum said. “As soon as it’s dark, we need your men to take all the ground on the other side of the river from the castle.”
“To what end?” Robbie said. “They can’t force the river to attack this army. There’s no ford at the town, only a drawbridge.”
“That’s not what we intend,” Callum said.
Robbie still looked confused, but James understood. “You mean to cut off Balliol’s retreat.” He paused. “That could cause Balliol to make a preemptive strike. He’ll know his back is to the wall and that he has nowhere to go.”
“Or he could surrender sooner,” Callum said.
“You sound like King David.”
“I will take that as a compliment,” Callum said.
“Truthfully, I will do anything to nip this war in the bud.” Then James lifted his chin. “What of Beeston?”
“It has fallen, but Roger Mortimer escaped.”
Robbie made a sour face. “We thought we saw his banners in the field, but we didn’t want to believe it.”
James shook his head. “A moment ago, I thought Balliol had made a brilliant move to take Skipton, but with you here and the king’s forces approaching, now I’m not so sure. He is far from Scotland.”
“He has sent a stream of assassins after David. If one of them had been successful, the whole of England could have been rolled up like a rug. Now, he is caught well into England with no way back.” Callum looked hard at James. “How have the alliances fallen out for you?”
James rubbed his chin. “John Balliol and his allies are on one side. Robert Bruce and I are on the other.”
“Plus Erik of Norway,” Robbie said helpfully. “He’s not pleased.”
“Erik is here?”
James grimaced. “No. Not yet. Robbie is being optimistic.”
“I’m sure Hakkon is hoping that by the time his brother finds out where he is and what he has done, it will be too late to stop him becoming King of Scots,” Callum said.
“God forbid. My peers chose John Balliol to rule them, in part because the Bruces can be arrogant and overbearing—” James put out a hand to Robbie, “—no disrespect intended, my friend.”
“I know my grandfather,” Robbie said. “You speak the truth.”
“—but rule by Norway?” James continued. “We might have accepted Erik under duress, but his younger brother? Never.”
“That’s why this war has to end here,” Callum said.
James had seen this kind of grimness in his friend before. It had never boded well for King David’s enemies, and for the first time since he saw Red Comyn on the docks at Drogheda in Ireland, hope began to outpace his anger.