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Dumfries, The Crown of Scotland, Early April 1307
The chamber Robert the Bruce occupied in Auchinleck Castle permitted every spring draft entrance as though they were invited. Though he wore his bear fur trimmed cape and stood directly in front of the fire, he shivered. Perchance ‘twasn’t the cold that embedded the chills into his bones.
Dark days loomed ahead of the Scots cause, with Robert himself at the helm.
John Sinclair’s voice called to him. The Bruce shifted profile, and John’s bright red head popped in, followed by his burly frame.
“King Robert, you have a strange visitor, one who requests your presence.”
Strangely foreboding words from the normally light-hearted Sinclair man.
“Nay, an English emissary? My luck could never be so good,” the king grumbled. John shook his head.
“Nay,” James told him, his voice dropping low. “He claims to be James Douglas.”
The Bruce froze, rooted to his spot on the woven rug. One eye narrowed at John, and his jaw clicked as he clenched it.
“Surely ye jest. That man has been long gone from the Scotland. His family lands fortified by the English.”
“Rumors had spread that he tried to claim his lands from Edward, and Longshanks, upon hearing James’s name, wouldn’t even see the man and had him and his men sent away.”
Robert didn’t answer right away. He bit the inside of his cheek as he thought about the man standing outside his door.
“I would think Longshanks might have slaughtered the man and his soldiers right then.”
John grunted. “Well, likely he regrets no’ doing so now. Ye have heard of the Douglas larder?”
“I’ve heard that Douglas Castle was burned to the ground, and some have said ‘twas James’s own hand that committed that atrocious action,” Robert answered in a terse tone.
He had indeed heard more, but much of it was so inconceivable, Robert didn’t want to speak of it and give it any validity until he heard the truth for himself. He had doubted James had even returned to Scotland at all.
John’s mouth worked, and he threw his shoulders back to face the king.
“Aye, well, ‘twas a sight more than that. From what the rumors suggest, the man may no’ be quite in his right mind.”
“John,” Robert said with a heavy breath, “Your words are too kind, if the rumors are true. Until we hear it from the man himself, however, we will no’ sustain those tales.”
“He’s been called Black Douglas as of late, and while the man’s hair is dark, I dinna believe they’ve given him this title for that reason.”
The king nodded as his somber thoughts dug deeper. Robert well understood how black a man’s heart, a man’s soul, might become. William Wallace of yore was reputed to have one of the darkest souls in history, for all that he was a hero to the Scots. Heroism oft came at a dreadful price. He lifted a hand to John.
“Please tell Laird Douglas I would be honored to make his acquaintance.”
“Laird James Douglas. The prodigal son has returned, and Scotland welcomes ye.”
Robert’s welcome sounded rehearsed, but the striking jolt to his chest at the sight of the reputed man made any words hollow.
James gave a slight bow to the brown-haired man who stood before him. The idea of a king was oft swollen and grandiose that a mere man himself couldn’t compare. Robert was a bit of an exception. He wore no crown, only the unruly brown mane God graced him with. His heavy beard and lined face spoke of years of battle, yet his shoulders were still stiff, strong, proud, not curving under the weight of age or weariness. The broad man was of a fair height, almost as tall as James himself.
After seeing the thin, sickly-looking English nobles ruled by an old man who probably looked the same, encountering the powerfully hale Scots king, a man who lived up to his notoriety, sparked a light of hope in James’s chest.
“I thank ye, King Robert. I’ve been long absent from my clan lands, and I am glad to have returned.”
James straightened, and several seconds passed as the men regarded each other, James’s iron-gray gaze meeting the Bruce’s deep amber one directly.
“I’ve heard rumors, James, ones that speak volumes if they are true. Regarding Douglas Castle?”
James’s stoic face hardened even more. “I believe ye mean the reputed Douglas larder.”
The Bruce stiffened. The man didn’t deny it.
“The rumors, James, they are true?”
James continued to stare at the Bruce, and his face shifted, a hint of a strange, dangerous smile tugging at his full lips.
“I believe ye mean to call me Black Douglas, my liege.”
It took every ounce of Robert’s will not to let his face change, not to react in any way. The man didn’t deny it. A man who destroyed his own lands, adopted a scorched earth approach rather than permit the English to use that stronghold against the Scots people again — it spoke of a level of madness. Not that ‘twas a bad thing. Many had said Wallace was as mad as they came. And the Bruce had followed that valiant man and taken up his very banner when Wallace died.
Douglas’s madness grew from a separate root, one of obsession, of being robbed of one’s birthright. And if that meant his military approach to the English was this dark, this furious, then by God, Robert wanted the Douglas laird in his army.
‘Twould be easy enough to claim him, Robert knew. The man had nothing left but his name and his title.
“While I cannot necessarily condone what ye elected to do to your lands and those inhabiting them, I also know we are fighting senseless monsters. And when we fight monsters, we oft must take the most drastic measures humanly, or inhumanly possible.”
Douglas remained silent, his flat, steely eyes studying the Bruce in such a way a lesser man might have squirmed under his glare. A way most men would not have used on their king.
“I need men in my army who can strategize, who are willing to make hard decisions against a ferocious enemy. Only then, will Scotland have her freedom. Ye, my dark laird, should have a seat at my table. Will ye accept this position?”
Again, silence. Then James gave the king another curt bow.
“I am honored to serve ye, my King.”
Robert flipped the length of his cape behind his legs and stepped closer to Black Douglas. He flung his arms open wide.
“Then ye mad, black-hearted man, let me give ye a kinder welcome than the one ye received in Douglasdale.”
James studied him for a space of several heartbeats, then stepped into the King’s embrace. The Black Douglas was a weapon, a hard, ruthless weapon, but he was still a man who needed the camaraderie, the acceptance of his king. Bruce made it his mission to remember that fact, lest James lose the last trace of any humanity he had in his black heart.
The Bruce established James Douglas in a small set of chambers in the keep and his men in a pair of close set, decaying crofts not far from the stronghold. King Robert had requested Douglas’s attendance at a meeting he was having with several advisers later in the day, much to James’s surprise.
While news of his attack on his own castle spread more quickly than a wildfire throughout Scotland, he didn’t believe that his loathsome attack could be the reason the king wanted him at his royal meeting.
Thomas scoffed when James mused this out loud. The lean, brown-haired man spread his plaid on a pile of hay for his makeshift bedding in the croft as he spoke to his laird.
“James, ye dinna know why the king might want ye at his meeting. But if lowly innkeepers have heard of your misdeeds against the English, I would wager my last coin that the king has heard of it as well. And someone with your, shall we say, maligned view of military strategy, may be just what the king needs to regain his kingdom against the English. The Good Lord knows the English have used similarly dire tactics against us Scots. Mayhap your reputation might precede ye, sending the fear of a gruesome death at your monstrous hands through the lot of them.”
James flopped onto a hardback chair near the heart and grumbled under his breath. He had no response — Thomas was assuredly correct. His moniker of Black Douglas had become well entrenched in Scottish lowland lore, and nary a fortnight had passed since the dark event.
Shabib busied himself, looking about the croft to find the best place for his prayer rug. He was noticeably quiet.
James had an awareness that Shabib, while a devout and loyal friend, didn’t fully approve of the dark path that James had embarked upon. But as a man grappling with his own demons, Shabib wasn’t about to judge or comment. Instead he would get on his knees, bow to Mecca, and ask for forgiveness and absolution, and perchance peace for his tortured friend.
Shabib’s lack of judgment was like a lone piece of floating wood in the sea, something James could hold onto so as not to drown in his own pit of despair.
James tried to push these thoughts away as he stared into the fire and let the heat warm his skin. How long had it been since he felt warm? Since he had a sense of home? Of family? The closest he came were Thomas, Gabe, and Shabib. And of those, only Shabib had been with him since France.
William Lamberton had been kind and tried to be a father figure for the lost lad when he’d arrived in France. After James’s studies, the Bishop of St. Andrews had sent for him, making him a squire, and this move by Lamberton paved the way for James to become a hardened knight and even presented him at the British court to try to recoup his stronghold. The name Lamberton was the only reason Longshanks had considered meeting with James in the first place.
While he owed much to that great man, ‘twasn’t family. Dry biscuits and stringy beef by a lonely hearth, catechism studies, and squire duties did not a family make.
And here in Scotland now, he had his men, brethren he’d consider as close as brothers. But not a family in the way most understood. In the way Thomas or Shabib understood.
Mayhap ‘tis what’s made my soul as black as death, he pondered as he sat mesmerized by the dancing flames.
A banging at the door drew his attention from the fire, and he cast a quick glance at Shabib. The moor was wrapped in his richly colored robes and kneeling on his blanket — certainly not ready to accompany James on a meeting with King Robert the Bruce. Thomas and Gabe dropped their gazes. They too were unprepared to find themselves aligned with Black Douglas in the presence of the king.
James rubbed a bear-like hand through his riotous, shoulder-length black hair and marched to the door. A slender lad with a sword nearly longer than himself straightened when James swung the door open.
“The king requests your presence,” the laddie squeaked.
James nodded, and grabbing his own broadsword sitting against the wall by the door, he ducked out the low door frame and followed the lad back to the king’s temporary keep.
Humility didn’t sit easily on James’s shoulders, and he knew that if the king had Black Douglas on his side, the man was certain to reclaim his kingdom.
