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Dumfries, Summer, 1307
The air at Dumfries was stifling, not from the weather and heat of the day, but from the smug feeling of victory.
Robert the Bruce inhaled deeply, taking in that aura of conceit, of victory, and breathing out the past ten years of heartache, oppression, and strife.
He wasn’t done. He wasn’t close to being done. Scotland was still hindered by the English yoke. He was still separated from his wife and daughter who were yet imprisoned by the king of England. Would Robert see them again in this lifetime? Only God knew the answer to that question. But for now, larger issues for Scotland loomed.
And smaller ones as well.
For the larger issues, the Scots military accomplishment had truly been unprecedented. After years of the English quashing the Scots attempts at independence, even under the staunch leadership of Sir William Wallace, the changes as of late had been unparalleled.
And Robert had Black Douglas to thank for it.
The man had a bleak and terrifying way of looking at the world, of seeing a harrowing strategy when none could be found, implementing those strategies in the most vicious way, leading to a successful outcome.
Robert’s soul might be forever cursed in following Douglas’s advice and recommendations against the English, but he’d smile the entire way to Hell. So far, having the fiend James Douglas as a commander and tactician in his army had been the best decision he’d made.
Black Douglas fought as though he had nothing to lose. And therein laid the problem.
He didn’t.
The man’s family was slain, his clan dispersed to the ends of Scotland, and he gutted, poisoned, and burned his own stronghold to the ground to prevent any further occupation of Douglasdale by the English.
If Robert didn’t know any better, he’d think Black Douglas was well and truly mad.
Mayhap he was. His actions bore that out.
Regardless, the man had well earned the title of Black Douglas. And Robert had benefited.
A man like that, while so very, very valuable in war, could yet be a liability. Unlike James, other men, men such as Robert the Bruce, did have something left to lose.
As king, he needed to find a way to balance the horrific darkness of James with a sense of potential loss so the man didn’t make a final, overreaching step from which he might not return. The Douglas was adrift, even with his clansman and his Moorish friend. They didn’t anchor him, not in the same way having a family might.
Robert had been struggling with that issue — how to anchor Douglas, provide a counterbalance for his somber pain that drove him to the brink of lunacy. Otherwise, Robert might find his own soul past the point of no return.
And as God had been doing for the past several months, He dropped the solution to this Douglas problem right in his lap in the form of a slender, pleading missive.
Would Douglas accept it? Only if his king commanded it. And by God, Robert would command it. He had the solution mapped out.
All he required was for James to say aye.
A heavy rapping at the door of the study interrupted the Bruce’s thoughts. He moved to his seat behind the desk and settled himself.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The giant Douglas man entered on confident feet and in two long strides was before the Bruce. He bowed briefly then leaned his own gigantic frame on the armchair back that squealed in protest. Robert flicked his eyes to the offended seat, wondering if it would splinter under James’s weight.
Robert the Bruce was a man of fair size. Some even claimed him to be large — quite appropriate for a Scots warrior. Other men, many from the Highlands like the red-headed Sinclair and his brothers, bordered on immense, making Robert feel small in comparison.
There were none that Robert had met who compared in size or demeanor to Black Douglas.
The man wasn’t just tall — ‘twas like setting an ancient pine next to a sapling and calling the pine tall. Even giant didn’t fit, as it was too small a word. Was there a word that fit a man such as James? If so, Robert didn’t know it.
And it wasn’t only his height. Many men in the Scottish Highlands were tall, but the breadth of James — his shoulders, his chest, his back, his legs — the sole comparison Robert could muster was the Greek story of the half-bull monster that lived in the maze. James was a veritable Minotaur.
Black as a title fit him well, not for his disposition, but for his rich black mane that brushed his shoulders in a matted wave, his gray eyes lined in deep black lashes, and the grim expression the man wore without end. Even his voice was a grumbling, rolling voice that easily struck fear into most men.
Aye, Black Douglas was a fitting name.
A name Robert wanted to scale back, at least a hint, to save both his soul and James’s.
James’s gray eyes studied Robert in the way he imagined a wildcat might study a vole. With stark and unending patience, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A chill coursed over Robert’s back.
Douglas must accept this request.
Robert bided his time for several moments, shifting through the parchments on the desk before turning his gaze to James.
“I’ve a letter, James,” Robert began, working to frame his words in the best light possible. James prided himself on his hard nature, his warrior status, his ability with a sword. Marriage, if not love, was not something James was searching for. If anything, Robert knew the man was running from those earthly trappings.
He’d heard the rumors, and many lasses found the Black Douglas exciting, mysterious, a man they might conquer. Beautiful lasses, ones any man would be pleased to find in his bed. Yet Douglas shunned them all. From what Robert’s men had said, Douglas didn’t take anyone to his bed since he’d arrived.
Guarding his heart? Guarding his body? Was the man so jaded he didn’t feel safe or comfortable finding his release with maids at the keep? Even when they had been ensconced at Threave earlier in the spring, he hadn’t allowed anyone close to him.
Only Thomas and his dark friend the Shabib the Moor were permitted close conference.
Well, they and Robert himself.
Robert shook his head. No, James wasn’t going to receive this information well at all.
“What’s in your letter? Something from one of your Highland clans?”
James’s voice reflected the man. Deep and resonating.
“Ye may want to sit for this,” Robert told James, sweeping his hand to the wood-backed chair presently threatening to buckle. If James were mad, as many suggested, as his own history suggested, then having that giant, black-haired man sitting instead of towering over him was a prudent idea.
James stared at Robert unmoving then lifted one bushy eyebrow and settled his girth into the chair that protested all the more. From the corner of his eye, Robert noted the Moor had followed Douglas to the study and now shifted to stand behind Black Douglas, his dark, long-fingered hands lost in the draping folds of his blue cape. Between the two of them, they commanded any room in which they stood, overpowering even the presence of a King, Robert begrudgingly acknowledged. Aye, a fine weapon indeed.
But a weapon that must be controlled.
Robert’s hand grasped the letter that potentially held a measure of that control.
James dark green and brown kilt drooped between his legs, and he leaned his elbows on his knees. He was on alert, and not for the first time, Robert fidgeted under James’s steely gaze.
“’Tis no’ a letter from a clan laird or chieftain. ‘Tis from a woman who was the mistress to Simon Fraser.”
James started slightly, sat back, and folded his arms over his wall-like chest. His rogue eyebrow rose higher.
“I knew the man had a wandering eye, but he must have hid it well. I have no’ heard of any mistress.”
“Then prepare yourself for this news,” Robert continued.
“What does this have to do with me?” The suspicion in James’s voice dripped from his lips.
Robert cleared his throat and gripped the edge of his desk, preparing himself for James’s reaction.
“Ye may have heard that Simon Fraser was put to death by the English late last year, his head on a pike right next to the great Wallace himself. His family’s line will continue to flourish on the Fraser lands in a free Scotland, but Simon left something else behind that few knew about. I dinna believe he was aware that I knew about it.”
Robert extracted a curled parchment from his stack and placed it on the opposite side of the desk for James to review.
“Maggie Fraser was a woman with whom Fraser spent much time. He was away from his wife and family for a long while as he worked with the other lairds and Wallace. Fraser spent so much time with this woman that he sired two children by her. A lad, now a young man, and a lass, a woman. For the past twenty years, he provided coin, paid their rents, provided food and other necessaries for the woman and her children.”
James’s eyes never left Robert’s face. He didn’t even try to read the parchment. Robert sighed. This conversation was about to become difficult.
“The money he’d secretly provided the woman has run out —”
“And now she seeks recourse from ye?” James interrupted.
Robert shook his head and inhaled again.
“Nay. No’ quite that. She wants no handouts because she is not for long in this world. She has the coughing disease and would see her daughter and son set before she expires.”
Robert dropped his gaze. That was half the truth.
“But there’s something more.”
“Your king has a command for ye, James. Ye may no’ think ‘tis important, and ye might think me a bit foolish, but ‘tis for the good of ye, of myself, of the Douglas’s, and of Scotland as a whole. I have most of the details worked out. All ye have to do to please your king is say aye.”
James’s already hard, silvery gaze narrowed. He waited several heartbeats before dipping his head at his king.
“What is your request, King Robert?”
His words were harder than the black stones of the mountains. Robert cleared this throat to continue.
“Ye are the finest warrior the Scots have. Your mind is brilliant when it comes to military success. However, most of your strategies, your applications, come with a sharp edge. One that is harrowing and burdens your soul. If your soul is burdened, then so is mine, so is that of your men. But I have a solution to help lighten that burden and resolve a commitment to one of my fine commanders who has fallen under the iron fist of the English.”
James’s expression never wavered.
“And?”
James’s expression might have remained unmoved, but the man leaned forward, resting his well-muscled arms on his knees again. His eyes burned into Robert like a branding iron.
“She wants ye to have them established?”
“Especially in this dangerous time. Her son has seventeen years, so he can become a squire to any of the knights here, including ye if ye so choose. Truthfully, ‘tis what I prefer.”
James’s jaw clenched, twitching under the force of the movement. Robert tried not to react — how could even a king stay calm and collected under James’s stony glare?
“And what of the lass?”
Robert worked to frame his words in the best light possible. James prided himself on his severe nature, his warrior status, his ability with a sword. Marriage, or love, was not something James was searching for.
“What are your intentions with the lass?” James’s voice was like the man. Deep and threatening.
He knew. Robert set his own jaw, struggling to find a way that James might accept his ploy. The alternative, striking the man’s ire, was not what Robert wanted to encounter this day.
“The mother has asked that the daughter of Simon Fraser be wed to a man of higher stature, to a man who can provide for her, care for her, protect her in these uncertain times —”
James’s chest rumbled in what appeared to be a low laugh, and he sat back in his chair with his thumb to his lips. One side of his mouth curled up, and that curled lip was almost more terrifying than his previously stern face. Robert swallowed hard. Now he would have to do some convincing.
“Surely ye jest. I am a man of war, no’ a husband. I have no home to speak of, my strongholds gone, and if ye recall, I am a monster. The stuff of nightmares. The Black Douglas. No lass, no matter how desperate, should be saddled with me.”
Robert leaned forward, bracing for James’s ire. So far, Black Douglas had handled this request well. He’d rejected it . . . But at least he’d listened and hadn’t tried to throw the king across the room. He flicked his eyes to the ever-stoic Shabib whose own face belied the fact he, too, was interested in such an arrangement for James, and felt confident enough to press on.
“I disagree, Douglas. Your name, your reputation, what better protection for the forlorn lass of Simon Fraser?”
James tipped his head to the side.
“And where, my good king, might she live? I have no home. Should she play the whore, following the army from camp to camp? Will ye keep her here, in what passes for court at Auchinleck?”
At this, Robert’s mouth worked into his own smile. Here is where his plan would work. He’d anticipated James’s arguments and was more than ready to respond to them.
“We left a small garrison at Threave. Most of my men have relocated here and will travel with me as we storm across Scotland and oust the English. As I am doing that, I need someone to keep the English out of the lowlands and rout them from our southern strongholds. I will gift ye Threave and control of the southern Scotland in exchange for the hand of Fraser’s illegitimate daughter.”
“Threave? We just left that pile of rocks! What manner of gift is that?”
James wasn’t wrong in his estimation of that keep. However, the location was sound and granting it to Douglas meant he could build on it, or his progeny, in the future.
“Aye, ‘tis little more than rocks and the moment, but we lived there quite well until we took over Dumfries. And ye can build your own stronghold there, however ye want, so your children and your children’s children will have the legacy that was robbed from ye by Longshanks.”
James half-rose from this seat, his irritation blazing off him like a raging fire burned under his skin.
“Ye must be mad to ask me such a thing. I am no’ the type of man to take a wife. I dinna want a wife. I am a soldier with the singular goal of destroying all the English I can until they slay me in the process. What woman wants that in a husband? Nay. My answer is nay.”
Robert raised his glowering eyes to James and set his shoulders back to appear as commanding as he needed to be. Robert’s arguments had been sound, one even a fool of a man would consider. But James wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate the sound offer.
“I’m no’ asking, James. I am commanding ye. This is an order from your commander, your king. And ye will do as your king demands.”
James clenched his hands into tight fists. The unabiding desire to hit something, the wall, Shabib, the king, roiled through James with a fury. What in the name of Christ’s blood was the king thinking?
“Why, Robert? I’ve overcome much to join ye, and I’ve done the work of the devil on the way. I’m a man with no land, no stronghold, no coin. I’ve my horse, my sword, and the friendship of the King, which I am doubting right now, and that does no’ a husband make.”
James’s throat ached as he tried to choke back the words. They wanted to pour out in a furious scream, one that would bring the walls crumbling down, but this was still the King of Scotland before him, a man to whom he’d sworn fealty a few months before. A measure of control was prudent.
“James, please sit and listen to your king,” Robert told him in a level voice. James sat stiffly and on edge, ready to leap up again. “I have several reasons for demanding this. I will numerate them for ye, and I hope one of them reaches your mind. First, I owe Simon much, and I can return his loyalty by ensuring his children are established. Second, ye won’t be landless much longer. Ye shall have chambers here in Auchinleck whilst we are here. And ye still have the Douglas land — ‘tis still yours though ye need a keep. To that end, as I promised, I am offering ye Threave as your new stronghold. Land, stronghold, coin.” He counted them on his stout fingers.
James tried not to grimace at the prospect of a sinking pile of rocks in the middle of a loch as a reward. Robert continued speaking, trying to convince him that his idea had merit.
“As for ye as a husband, I can attest to what a mighty soldier and loyal sword ye are. As a strategist, ye are unmatched. Ye have many noble traits that make for a great man, and if ye apply those to a marriage, they can make ye a great husband as well. I know ye worry for your soul — ye are no’ called Black Douglas without reason.”
James tipped his head and tried to wipe the sly grin off his face. That reputation was dark and deplorable, but it had grown on James over the past month. He had come to embrace it. Robert’s voice dropped low as his emotions took over.
“A woman, a good woman, a wife, can help us achieve a measure of forgiveness, of solace, that we might not otherwise find ourselves. Perchance ye might find peace in a domestic partnership.”
Behind him, Shabib shifted. James knew Shabib had the same worries for James’s soul, and he would readily agree with Robert on that point. James would never hear the end of that one. He fidgeted in the uncomfortable chair.
“Most importantly, James, when so much darkness haunts a man, I worry for ye. I’m no priest — your soul is no’ my greatest concern. Your mind, however, that I need. Ye can think of schemes and strategies and tactics in a way I’ve never seen before. Ye have a familiarity with historical military strategy and can modify it to work for us. Ye think yourself a warrior, James, but ye are more an academic, a brilliant man. The problem is if the darkness grows too great, it can overwhelm the mind and drive ye mad. Yet, if we — ye, me, your adviser Shabib even — can help you deal with the darkness, ye might save your mind.”
James hated every word that the King spoke, but he couldn’t disagree with a single word of it — especially the final assessment of his mind.
During the burning of Douglas Castle, his actions with the now-renowned Douglas Larder, his mind burned like ‘twas lit with vitriol — an unending burning he couldn’t extinguish. Nothing had been able to cool that fervent pain in his head. Shabib had commented that the pain was his morality fighting with the violent actions that needed to be done, and James had begun to worry that if he didn’t balance those two opposing forces, he would indeed go mad.
He had certainly felt mad when he was lighting his stronghold on fire.
Yet, the idea of a wife sucked the air from his lungs. He was not a husband. He didn’t know how to be a husband. Any woman stuck with him would surely be cheerless and cursed for the rest of her days.
But the king believed James needed something to ground him. And if the king commanded that he marry, then what other choice did he have?
None.
James lifted his brooding eyes to his king. With a sour taste in the back of his throat, James grasped the king’s hand and kissed his large signet ring.
“Your wish is my command,” James said, rolling his eyes before spinning on his booted toe and departing.
