Were these English so assured of their presence, of their prowess, that they left the open gate defenseless? He shook his raven-haired head.
Of course they were. James had watched them do it time and again over the past several days. The English were nothing if not predictable.
Two of James’s own men joined him at the edge of the Selkirk forest brush line. They perched a few meters east of Douglasdale — his old friend and tenant farmer, Thomas Dickson with hair as black as his own, and his loyal confidant and paladin from France, the Moor Shabib, whose rich brown skin was reminiscent of the mountains in his homeland of Hispania.
“What are ye thinking, James?” Thomas asked in a whisper as he crouched behind his bush.
The man was devoutly loyal, having joined with James Douglas shortly after he watched helplessly as the English burned his crops, barn, and croft house to the ground. He’d fled with his wife and son to live with her Scott kin near Rutherford, then left to seek out the Douglas.
Shabib squatted on James’s other side, his rich azure robes pooling on the ground as he peered through the bushes from under the edges of his turban-wrapped hood.
“You have mentioned that your people have a holiday soon. Is there a dictate that prevents you from military action on that date? If these English celebrate it, then their guard might be even more lax.”
Ahh, James thought as he nodded.Shabib is always one to see the larger picture.
“Aye. The Lenten season ends with Easter and ‘tis Palm Sunday in two days. Their commander, Clifford — the foul besom — is gone from the tower already for the season. Only a shell guard remains. Your idea has merit. They will no’ expect an attack on one of the Lord’s most holy days.”
“James,” Thomas’s low voice dropped lower. “Ye canna do such a thing on the Lord’s day. ‘Tis sin upon sin. Some things must remain sacred even in times of war.”
James’s gray eyes hardened to slate, cutting Thomas in a murderous glare.
“Thomas, I love ye like a brother, but ye must understand. These English have stolen and desecrated my birthright, slaughtered my kin and clan, your kin and clan, and are using it as an English stronghold against the Scots. And when I forfeited my pride, shamed myself to crawl like a lowly dog and beg the English king to return my lands, he had me removed from his grounds and threatened my life if I ever dared return. I tell ye, Thomas, if I canna be personally responsible for Edward Longshanks’s death, then by God himself, I will slaughter every last English soldier I can get my hands on. Including those whose horrendous English asses sit in my keep, sin or no’!”
Chastised, Thomas bowed his head. As a tenant farmer with distant kin, he’d never had a strong connection to the seat of the Douglas lands. He couldn’t judge James for the actions he was compelled to take, but that didn’t make an invasion on the day the Lord entered Jerusalem any more palatable. ‘Twas an abuse of a sacrament, in Thomas’s lowly opinion.
And in the opinion of most.
“Aye, James,” Thomas whispered.
“Your friend has a solid argument, James. Nothing good is to be had when one offends his God.”
James swiveled on his toes to face Shabib. Beads of dew had formed on his tightly curled hairline that escaped his hood and the shoulders of his robe, creating a shimmering aura on the man.
“These words may be sharp on your ears, Shabib, and I mean no offense to your relationship to your God, but my God, perchance He has abandoned the Douglases, and probably all of Scotland. There’s no one left to offend. And even if He’s still present, we have the saying that God helps those who help themselves.”
James shifted his harsh gaze to Thomas, who had the good sense to hang his head at James’s sound argument.
Shabib’s face never shifted, not even a twitch of his cheek — ‘twas one of the reasons James found the man so agreeable. He wore no emotion, keeping those useless feelings in check. Feelings, emotions, those were as useless as a one-winged bee in James’s estimation, and Shabib never bothered James with such petty inconveniences.
Thomas, on the other hand . . .
“If you believe that, James, then we must accept it,” Shabib intoned. “Even Allah permits fighting during sacred months in response to acts of aggression. And what these English have done, aggression is too light a word. So if you have no qualms about an invasion, then neither do I.”
“Shabib,” Thomas pleaded, “I would hope ye might talk some sense into this man. His compulsion knows no bounds.”
“We all have a calling, Thomas. If this is James’s, then I will assist him as he needs.” Shabib shifted his doleful brown eyes to James. “That does not mean I won’t pray for your soul, James. Allah knows, someone must.”
James drew on the groundwith a stick. The air was thick with mist, yet still dry. No rain, yet. James poked at two shapes in the damp dirt, then lifted his face to the skies. Those watching him might say his expression was prayerful, but Thomas and Shabib knew otherwise. What James was searching for was a hint as to the weather the next day. James sniffed, trying to sense if a storm was eminent.
The strategy would still go on as planned, regardless. ‘Twould only be easier if the rain held back. James might have prayed if he were a godly man. As it were, he tasked Thomas and Shabib with any prayers.
“Tomorrow. Early. Most men will be at the kirk, for mass. We’ll start here, at the gate, with two men.” James drew lines in the dirt. “The rest will come from here, in a surprise Highland charge that ‘twill overwhelm those few at the gate. Once we are inside, gather everything, everything, as I have told ye, here.” He stuck the stick in the ground.
“What point is there to putting everyone in the cellar? What will ye do once ye move back into the tower?” the young Douglas warrior, Gabriel asked, his light hair bright against the gray skies.
James’s stare cut that innocent brightness to shreds.
“We aren’t moving back in, Gabe. No one is. I have alternate plans.”
