Chapter Three: Meeting the King
Dumfries, The Crownof 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.
