“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 establishedJames 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,malignedview 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.
