The Black Douglas is dead. With Scotland's
greatest knight no more, the throne is up for grabs as enemies try to devour
the kingdom.
An orphaned youth returning from exile,
Archibald, the Black Douglas's bastard son, fights for a land being torn apart
from within and without. If Archibald is to survive, he must learn to sleep
with a claymore in his hand and one eye open because even his closest friend
might betray him...
This is an adventure set in the bloody Second
Scottish War of Independence when Scotland's very survival is in question.
Follow the tour HERE
Buy Links:
Amazon UK Amazon US Amazon CA Amazon AU
Barnes and Noble Kobo Apple Books
¸.•*´¨)✯ ¸.•*¨) ✮ (
¸.•´✶
EXCERPT
At first light the next morning, we rode out. The wind
rattled in the green-clothed branches and tossed flowering heather and gorse
bushes, but even early, the day was warm. The French force was joined in the
long column by a hundred of Sir William's men who had awaited his return. I
rode just behind him and Sir Arnaud, who led the way. I threw off my cloak and
bent my head back to bathe in the sunshine. The horse between my legs might
only be my palfrey, Broiefort, but I rode with knights, and we were going to
war.
Soon we followed the edge of the River Edam, where reeds
along its edge bowed beneath the breeze. The sun had just gained its noonday
height when we sighted Cupar Castle. The English-held fortress stood atop a
small hill, its honey-colored walls drenched in the yellow sunlight.
The fields around the castle town had been plowed, but no
one worked them as we rode by. A burned orchard of apple trees stood like
blackened tombstones, a reminder of a past battle or siege. Wisps of smoke
drifted from the smoke holes in some of the thatched roofs, but nothing moved
in the street. Not even a dog barked or a hen scratched as we passed. The bell
in the church belfry was silent.
"Leave it be," Sir William commanded the men.
"We are after bigger game.”
"It is not an impressive castle," Sir Arnoul
said. "Surely, it has no more than fifty men.”
"Not impressive but strong enough. A burn flows nearby
to keep the moat deep, and the walls are thick. It has a well, so plenty of
water for a siege." Sir William bared his teeth in a wolfish smile.
"But I expect them to surrender.”
Guards in armor moved behind the merlons on the ramparts.
Above them, at the top of the keep streamed a long white standard with
England's cross of Saint George.
John de Bracy, a French squire, and William Fraser led the
way, splashing through the shallow flow of a narrow stream carrying the
banners. The rest of the column followed close behind us.
"Where should we camp?" Fraser asked.
"There." Sir William pointed. "Blocking the
road to the castle gate. Have someone help Archie set up my tent at the top.
Fraser, you plant my banner." He motioned to the side. "Baggage there
and horse lines behind. Let us wait to unload our baggage to see how long this
will take.”
Gorse dotted the brae where we sat ahorse, and a hawk
slanted away from us, gliding toward the charred remains of the orchard.
"We should post pickets," the French commander
said.
"Aye. I dinnae expect an attack, but then we didnae
expect one at Dupplin Moor, so we will set them out. Have them set up a barrier
on the road with guards behind it. Then let us give the commander some time to
consider the fact that no help will be coming.”
"You know the man?"
Sir William swung from the saddle. "I ken him—William
Bullock is his name. He is a cleric who likes fighting more than praying. He's
nae fool, I promise you.”
Joaquim of Kinbuck slapped me on the shoulder and showed me
how to set up the central pole and tie off the guy ropes for the round tent. It
did not take long. The banners were planted and flapped listlessly in the
slight breeze. Just a few clouds scudded over the summer sky.
As soon as the tent
was set up, Sir William called me to help him out of his armor. As I unbuckled
his greaves, Fraser stuck his head through the open door and said that there
was a rider coming carrying a flag of truce. Apparently, Bullock wanted to
talk. "And that means he will surrender.”
"It does?" I asked.
My lord unsheathed his sword and held it up to examine its
edge. “Aye."
The next day we met Bullock halfway between the camp and
the castle. Sir William and Sir Arnoul brought Fraser to witness the
negotiation. Over thirty, wide-faced and burly, William Bullock rode ahead of
two of his own men. When we all dismounted, I gathered the reins and tied their
mounts to the limbs of a dead tree, then went back to listen.
"Sir William Douglas, I ken, but you, sir, I do not.”
The Frenchman raised his chin slightly, looking down his
nose. “Sir Arnoul d’Andeneham.”
Bullock sniffed. "Am I supposed to be impressed that
the French have come to your aid, Douglas?”
"It might do well to be," Sir Arnoul said in a
hard voice.
"I am not the one who needs aid, Bullock. John de
Strivelyn broke the siege on Cupar last year, but he is now with King Edward in
the Low Country. So, where will your aid come from? Not from Perth. It is
besieged. How well are you provisioned for a long siege?”
"Well enough to wait until the English arrive."
He thrust his chin toward the empty fields. "How well-provisioned are you,
Douglas? How long can you wait for food from those fields?”
"It was not only men that I brought back with me from
France. I have gold enough to buy what we need here or from France if need
be." Sir William’s
smile was grim, and he gave his scrip a pat that made it clink with coin.
"And how long has it been since you and your men were paid?"
"You think I can be bought?”
"I think that
you would rather fight for the son of Robert the Bruce than the son of the
coward John Toom Tabard. But mayhap you need persuasion to realize it.”
Bullock shrugged. "Balliol is a weakling like his
father was before him, mayhap even worse. But is the son of the Bruce any
better, a child hiding in France? Why should I fight for him?”
"King David will be back in Scotland soon enough. I
saw him . . . talked to him only a week ago. I tell you, he will be a real
king, not an old man with a limp cock. He has grown into a man and a fighter.
He is good with a sword and has already ridden to battle with King
Philip."
I smiled to myself at the description of David.
Sir William continued, "Forbye, I can use that French
gold to pay the wages of men who want to help us take Perth. I also control an
estate in Lothian that might be a reward for someone who realizes he wants to
fight for our true king.”
Bullock had a thoughtful look on his face. "So you
really believe young David will return soon.”
"He will," Sir Arnoul said. "My King has
agreed to give him ships to return with armor and weapons and more aid later if
he needs it. Give him another year, two at the most, and he will be back in
Scotland.”
Bullock rubbed his hand over his chin. He turned to look
behind him at Cupar Castle and back again at Sir William. Finally, he said,
"I want a full year’s
pay as castellan of Cupar and six months' pay for the men who agree to follow
me. Moreover, I have an idea for taking Perth that will make me worth it.”
They haggled a bit over the price, but within an hour, a
deal was struck. We mounted and rode back. I wondered if it would always be so
easy.
Back in Sir William’s tent, they talked, and he said it was not just the
Scottish and French forces in front of the castle and some promises that
persuaded him. Other Scots fought across Scotland, pushing out the English,
ravaging the land north of the Forth, so there was no food for English armies
nor for their strongholds. They had fallen one by one. Now Sir William, Sir
Arnoul, and Bullock debated how many men to leave holding the castle, what
provisions it still held, and when to leave for the last English stronghold
north of the Forth—the walled and moated city of Perth.
J. R. Tomlin
J. R. Tomlin is the
author of nineteen historical novels.
She has close ties
with Scotland since her father was a native Scot, and she spent substantial
time in Edinburgh while growing up. Her historical novels are set, for the most
part, in Scotland. Her love of that nation is traced from the stories of Robert
the Bruce and the Good Sir James her grandmother read to her when she was
small, to hillwalking through the Cairngorms where the granite hills have a
gorgeous red glow under the setting sun. Later, her writing was influenced by
Alexander Dumas, Victor Hugo, Nigel Tranter, and Sir Walter Scott.
When JR isn't
writing, she enjoys hiking, playing with her Westie, and killing monsters in
computer games. In addition to spending time in Scotland, she has traveled in
the US, Europe, and the Pacific Rim. She now lives in Oregon.
Social Media Links:
Website Twitter BookBub Amazon Author Page Goodreads
.png)
