The Whispering Bookworm: On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club: The Douglas Bastard (A sequel to The Black Douglas Trilogy) by J R Tomlin #HistoricalFiction #Scotland #BlogTour @JRTomlinAuthor @maryanneyarde

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 be-tray him...

This is an adventure set in the bloody Second Scottish War of Independence when Scotland's very survival is in question.

Excerpt

Ten days later, we left Perth amid the commotion of a moving army, though only two hundred, riding away to the sound of men yelling, horses snorting, and the clatter of armor and weapons as the late summer sun shone around us. The road south began at the bridge over the River Tay. We rode past Stirling Castle, which Lord Robert now had under siege. A new camp of tents and rough shelters spread beneath the Stewart’s banner, but Sir William continued south on the Old Roman Road.

Sweat trickled down my sides, and it was silent except for the tramp of hooves. West of the road were mountains—gray, rugged, and snow-capped. To the south, the land was lower, peat bogged and marshy. A goshawk hovered overhead before it dove like an arrow and a hare shrieked.

“There.” Sir William pointed past the marsh. “It is called the Bannockburn.” At the bottom of the brae, a narrow burn rolled over the rocks. “That is where King Robert, your father, and Randolph defeated the English King. He fled like the craven he was.”

I stood in my stirrups, trying to find some sign of the battle, but there was nothing but a village, some barren farmland, and a stone bridge across a swift, wide river beyond it. The road had no traffic, and at night we made a cold camp despite the howl of a distant wolf. Sir William rode stiff-faced and pale, but he refused to let up the pace.

The next day, the farmland and bogs gave way to dense forest that smelled of damp earth, pine, and decay. Thick trunks crowded close, their branches weaving a canopy that cut off the warmth of the sun. It was a dark, primal place, miles and miles of it where entire armies could hide unseen. There was a crashing of a large animal, perhaps a boar, deep in the depth of the forest. I gave a shiver.

“The Great Forest of Ettrick.” Sir William’s lip lifted in a half-smile for the first time in days. “Aye, it is an unco place. Here we have ambushed many an English supply train on its way north.” At midday, they rode out of the forest into a long valley dotted with gorse growing between a few fields of oats.

My nerves jittered as we finally neared what would be my new home. Then a wooden palisade on a hilltop came into sight with a familiar banner fluttering overhead.

The sight was greeted with relieved laughter and talk of what they would do with their share of the loot from the men. A horn blew a greeting, and we put our heels to our horses' flanks and sped to a canter. The gates swung open. At the top of the motte, a palisade surrounded a rough stone tower. An earthen rampart topped with another palisade surrounded the wattle and daub, thatch-roofed buildings, and cots in the bailey. A high-walled well stood in the middle, and a family of chickens scratched in the dirt. The sharp smells of burning peat and horseshit stung my nose.

After the isolation of the forest, the bailey was a tumult of bustle. Youths practicing with spears turned to watch us. Grooms scurried to take our horses as we dismounted. A blacksmith’s anvil clanged with blows. A boy threw down his hoop and waved an arm over his head in hello as one of the men-at-arms loped to scoop the lad up.

I snapped my mouth shut from gaping. Nothing could possibly be more unlike the massive, glistening Château Gaillard.

The gates closed behind us, and a brown-haired knight wearing a surcoat over a habergeon of chainmail stood in the doorway of the square stone tower. A broad grin across his bony face, he strode to greet us. “Welcome home, brother.” He pounded Sir William on the back. When the knight stumbled under his greeting, he grasped him by the shoulder. “Are you injured?”

The men-at-arms in their following were already scattering.

“Aye, but it’s healing, and we took Perth, so it was worth a little bloodletting.”

“Well done!”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek and scuffed the dirt with my foot. What was I supposed to do now?

At last, the brown-haired man tilted his head and looked me up and down. “And what have we here?”

“A cousin I brought back from France. James’s love-bairn, you recall? Archibald, he’s called. Seems to be a good enough lad, ready to turn his hand to what needs doing, so he will be a page for us.”

The new cousin, whose name I still did not know, clapped me on the shoulder. “Then welcome to Hermitage Castle, Archie.” He grinned. “You are called Archie, aye? It will be Black Archibald with the dark look of you.” He stuck out his hand, and I grasped it. “I’m Sir John. This one’s baby brother.”

So the two men walked toward the open door of the keep, and I followed, wondering what exactly I had fallen into.

A woman met Sir William at the door with a cup of ale that she held out. “My Lord,” she said as she put it in his hands. She was a small woman with shrewd eyes and a square, stubborn chin. Her head was covered by a linen veil, her green kirtle had long fitted sleeves, and a loosely fitted pink cotehardie, embroidered around the neck, covered her to her feet. “You’re limping. Take that and sit yourself down.” She turned to a girl of about ten years with dusty-blond hair and the same shrewd eyes. “Mary, come and do your courtesy to your father.”

While the pinch-faced daughter curtseyed to her father, Elizabeth stared at me. “This is the cousin you wrote me about?”

Mary’s mouth drew up like a cat’s arse. “He looks like a cook’s boy. Are you sure that he’s our cousin?”

Sir William limped to sit down at the long table on the dais. “Aye.”

“And I suppose you are hungry, Archibald.” There was a quick gleam of humor in Elizabeth’s sharp eyes. “Boys are always like bottomless pits.”

She did not seem too bad-tempered, so I gave a little shrug. “We did ride a long way, My Lady.”

“And hungry whether you did or nae, but everyone will have had a time of it.” She clapped her hands, and a steward in a simple blue cotehardie came hurrying through a door. “Have the tables set up, Ingelram. There is enough food prepared to have our meal early.”

The steward shouted orders, and soon, a couple of servers were rushing about, setting up long trestle tables and wooden benches below the low dais.

“Do I serve the wine?”

“You can start your duties tomorrow,” Sir William said and tilted his cup of ale.

“Mary, take your place by your father. Archibald, sit by me tonight. Were you being schooled over there in France?” I had opened my mouth to answer, but she spoke over me without waiting, “Will Father Absalom do for his lessons, my lord?”

“Why does he need lessons? Isnae he a bastard?” Mary asked as she leaned forward to glare past her father.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Aye, and I will be a bastard who is a knight.”

“Wheesht, the two of you,” Sir William said. “Aye, for now anyroad. His learning in arms is what matters.” He scratched his chin. “John, I want you to take that on. The Keith told me he showed promise, so see what you can do. Your own lads will soon be old enough to join him.”

Then the door opened, and men-at-arms streamed in, filling the long benches as servers carried in trays of food and set down steaming bowls of bean pottage. My mouth watered when a trencher was laid in front of me filled with wood pigeon with onion, pease pudding, and apples baked with honey.

Lady Elizabeth tilted her head toward me. “Time enough tomorrow to talk anent your duties. For now, a lad must keep up his strength.”

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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 influ-enced 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.

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