by J. R. Tomlin
She raised her chin. “Your duty is Edinburgh Castle and serving as chancellor. I have ample men-at-arms to see that my son is protected. They shall do so.”
“You?” He twisted his mouth into a smile. “Your Grace, no one expects you to guard the king. No one would expect it of a woman. That is why I have him here surrounded by my guards and in this strong fortress.”
She crossed her arms tight across her breast. “You are mistaken, My Lord. For I am not a mere woman, but a queen. On the morn, we leave for Holyrood Abbey.”
“I have the trust of the Lieutenant General of Scotland in this matter.” His lips formed a tight smile. “He trusts me to protect the king. This I shall do. Here he shall stay. Under my care and protection.”
The color drained from the queen’s face and her voice would have cut diamonds. “How dare you speak so to me?”
Crichton was breathing hard and his cheek muscle twitched. “I speak as is my duty, my lady.”
Color rushed backed into the queen’s face, flooding from her neck to her face at being addressed without her royal title. Patrick froze, barely daring to breathe for the coming explosion.
A thin smile touched Crichton’s lips. “The king shall remain within these walls where he is—”
She broke in, “Where you can control him to increase your own power! I see what you are. I always suspected it. A petty, power-grubbing climber.”
Crichton stilled except for that jumping in his cheek. “Whatever you may say of me, I ken my duty to the king and the realm. If you hate this castle so much, so be it. Leave. The king stays.” He turned to the guard and said, “Go to the king and see that he is nae disturbed. Keep guard before his door. He is not to leave his chamber until I give permission.”
The queen was rigid with rage. She clenched her fists, and for a moment Patrick thought she would strike the man. Her eyes narrowed, and she said softly, “You will pay for this, My Lord, for you’ve declared yourself my enemy.” She spun on her heel, her skirts billowing around her, and sailed out of the room. “Annabella, come. We shall prepare to leave for Holyrood.”
Patrick sucked in a quick breath and glanced at Lord Gray. The room had grown so silent Crichton’s footsteps were a drumbeat as he marched out into the bailey yard. The door slammed and outside he was shouting for his sergeant.
“He… he means to hold the king,” Boyd said.
Lord Gray’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, his face grim. “So it seems.”
Patrick stared at the door where Crichton had exited, thinking on the fact that he had been named chancellor only the day before by the most powerful noble in Scotland. “Can he do that?” he asked.
Hi father’s voice was flat when he replied, “As long as the Douglas is on Crichton’s side...yes. He can.”
Patrick turned his head to stare at his father, who gave him a pointed look.
“Patrick, your place is with the king. You will do your duty. I must go to the queen.”
Chapter 6
June 1439
It was the first truly hot day of the summer and the sun was blinding in a clear Edinburgh sky.
The six-year-old king was dashing as fast as he could, arms and legs furiously pumping, across the stable yard. He slowed a little to give the ball made from a pig’s bladder a kick. Three boys in rough, hodden, gray tunics were two yards behind, but they were catching up fast. They were all bigger and it would be a matter of seconds before they caught up with him. Fergus, the master blacksmith’s son, tackled him and they both went rolling. The other two dashed past at a breathless run to kick the ball toward the sticks that were their makeshift goal posts.
Patrick crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the stable wall, thoroughly glad for his charge to be occupied for a while.
James and his attacker were rolling on the ground, trading giggling insults. “Big clumsy ox,” the king shouted between giggles.
They tussled, rolling in the dirt, as the other boy crowed, “Slow poke that cannae outrun a wean.”
“Can too. I can outrun you.”
“Nuh uh.” The boy sat up and looked around for their mates. The other boys were jumping up and down celebrating their goal.
“Then let’s have a race. I bet I can if you dinnae tackle me.”
A bellowed shout of, “What’s to do here?” froze all four of them in place. Crichton swaggered like a bantam rooster into the stable yard to stand over Fergus. He crossed his arms and glared down at the boy who jumped to his feet. “We were only playing at football.”
“You laid hands on the king, you insulant pup.” Fergus paled at that accusation as the chancellor continued glaring at him. “I should have you whipped within an inch of your life.”
James was gaping in open-mouthed horror. “He just tackled me. It’s what you do when you play football.” He stuck his lower lip out in an impressive pout and clamored to his feet. “You’ve spoilt our game!”
Crichton thrust a finger at Fergus. “You. Hie you to your father and see that you make yourself useful. I’ll have no lads who are wastrels in my castle.” He turned to James. “And you. You are a king, not some… some ghillie to be rolling in the dirt!”
James glowered at him, looking too angry to continue his pout. “You will nae let me do anything. You won’t let me ride my horse or fly my falcon. Now you won’t let me play wi’ my friends.”
Crichton glanced around until he spotted Patrick. “You. You are supposed to be watching the king. You’re to see that the ruffians remember their place. Don’t let it happen again.”
Patrick stifled a sigh as he straightened and strolled toward the two. “The lad must have some entertainment, My Lord, surely. Mayn’t I take him out for a little hunt? With a dozen men-at-arms, there would be no danger.”
“I wanted to ride,” King James said with a touch of whine in his voice.
“It is too dangerous. Find him something suitable to do in the castle.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
James glared after Crichton. “He’s mean and I dinnae like him.”
Patrick rubbed his forehead. He had to share the king’s feelings, but they’d have to manage. “You’d best keep to games that don’t involve roughhousing when you play with your friends—at least when the Chancellor is within the castle.”
“Then they probably won’t want to play with me anymore.”
“Oh, remind Fergus that you can beat him in a race, and I think that he will. For now, I need to practice my sword strokes.” He remembered very well his own excitement when he was first handed a sword and hoped the young king would feel the same. Besides, it was time for him to begin learning. He hid a smile as he continued, “Mayhap Your Grace needs a bit of practice as well?”
James scowled at him. “I dinnae have a sword.”
“Och, then I wonder whose that was that I saw in the armory. It looked exactly your size.”
James’s eyes widened. “There is a sword there I could use? Would you teach me?”
“Aye, I suppose I could do that.” He motioned to the armory through a gate past the stable yard. James skipped along with him excitedly as they entered the yard. Above them on the high curtain wall, a man-at-arms walked his rounds. On the opposite side of the dirt-packed yard, two others of Crichton’s men traded blows with blunted weapons. Patrick started for the armory, speaking as he walked. “I must find a weapon for practice as well.”
James ran ahead of him. “Haste you. My tutor said I must do lessons later today. I’ve been hiding from him.”
Patrick lengthened his stride to catch up with his royal charge, smiling at the lad’s idea of hiding. Inside the armory, a smith was bent over a bench, sharpening a weapon. He gave them a bob of his head before continuing his work. There were bins of weapons, swords hung from hooks on the walls and several bows were racked. Patrick had hunted down the child-sized sword, an excellent one, knowing he’d need to keep the king entertained. Being confined to the castle would have driven any active lad
to rebellion, and the king was as hearty and active as any. Patrick was thankful for summer so they could at least spend time in the practice yard. Winter months cooped up with a lad as restless as James was a sport in trying to keep him from breaking his neck as he climbed every height that he could.
Back out in the warm sunlight, Patrick knelt beside James, showed him a good grip on the pommel, and let him take a few practice swings. “First, you must learn to parry.” He moved James’s arms so the sword was downward in a guard position, tilting the blade so the edge was at an angle. “You see how you can swing your sword to cover the width of your body?”
Straightening, Patrick demonstrated arcing the blade in a semi-circle before him so he could catch an incoming weapon. “Like that.”
The young king scowled in concentration as he tried the move in awkward imitation. After a dozen tries, he had a reasonable facsimile of a parry, so Patrick took him to the center of the yard. He gently swung at the king, because even with a blunted blade, he could hurt the lad if it landed. Their blades clashed and James managed to catch Patrick’s blade, but not quite with the flat as he should. Still, it was a start.
After half an hour of showing James how to catch a blade with his and turn it to lock Patrick’s sword, sweat was dripping down James’s face. He rubbed his sword arm as though it ached, as it probably did. But he grinned up at Patrick, beaming in satisfaction.
“I have it now,” he said.
“Aye, so you do, sire. But we dinnae want to overdo it on your first day. And here is someone I’m thinking from your tutor.”
James’ grin disappeared when one of the castle servants rushed to them and said, “Your Grace, your tutor awaits your attendance.”
“We’ll practice more tomorrow,” Patrick told him. “And mayhap we can fly your goshawk to a lure. You want him to be used to you when it is safe to hunt.”
James dashed for the armory and put away his sword. Patrick had to admit he’d been taught to respect a weapon. Or perhaps it was knowledge that it was lack of a sword at hand that had allowed assassins to slay his father that gave him respect for the blade.
Once the boy king was out of sight, Patrick sauntered toward the castle gates. The sun was at its zenith and he was late for where he was expected. In spite of Crichton’s constant warnings about danger, the portcullis was raised. Crichton was deep in a quiet conversation with a man-at-arms, but not one of his own men. Patrick kept his face blank when he recognized the red heart on a field scattered with black dots of the Earl of Avondale on the stranger’s cloak.
Crichton gave Patrick an inquiring look and asked, “Nae with the king then?”
“He is with his tutor so I dinnae think he needs guarding more than your men provide. They’ll nae allow anyone to reach him, and I shall take a bit of time for…” He grinned and shrugged. “For more amiable company.”
Crichton grunted. “I told your father that so young a captain of the king’s guard would be a bad choice.”
“Sir William, if you think it is too dangerous for the king to bide alone with his tutor then I shall stay. I may be young, but my duty comes first.” Patrick wondered what he would have to do for the man to warm to him, but he wouldn’t give up.
“No, no. The king is safe with his tutor, but remember that your duties as a gentleman of the bedchamber come before wenching.”
Patrick’s face heated but he bowed. Under the shadow of the massive stone barbican that guarded the gates, Patrick looked back. Once more Crichton was in close conversation with the stranger.
He walked down the hill and onto Edinburgh’s busy High Street, through the raucous noise of the market where merchants and shoppers argued and shouted over prices and quality of the goods on sale. Overhead, a flock of white-winged gannets turned, calling out their harsh, “krak krak krak.”
Patrick looked about as he strolled, stopping to examine a dirk as he glanced behind him. He kept his head down when a troop of men clattered past, more men with the Earl of Avondale’s colors on their surcoats. What were the men of Douglas of Avondale doing in Edinburgh? He waited until no one he recognized was in sight. A burly farmer carrying a basket piled high with kale collided with him and cursed him freely as a useless noble git.
The lodging he was seeking lay down a nameless vennel off High Street. Although he saw no sign of being followed, Patrick picked his way down the shadowy alley with some caution. The shutters of the house were closed, but the mumble of men’s voices carried through the slats. Patrick followed the sound and knocked on the door. It was opened by a man in a Benedictine’s white robe and black cloak.
“Sir?”
A loud voice commanded, “It’s Sir Patrick. Let him enter.”
Inside, James Kennedy, now Bishop of Dunkeld, lean as ever, his short beard neatly trimmed, and tonsured, was waiting in the shuttered room, seated on a folding chair with a stand of half-burnt candles and a flagon of wine on a table beside him. Patrick’s father was peering through the slats of the shutter with his back to them. The hearth was empty because of the day’s warmth and only a couple of stools took up the rest of the room. The candlelight gleamed on the purple brocade of the bishop’s gown and the silver fittings of his scrip hanging from his ornate belt.
He held out his hand, and Patrick knelt to kiss his ring. “I want a full account of what has been happening at the castle.”
Patrick murmured an assent.
“You kept us waiting,” Lord Gray said.
“I came as soon as my duties with his grace allowed,” Patrick parried.
Kennedy gestured and Patrick took a seat on the nearby stool. He gave a succinct account of the king’s activities, being closely confined to the castle, and that Crichton still had not warmed to him. He paused. The two men of state, absorbed but unrevealing, watched him as he spoke. Lord Gray poured himself a cup of wine and then turned to stare out onto the vennel again.
Patrick concluded with the news that they would be most interested to hear. “But he has been in close contact with Douglas of Avondale. Just today there was a man-at-arms in the earl’s colors who must have been carrying messages and a troop of the earl’s men passed as I came here.”
“You have not heard, then, what the messages said.”
Patrick shook his head. “I am not privy to that. He makes sure not to discuss anything important in my hearing.”
Kennedy propped his elbows on the table and rubbed his forehead, lost in thought. After a minute, “I am surprised the news has nae been noised about yet but no doubt that is what the message was about. Things are going to come to a head soon and if Crichton…” He shook his head. “I must think on this.”
Patrick looked from the bishop to his father’s stiff back. “What news?”
“The Earl of Douglas is dead,” his father said without turning.
“What? How?” Patrick’s mind reeled. “Was there a battle?”
“He was on his way to his castle at Threave and died near Restalrig. Of a fever.” Lord Gray made a noise in his throat. “This changes everything. The new earl is but a lad.”
“When did it happen?”
Kennedy wove his fingers together. “A week ago. Soon the word will be everywhere that the Lieutenant General of Scotland is dead.”
Patrick leaned back, mind darting. “Crichton?”
“Is weakened,” Lord Gray said. “And now may be the time to act, though whether the plan is wise? I have my doubts.”
“It is the queen’s plan, whether wise or not. And in the power void, with a child now the Earl of Douglas, is the perfect time to act.” Kennedy slapped his hand onto the table. “Did Crichton think such a woman as Queen Joan, who stood up to assassins who came for her husband and then had them executed before her very eyes, would stand by and see her son stolen? He misjudged badly if he did.”
“Hardly stolen,” Lord Gray protested. “She left him in Crichton’s care, though unwillingly. But, aye, for two years she has seethed at being slighted and insulted. So
now there is this scheme.”
“Scheme, sir?” The word did not bode well.
“One in which you have a part to play. But for the nonce, all you must ken is that on the morrow, the queen will arrive with two of her daughters, her ladies, and a small company.”
“But…” Patrick stumbled over his words, too taken aback to know what to ask. “But she was furious with Crichton when he insisted the king must bide in Edinburgh Castle. She is just going to come back?” To meekly suffer an insult was nothing like the woman he had seen at Robert Stewart’s execution.
“She means to make peace with Crichton. She will plead a widow’s grief for her harsh words and assure him that she now believes he is in the right to keep the king with him for…safety.”
“But?”
“But for now, do anything you can to assure Crichton that you believe her. Having her visit the king will surely make his care easier. You say he is a restless boy, not easy to handle. A visit from his mother and sisters will distract him.”
Patrick snorted. “Not that he pays the lad much mind, except to shout at him to act like a king.”
“Possibly more than you ken. Having the king in his care is what gives him any power he has, after all.”
Patrick looked at his father, confused.
“With the earl’s death, our position is much strengthened with the new earl little more than a lad himself, barely in his fifteenth year. But as long as Crichton has the king in his possession, he cannot be touched. He can hatch whatever plots will increase his power.”
“Aye, I remember young Douglas from the coronation. He and his brother accompanied the earl. So what is my part in this scheme? Only to convince Crichton of the queen’s sincerity?”
“As I said, for the nonce,” said Kennedy. “Once the queen has arrived and Crichton is reassured, then we shall see how to restore the king to his mother.”
Lord Gray shook his head and opened the shutter a crack. He peered out onto the alley. Obviously he was not confident in this plan to regain the king, whatever it was. Kennedy had the name of a canny man, yet something about the plan had his lord father uneasy. But the death of the Earl of Douglas had thrown power up in the air like blowing leaves. Who knew where the power would land? Having the king in their hands would make those leaves blow their way.