by J. R. Tomlin
“Aye,” Kennedy said thoughtfully. “You are not to let on that you kent the queen would arrive. He will no doubt question you on it. Mayhap if you first express some doubt of her intent and then reassure him of her sincerity after seeing her with her son, that would help convince him.”
“I shall do what I can,” Patrick said.
Kennedy nodded. “I shan’t risk returning while she is here. Once it is dark, I shall ride for Leith to await news and leave for Bologna within the week. The queen will have your further commands.”
Dismissed, Patrick stood. “For Bologna?”
“Aye, Pope Eugene will invest me in my bishopric there.” He smiled with satisfaction. “Be assured, I’ll nae tarry longer than I must. But with war with the antipope across Europe, I must show my loyalty to the pope. However serious the situation is here, I must openly show my loyalty to the rightful pope.”
Bowing, Patrick mulled over how much this new office would increase Kennedy’s power and possibly the queen’s. Dunkeld was not the most powerful bishopric in Scotland, but still… He silently walked out of the house followed by his father, who caught him by the arm, studying him with dark eyes. “We’re taking a great risk. Be careful.”
“Certes, My Lord.” Then he thought of something that his father and Kennedy should know. “Och, whatever it was that Crichton was discussing with Avondale’s man, they were at pains not to be overheard. Would he have bothered if it was the Earl of Douglas’s death? That news will soon be abroad any road.”
Lord Gray shrugged. “Avondale is not powerful enough to be a concern.” He turned to reenter the house, but paused. “And the king? Is he tractable? Will convincing him to do as he is telt be a problem?”
“If he is told it is an adventure, he will cooperate willingly, but he is no meek lad. As you would expect of his father’s son.”
“Aye?” He tapped his chin with a finger thoughtfully. A ring flashed as his hand moved. “I think you will be able to convince him that it is an adventure.”
The door shut in Patrick’s face. He stood stock still for a moment before he pinched the bridge of his nose against the throb of a headache. Why had his father thought he would be a good spy?
Chapter 7
By midday, Patrick felt some sense of achievement. He and Alex Boyd had spent an hour tending their armor. Patrick wiped and oiled his neglected breast piece and found his mislaid gorget. King James wearied of watching the two work, so he slashed about with his new blade until he was briskly told it was no toy. Patrick fashioned a wooden sword for him with a couple of scraps of wood, so the lad went back to dancing about, hacking and slashing at an invisible enemy. Patrick wondered if the enemy was Crichton.
They cleaned the tack for their coursers, which neither trusted to the stable hands. Once finished with that, Patrick sat down astride a long bench with a whetstone in front of him, wet it, and carefully worked the sword back and forth to bring it to a perfect edge. James sporadically practiced the parry Patrick had taught him, interspersed with wild swings and shouts as he defeated his foe.
Patrick had just returned his blade to the scabbard at his side when Alexander Lyon hurried into the practice yard. Behind him, Patrick heard distant shouting, the beat of a drum and, a trumpet’s fanfare. “There’s a procession coming up the Via Royale,” he said excitedly. “A group of horses with men-at-arms in royal livery under the royal banner.”
“The royal banner?” Alex Boyd frowned with a confused look. “But that would have to be the queen.”
James dropped his toy sword. “My lady mother? Hurry. Let’s go see if it truly is her!”
By the time they reached the gate, the outriders had already entered the bailey yard; the drum and trumpet had fallen silent. They were followed by a small but richly dressed cavalcade, silks shimmering in the noonday sun, jewels gleaming, horses draped in dyed leather. The people of Edinburgh had followed to stand outside the walls, some cheering. There were a few shouts of, “Lady Joanna!” and, “Hurrah for the Queen!”
The trumpeter blew another blast as the queen came to a stop in the middle of the bailey. James pointed. “Look! Isabella and Mary are with her.” James had never said that he missed his numerous sisters, but being from such a large family, he must have. And now his eyes gleamed with excitement as he bounced on his toes.
Alex Boyd nudged Patrick with his shoulder. He dipped his head toward a distinguished-looking, Augustinian monk in a black cassock whose beard hung down onto his chest. “I think that’s David White, the Abbot of Cambuskenneth Abbey. I saw him at the coronation. But who is that with him?”
Beside the monk rode a dark-haired man who looked perhaps about forty, with a three-starred badge on his cloak. “One of the Douglases, without doubt, with that badge.”
“But which one?” Alex Boyd asked as the man dismounted and strode to take one of the queen’s hands with a flourish and bowed so she could step onto his other hand and dismount.
Patrick leaned close to Alex Boyd and said softly, “I saw him at the coronation with the late Earl of Douglas. That’s the Black Knight of Lorne, Sir James Stewart.” He pointed. “And I think that’s Sir William, his brother, with them.”
The door of the keep was flung open and Crichton stamped down the steps toward the queen’s party, his face wrinkled into a scowl like a withered apple.
“Come on!” James was nearly dancing with excitement. “I must go greet them.”
Patrick looked from the boy king to the queen dowager to the angry-looking nobleman stalking toward her, at a loss of the proper course of action. Well, the lad did have to greet his mother. It was only fitting, but he could only pray this did not go as astray as it might.
“Aye, you’re right, sire. You must greet your lady mother.” He shrugged at Alex Boyd. “Like a gentleman, Your Grace,” he called after the king who was dashing full tilt across the bailey.
Queen Joan stepped toward Crichton and held out both of her hands. “Sir, I regret that angry look you are giving me and fear that I deserve it. We parted with such bitter words between us. They were my fault.” She sighed. “I hope you will remember that I was grieving for My Lord husband, and in no state of mind to be sensible about your care for the king. But I give you my oath, I know that you only desire his well-being.”
Patrick swallowed down a grin as Crichton blinked, his expression changing from furious to confused. He opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked at the queen’s still extended hands and then up at her smiling face.
If her waist might have thickened with childbearing and a few lines at her eyes, she was a still beautiful woman. No one had ever wondered that she had captured the heart of the late king. She was a hard woman to resist when she turned her wide blue eyes on a man.
Crichton’s expression softened. He took both her hands and bowed to kiss each. “Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “Certes, I ken that you were grieving for the late king. I…” He cleared his throat again. “You are most welcome at Edinburgh Castle, and your company as well.” His tone turned waspish when he continued. “It is a pity I did nae have a chance to prepare for your arrival.”
“Mother!” James shouted as he reached her.
The Queen laughed as she hugged James. “Manners, Your Grace. Is that any proper way to greet me?”
She released him so he could bow. “My Lady Mother, I am so happy to see you!”
The Black Knight of Lorne had already helped fourteen-year-old Isabella and twelve-year-old Mary from their horses. Mary hurried over calling, “Brother.” Isabella was on her dignity, following more sedately.
When Sir James joined them, Crichton eyed him coldly. “Sir James. You keep well, I hope.” His tone would have indicated he hoped otherwise.
“I do, sir. And keep even better now that we bring our queen together with her son.” He smiled.
Crichton glowered, but Queen Joanna interrupted by putting her hand on Crichton’s arm. “I am sure we will all be much more comfortable inside, Sir Wi
lliam. After our ride I thirst, and I would love to hear all the news of my son. He’s always been a vigorous lad, so I hope he’s not given you trouble.”
Whether he was totally convinced by the queen’s words or not, Crichton had no choice but to lead the whole procession up the few steps and through the doorway into the Great Hall.
“Sir Patrick is teaching me to use a sword,” James prattled on. “We practiced and practiced. I’m sure I’m going to be gey good.”
“Are you? That is fine news.” She gave Patrick an approving smile.
Servants scuttled around the room lighting candles. The hall smelled of lavender and thyme mixed into the rushes. Crichton escorted the queen to a seat at the trestle table on the dais. He turned over a stack of parchment so the writing did not show and called for flagons of wine. “My lady, be welcome. And all of you lords and ladies. The trip must have been wearisome coming from Scone, I ken. Please all, be seated.”
When the queen was seated, Crichton took a place beside her.
Patrick took a seat at the end of the table and saw her share a smile with the Black Knight of Lorne. He is gey bonnie, and she is a widow. But he dismissed the thought as foolishness. She was also a queen. When Lady Annabella sat beside him, he filled her cup. She looked him in the eye with surprising directness. She had blue eyes, as blue as Loch Lomond, frank and searching, yet there was something spirited in them as well. Her eyes and the rest of her were enough to make a man’s heart beat faster and his had begun to hammer alarmingly. But she was a member of the queen’s household and this was not a time to chance giving offense.
At the opposite end of the table, Lady Janet silently watched the queen.
James leaned on the arm of his mother’s chair and gave her what Patrick recognized as his most wheedling smile. “I’ve been flying my hawk, too. But the best is practicing my sword. May I show you it? May I?”
“You may show me later, but your sisters might like to see them now. Why don’t you ask?”
Isabella looked less than enthusiastic, but Mary nodded happily. The two agreed to go with James to see his treasures. Patrick had to chuckle as James’s chatter to his sisters was cut off by the closing of the door.
Queen Joanna sipped her wine and then sadly shook her head. “I mislike to mention sad news, but the death of Earl Archibald hit me very hard. He was such a good friend of My Lord husband.” She wrung her hands. “And now we have no lieutenant general of the kingdom.”
Crichton’s eyes narrowed. “Let us be frank. Is that why you are here? What is it you would have of me, my lady?”
“Why naught, sir, except your continued guarding of my dear son.” She fixed the man with an amused look. “I would merely spend a little time with him. I have missed him so.”
“A woman longs for her children,” the Black Knight said brusquely. “There is nothing more natural.”
“Surely such a small party as ours is no threat to this great castle,” Sir William Stewart said. “We can hardly besiege you and steal the lad. Although tomorrow I hope you’ll allow us to borrow some birds. I have a taste for hawking.”
“And desire to take the lad with you,” Crichton barked. “I shall nae allow it.”
Sir William put his hands up and laughed. “By the saints, man. I thought you might like to join us. We’ll make it a hunting party of us men and leave the ladies to enjoy the children’s prattle.” He raised his eyebrows at his older brother. “You’d join us for hawking, would you not, brother? The weather is fine for it.”
The abbot smiled as he took a sip of his wine. “I have had enough riding. A quiet day in the solar and a tour of the Royal Chapel would suit me better.”
“Aye.” Sir James gave Crichton a wicked grin. “If we are all friends, it will ease everyone’s minds. We’re nae well acquainted, sir, so we can mend that whilst the queen spends time with her son. Surely you have nae worry that she’ll hie off with him whilst we are away.”
“You mustn’t fash Lord Crichton so,” the queen scolded. “I fear I gave him reason for his distrust, but I doubt he wants to stay with me while I listen to the king tell me about his hawks and his sword. I’d have him read to me so I can see how his studies progress.” She chuckled. “It’s a pastime a mother will love, but I doubt it appeals to fine knights such as the lot of you.”
Crichton’s smile was closer to a grimace. “Certes, I dinnae think the queen would steal off alone with her son, but I have business I must see to. The hawking is good near here, and you are more than welcome to enjoy it.”
Patrick bit his lip, trying to decide what he should do if the queen’s party split up. If he rode with the men, they would be free to give him directions, but perhaps the queen wanted to do so herself. “Mayhap I would be in your way spending time with the king.”
She glanced his way and said in a mild tone, “I would love to watch whilst you give him one of these famous lessons in swordsmanship, Sir Patrick. Please do stay.”
He inclined his head. “As it please Your Grace.”
“I fear the king has outgrown needing his mother at hand. Such is the fate of all mothers.” She sighed. “I have never been fond of this castle. It is a dour place, but safe. Sir Crichton has the right of that.”
Crichton nodded. “I see to that and that our king is never at risk.”
“We trust you entirely, sir.” She tapped her chin with a finger. “I believe I may not return often. Whilst I am here, I shall have my ladies pack the clothing I have yet here and some bed hangings I’m quite fond of.”
“Och, if you like.”
“You are too kind, Lord Crichton. Thank you.” She smiled sweetly and hid a yawn behind her hand. “I must needs rest, I fear. The long ride left me weary.”
The Black Knight snorted. “Women. ’Tis always something. If we’re to return with the queen’s finery, it’s best I arrange another wagon. The one we have with us will hardly suffice. And I would check to be sure the animals are properly stabled.”
His brother muttered something about accompanying him and the two men rose. Patrick bowed to the queen as she and her ladies strolled to the doorway leading to the stairs to the upper floors. He started to follow the other men, but Crichton said, “Sir Patrick.”
“Aye, My Lord?” He turned to Crichton, still seated on the dais.
Crichton tapped his forefinger on the table, looking pensive for several moments before he spoke. “Did you ken that the queen would be arriving?”
Patrick longed for more practice in acting. He was improving, at least. “I did nae, sir. I have had nae messages from her grace since she left. In fact—” He broke off and bit his lip.
“In fact?” Crichton prompted impatiently.
“I was surprised. She is… I dinnae ken. Proud?” He nodded. “Aye, she is a proud woman, as she should be certes, so returning to tell you she was in the wrong surprised me. But it is a good thing, is it nae? It will be better if there is agreement between the king’s chancellor and his mother.”
“So you believe that she is content for the king to remain here in my care.”
Patrick widened his eyes, unsure how well he did innocent. “She has no choice. I doubt it pleases her, but mending her quarrel with you allows her to visit from time to time. That is for the best, dinnae you think?”
Crichton grunted noncommittally and stroked his short beard. “Aye. I suppose. And I suppose you have duties to attend.”
“Indeed. I had best see that the king hasn’t absconded with one of the sharpened swords.” He sauntered to the door, but the back of his neck itched from Crichton’s stare.
First, he had better indeed see where the king had made off to, and that he had not found mischief to lead his sisters into. James’s fondness for finding somewhere high to perch was alarming, but Patrick found the three of them in the lower bailey, throwing a ball for one of the castle’s pups. That seemed safe enough.
Now he only had to reach the queen’s chambers in David’s Tower without Crichton kno
wing. That could not be seen from the great hall where he’d left the chancellor, but had he remained?
Strolling casually back the way he came, he passed the doors to the great hall. He opened the left-hand door to the tower and entered. The ceiling rose up two stories, not as high as that of the great hall, but it was still impressively vaulted. One of the servants was replacing candles to be lit later if needed, climbing a ladder to reach holders a full eight feet off the floor. Two women were freshening the rushes by strewing dried lavender. A few children were playing a hiding game behind the large columns. A man-at-arms stood guard at the foot of the stairs.
Patrick nodded casually to the guard and started to climb. The man was certain to report he had been here, curse it. He would simply have to make up a story to cover his presence. Even in the daytime, the stairs were dark, with only a few stray shafts of light from narrow windows. He made his way up three stories to where he knew the queen’s solar was, hoping that was where he would find her.
The door was closed and he gave a soft knock. The voice of Sir James Stewart told him to enter.
Annabella stood, looking at an extremely large kist, frowning. But the queen held out her hands to Patrick and smiled. “Sir Patrick.”
He closed the door and bent to kiss her hand. When he straightened he saw that Sir James shared Annabella’s frown, but his was directed at Patrick. He started to speak and then his frown deepened.
Patrick turned and went back to the door, opened it and checked in both directions to be sure no one was near. He closed it softly and said to Queen Joan, “Bishop Kennedy commanded me to aid you in any way that I can, Your Grace, but I give you my word, I needed no such command. If I can aid you, I shall.”