by J. R. Tomlin
Then James looked thoughtful. “But what about you? And Alex Boyd?”
“We must stay behind for a while or he would certainly ken that something was wrong. But later, I’ll join you. As soon as I can.”
James thought that over for a bit. “You are supposed to stay with me to guard me. To keep me safe.”
“Sir James will act in my stead. But I shall join you soon. I give you my oath.”
Satisfied at last, the king agreed to practice his archery for a while. Patrick convinced him that they should ask his sisters to come too, James declaring that even lasses could use a bow as long as it was not too strong a one.
It took two more days before the queen was convinced that Lord Crichton’s suspicions were eased. It took a good deal of finesse to keep the king busy and away from the chancellor, because anyone who paid the slightest attention would soon see that the boy was full of excitement that grew by the hour. He kept his oath and said not a word, but squashing his excitement was beyond him. Patrick was reminded of an exuberant puppy as the boy squirmed, laughed, and dashed from archery to the falconry, to racing his friends, to scaling every dangerous spot he could find.
At last, the morning of departure arrived. In the outer bailey, everything was abustle. The two wagons were being loaded. Men-at-arms shouted. Horses were saddled and led from the stables. A sharp wind was blowing and whipping the banners above the gate. One the royal lion banner that announced the king was in residence, and the other of Lord Crichton.
Sir James was in the midst of it, shouting commands, anxious to be off, the queen and her two daughters watching with Lord Crichton. Patrick walked with the grinning king. “Your Grace.” He bowed to the queen mother. “The king wanted to wish you Godspeed once more.”
James rushed to throw his arms around her, “Aye, my lady mother, Godspeed.” There was a distinct chortle in his voice.
The queen put her hands on his shoulders and gently disentangled him. “I shall visit you again soon. Work hard on your studies and do not neglect your prayers, Your Grace.” She glanced at Sir James. “They have not yet brought down the chest from the solar. Would you and Patrick check on it? James might want to keep you company.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed to the king. “After you, sire.”
James dashed ahead of them. Patrick would have sworn his stomach was filled with live eels, it roiled so. By the time the two of them reached the solar, James had already climbed inside. He sat giggling.
“Wheesht. Remember you must be quiet as a church mouse, Your Grace.” Patrick nodded to Sir James. “Lock it whilst I summon some men-at-arms to carry it.”
There were two men-at-arms downstairs in the hall, so Patrick called them to come help. They grumbled that it was not their job to carry things about, but they tromped up the stairs to the solar. “It looks gey heavy,” one grumbled.
“Clothing and bedding should nae be that heavy. If you cannot manage, I shall call more men.”
With one in the front and one at the rear, they squatted, grasped the bottom edge, and lifted, grunting. There was a little thump as they shifted it for a better grip. Patrick held his breath, but the guard in front said, “Let’s get this thing down. The queen’s clothes are heavy enow.”
Sir James held the door open as they carried it out and maneuvered it down the winding stairs. His heart hammering with nerves, Patrick followed after them, the other man on his heels. The guard in front was grunting. “Take some of the weight, damn you.”
“Be careful!” Patrick yelped. “Crichton will have your heads if you delay the queen’s departure by breaking her kist.”
Slowly, they worked their load round and down the stairs and through the hall. The queen was talking to Crichton, telling him that the king needed a weapon master and that it was not right to expect Sir Patrick to serve both as master of the guard and weapon master. Crichton listened noncommittally, shrugging and saying he would consider it. The carter hurried around and helped the men-at-arms lift the kist into the space they’d saved for it amongst the party’s boxes of clothing and bedding that had arrived with them.
Crichton scowled. “Where is the king?”
“I think he went up on the parapet to watch them depart.” Patrick offered his arm to the queen and escorted her to her horse and knelt to offer her his hands as a stirrup to step into. When she was mounted, there was nothing to do but watch the party, surrounded by their own small group of men-at-arms, ride through the towering gatehouse arch. Guards with crossbows looked down at the passing cavalcade. Soon he could hear the grind of the cart wheels and clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the bumpy slope down Arthur’s Mount.
Patrick wiped his sweaty hands on the front of his doublet. Now he must see that the king was not missed before there was time for the queen’s party to reach Queensferry Crossing and cross the firth on the awaiting ferry. He forced a chuckle. “There will be a good deal more peace and quiet now with the queen and her chattering daughters gone.”
Crichton grunted. “Aye. Less chatter will be a relief.” He turned and strode toward the gate of the inner bailey, Patrick following behind.
In the smaller hall of David’s Tower, Crichton threw himself into the high-backed lord’s chair and called for some wine. A manservant hurried out to do his bidding. A boy was tending the fire in the hearth and the men-at-arms had returned to their posts, but otherwise, the place was unnervingly quiet. To break the silence, Patrick asked, “I dinnae have that much to do yet as the king’s master of guard. Tutoring him in weapons is nae burden. Though if you think another master would be better…” He shrugged.
Crichton waited until the servant returned with the flagon and handed him a goblet. The scent was tempting so Patrick poured some for himself. Crichton swirled the wine thoughtfully. “He’s too young to need a weapon master. That can wait for a bit. Nae point in spending the money for it when you can do it as well. And you’re right.” He gave Patrick a sharp look. “You do nae have much to do.”
“When the king is grown and no longer under your care, the matter will be different. But for the nonce, it does give me something to keep me out of trouble.” He laughed. “And one of these days My Lord father will expect me to wed.”
Crichton raised his eyebrows. “I hope you would nae be thinking of bringing her here to live. I’ll nae pay your wife’s keep.”
Patrick drank deep from his goblet as he rolled his eyes. He sighed in satisfaction. At least the old king had laid in good wine, because he was sure Crichton would never have spent the gold for the malmsey that was so sweet on the tongue. “I had nae thought of it, but I have lands and a manor any bride would no doubt prefer to a grim pile like Edinburgh Castle, grand as it is.”
Crichton’s scowl deepened. “It is the strongest castle in Scotland, you whelp.”
“Certes, it is, My Lord.” Patrick held up a hand and smiled. “But strong castles are more suited to a fighting man such as you than to a young bride.”
The chancellor eyed Patrick as though suspecting he was making a jape. Keeping his face blank, Patrick refilled his own goblet and offered more to Crichton.
“Where is His Grace?” a voice called from the stairs. James’s tutor came in. The priest was a small man. His cassock was dark; his eyes were dark and quick. His hair dark fuzz encircling his tonsure. “His grace has not come for his lesson. If he is in the practice yard, he must be sent to me.”
Patrick smiled. “He cannot stand to be still. You ken how the lad is. I’ll go find him for you.” Careful to keep his movements leisurely, he finished his wine and left the cup on the table to stroll out into the sunlight. He supposed he had better pretend to actually search for the king to make it look good. He called to one of the men-at-arms standing guard near the gate to the lower bailey, “If you see the king, tell him his tutor is seeking him.” Then he chuckled. “Nae, instead send someone for me.”
The guard grinned. “Aye, he is nae great one for his studies.”
First, Patrick went to the practice yard, where a dozen men-at-arms hacking at practice dummies all assured him they’d not seen the king. The stable master said the same. He climbed to the mews, where a gray-haired cadger was whispering to a hawk as he fed it. The king’s gyrfalcon was still on its perch, and the man said he’d not seen the king all day. By this time, Patrick felt almost alarmed and chuckled at his foolishness.
Back in the hall, Patrick suggested to the tutor that the king was out of sight, scrambling on the ramparts and towers, as he was wont to do. The man shook his head. “Keeping him at his studies is more than I can do.”
Crichton shrugged. “I always thought the late king was too learned. What needs a king with learning when he has priests?”
Hours passed with no sign of the king. Patrick had almost convinced himself that the king was really missing, so he decided it was time to suggest that Crichton order a full search of the castle. There would be chaos when the king was not found. Patrick wondered how long it would take before word came from Stirling Castle that he was safely in the queen’s hands. He huffed. It was time to face a doubtlessly furious keeper of the royal castle.
When Patrick re-entered the great hall, it took every ounce of his self-control to rush across the long room and face Crichton. It was quietly busy, with a couple of merchants who had come with some complaint about the behavior of castle guards; a trio of children playing hide and seek behind the pillars in a distant corner; and half a dozen soldiers lounging about as they waited for the dinner hour.
“Have you found him?” Crichton said with studied calm.
“No, My Lord. I fear we must widen the search. He must have sneaked into town. You ken he is wild for adventure, but we must find him. I’ll need help for the search.”
“Of course.” Crichton’s tone indicated he didn’t believe a word Patrick had said. “Because you do not have him hidden to be stolen away by the queen.”
Patrick sighed heavily. “I am sure you had the queen watched as she boarded the ferry at the crossing. I am nae scheming to take the lad anywhere. My only concern is his safety. Holy Jesu only kens what company he might have fallen into. We must search for him.”
“I ken that we must find him,” Crichton said testily. He hated giving the impression he was not in control or that his power was slipping. He could not afford to be viewed as weak. “Someone must have sneaked him out of the castle. If not you, then who?”
“I have nae left the gates, Sir William, so it certainly was nae I. He can climb like a wiry mountain goat. I think he just found a place to slip over the wall. He hates that he’s been confined and merely is hiding. Or worse, he tried to follow his mother’s party and is wandering on the road.”
“Odd,” said Crichton. “Very odd that he should disappear so soon after they left.”
“What’s odd about a daring boy going off on his own? I’m surprised it has nae happened sooner.”
“Mayhap it is merely coincidence,” Crichton said, steepling his beringed fingers. “He must be found, and if he is not, I will find out who and how he was removed.”
A chill went through Patrick, but he kept the same worried frown on his face. “If I fail in my duty to protect the king, my life won’t be worth a groat. So I beg you, My Lord, let me take a dozen men. We had best search the road to Queensferry first in case he did try to follow his mother’s cavalcade.”
Crichton clutched the arms of his chair and leaned forward, jaws clinched so that the muscles stood out and his face turned red. “Get me that lad.”
Patrick’s chill deepened. “You may depend upon me, My Lord.” He motioned around the great hall. “Should I take these men with me since they’re at hand?”
“I am certain that you will search every road and alley. You will find him.” Crichton paused and then said, “And my men shall ensure that you return to the castle rather than … disappear after the lad.”
“Naturally.”
“Good. Then you understand me. Now dinnae just stand there. Get to work searching!”
Chapter 10
There were still hours of daylight left. Patrick watched clouds that roiled above the distant Pentland Hills, catching the light like swirling surf. Nearer below him, shadows crept across the fields and into the city. Every inch of the castle had been searched for the king. Now they had men-at-arms out searching the city and the nearby hills. No one dared approach Lord Crichton, whose every word was a curse for the queen who had to be to blame, he was sure.
Patrick had paced the parapet all day, until his legs were so weary they felt as heavy as logs. After three long days, he still awaited word that James was safe. When he heard the rapid hoofbeats of a horse galloping up the steep road to the gate, he breathed a soft, “Deo gratias.” He hurried to the square tower that guarded the gate as a horseman wearing royal livery pulled up his lathered horse, shouting, “Hoi, The gate! I bear a message for Lord Crichton.”
Patrick raced down the steps to the bailey and into the hall. There was nothing to do but wait, so he called for wine and appropriated the lord’s chair with its cushioned seat, stretched out his legs, and took a drink. He might as well relax and be comfortable until the coming storm hit.
The hall was restful in the quiet of the late afternoon. The midday dinner was cleared away, the fire crackled comfortably, there was the quiet sound of servants in the kitchen going about their late day business. A manservant came in to light the candles, bothering no one as he climbed a ladder to reach them high on the thick columns. The early evening was still and easy—for the nonce.
Soon there was an uproar in the inner bailey loud enough to be heard through the thick doors: Crichton’s voice screaming, “Someone shall pay for this! Never doubt it.” and the thump of heavy feet. Figures nothing more than silhouettes in the murk came through the door. A tall figure, scarecrow-like in spite of his billowing cloak, stamped in to face Patrick.
Crichton glared into Patrick’s face, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “How did you get him out of the castle?” He waved a parchment at Patrick and then crumpled it in his fist.
Patrick shook his head, looking wide-eyed, although cold sweat trickled down his back. If he decided to make Patrick pay for the king’s escape, no one would stop him. In this castle, all the power was his and he could call down retribution like the hand of God if he wished. Patrick knew that whatever protection the king and his own father offered would not serve him now. His only protection was to convince Crichton of his ignorance. He feigned an offended look and said, “Whatever their plots, they did nae trust me with them, My Lord.”
Crichton continued to stare at Patrick, breathing fast as though he’d been running. His face was mottled red with rage, and his face twisted into a grimace. “I care nothing except for the king’s safety. Nothing!”
This was no time to call Crichton a liar, so Patrick said, “Of course, My Lord. And where could the king be safer than here under your protection?”
“You had to have knowledge of this.” Crichton’s face was twisted with rage.
“I swear I did not. By all the saints, I swear it. I dinnae ken where the king is.” He motioned to the message Crichton had crumpled and thrown on the floor. “You have news of the king? He is safe?”
Crichton stared at him as though he were an idiot. “Did I nae say that? And I welcomed her most gladly. There was nae reason to steal him from my care.” The red was fading from his face and his voice was quieter.
Patrick swallowed a snort at Crichton’s lie. “The queen seems rash and thoughtless at times, but that is the way with women, is it not, My Lord? And I think mayhap Sir James Stewart encourages her in it.” He jumped up. “Forgive me, My Lord. Take your seat and let me pour you some wine.”
He turned his back on the man to fill the goblet, to hide that his hands were shaking. “Where did they take the lad then?” he asked.
“Stirling! To that cur, Callendar!”
Patrick took a deep breath before he turned to hand Crichton
a filled goblet. “You mean they intend to remain at Stirling?”
A muscle in Crichton’s cheek twitched. He was breathing hard. “Are you a dolt? Of course they are staying in Stirling. There is no way Callendar will let the king go!”
Patrick scowled, crossing his arms. “Why did they keep me in the dark? I am supposed to be master of the king’s guard! And what am I supposed to do here? You have no use for me.”
Crichton mouth twisted into a snarl. “Blockhead.” He threw his goblet. Patrick jumped back as it clattered on the floor at his feet, wine spattering across the rushes. “Get out of my sight. I have important things to consider.”
Patrick bowed deeply. He hurried to the door and into the upper bailey. Thankfully, he spotted Alex Boyd, sweaty from the practice yard, just emerging from the gate. Patrick frantically motioned to him. When Alex Boyd reached him, he threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder and said, “There’s news.”
Alex Boyd raised his eyebrows, but Patrick shook his head, chewing his nether lip. He’d sooner not be seen by Crichton in case the man changed his mind and decided to hold him here. But he couldn’t leave as he was. “Come.” He spun on his heel and hurried into the hall. Crichton had turned his back and was staring glumly in the low flames in the hearth. With a deep breath, Patrick strolled quietly past and began to climb the winding stairs but once they were out of sight of the hall, he ran.
When Patrick’s chamber door slammed behind them, he tore off his cloak and began unbuttoning his wine-soaked doublet. “The king is with the queen at Stirling Castle. Crichton just received word.”
“Och, that explains all the whispering amongst the men in the practice yard.” Alex Boyd squinted suspiciously to study Patrick. “You kent where he was all this time, did you not?”
Patrick tossed aside his doublet and tore off his shirt. “I learnt where he was only today.” He shrugged at Alex Boyd’s incredulous snort.
“You did nae trust me with the secret!”
“All right. Yes, I kent where he was. I was sworn to secrecy. You would have kept such an oath as well.” He hurried to the kist in a corner where his armor was stored, and pulled out the thick, padded arming doublet that would protect his skin from the heavy plate. “Help me with this. Crichton telt me to leave and I must be gone before he changes his mind.” He turned to Alex Boyd. “You need to come with me.”