by J. R. Tomlin
Only the gatehouse tower was on land, where he was forced to tarry for a while. Because no message had come ahead of him, he waited until his entry was approved by the queen. But once his entry was approved, he went through the long bridge and might almost have been at sea, so cut off was the castle from the mainland.
Annabella rushed to greet him, and he held her tight, kissed her soundly and then pushed her back so he could look her up and down. There was only the slightest roundness of her belly under her dress, but he beamed.
“You are well? You are eating enough?”
She laughed and pulled him into the chamber to greet the queen and the princesses. “I am very well. I could hardly be better.”
He had to admit that she looked like a rose in full bloom, her cheeks rosy with color and she still had the sprinkling of freckles across her nose that he had always found charming.
The queen welcomed him warmly, immediately asking after her son who had sent her his greetings. He was able to tell them all what the king was doing, how fast he was growing, and his continued resistance to his lessons, which made the queen shake her head. She had to hear how he did with the bow, the quarterstaff and the sword and how he did with his hawking. All of those, Patrick agreed, were much more to James’s taste. When the queen had heard every last detail he could think of to tell her, Margaret played a tune on the harp while little seven-year-old Eleanor sang a song in French for them. He noticed that Joan seemed to be keeping time to the music, surprising since he knew she could not hear.
The queen nodded when she saw him watching the girl. “She seems to feel the music somehow, although I know she cannot hear it. Her father hired a tutor from Milan, you see, and he has taught her to talk with her hands most amazingly.” She shook her head. “I feared she would have a terrible life when we discovered she could not hear, but not at all. We’ve brought up a lady’s maid who signs so no matter who she marries or where she goes, she will always have someone who understands the words she makes with her fingers.”
Joan seemed to sense they were talking about her and glanced their way, but then she turned back to her sister who motioned for her to put her hand on the harp.
At last it was bedtime. He discovered that all the princesses and Annabella had their bedchambers in the most seaward tower, across a bridge that was nearly seventy feet in length. The queen assured him with a knowledgeable smile that Annabella’s chamber was separate from the children’s.
He escorted the princesses most formally, offering his arms to the younger ones and giving them fits of giggles. He waited less than patiently in the hall while Annabella saw that the girls were settled in their chambers. When he escorted her up the next story to hers, she pulled him inside and closed the door behind them.
Before she could look around to be sure all was prepared for their comfort, he had her in his arms. “Oh, hen. At last.” He kissed her and kissed her again. “It has been so long.” Then words were superfluous.
It was one glorious night, and then the next morning he began the long sixty miles back to Stirling.
Chapter 22
16 October 1440
It was the king’s tenth birthday. After giving several days’ thought to what would be a gift that the monarch would enjoy, he decided it was time for the lad to have more than a blunted blade. James was entranced with it, sitting cross-legged in a window nook, running a cloth over the hilt while Patrick sat at a table nearby, writing a letter to Annabella. “One day I shall use it against my enemies,” the king said softly. “It is wonderful.”
“Hopefully you will have few enemies who need killing, Your Grace.”
James looked at him for a long moment as though he were dense and then went back to polishing his new sword. “All kings have enemies.”
Patrick shook his head. It was better not to ask—
The thought was broken off when Callendar threw open the door and entered. He smiled at James and nodded to Patrick. “Your Grace, I have saved a treat to tell you about for your birthday.”
Patrick raised his eyebrow. The man rarely made the trouble of seeking out the king, much less planning a treat for him.
Callendar gave a peremptory wave of his hand at Patrick, so Patrick rose, wondering what the man could possibly be up to. The lord placed a finely written parchment on the table. “Look. It is an invitation to William, Earl of Douglas and his brother David to join you for a dinner celebration. We will travel to Edinburgh. Crichton suggested the idea, and I thought it seemed a fine one. You and the Earl are nae so far apart in age. It would be wise for the two of you to become friends, the king and the head of the most powerful house in the land.”
James put the sword down on the seat and came over, giving Callendar a wary look, but his face brightened when he read the invitation. “Aye, I remember them I think, from the day of my coronation. We rode together, and he had a braw horse.”
“Good. Good.” Callendar patted the king’s shoulder, something Patrick had never seen him do before. “The invitation should be over your signature. That will make it even more of an honor for them. We will plan it for in a few weeks time. That will give ample time.”
Patrick’s mind was spinning as the king sat in Patrick’s place and carefully penned his signature. “So this celebration will be in Edinburgh?”
“Aye, that is what I said,” Callendar said brusquely as he picked up the document with the king’s signature on it. He headed for the door.
“And this was Crichton’s idea?” Patrick asked, but Callendar closed the door behind him without bothering to answer. Patrick chewed on his lip, staring at the closed door.
The king had not been in Edinburgh since Patrick had helped steal him out from Crichton’s grasp. Could it be some plot of Crichton’s to get the king back into his keeping? But he had been well rewarded for giving the king to Callendar, being confirmed as Chancellor and given a substantial stipend for his upkeep. Besides, Callendar would hardly agree unless he had assurances that no such scheme was afoot. So… what could be the reason for this sudden change? The two men did nothing unless it was to their own benefit.
He would tell one of the monks they used for carrying messages to his father and the bishop to meet him in Edinburgh in case something came of his unease. He could hope that Callendar had realized he should try to make a friend of the king, that it was nothing. He had no confidence of it.
Chapter 23
24 November 1440
“Sir Patrick, look. There they are.” King James pointed. Sitting on the top edge of the parapet where he’d climbed, he leaned out dangerously far to scan the road below.
A fine drizzle had begun to fall and the stone was slick. Patrick bit his tongue on telling the king to be careful or he’d fall and break his royal neck. Such warnings only made him more daring. Instead, he leaned a hand on the merlon and craned to catch sight of the expected party of riders. Down the hill, he could just make out a flutter of banners above a group of horsemen. It was only a dozen, for Douglas’s tail of at least a hundred men had to be left behind, too many to be accommodated at the castle.
Patrick suspected they could have been, but probably Callendar did not trust so many men-at-arms within his walls.
The king hammered his heels on the outside of the parapet where he was perched. “I wish they might stay for more than a day. Why did Callendar invite them just for a dinner? Since they’ve come all the way to Edinburgh, they might stay for a few days.”
Patrick rubbed his chin. As much as he’d tried, his probing had obtained no explanation of this invitation to the Earl of Douglas and his younger brother to dine with the king. Every question had been met with more generalities that the dinner would settle differences between the crown and the powerful house of Douglas. When Patrick asked what differences those were since he knew of none, Crichton still waved the question away.
“I suppose he had a reason.” He turned and looked his young king up and down. “You should brush yourself off. You dinna
e want to embarrass yourself before the Douglas.”
James looked down in surprise at his doublet, smeared with dust from his clambering onto every high point he could find. “Och, aye. I suppose that I do.” He swung his feet around to jump down. “Do they dress very bonnie, do you ken? They were there when I was crowned, but that was a long time ago.”
Patrick smiled as he let the king precede him to the narrow stairway to the royal chambers. “The Douglas seemed a bit of a peacock when I saw him, aye. Sixteen years now, I suppose, so probably thinks himself a man full grown.”
“David is younger though. He is only a little older than I. We could ride out to do some hawking if they stayed a few days.”
“Your hawks are at Stirling Castle. Forbye, the weather is too cold for it.”
James grumbled at being denied a hawking expedition as he preceded Patrick down the four flights of stairs of David’s Tower and through the upper yard into the lower. By that time James had exhausted the subject of the abuse he had suffered at not being allowed to bring his own falcon and that a deer hunt would be a fine sport for their guests.
When they rounded the corner, the visitors were clattering through the castle gates, a cluster of silk and velvet and plumed, bejeweled bonnets with outriders in polished steel. Over their heads, a huge banner whipped back and forth in the damp wind, emblazoned with the crowned heart of the Black Douglas.
“Hurrah!” shouted James, waving furiously. “They’re here.”
The Earl of Douglas was in the lead, rangy as ever, thick waves of black hair falling past his high collar. He grinned as he doffed his bonnet and swung from the saddle. Another dark-haired lad of about twelve years followed suit, Douglas’s brother David. Patrick would not have recognized him; he’d grown so much taller since the king’s coronation.
All of the men-at-arms wore the colors of Crichton. Douglas’s men had remained behind at Crichton’s castle where they’d stopped on the way.
James hurried to the brothers, chattering as he went. “I am so glad you have come. I’m sure we shall be great friends. Next time, I swear you must stay longer. This only staying for a day is a shame.”
Douglas laughed as he bowed. “Mayhap you will bring your court to my own Threave Castle when you have come into your power, Your Grace, though it is nothing in size to this Edinburgh.”
“How many castles do you have? Many, I suppose. Everyone says so.” He glanced at Patrick. “Is that not so, Sir Patrick?”
“Aye, that is so.”
“My tutor made me read that long, long, long poem by John Barbour, and it was all about how the Douglas saved my ancestor, King Robert. It was a braw story but too long.” He cocked his head and studied the brothers. “You look like mayhap you could fight, too.”
Patrick couldn’t help the laugh that burst out, but James gave him a reproachful look, since he never liked being laughed at. Not that Patrick could blame him. “My apologies, Your Grace. I just hope that we have no such war as King Robert the Great had to fight.”
“No, but I do well at the list,” Douglas said, his grin widening. “I plan on a tourney next summer and inviting knights from France and mayhap even England.”
David was twitching with eagerness and put in, “By then, I shall be old enough to ride at the tilt as well!”
Callendar had followed them out. He marched stolidly up, but put a smile on his face at the last moment. “Your Grace, our guests have had a long ride. Let us show them to their chamber so they can remove the dust of the road before dinner.” He motioned the way to the upper yard. “Please, My Lords, be welcome.”
The Earl smiled courteously at Crichton as he dismounted and joined them. “Lord Crichton gave us such welcome at his castle, we are hardly wearied at all, but removing the dust of the road would be welcome.”
“Aye, let us go in.” James turned and started to bolt toward the tower but checked himself so he could keep pace with the Douglas. “You must tell me all about riding at the list. Do you like it? Have you ever been in a tourney?”
“Only one because we do nae have so many here in Scotland, but I plan to change that. I do like it. It takes much practice with the lance. Have you practiced with that yet?”
The king frowned. “Only a little. Sir Patrick says I need to be larger to handle one, but I’m growing fast.”
“Oh, Your Grace, you should see my new courser,” David exclaimed. “I wanted to bring him, but the stable master said he was still too young for such a long ride.”
They chatted about tourneys until they reached a chamber that was given over to the Douglases. When James wanted to stay to talk, Crichton, who had followed along silently reminded him that he must change his clothes for the banquet, so he reluctantly trudged to his own chamber. Patrick followed to do the same, for it was a state banquet to be held, the first of the young king’s reign.
He and Alex had been given their old chamber, high in the tower that was, as usual, cold as a witch’s tit, but he stripped, tossed his clothes in a basket, and hung his sword on a peg. He washed his face, hands, arms, legs with a soapy rag, rinsed and toweled off. Before he went to attend the king, he donned his best doublet, green silk edged with marten, a wedding gift from his father before. James wore splendid new attire for the occasion, blue silk that brought out the startling blue of his eyes.
Patrick entered the great hall through a side door and went to stand at his assigned place at the end of a long linen-draped side table set with silver trenchers. The head table on the dais was reserved for the king, his guests, and the men of state. The hall was already redolent with the scent of roasted meat, savory herbs, and fresh baked bread and his stomach grumbled. The tables were lit with dozens of silver candle stands and torches high on the columns reflected light so only a few shadows hid in the corners.
The gray walls were hung with banners, the great lion rampant of the King of Scots, the crowned bleeding heart of the Earl of Douglas, the starred banner of one of the other Douglases, as well as the banners of Crichton and Callendar. A cheery fire crackled in the wide hearth.
The men-at-arms, a great many of them with pike in hand, stood guard at the doors. When Boyle strolled in Patrick’s direction, a page pointed to a place halfway down from the head of the table. He glanced toward Patrick and shrugged. Scanning the rest of the men taking their places, Patrick realized that not one was of the group that had arrived with the young earl, but it had been a small group indeed. Lord Haliburton and Lord Borthwick, both with lands near Edinburgh and friends of Crichton, were taking their seats.
At the center of the table behind places reserved for the principals stood four trumpeters, resplendent in royal livery. At a wave from the castle steward, they raised their horns and blasted a loud flourish. The doors were thrown open and the Earl of Douglas, all scarlet velvet and white silk, strode behind two heralds. Next to him, the king was waving his hands about as he chattered to the earl’s young brother. It was a shame Callendar had chosen not to bring his own son who would have enjoyed the company.
Then came James Douglas of Avondale, as fat as ever, red-faced, and sweating through his silk doublet, whom Patrick had not even known was in Edinburgh. Why was Avondale there? Invited, Patrick supposed, but an odd choice. Next to Avondale was his oldest son, William Douglas, a man grown at twenty years, lean as his father was fat, dark-haired, hard-eyed, his face marred by pustules. Callendar and Crichton took up the rear of the little procession, and with them, next to his hatchet-faced father, the Lord of Glamis, Alexander Lyon walked, his gaze fixed on his feet. Patrick wondered what had Lyon looking so dour. Perhaps he’d had a scold from his father for the amount of time and money he spent whoring.
King James took his seat in a throne-liked chair with the Earl of Douglas on one side and young David on the other. He threw back his head to laugh at something David said, and Patrick had to smile. With the king so well entertained, Patrick could relax.
There was a brief blessing from a priest Patrick did no
t recognize. Bishop Cameron was seriously ill, likely to die soon, and not able to leave Glasgow. After the blessing, Crichton, beside the young David, rose, gave a toast to the earl, bowed, and drank to him. Patrick raised an eyebrow when Alex Lyon starred glumly into his cup and did not join in the toast. But Avondale was smiling amiably, his face dripping with sweat, and his son seemed to be hiding a smirk as they sat on one side of the earl. Callendar sat with a self-satisfied look, like a cat that got into the creamery.
When Avondale’s son caught his eye, Patrick found it hard to tear his gaze from him. What gave his lean, dark face such a hungry look? It made the back of Patrick’s neck twitch, but he shrugged it off and reached for his cup. A page filled it with malmsey that gave up a rich scent. Tonight, he intended to enjoy himself while the king did the same. To the devil worrying what Avondale and his dark-faced son might be up to.
In the musicians’ gallery above, fiddlers and harpers began to play. Beaming, the Earl of Douglas gave his thanks for being invited to dine with the king and raised his cup high in a toast. The feasting began when pages carried in platters; several whole geese, a huge salmon served with onions and beans, and apples cooked in wine were the first course.
Patrick speared a slice of goose dripping with gravy and dropped it onto his trencher, his mouth watering. His stomach grumbled again as he sliced into it and set to. The man-at-arms on his left leaned close and said, “Someone told me that when the Earl of Avondale was on his way to Edinburgh, he asked a peasant he met, ‘Do you think I shall be able to enter the gate?’ Och, he meant to ask whether he would reach the city before the gates closed. But the man told him, ‘Certes, you will, My Lord. A cartload of hay can fit through. I’m sure you will fit, too.’”