by J. R. Tomlin
Patrick sputtered into his cup. It was an old joke, but well done turned on the unpleasant Earl of Avondale. That made it new again. He eyed the earl, who had never had a good word for anyone that Patrick ever heard. “He got through, but I suspect barely.”
His companion brayed a laugh. When Patrick looked back toward the high table, Callendar was staring at him. There was nothing wrong with laughing and enjoying himself, but he hid his grin behind his cup. Still Callendar stared at him and then caught Crichton’s eye, who looked his way as well.
Patrick strained to hear what was being said at the head of the table over the music, roar of the fire, clatter of pewter plates and cups, and the gabble of dozens of men talking. The king’s piping voice carried as he chattered about when he would be free to do as he pleased, and that he would ride and tourney with his Douglas cousins. David said that they would have to have feasts like this every day. Perhaps they would, Patrick thought. Perhaps they would.
He turned his attention to his companion’s talk about Bishop Cameron’s new additions to Saint Mungo’s Cathedral in Glasgow and plans for defense if the English should invade. More courses were carried in: a whole roast boar, a huge eel pie, and bowls of rose pudding with sweet wafers.
James was grinning and chattering to young David more than he ate, and the earl was amiably nodding as the younger boys rattled on. Crichton gave no more toasts but picked at his food, looking out over the hall with hooded eyes. James of Avondale tore the meat from the leg of a goose with his teeth, but his son was looking about, still with that odd sneer, except when he drank from his wine cup. Between the courses, acrobats did cartwheels and built a human pyramid. Another course was carried in that Patrick waved away, already surfeit. Even his companions had grown quiet, no more japes as the many cups of wine made them muzzy headed.
Then Callendar motioned to a herald. The music ceased.
The doors of the hall were thrown open with a crash. Two drummers stepped through and took up a slow, pounding beat so heavy the air thrummed with it. Four servitors dressed in black robes bore in on their shoulders a huge silver platter at least six feet across. They marched, grim faced and solemn. The hall fell silent, except for that dreadful drum beat.
Patrick leaned forward, breath caught in his throat. On the platter was the head of a black bull with wide pointed horns. In the platter, blood puddled around it, still fresh and crimson. Its eyeballs seemed to glare beneath the shaggy hair, matted with gore. Someone gasped. Patrick went icy cold with horror.
The servitors marched step by slow step to the drumbeat toward the high table.
James gaped at them. Between the beats of the drum, his voice piped up, “What is that horrible thing? Take it away!”
David leaned forward, puzzled, mouth agape, but his brother sat unmoving. The earl watched, tight faced but eyes wide, the approach of the men, shuffling under the weight of their burden. Patrick was sure the lad knew what this gory spectacle meant.
Patrick looked around the room for some help, someone to stop whatever was about to happen. Whose death did that thing signify?
Avondale’s son knew. A grin had spread across his face. Avondale was nodding, silent and satisfied.
The servants grunted as they hefted the heavy platter high and then slammed it onto the table, right in front of the young Earl of Douglas. Blood splashed onto the white table linen.
The drumbeat stopped. The only sound in the room was a long hiss of indrawn breath from Patrick and the thump of the guard’s feet as they spread out across the room. Metal scraped as they drew their swords. The men-at-arms at the doors dropped their pikes into battle position with a clatter.
James slowly stood, holding onto the earl’s arm. He might not know exactly what it all meant, but it was obviously something awful.
Callendar rose. “Treason,” he intoned. “You, My Lord Earl, have proposed treason against your liege lord, and here is the reward you have earned.”
“No!” The Earl of Douglas rose to his feet, knocking his chair over with a crash, his eating knife clutched in his hand. “I have not. Never.”
David Douglas stared blankly at Callendar. “What is it? What treason?”
“Stop this.” James scowled but his voice trembled. “What do you mean? We were… We were just talking. They’re my friends, my cousins.”
Patrick gripped his hands into fists, desperate to do something. But there was nothing to be done. He didn’t even have a sword. No one wore a sword to dine at the king’s table, and he couldn’t have used it if he’d had one. The men-at-arms were all loyal to Callendar and Crichton. The king was is in their charge.
“Guards, seize the two miscreants. Take them out to be held for their trial and sentencing.”
Chairs scraped and clattered as everyone got to their feet, moving warily. Patrick was breathing as fast as if he had just run a race. His ears thumped with his rushing pulse, but his feet seemed glued in place.
Men-at-arms were already moving toward the two young Douglases. David, blank-faced with confusion, let them pull him from his chair and shove him toward the door.
The earl jerked away from two men who grabbed at his arms, shouting wordlessly with indignation. He slashed at the first. The man swung. Douglas ducked the blow and sank his eating knife into the guard’s hand. The second pulled back his fist and landed a blow square in Douglas’s face. The earl fell backward across the table, blood splattering from his nose. His small blade skittered across the floor.
James shouted, “Stop! Stop this now!” He grabbed Douglas’s arm, but the two hard-faced men jerked the earl from his hands. Douglas struggled in their grasp. One of them wrenched his hand up behind his back. He yelped but still thrashed to get free. They dragged him, blood dripping down his face, resisting every step, out the door.
The entire room was silent. Then James grabbed Callendar’s arm. “Stop. You cannot do this.” Callendar turned away, no more bothered than if the boy had been an annoying fly.
Patrick shoved his way through the stunned guests, who seemed not to know what to do. They looked this way and that, many open-mouthed. Patrick wove his way past them; he had to reach the king.
Crichton was patting James on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, Your Grace. They were plotting to seize the throne. They would have murdered you. Remember your father’s death. That was what they planned for you.”
“No, William likes me.” James backed away from Crichton, shaking his head. “And David. He’s just a lad. Like me. They weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“We have no time for this nonsense.” Callendar pointed one by one as he called out names. “Avondale. Haliburton. Borthwick. With us. And Crichton you bring…His Grace.” He turned on his heel and marched toward the door where the men-at-arms had exited. The others hurried after them, and a low buzz of dismay and speculation filled the room.
He wasn’t invited, but Patrick was not about to let the king out of his sight, so he simply joined them. He walked beside James, who was muttering under his breath how much he hated Crichton.
In a small side chamber, the earl of Douglas was gripped between two men-at-arms. His nose was bleeding. A split in his lip from a blow dribbled blood down his chin. His face was a mask of rage, but he no longer struggled, whether from the blow that had bloodied him or the arm viciously twisted behind him, Patrick couldn’t tell. The younger boy stood still and silent, pale-faced, eyes darting from one man to another for help.
Callendar motioned to the men accompanying them to join him facing the prisoners. “Sirs, we have here a sufficiency of the council of state to try these traitors, and so we shall do.” There was a murmur of agreement.
“As Chancellor, I declare that is true and we can so judge,” Crichton put in.
Callendar continued in rote tone that sounded rehearsed, “You, William Douglas and David Douglas, are charged with high treason. William Douglas has claimed that the throne of Scotland is his by rights and that his brother is his heir. They h
ave sought allies in both Scotland and abroad for their treason. This perfidy endangers our sworn liege lord and the kingdom. Do you have any answer to this charge?”
“It’s a lie! I never did that.” The young earl looked at the men ranged around him. His face was red with outrage. “You ken that I never did. How could I? My father is hardly cold in his grave.”
“Has any member of the council aught to add?”
“Stop this!” James threw himself in front of Callendar. He rubbed away some tears with the heel of his hand. “You won’t harm them, I tell you. You cannot. I forbid it.”
Avondale shook his huge head. “None who value our liege lord’s life could deny the charges.”
Callendar nodded to Crichton, who pointed a finger at the two brothers. “As chancellor of the realm, I declare you, William Douglas, Earl of Douglas, and you, David Douglas, are guilty of high treason. You will be taken from here to the place of execution and there each of you will have your head struck from your body. And may God have mercy upon your souls.”
David gave a strangled, “No…”
Douglas looked from one to the other, teeth bared in a snarl. The guard jerked his arm even higher and the young earl choked down a cry. He closed his eyes then and seemed to gather himself. “I am guilty of no wrong and you—” his voice broke. “You are murderers.”
The two men-at-arms wrestled him, no longer resisting, toward the door and out. David whimpered as the men-at-arms dragged him away.
“Stop them!” James grabbed Patrick’s arm and shook it. “I told them no. They can’t. I’m the king, and I said no!”
It was hopeless, but Patrick did his best. Trying to make his face calm, he stepped forward to face Callendar. “You heard the king. It is a royal command.”
Callendar’s voice would have cut glass. “The king is a minor and has no voice in matters of state or of law. Our duty is to kill the traitors. This we shall do.”
James leapt at Callendar, fists raised. He pummeled at the man’s chest. His face twisted with rage. “You…you murderer. You…you…”
Callendar grabbed the young king’s flailing fists, so the lad could only thrash helplessly. “Someone remove the king.” He glanced at Avondale’s son. “Sir William. Take him to his chamber.”
“Let me go,” James gasped. “How dare you touch me?”
The haughty William Douglas grimaced, but his father pointed at the king and said, “See to it.”
William grasped James from behind and lifted him off the ground, trapping the lad’s arms against his chest.
The king went very still, his face pasty except for the livid red splash on his face. His eyes were wide and he spread a blue stare across the men in the room, his body rigid.
Patrick pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. He stared for a moment at James Douglas of Avondale as a truth dawned. The man was the Earl of Douglas’s heir. No wonder he had suddenly appeared in Edinburgh. With an icy wave of horror, he wondered how long they had planned this travesty—these murders.
Callendar speared Patrick with a glare. “See that the king remains in his chamber. I shall supervise that the executions are promptly carried out.”
Patrick’s stomach roiled, and he stared at Callendar in revulsion.
Pointing after the petrified boy king, Callendar said, “Go.”
There was a high, fear-filled shriek from where they had dragged the earl and his brother.
Patrick dashed out of the room. He rushed pell-mell through the hall and up the stairs, shoving aside a servant who got in his way. By the time he caught up, William Douglas was kicking the door open to the king’s bedchamber, his arms still wrapped around the boy.
Patrick seized Douglas’s arm and jerked him around. “Let him go!”
Patrick let go of the arm and raised a fist, but Douglas still held the lad before him.
Douglas’s eye’s narrowed. He dropped James to his feet. “Very well. But you will keep him to his chamber if you ken you’re wise.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “And the next time you lay a hand on me, you’ll lose it.”
“You laid hands on the king!” Patrick shouted, but Douglas had already turned and was stomping away. He slammed the door behind him.
James slowly raised his head to look up at Patrick, his face stark white. The birthmark stood out like a bloodstain. His chest heaved. His expression seemed frozen with horror, but his eyes blazed. He looked as though he might go mad with the shock. Or perhaps it was rage.
Patrick dropped to one knee and whispered, “Your Grace.”
James whirled and stormed across the room. When he came up against a table he’d seemed not even to see until he bumped into it, he beat on it with clinched fists. He hammered it in speechless rage.
Patrick remained where he knelt. What could he possible say to his young king?
Finally the king turned, his hands still gripped in fists, his face still stark white, but there was an almost scary calmness in his eyes. In a low, steady voice he said, “When I am a man grown, I shall kill them.”
Patrick gaped, trying to think of some answer.
The king caught Patrick in his blue gaze. “Oh, I shall kill them, Sir Patrick. I promise you that. I dinnae ken when, but I shall kill them.”
“I believe you, Your Grace,” Patrick whispered. He rose, looked around the chamber, and spotted a flagon of malmsey. He very much needed a drink, though one would not be enough.
He mixed a cup of wine with some water for the king. He drank his down in a long draught.
James sipped his thoughtfully. “But why? Why kill them? I need to understand.”
Patrick ran his hands through his hair, tugged at it, and groaned. “I wish I could tell you.” How could Crichton and Callendar take part in such a crime? What could Avondale have offered them?
James rubbed at his face and mouth with his hand and heaved a huge sigh. There was a book on the table that he flipped open with a finger. In a tone still frighteningly calm, he said, “Are they dead yet, do you suppose? I hope…” Patrick heard his swallow from across the room. “I hope it was fast. That they did nae suffer.”
At a soft knock, Patrick opened the door and Alex slipped inside. He was almost as white-faced as James. He opened his mouth, glanced at the king, and closed it. Patrick shrugged. There was no point in trying to keep from James whatever news Alex had.
Alex shook his head. “It is done. The worst thing I have ever seen, I swear to you. Young Douglas begged that they take his brother first, so the poor lad would not have to watch him die, but they dragged him to the block first.” Alex rubbed his face, looking a little sick. “It only took two swings of the blade to take off his head, thank all the saints. David was crying when they killed him, like the child that he was.”
Ignoring all courtesy that he not sit in the presence of the king, Patrick sank into a chair, resting his elbows on his thighs, hands limp. “What have we come to? Murdering children, guests at the king’s table?”
Dear God in heaven, how could such a thing happen?
The king whispered, “They were my cousins.”
Alex poured them all another cup of wine, mixed half with water for the king. Even after the horror of the evening, the wine began to make the lad sleepy. He crawled on top of the coverlets in the large bed, yawning widely. “I shan’t sleep but mayhap I’ll rest for a while,” he murmured as his eyes closed.
Alex sat, his head dropped into his hands. He looked up, shook his head, and went back to his morose reverie.
“I need to send this news to my father and the queen,” Patrick said. “I’ll be back in the morning. If anyone comes looking for me, I went out to wench.”
“Why would anyone come looking for you?”
Patrick opened the door a crack and said in a low voice, “I dinnae think they will, but if they do, I’m looking to find a willing lass for the night.” With Alex frowning after him, Patrick peered in both directions to be sure no one was about and slipped out of the room. He softly
closed the door behind him.
He had to wait until most of the castle was asleep before he slipped out of the sally port where he hoped he could bribe the sole guard, but there was something he must do first. He clattered up the narrow winding stairs to the top floor and the tiny chamber he was assigned to share with Alex.
The box bed took up most of the room other than that occupied by a small table. A few items of their clothing and his sword hung from pegs on the wall. He poured water into the bowl on the table because he felt begrimed, as though the violence of the evening had coated his skin. Hurriedly, he stripped and washed his face and hands. By the time he was finished, his teeth were chattering because the chamber was far from warm, but the feeling of being begrimed by the events stayed with him.
He turned to the small kist of belongings he had brought from Stirling Castle and dug through it for clothes suitable for his task. He took his time donning his linen undershirt, drawers, black woolen doublet and dark brown tights. They were made of good Scottish wool and woven on a loom whose home he could have seen from his father’s castle at Longforgan if he ever had time to go there.
He rubbed his arms to warm them, wishing rooms high in castle towers were better heated, but who would waste wood or peat for such frivolities? It was a room assigned to the least important guests in the castle and did not rate any luxury. He donned his cloak, dark blue, but he had no other with him.
The stairway was dark, and he bumped into a man coming up. “Watch it,” the man grumbled, “or I’ll give you a skelp you will nae forget.”
“Sorry. I did nae see you,” he said and forced a laugh.
The man grunted and stumped past. Patrick made his way in the pitch-dark to near the bottom of the stairs and through the short corridor where there was some light in the great hall; a small fire still crackled in the fireplace. Head down, he stepped into the vast room. It was largely empty now, the trestle tables all moved out of the way. The torches had been snuffed. Straw pallets were scattered close to the hearth for warmth, and the servants asleep there had pulled their blankets high.