by J. R. Tomlin
Head down, Patrick wended his way through the murk, not that any servant would question him. But he preferred that if possible no one would know about his movements. He counted on their tiredness to keep them from noticing. None of them so much as raised a head when he opened the door into the dark rear hallway.
With luck they had been so confident that they’d not burned letters planning this night. There had to have been some. With no torch lit, it was near pitch-black. Patrick flinched when he heard a voice come from behind the door to the room Crichton used as a privy chamber.
“You have what you wanted. Just hope there’s no high price to pay for it,” Crichton said. “I would I had never agreed.”
There was a loud, brash laugh. “It is late now to change your mind. And you were fast enough to take the gold my lord father offered you.”
Patrick pressed his back against the wall and edged past the door into even deeper darkness. It would be the wrong way for light to fall if they opened the door. But sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled down the back of his neck. If they would kill the Earl of Douglas, he would be small meat.
“He’s right, Crichton,” Lord Callendar said. “It is too late for whinging regrets and it had to be done. Neither of us could afford for him to make himself named Lieutenant General of Scotland. And he would have, sooner rather than later. His father had the office and he had a right to it. It would have given him control of the king.” There was the sound of a hand slapping down on a table. “Enough. I am for bed.”
Patrick was panting with something near panic. There was no time to flee. He crouched and pulled his cloak over his face. He could only pray to Saint Patrick they did not turn toward the back of the short hallway.
“Aye, I have a serving girl awaiting me,” Avondale’s son said. “This has been a good day and I plan to celebrate.”
They clumped out the door, Avondale wheezing as he went, but Patrick didn’t even breathe until the door shut. He’d lost his taste for searching for letters and that had told him all he needed to know.
He counted to five hundred to tell when enough time had passed before he slipped through the hall and into the night.
High in David’s Tower, tiny bars of light showed that a few people had not yet retired. There was not another touch of light. The stars were hidden behind thick clouds and the moon made only a faint nimbus in them. He made his way by touch along the wall. He’d spent no time at Edinburgh Castle since their flight, but he knew it well enough that he didn’t need to see. He stepped carefully, trying not to make any noise, not that he didn’t have the right to be out in the night, but he didn’t want to have to explain why. And God only knew what orders Crichton might have given.
Patrick stopped and held his breath as he listened. The castle might have been abandoned it was so silent, with not a sound of breathing or a scrape of boot leather. No one was about.
There were only two ways out of Edinburgh Castle, the main gate to the east and a sally gate in the north wall. Both opened into the outer bailey. The gate to the inner bailey would already be closed and barred, completely shut off from the outer bailey. There was no way through, so he’d have to go over.
Nearby, there were stairs that went up onto the bailey wall walk for defense if the outer bailey were taken. He continued to feel his way until he bumped into the first step and stumbled. Keeping one shoulder against the wall, he crept up the stairs, stepping as quietly as he could. He had never seen men-at-arms patrolling this wall, hardly needed with the strong outer wall, but he couldn’t be sure if that had changed.
At the top of the steps, he crouched and eased his head above the level of the wall walk. He looked left and right. He waited for the sound of footstep or a sign of movement. At last, he crawled onto the walkway, keeping down to be sure no sign of his silhouette showed above the crenellations. His hand landed in an icy puddle that was nasty with slime. He grimaced and wiped it on his cloak. That convinced him to rise enough to peer between two of the merlons. As far as he knew, no men-at-arms walked a patrol in the inner bailey except on the far parapet walks, and there was no sign of any movement below. It was a good drop, at least fifteen feet, so he slid feet over, and grasped the edge until he was hanging by his fingertips. He let go.
He landed hard, with bent knees. Silently cursing, heart pounding, he waited. It had made a thump when he landed. Next to the wall, the dark was complete, so he stayed motionless, waiting for a cry of warning. In the distance, there were footfalls, steady and even: a guard walking his post. A door creaked as it opened, and a square of light was thrown from a guardroom. It slammed shut and the night was dark again.
Patrick rubbed his knees. The landing had been hard, but no harm done. Slowly, carefully, he stood. Was the risk greater for walking openly that someone might see him or creeping and giving away that he was spying? He waited. There was no reason the men-at-arms would watch in the bailey. The danger would be outside the walls from Douglas men seeking their master. So as quietly as he could, but trying to look as though he were merely strolling, he walked next to the wall across the bailey and to the sally gate.
The guard called out, “Who goes there?”
“Wheesht,” Patrick whispered. “It’s Sir Patrick Gray.”
“What the devil are you doing creeping about out here?” the guard demanded.
“There’s a lass in a tavern I visit when we’re in Edinburgh.” He tried to sound embarrassed. “And they have good ale there.”
“The gates are closed.”
“Of course they are. But if you open it just enough for me to slip out, no one will ever be the wise.” He nudged the man with his elbow and put a smile in his voice. “And I have more coins in my purse than I should carry about at night.”
The man grunted. “Well, you’re not the first fool to go wandering about Edinburgh in the dark. But Lord Crichton would have me flogged—”
Patrick let some coins clink as he pulled a couple out of his purse. “It was a bad day,” he said softly. “I just want to have a soft armful and a drink to take the bad taste away.”
The man blew out a noisy breath and put out his hand for the coins. “Aye, very well. That it was a bad day, but I never seen you. And if his lordship has your hide, ’tis no business of mine.”
They both looked around to be sure no one was in sight. The guard grunted as he hefted the beam that barred the heavy gate. Patrick pushed the gate open barely enough to slip out, and it shut behind him with two thuds, the closing of the door and the dropping of the bar. Patrick’s steps crunched on the stony surface of the path.
Patrick shuffled softly on the stony path around the castle wall in the dark and then thudded down the cobbles of the Via Regis. The houses along the broad street, which in daytime jutted high on both sides, loomed like the sides of a deep crevasse.
He hurried down the incline of the street, head down and wary. He loosened his sword in its scabbard, for a man alone, even armed, would be a tempting target for thieves. But the day’s events circled and skittered in his mind like frightened mice eager to escape. He was convinced that Avondale was behind the executions, for it was he who would profit, he and his heir. But why had Callendar and Crichton agreed to the terrible act? What could he have promised them? The Douglas had supported Crichton as chancellor, so why would he turn against the earl? Of course, that had been the lad’s father, but the young Douglas had seemed to show no enmity to his father’s old ally.
Perhaps it had been timed to happen before James Kennedy returned from the Council of Florence. Yet what that had to do with bloody murder was beyond his ken.
He had to send word to his father and hope older heads would know what it all meant. He had just turned onto Duddingston Low Road toward the Sheep Heid Inn when he heard a scrape of movement behind him. He slowed and took another few steps and there it was again, the faint scrape of a shoe in the dirt.
At the next alley between two tall houses, he slipped around the corner and dropped
into a low crouch. He peeked back around the corner. A shadow crept toward him keeping close to the edge of the street. It was a thin, reedy figure that moved silently except for a scrape of his shoe leather. Not a man in armor. Patrick silently drew his dirk and waited. The shadowy figure peered around the corner. Patrick grabbed him.
Slippery as a weasel, the thin man squirmed free before Patrick could tighten his hold. He reached behind his back and came out with a dagger. He thrust at Patrick’s throat.
Patrick shuffled back a step. He traded his dirk to his left hand and drew his sword, keeping his narrow gaze on his opponent’s face. The man facing him was scrawny and young. Even a scrawny man with a dagger is dangerous though, and Patrick couldn’t be sure he didn’t have an ally somewhere nearby.
“What do you want?” Patrick asked.
“Nuffin’.” The thief backed up a step, as though to give himself space. He lowered his dagger to his hip as he crouched. He obviously knew his business, and this wasn’t the first man he’d attacked.
“Good, because that is what you are getting.” Patrick lifted his sword a little higher so it was near the thief’s throat. Truthfully, he’d rather not kill the poor gutter rat, but he would if he had to. “If I see you near me again, next time you’ll nae live to see another day.” Patrick eased around the man, who wheeled to keep him in sight.
Patrick backed up a couple of steps before he sheathed his sword. He pointed his dirk in the thief’s direction and said, “Best you nae forget it.” And then he turned on his heel and strode off the way he had been going. He glanced behind him once, to see a silhouette in the distance, but he blew out a breath. The thief seemed to have given up.
This late, the gate to the yard of the Sheep Heid Inn was barred, of course. Patrick jumped and grabbed the top, pulled himself up, and threw a leg over. He dropped into the yard hard enough that the yard dog, chained near the door, awoke and barked. There was shuffling inside as though someone had awakened and a glow of a candle gleamed through the shutters. Patrick scrambled for the stable as the dog’s bark lowered to a growl.
When he closed the door, someone in the back mumbled, “What’s to-do?”
Patrick let out a breath of relief. He’d feared that the friar who had accompanied him might have gone off, but Patrick was finally in luck. “Wheesht. It’s Sir Patrick Gray.” He tiptoed to the back stall where a begging friar was sometimes allowed a little space in the hay by the inn’s owner as alms.
A horse nickered. Another stuck its head out to look at him. Patrick felt his way back in the deep gloom. Brother Symond was asleep in the last stall. Patrick dropped to his knees in the narrow doorway. It was a small stall, used for storing hay and tack. In the back, bales were piled up to the ceiling. In one corner, Brother Symon lay curled on a bed of hay, stretched out beneath a horse blanket. Like the hay, it belonged to the inn because Symon said that owning a blanket would violate his oath of poverty. Tack hung from pegs on the wall, as did Brother Symond’s brown habit with its short hood.
There was a rustling in the pile of hay before Brother Symon sat up. He furiously rubbed his tonsured head. “If you’re out carousing, you’ve come to the wrong place,” he complained.
Patrick leaned back against the wall and slowly slid down until he was sitting, knees bent. He folded his arms across them and rested his forehead on them. His next breath was nearer a sob than he cared to admit. “I wish I were carousing.” His voice croaked so he cleared his throat. “I need you to take a message to my lord father. There was…” He swallowed. Be damned if he would weep like a bairn. “Something happened at the castle.”
“What has happened? There were many shouts and a crowd at Carlton Hill, but I thought it best to stay clear.”
Patrick leaned his head back against the rough boards of the wall. “It’s bad. They…” He swallowed again. “They killed the Earl of Douglas today and his young brother. They called it a trial, but it was judicial murder. Dragged them from the king’s own table…”
Symon crossed himself, muttering, “Requiēscat in pāce.” But then his curiosity seemed to get the better of him. He cocked his head. “How did it happen? Who did it? Crichton?”
“The Earl of Avondale and Callendar. I think they were mainly behind it, but Crichton had a hand in it too.”
“Avondale?” Brother Symon tugged on his short beard. “The fat one, aye?”
“He is Douglas’s heir. They destroyed the last of that line, so the titles are his.”
Patrick slammed his head back against the boards. “And there was nae a Satan be-damned thing I could do to stop them.”
The monk was slowly shaking his head. “The earl would have had guest rights. At the king’s own table.”
“Aye.”
The friar nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, since Bishop Kennedy is nae within reach, it is best we get word of this to your father and to the queen.” He squinted into the dark. “Avondale is an old man, though. He cannot be that long for the world. Mayhap he wants the title for his own heir.”
“He is old, right enough. He must be seventy years if he is a day and fat as a sow. But neither keep him from scheming.” Patrick squinted at Brother Symon but he couldn’t make out his face in the dark. Telling what he had overheard was too dangerous, so Patrick shrugged.
“There are men who will do any evil you can imagine. What about his son? What kind of man is he? Do you think he might have pressed his father to do this?”
“He’s young, but proud and…” Patrick shook his head. “It is hard to describe. Aye, he wants power. He has a sneer that sets badly with me. He kent it was going to happen before it did. That I can tell you. He might have pressed his father, although I dinnae ken how much pressing it would have taken.”
“Och, ‘tis not for the likes of us to unravel. So where is your father now? With the queen mother at Dunbar?”
“Aye. The last word I had, that’s where he was, and if he has left, the queen must know and send word to him.”
Brother Symon threw back his blanket. “They’ll nae open the doors for you at the inn this late, so you’ll do penance for your sins sleeping on the floor.”
“I have a thick cloak, and if I sleep, it will truly be a miracle. Any road, I dinnae want to noise about what I have been doing, so I’ll just sit here until daylight.”
“Aye, I shall be off. I can talk my way past the guards at the gate. Do you have siller to buy me some bread for the journey? If I dinnae have to worrit on begging for alms on the way, it will speed me.”
“Certes. Take bread and cheese. A canteen of ale as well. I thank you for this, Brother.” He emptied his scrip into the friar’s hand and then sighed and closed his eyes. “I just wish…” But there had been nothing he could have done. His stomach churned as though he had taken a hard blow. There was nothing that could have made him feel even a whit better that he had stood by while those boys were murdered.
He stared into the night sky long after the monk had trudged out of sight. The words that echoed in his mind chilled more than the night wind: When I am a man, I shall kill them.
Epilogue
August 1447
James swaggered towards the door of the inn, showing his knobbly wrists below cuffs on sleeves that were just a bit too short. He still outgrew his clothes with an amazing speed. Patrick opened the door for him with a half-bow.
The king had that translucent skin some teenage lads have, presumably to emphasize their bonnie looks and to make the rest of the world feel bad, a dark auburn forelock that drooped over his brow, a proud nose, and wide blue Stewart eyes. Reddish-brown stubble on his strong jaw caught a bit of the afternoon glow that peeked through the clouds and showed he was old enough to need a daily shave. Only a sarcastic twist to his mouth spoiled his bonnie looks. Forgetting the vivid red birthmark on one cheek was easy. Fiery Face they named him, but Patrick thought that no one yet knew the truth of that sobriquet.
Patrick mused that how should the lad not swagger, the son,
grandson, and great-grandson of kings? If he still awakened in the night in a cold sweat from nightmares, made even worse since his mother's mysterious death, none but Patrick were aware of it.
The Sheep Heid Inn was a short ride past the Tolbooth and north of St. Giles Kirk on the High Street and then a short walk into Luckenbooths. A large slate roof sat two stories high on limed stone walls. In the middle of the front wall was a low door with shuttered windows on each side. The usual cots for brewing, stable, privy and kitchen in the dirt yard behind. Above the door was a crude sign with a painted sheep, as round and puffy as a spring cloud, with curling horns.
Patrick followed his young king through the doorway, trailed by their two guards in Sir William Crichton's livery. Though the queen mother was two years dead while under siege at Dunbar Castle the Earl of Douglas and the wrangling over the king's person seemingly past, Sir William took no chances that someone might grab away his guarantee of power.
They faced a single, long, crowded room that took up the entire lower floor. At the back, near the rear door into the backyard were stacked barrel holding ale and even a small one of the eye-wateringly strong uisge-beatha. One barrel of ale rested on trestles, surrounded by five or six men talking about the day’s events in loud voices. Nearby were narrow stairs to the floor above where travelers could rent a straw mattress and for a pence and even a couple of small rooms for those with more coins in their scrip. A number of tables, benches, and stools were scattered about where a dozen or so men were eating bowls of a pottage. At the far end of the room, a peat fire glowed on a stone hearth. The flagstone floor was covered with a thick padding of rushes. As the scent of stewed pork and ale hit him, Patrick’s stomach grumbled. The king and turned and laughed at him. Patrick shrugged with a grin.