by J. R. Tomlin
A King Uncaged
A Historical Novel of Scotland
J R Tomliln
Albannach Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Also by J R Tomliln
Author's Notes
List of Principal Historical Characters
Glossary
Chapter One
November 22, 1422
On each side of the path to the high peaked doors of Westminster Abbey, a line of priests stood, swinging censers that wafted streams of incense. They intoned the Venite as the solemn train approached. Wisps of smoky incense were whipped away by the sharp November wind.
The voices of the choir seemed to surge through the open west doors. James clasped his hands behind his back as he paced behind a knot of nobles who surrounded the queen as they followed the chariot bearing the coffin. King Henry’s long funeral cortege, over land from Vincennes to Rouen, by sea to Dover, and at last to Westminster Abbey in London, was finally, after months, coming to an end. He allowed a silent breath of relief to escape his lips. Behind him, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was muttering that this could finally be over, and at James’ side, his vigilant keeper, Sir William Meryng, gave a sudden shiver when the wind whipped their cloaks.
Harness rattled and hooves clanked on the stone as massive horses heaved, pulling the heavy funeral coach bearing the coffin to the high, peaked doors of the abbey. Wheels grated with a nerve-shivering sound beneath the swell of solemn music. Even in November’s watery sunlight, the silver-gilt effigy atop the coffin shimmered. James craned to glance above. Brilliant ruby and sapphire glass filled the huge windows. The statues of saints set in their niches frowned down upon the long train of nobles who followed the coffin.
Queen Catherine moved rigidly amidst the English royalty, draped in white mourning. The tension between her and the men who would now rule her and the infant king flowed as strongly as the hymns. For a moment, her step faltered, and she sagged as she reached the high, arched doorway. Joan de Beaufort at her side, also in solemn white mourning garb, reached a hand to her elbow. The Duke of Gloucester murmured something to her that James could not make out. A tremble seemed to shake the queen, but she nodded to her good-brother, and they followed the chariot through the towering doors into the cool darkness of the nave.
The scent of beeswax and incense enveloped him as James followed them in. At least they would be out of the wind for the funeral Mass would be long and wearisome. When someone barked a complaint at having his foot was trod upon, James turned his head to see Drummond squeezing his way through the press. James raised an eyebrow at his secretary, who he'd not known had returned from his task in Scotland.
Drummond bowed respectfully when he was close, but his eyes darted toward Meryng. "Your Grace," he said in a low voice so as not to disturb the solemnity of the rising chords of the choir. Surrounded by all the bishops of the realm of England, the thin and frail Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, began to intone the requiem mass.
"How went your journey?" James asked in an undertone.
"Sire. I kent you would want your letters as soon as I returned." He drew in a breath. "Especially one from one of your close kin, so I decided not to await your return to your chambers—"
James stilled at the surprise of the words. After a long pause, thinking which of his kin might finally decide he was worth their correspondence, he nodded. "You have it on your person?"
At Drummond's quick nod, James moved toward one of the huge columns. In the press of a thousand nobles, it was impossible to have privacy, but at least he was out of sight of the altar. "You saw Bishop Wardlaw and the Bishop of Glasgow? Delivered the letters?"
"And Thomas Myrton returned with me for your service at their command, especially to keep in close contact with him and with Bishop Wardlaw."
James held out his hand and Drummond slipped a parchment to him. After glancing quickly around to see that no one was taking note of their quiet conversation, James raised his eyebrows at the seal of the earl of Atholl. Close kin indeed, his half-uncle and full brother to that other murderous uncle, the Duke of Albany, who now moldered in a grave.
Holding it close, James slid his thumb under the seal and turned to the column to discretely read it and jerked in a sharp breath at the words. His uncle would throw his influence behind forcing Murdoch Stewart into agreeing to negotiations for James’ release from captivity. He folded the letter and slipped it into his sleeve. Leaning a shoulder against the thick marble column, he narrowed his eyes and stared through the wall as though to see his faraway uncle. Atholl…the youngest of his uncles. Atholl had sat by while his older brother committed foul murder and then his nephew allowed Scotland to descend into lawless chaos. But he still was not an ally to be scorned.
Meryng cleared his throat hoarsely. "Is aught wrong, Lord James?"
James gave the knight a bland smile. "Nae, Sir William. Merely greeting my good secretary after his long journey to and frae Scotland."
When Meryng again turned his face to the high altar, Drummond leaned close. "Myrton carries letters to the English asking safe conduct for Bishop Lauder as well as John Forrester and the Earl of March to come to Pontefract to negotiate terms of your release."
James peered around the column toward the high altar where Joan stood next to the queen. As the Archbishop began another prayer, Joan looked toward James, and their gazes locked. James allowed a smile to touch his lips. He gave a quick nod. She lowered her eyes, but she had seen it.
Oh, James would have a word to say about the negotiations. Beaufort could be won to his cause and his freedom guaranteed. For James had not yet shown his best throw of the die.
He leaned his shoulder against the cool of the marble column and forced himself to patience. He must be patient only a bit longer after the long, weary years past. There would be months of negotiations, of couriers carrying messages and waiting for commissioners of both kingdoms, he was sure. But already he saw greed for his ransom in the eyes of the English—merchants all beneath their finery. Except for Henry. Henry had been a warrior and king through and through. James sent a prayer of thanksgiving the man was dead, might he burn in Hell.
Beaufort would temporize and stall as he tried to squeeze every groat from their dealings. James needed another bribe, a gain Beaufort could not find elsewhere.
The prayers droned and James stifled a sneeze from the smell of the drifting incense. Percy sidled up and nudged James with an elbow. "Damn," Percy muttered. "How long will Beaufort and the Archbishop drag this out?"
James shrugged. "It can nae end soon enough." The drone of the funeral mass flowed past him as he flexed and unflexed his hands. At one point, he pushed the letter further into his sleeve, ensuring it was safe and out of sight. Tugging at his doublet, he bit back a sigh. At last an age later, the mass was over and Henry safely in his tomb.
"Meet me in my chambers," James said to Drummond and shouldered his way through the crowd, out the through doo
rs, and into the cold sunlight. At almost a run, he dashed for his horse. "Lord James," Sir William protested behind him. "Why the unseemly hurry?"
James jerked his reins free and threw himself into his saddle. Months of delay were behind him. More lay ahead, but he would be acting, forcing the issue finally. He would make sure he was never again a pawn in another's hands. He put his heels to his horse's flanks and set it to a trot through the crowd as Meryng cursed behind him.
By the time he reached Windsor, the sky was darkening. In the bailey, he tossed his reins to a stable boy and hurried to his chamber in a minor wing of the palace. A servant was prodding a fire in the hearth. James motioned the man out, sat, and pulled parchment and quill to him, checked the nib, and dipped it in ink when Meryng stomped into the doorway, still muttering under his breath. James gave him a politic smile. "No one but my own people is to disturb me today. There has been no time to see to my affairs, and they press."
The knight glowered at him as he withdrew, shouting for a squire to guard the door as he went.
Drummond was panting as he motioned the stocky newcomer to their company, Thomas Myrton, ahead of him. When the door was firmly closed, Drummond said, "You are writing your own letters, Your Grace?"
"This one, I am." James chewed his lower lip for a moment as he examined Myrton. If Wardlaw trusted the man, then James would as well. "The import is such they should be in my own hand. You will both carry them to speed matters as much as can be. I am proposing…" He leaned back in his chair and twitched a smile. "I will propose that I take a lady of the English court, one of the highest degree, as my bride to be crowned Queen of Scots as soon as I regain my kingdom."
Drummond's eyebrows rose, he opened his mouth, and then closed it.
"Gold frae Scotland they will welcome for my ransom, but withal their need is nae so great that it will hurry the matter. So I must offer something that Beaufort will esteem as much as gold. I can offer a crown." He bent over his parchment and began to write. "You'll leave with them at first light on the morn."
At Drummond's sigh, James looked up and smiled. "I am a hard taskmaster. But home is in sight, my friend. It is worth a weary trip, you ken."
James smiled a little as he pretended not to hear when Drummond muttered, "But I thought when I became a priest it would be my knees that got weary and not my arse."
But then James looked up, growing serious again, "Dinnae think I'll forget how much I owe you. All of you."
Iain of Alway gave Drummond a scathing look from where he was bent over a chest of their clothing, still folded away from the long trip from France. "We do no more than our duty."
James sucked his teeth for a moment as he puzzled over a response to his uncle's letter. The importance of his help in forcing the regent to accept James’ return couldn't be understated, but the sudden turnaround made James suspicious. How much could he trust the offer? He gratefully accepted it, but in his letter to Bishop Wardlaw, he tried to delicately hint at taking care with such a new ally. But the most important matter he took his time phrasing: Propose I offer a truce and to guarantee the truce that I take a suitable lady of their court as my bride to be crowned as my queen. At last he pressed his ring into the soft wax of the seal on the last letter and looked up. "It grows late, and I desire a walk in the east park, Iain." When his squire gave him a questioning look, James continued, "And I must do so privily…with no guards about."
Though the watch over James to prevent his escape had eased slightly since King Henry died, privacy was difficult to come by, so Iain frowned as he thought the matter over. "I heard Meryng call one of the squires to keep watch when he left. How…?" He shook his head. "Mayhap I could distract him?"
"Aye, but so much that he would not notice my slipping out?" He eyed Drummond, who was at least close to his own size though much less muscled. It would be too humiliating to be caught impersonating a priest, but perhaps merely wearing the priest's cloak would suffice. The guards had seen his household come and go often enough not to question seeing one of them—if they thought it was Drummond. He stood and held out a hand. "Give me your cloak." It was a slight disguise, but if the guards didn't look too closely—
"Iain, pretend to be sneaking out. Tell him you're meeting a kitchen maid and spin a story. Make it a good one."
Iain pressed a hand to his chest with a smirk. "My lord, would I have such a tale to spin?" He was out the door before James could give him a rap on the head.
After making sure his distinctive auburn hair was well covered by the hood, James opened the door. Iain was standing, laughing, at a far turn of the hall and motioning to describe a generous female shape. James turned his back and strode firmly in the opposite direction and took a winding path to the kitchen gate.
The park was dark with shafts of light from castle windows. It was vast, towering trees spread in the distance and soft grass underfoot. Under the first of the trees a dark-cloaked figure stood. She held out her hand. "Come, my lord, for I soon will be missed."
He only kissed her hand, for he was in no state for words.
"This way." She tugged his hand to lead him along a narrow path. "You were careful, I hope."
"Careful," he choked. "You are a fine one to speak of care, chancing sending me a note by a servant."
Her chime of laughter drifted on the cooling evening breeze. Stepping off the path into the denser darkness beneath the canopy of trees, she said, "Here at least we can be alone, if not in any comfort. We can safely speak, so tell me, I beg. The news from Scotland? It is good? Your couriers returned."
"Better news than we expected. The Earl of Atholl, my uncle…my half-uncle, will help me wrest power away frae the regent. But more importantly—" He smiled and brushed his fingers along her soft cheek. "My delight, I gave orders that part of the agreement must be that a bride will return with me when I return home."
He reached out to grasp her arms through her cloak. "I dinnae have words for speech. Too long…" He pulled her to him and kissed her neck within the hooded cloak, her cheeks, and at last her lips, but she turned her lips. "It has been too long since I held you."
She leaned into him for a moment before she turned her head away. "We have no time, James," she gasped.
He moaned. "I ken. Joan…" He murmured her name, savoring it as he could not her. "Joan, my heart. I need you. If I'm to rule, I need you beside me. You will truly marry an uncrowned king? Though your family despises me?"
She huffed a little breath and ran her fingertips over his face. "They will not when you have your crown. You know that. Another royal line in our family will not be despised. I will do anything, James, to help you win back to Scotland. I will twist my uncle to my will if I must. I swear it. He dotes on me if less than Henry did. If your ambassadors suggest it, and I tell him it is my will…for it is, love. Yes, Joan de Beaufort will wed James Stewart of Scotland. And only death can part us."
She shivered and he pulled his cloak around her.
"It isn't cold," she said thoughtfully and twined her arms around his waist. "It is hope that goes through me. We have a life to go to, and I am keen to reach it."
He leaned his forehead against hers. "I cannot promise you an easy life, my love. I was born to trouble and return to it. I would I could make such a promise."
He turned his gaze past her into the dark trees, and past them he saw across the moorlands and the mountains, over rivers of his childhood, beside the streams he had crossed long years ago fleeing from death at the hands of his own family.
Chapter Two
Pontefract Castle was a fearsome place. James could only be thankful that all he knew of the dark and oppressive network of dungeons hollowed out of the bedrock thirty-five feet below the castle was rumor. But the castle itself was oppressive enough, a vast stone fortress within a series of curtain walls that formed two outer baileys surrounding the high, massive keep.
At least the stone walls eight and ten feet thick or more in places gave relief from summer's hea
t. But within these walls he could not sleep. Perhaps it was that freedom was too near, but he swore that when freedom was his, no castle would contain him. The walls pressed in like the brazen bull of the ancient Greeks.
During the long summer night he went over the last verse of his work, The King's Book he called it. Perhaps he should give it an elaborate name, but just his book was how he thought of it, and the end was at last in sight as he wrote the final verses.
Thanks might be — and fair in love befall —
The nightingale that with so good intent
Sang there of love, the notes sweet and small,
Where my heart's fair lady was,
Gladdened her before she further went.
And thou, my gillyflower, must thanked be
All other flowers for the love of thee!
The negotiators for the English, the bishops of Durham and Worcester, the Earl of Westmoreland, and Sir Thomas Chaworth kept to the great hall, where they stood or sat, played cards or dice, and grumbled over the delay. Durham wrote long lists of what James was not sure and every two days another letter arrived from Henry Beaufort with documents that the English added to their pile. James pretended to ignore them. He wouldn't lower himself to negotiate like a merchant at the fair for his own release. Only Henry Percy, also one of the negotiators, was welcome company.
Percy was happy enough to ride out to the hunt during the early morning. They galloped through thick woods, the only sound birdsong and the thud of their horses' hooves, trailed by a dozen servants in Percy's livery. They pulled up, and in the silence, it became evident that something had been there before them. The earth was gouged and pushed aside, the leaves freshly crushed. The roots of the beech trees were scored and cratered where some creature had slashed the earth. Bluebells sprawled where they'd been ripped up. Percy called for their heavy boar lances, thick enough to withstand such a beast's weight.