A King Uncaged

by J. R. Tomlin

  "You've seen this already," he said to Robbie.

  "I rode through it on my way to greet you. The ones who did it had already gone. But they might have returned. Or some of the villagers might be hiding."

  James nodded. "You're sure it was my cousin?"

  Robbie shrugged. "No. Not certain."

  "Why would someone attack this little place?" He gestured around the hamlet. "There is nae even a lord's tower."

  "It is a dispute over the benefice of yon church there," said Bishop William. "I'd heard of it but not of…this. Douglas claims it, but it was given to one of the Keiths."

  "So why would Walter Stewart involve himself?" James swung from the saddle and turned in a slow circle, making a face as even his mouth filled with the taste of ash. The others hastily dismounted so as not to remain ahorse in the presence of the king.

  "He fancies himself ruler of Scotland. He told his own father so, even struck him, it's rumored. Forbye Douglas is his friend. A boon companion. He took it as personal insult that his friend was slighted in the appointment."

  A whimpery sound came from where the ravens had been. Tightening his stomach against what they might find, James tossed Iain his reins and went ahead on foot, the others trailing reluctantly after. When he pushed aside the stalks of barley, a woman crouched beside a body, rocking back and forth, her hands stuffed in her mouth, and a girl no more than two clung to her skirt. Another whimper, like the squeaking of a mouse, rose from the child.

  James squatted and held his hands up, bare palms outward. "We'll do you no harm."

  The woman stared at him, white showing all around her eyes. She made a sound that might have been a moan or a word. James couldn't tell.

  "I'll see you have help, you and the lass," he said lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. He almost said they would see the bodies buried, but feared that would frighten her even more. "I swear it. On the Holy Rood." Blood had dried crusted on the woman's face. He couldn't tell how badly she was hurt. Could she even speak? "Is the lass hurt?"

  This brought a response, and she hauled the whimpering girl against her, finally uncovering her mouth. It was swollen, her teeth shattered from a blow.

  "I'll see that no one hurts her." He sank lower onto his knees so he wouldn't seem threatening. "What's her name?"

  "Anny," the woman lisped through her ravaged mouth and she pressed her cheek against the child's head, rocking. "She's Anny."

  "I'll see you somewhere safe." He kept his voice carefully soft. "I give you my oath, but I need to ken who did this."

  She shook her head and wailed, "I don't ken! There were men in armor. I don't ken who they were."

  "Did they fly a banner? Was a lord with them?"

  "I dinnae see a lord, but there was a banner. It was yellow with checkers in blue and white across it and the king's…" She grasped the child against her so hard that the whimpers grew into a faint wail. "The king's lion like on yours!"

  James closed his mouth on a curse. Damn them. He'd been told that Murdoch and his son had combined the royal lion onto their own checky banners. Abruptly rising to his feet, he turned to Bishop William. "Have a cleric see they are cared for in God's mercy!" He whirled and stomped to his horse. Remounted, he clutched his reins so hard his horse snorted and stamped and the leather cut into his palms. He turned his horse's head and clapped his heels to its flanks, his teeth clenched in fury.

  Chapter Seven

  Beams of light flowed over the interior of Melrose Abbey through its arched windows. Its golden walls gleamed as the light bounced off golden candlesticks and polished wood of the altar and rails. It took James’ breath away standing here. Joan stood at his side wearing a gown of sea green trimmed with French lace like foam. Robbie Lauder was stationed at James’ right, all clad in steel plate and a sword hanging from his belt. Men-at-arms in steel with pikes at their sides lined the long sides of the church, two hundred strong. The throng of bishops and lords in the cavalcade were shifting and looking nervous in clusters about the chamber.

  James nodded to the herald to admit the two men who awaited outwith the doors. When the doors were thrown open, the herald intoned, "Regent of the realm and Duke of Albany, Murdoch Stewart and Lord Walter Stewart." Behind them, the aisle bristled with blades as the way was barred for entry to the regent's own men.

  The first man through the doors storming toward him was a stranger but had the look of family in his large eyes and the bold lines of his face. The huge man who followed him seemed almost a stranger as well until he glared at James and growled, "Cousin."

  Fifteen years past when he had last seen Murdoch Stewart, now Duke of Albany and Earl of Fife, in the Tower of London, he had been a strongly muscled man, though even then he had most often smelled of wine and had eyes blurred red with drinking. Now a coarse beard more gray than black covered his chin but not the sag of his jowls. Nothing could hide the bulk of his belly or the heavy bags under his eyes. His nose was stippled with the red of broken veins.

  James lifted his chin. "I'll speak with you shortly, cousin," he said. "First, there is the matter of your son."

  "You have more sense than I took you to have," Walter Stewart said as he strode up the long aisle of the church. "It is I you must speak to, for it is I who rule in Scotland. Not my father and most definitely not you." He thrust his fists onto his hips. "If you think my men outwith the Abbey will acknowledge your rule any more than I, you are wrong."

  "I have seen the fruit of your rule, Lord Walter. Savage burning, rapine, and murder. Now it is time that you paid the price of that fruit. Robert Lauder, I command that you seize this man."

  "Men! To me!" Walter Stewart whirled to run for the door. "Murder! Murder! To me!"

  With a rasp of steel, Robbie Lauder drew his sword. The door burst open. Douglas shouted a command and his men dropped their pikes to form a hedge that blocked the way through the doors. Walter Stewart stood open mouthed, his sword half drawn, as Robbie approached him and shoved the point of his sword under his chin.

  James let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "There will be no bloodshed in the Abbey!" he commanded. "Walter Stewart, you are hereby confined to Lord Robert's castle of Bass Rock until it is my pleasure to try you before peers of the realm."

  One of the men-at-arms grabbed the prisoner's sword from behind. The horrid tension left the room. James heard Joan's soft sigh. Robbie gave him a look. Yes, there was a deliberate irony in his choice, James acknowledged with a nod and a twitch of his lip.

  "Take him out of my sight."

  Murdoch Stewart watched his son being hauled, cursing, toward the door of a side chapel. Murdoch's mouth worked, opening and closing, but no sound came; then he turned to James and roared his anger. "Damn you, you puling pup! How dare you lay hands on my son?"

  James raised an eyebrow. "I would nae soil my hands by touching him, Murdoch."

  Murdoch staggered slightly as he took a step forward. "Soil your hands? Soil them? With the rightful ruler of this realm." He swayed and his anger seemed to let go. "I never could control the lad. Thrawn as my father and told me to my face that he would rule. Even threatened to take the great seal away from me."

  "He will not." James looked at Murdoch and slowly shook his head. "Nor will you."

  "Bloody hell, rule the damn kingdom and much joy to you. The nobles will fight you every step of the way. It was you or Walter would have it, any road." He pulled the seal, as big as the palm of his hand, from the purse at his belt and threw it onto the floor.

  For a moment, James was so angry he could not speak. He strode to thrust his face into Murdoch's, flooding with heat. "I will see you at Scone Abbey when you place me on the throne," James said in an icy voice. "Until then, stay out of my sight. Get out."

  Murdoch glowered at him through bleary, red-rimmed eyes before he lurched through the door that a man-at-arms opened for him.

  Iain Alway knelt to pick the Great Seal of Scotland up from the floor and thrust it into James’
hands. James ran his fingers over the silver disk with its raised figure of a mounted knight. In some ways, this would be as much a symbol of his reign as a crown, its impression adorning every document he signed. "I will not use this until I am crowned, and Bishop William Lauder will be my Keeper of the Seal as well as chancellor," he said with a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  May 2, 1424

  A deafening clamor of trumpets announced James’ arrival. The May sunshine was warm on his bare head. He nodded to a man-at-arms, who threw open the doors of Scone Abbey before him. His heart pounded in his chest like the hooves of a racing steed. He clenched his fists at his sides to keep them from shaking. There was another blare of trumpets and he stepped through the doors and gave Murdoch Stewart an icy glare. As Earl of Fife, it was Murdoch's duty to place James on the throne. At least the man appeared to be sober, though the look he gave James scorched with fury.

  Murdoch jerked his head toward the front of the abbey and stomped in that direction as James followed. The dozen trumpets made a cacophony that echoed from the stone walls as the crowd of nobles parted before them. James nodded to the right and left as he passed the host of bowing barons and lords and ladies, knights, magistrates, and provosts, and he couldn't keep a smile of satisfaction from curving his lips. Every noble in the kingdom was here, or near enough, though some had been sent to England to serve as hostages for his ransom. Lord Graham was there with James’ elder sister, Mary, whom James barely remembered. The sharp-faced Isabella, Duchess of Albany, looked grim, standing beside a young man so fat James wondered if any horse would carry him. Robert Lauder bowed deeply amidst the crowd. A grin nearly split William Giffart's face. John Scrymgeour, the standard-bearer of Scotland, stood ready with the banner for his part in the ceremony, blank faced. James’ last living uncle, the Earl of Atholl, watching with hooded eyes, met James’ gaze. Whether they all were truly expressing a desire for his crowning or just curious didn't matter. Together with Bishops Lauder and Wardlaw, he had planned a coronation that would leave no doubt in their minds that James had claimed his throne.

  It seemed to take an eon and less than a second for him to reach the gilded throne that sat beside the altar. James took his place. The rich smell of incense wafted through the air. Rainbow light flashed and shimmered from the huge windows, and a hundred candles set in gold candlesticks sent up prayers. And I'm like to need every one of them.

  He nodded to the pudgy abbot, who bowed and went to a side door. When he led Joan in with her hand gracing his, the breath went right out of James’ body. In ivory silk and French lace, she was even more exquisite than the first day he had seen her walking in a spring garden. The rainbow light awoke shimmers in the pearls that decorated the bodice of her dress. Her long, golden curls cascaded onto her shoulders.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears when her gaze met his. Perhaps neither of them had truly believed that this day would come. He saw her throat work as the abbot seated her in a smaller throne on the opposite side of the marble altar. This the bishops had argued against for days. Queens were not crowned in Scotland, but James shouted them down. Joan would truly be his queen.

  Bishop Wardlaw, in white vestments and red stole embroidered with gold and jewels, as Primate of Scotland, led out the other bishops, Bishop Lauder of Glasgow followed by the bishops of Moray, Argyll, Aberdeen, and Dunkeld, all in their greatest finery. They carried draped between them sumptuous purple and gold robes in which to drape him.

  The trumpets silenced to an audible intake of breath from the crowd. James felt as though he might float; his limbs had no weight as he stood. The bishops decked him in the heavy robes that anchored his weightlessness to the ground. A sweet sound of boys chanting Glória in excélsis Deo in clear, high voices filled the air.

  An acolyte handed Bishop Wardlaw a glass ampulla. He bowed, praying at the altar to consecrate it, before he carried it to stand before James. James tried to contain the rush of excitement as his pulse thundered in his ears. He sank to his knees and the bishop anointed him with oil, forming a cross on his forehead. He felt almost faint with the significance of the moment that made him truly a king.

  Cymbals crashed and James flinched, looked up blinking. They crashed again and again. Bishop Wardlaw motioned to Murdoch, whose face purpled. He ground his teeth in fury when Wardlaw handed him the gold, jewel-encrusted crown. Pushing it onto James’ head, he made a sound in his throat like a growl, but James did not care as shouts filled the abbey. "God save the king! God save the king! God save the king!"

  The shouts and tumult drowned out even the clashing of cymbals that were joined by blaring of the trumpets. Looking across at Joan, he saw that tears were dripping down her cheeks. He would have gone to her to take her in his arms if he could have.

  At last Bishop Wardlaw held up his hands and silenced the tumult. The cymbals stopped and, to the blast of the trumpets, the bishop brought James the scepter for his right hand. James’ uncle, the Earl of Atholl, strode through the crush to kneel and hold out in both hands the sword of state. James laid his hand on it. Atholl whispered, "Welcome home, Your Grace," before he rose and took his place behind the throne as Scrymgeour accepted the huge Lion Rampart banner from a man-at-arms and took his place beside the earl.

  The was a rustle through the crowd as though they expected the ceremony to end, but again Bishop Wardlaw held up both hands to silence them. There was a long pause. He turned to Joan, and she rose from the throne to sink onto her knees. He accepted a golden coronet from the Bishop of Moray and placed it over her honey-colored hair. Then he took her hands and led her to James.

  James’ heart thudded so hard he thought it might beat its way out of his chest as she knelt. She put both hands between his. In a voice soft and clear, she was the first to give him her oath of fealty.

  Chapter Nine

  James waved away the goblet of wine that a servant offered on a platter and growled his impatience at the new squire who was trying to buckle him into his armor. "Your Grace," he said in a voice that shook, "I cannot tell where this strap fastens."

  "Damnation!" James swore. "Where is Iain? Go find him, and hurry." The lad flinched as Iain Alway said, "I am here, Sire. You're frightening him. No wonder he's all thumbs."

  James hadn't seen Iain standing behind him in the door of the pavilion of Bishop Lauder.

  James looked at the clumsy boy, Sanderis he was called, and one of the Douglases, taken on to please Wigtoun. Like all of the Black Douglases, he was plain of face, for they'd never been called a handsome family, and dark haired like the lot of them. He had a wisp of a moustache and eyes of obsidian. James sighed. Shouting wouldn't teach the lad what he needed to know. "Let Iain do it and you watch," he said. "You'll learn soon enough."

  Iain nudged Sanderis out of the way and knelt to thread the strap into place. "One of the Douglases?" Lauder asked.

  "Aye, though who had the teaching of him I dinnae ken. It couldn't have been Wigtoun, albeit was at his behest I took him on." He snorted a brief laugh. "A nephew or cousin. I cannae recall. The Douglases seem to have bred like rabbits. Who can keep them straight?"

  "The Stewarts are as bad." Lauder smiled, but it quickly faded. "The talk is that you plan to ride in the jousting."

  "I intend to do exactly that."

  Bishop Lauder shook his head. "You have no business risking yourself in a joust. And what kind of dignity does that show when you allow a subject to trade blows with you? You're the king. Crowned. And they dinnae ken you. They need to see your kingly dignity—"

  "I ken what they need to see!" James strode across the pavilion, whirled, and strode back. "They need to see a strong man who can stand up to a blow. They need a king who isn't afraid to face a foe. They need to see a king who…a king who is nothing like his father. To hell with sitting whilst other men fight, Lauder. They need to see that I am in the mold of the great Bruce, and I intend to show them so."

  "Your Grace," the bishop said and patted a palm toward James as thoug
h to calm him, "it cannot be seemly for a subject to strike you. It would be lèse-majesté."

  "Nonsense. Not in a joust. King Henry jousted often enough."

  "Be sure my gorget is fastened aright, Iain," James said, but his gaze was fixed on the bishop. "Now get out." Bishop Lauder turned to leave, but James let out a gusty breath. He couldn't afford to quarrel with his few friends, and the bishop meant well. A churchman wouldn't understand these things like a fighting man. He called out, "Wait."

  When the bishop turned back, James said, "You must believe that I ken what is best. Now have a cup with me before I ride." He motioned to the servant and took a cup as the bishop did as well. He took a drink. The wine was acid on the tongue, too long in the cask. He'd have to see about better wine being brought to the kingdom. He sat down, armor clanking. "It's a pity that Robbie isn't riding in the joust. I would have liked to try my skill against him."

  "He prefers the melee. The mace is his weapon. He loves a close fight, it would seem."

  "I should have commanded him, I suppose. Ah well, another time." He drained his cup and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I rode against Harry Monmouth, did you ken? Even unseated him once, though like Robbie I'm better in the melee and better still at wrestling."

  "Then why joust?"

  "Because they'll all see me. In the melee I'd be lost in the crowd, one of many. Showing them who I am and that they can respect me is more important than what I love best. Too many think me a beggar king, a lapdog of the English. I must give that the lie."

  Iain held out James’ cloth-of-gold surcoat with his Lion Rampant picked out in gems on the chest. James stood and let Iain settle it over his head, then knelt to buckle his sword belt around his waist. "My people dinnae ken me, but after today, they will."