by J. R. Tomlin
The old woman looked up at James with eyes like wounds. She clung onto his stirrup and cried, "My Lord King, ye must hear me!"
Joan caught his eye and gave her head a little shake. His lips twitched. "What's to do? Speak then."
"My king, an ye pass this water, ye shall never return again alive."
Robert Stewart, his new chamberlain, crowded her with his horse. "Away with you, hag. Leave the king be."
"Wait." James waved Stewart back and leaned sideways, looking more closely at her. "What do you mean? Why shall I never return alive?"
James supposed Stewart had frightened the old wifey, for she clung even more tightly to his stirrup. He breathed out an exasperated breath. With the rebellion at Roxburgh and Robert Graham in hiding, it was just slightly possible she had heard something he should know. Myrton still believed that others besides Graham had been behind the plot. James wished he had evidence of it. No one who came to him could be ignored. He tried once more. "What is it you want to tell me?"
"Go back," the woman wailed. "Ye shall die if ye go on."
"Who told you I would die?" He tried to make his voice gentle.
"Huthart," she said, "Huthart said so." She turned and ran, rags swirling around her.
"Just an old madwoman," Stewart said.
James looked at the men around him. "Huthart? Does anyone know that name?" He considered sending someone after the old thing, but the bow of the ferry bumped against the dock, and black-robed friars who ran it hurled looped lines over piling. In a moment they bowed to the king. James nudged his mount, and they sloshed toward wide craft to cross the Firth of Forth and ride for Perth. It was nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
February 20, 1437
A fire crackled on the hearth of the monastery guest house, giving off the scent of oak. Branches of candles and a glowing brazier brightened the hall and helped keep out the chill. Joan settled in a chair beside the hearth with a sigh of satisfaction. One of the squires was plucking a melody on a lute as a new knight's page, young Walter Straiton, helped himself to a sweetmeat still on a tray from dinner. The king hummed faintly under his breath as he bent his head over a chessboard. The Earl of Angus nodded over his wine, and Robert Lauder sprawled lazily in a chair.
In the corridor a door slammed. Sir David Dunbar came in stomping his feet and shook a few flakes of snow from his cloak. He bowed first to Joan and then to the king. He handed over a missive from the Papal Nuncio biding in the Kirk whilst in Perth since there was no room in Blackfriars Monastery where they stayed. James glowered at the missive.
"Business so late?" Joan frowned. She had worked trying to distract James these last weeks through Christmastide and Hogmanay, and at last he seemed more himself.
He eyed the chessboard before him before he flicked open the seal with his thumb. "Only a moment." He scanned it quickly and tossed it aside. "I believe the Nuncio and I will come to an agreement between us soon over my disagreement with the Holy Father, but first we must await the chancellor to arrive."
On the other side of the board, Alexander MacDonald used a broad, tanned finger to push a bishop to a new position. "It has been much too pleasant an evening for The King's Grace to think about business of state." He grinned. "There will always be more business anon."
Sir David laughed. "I have to tell you! That old witch woman from the ferry is now crying and moaning at the doors that there is death loose in the night."
"That old hag?" Robert Stewart said. "She should be flogged for blethering such tales."
Joan gave Stewart a cool look. James said they had found no evidence that his new Chamberlain and Atholl, Robert's grandfather, were part of the plot against him, but Joan couldn't like him. Or trust him. James said old Atholl did not treat Robert kindly. Graham had disappeared into hiding, and James had replaced the Keepers at Dumbarton Castle and Stirling Castle. Atholl had sworn he had no part in any sedition, but now Joan looked at the young man and wondered.
"No need to treat her harshly. I shall see her in the morn." James gave MacDonald a wry look. "A certain lady bandied it about that you are the King of Love," he grinned, "and the old wifey says that a king will be slain in this land. Since there are no kings here but you and me, you had best beware. For I give my oath to the saints, I am under your kinghood in the service of Love."
Alexander snorted and shook his head. Joan held her hand over her mouth as she laughed. Alexander was indeed a King of Love with all of the ladies.
The king made another move on the board. "I have you, my lord," he said, chuckling with triumph.
Alexander rose. "I yield, Sire, and shall retire for the night. One day I'll best you, though. I give you my word."
Joan rose from her seat at the card table, yawning, "I shall retire as well."
She smiled when she saw James yawn after her. They'd had a quiet winter's evening of song, card playing, and chess. There wasn't enough room in the monastery for most of the court, so they had it nearly to themselves, a rare bit of near privacy she always relished when in Perth, so different from being crowded together in a castle.
She stretched her back and called to Catherine Douglas to come undress her. "A good night to you all," she said. "Will you join me soon, Sire?"
"Soon, my lady." James rose as well. He waved away his squire. "David, I'm not yet so fat I cannae unfasten my hose. Hie to your own bed in town."
Angus and Lauder were bidding the king a good night as they bowed, moving towards the door, also being lodged in the town. "I'll see to the doors and the guards," she heard Robert Stewart say as she left. Catherine Douglas scooped up her wooly lapdog from where it snoozed to follow. Joan strolled through the king's dressing room and into the inner chamber. The large room, walls covered with Flemish tapestries of nobles picnicking and at the hunt and deerskin rungs on the floor, was a pleasant retreat. Agnes Gray gave a deep curtsey before she went back to folding clothes at one of the wardrobes.
As she unlaced Joan's gown, Catherine Douglas said, "His Grace seems happier, less upset now."
"Shhhh." Joan pressed a finger to her lips. James would certainly not be happy to hear her discussing him with her lady-in-waiting, but Catherine was right. For the first time since the debacle at the siege of Roxburgh, James seemed to be enjoying himself. He was always happier in the less martial setting of Blackfriars.
Catherine slipped Joan into her robe and was chatting idly about when they might leave for Linlithgow Palace and what the children might be up to in Edinburgh.
As she was loosening Joan's hair, James opened the door. He said to Walter, "Bring up a flagon of wine from the cellar, lad, and then you may retire for the night."
He'd changed from his clothes into a furred bedrobe and warm slippers. He came to kiss her cheek and she sat for Catherine to brush out her hair. James wasn't the only one who was feeling happier than he had been in a long while. She smiled up at him. "We could bide at Blackfriars for time, do you not think, James?"
He went to hold his hands out to the fire, popping away on the hearth. "For a time, if you like. I'm in no great hurry to travel in the snow. David said that it's covered the ground."
When she turned her head to watch him before the fire, she laughed. "Speaking of covering, close your robe, if you please. I swear that no longer covers you at all. That is more than I'd have my ladies viewing."
James patted his belly before he pulled his robe tighter around himself, grinning. "God's mercy, I'm no longer a stripling, woman. A man grows a bit of meat on him as he ages."
She shook her head, still chuckling. It had been a while since things had been so light in their household. "I've no complaint about that, James, but pray do not display it quite so readily to my ladies."
"Indeed, I try very hard not to peek, my lady," Catherine said with a distinct smile in her voice.
"And that is why you—" Joan turned at a crash that came from the hallway. "What was…"
She stood up and stared at the door. At some di
stance, there was shouting and the distinctive sound of the clanking of armor. James turned his head, listening intently. Those were not sounds you should hear in a monastery at night.
Joan opened her mouth to say they should call for the guards when there were crashes that sounded like fighting. From only a short distance Walter Straiton shouted, "Treason! Sire! Flee!" Walter's voice rose to a high-pitched scream and was cut off.
Catherine ran to the door to bar it. "Holy Mary, the bar is gone." She turned to lean back against the door, her eyes wide with terror. A bar usually hung by a chain next to the door.
Joan pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating so hard she felt as though she must hold it in. But there was no time for weakness. "Where are the guards?"
"Lured away mayhap." James turned slowly, his hands grasping and ungrasping as though desperate for the feel of a weapon.
Joan ran to grab James’ arm and pull him to the window. "Flee, love. Run."
He started to protest but she cut him off. "They won't harm me if you're not here. It has to be you they are after."
In a stride James was at the windows. He ripped open the shutters. Joan peered out beside him and through the snow flurries, the light of half a dozen torches lit the courtyard. They showed men, perhaps a dozen, fully armed from the glitter of the torchlight on steel.
"Aye, if I'm here they may kill you as well as me." He grabbed her shoulder. "Whatever happens, reach James. They'll go after him next."
She shook her head and looked desperately around the room, and then pointed at the floor. The drain. It was something you would never find in a castle, but in Blackfriars’, years ago when having the rugs beaten, she'd spotted a trapdoor that led to drains, apparently long unused. She turned and pointed to a small table. "Catherine, Agnes, push that in front of the door. Anything you can find to delay them."
James grabbed the edge of the deerskin rug and dragged it away. He dropped to his knees and used his fingertips to prise open the trapdoor. She leaned, peering down. It was a long drop, considerably farther than she was tall.
He grabbed her and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I shall rouse the guards and bring help."
"Hurry! Oh, hurry!" she wrung her hands. There should be something more she could do. Something!
James lowered himself over, hung for a moment by his hands, and dropped. Joan started to tell him to run, but the door shook under someone’s pounding. Catherine and Agnes had shoved the table in front of it, but that wouldn't keep them out. She struggled to lift the heavy oaken trapdoor. It dropped into place with a crash. Catherine ran to help her pull the rugs over it.
Outwith the door there were curses, a thud against the heavy wood, and it flew open, the table scraping from the force. Joan stepped onto the rug, both hands pressed to her chest. She could feel her whole body trembling. Sir Robert Graham stumbled into the room throwing his full weight at the door, a bloody sword in his hand. Behind him, Joan saw Robert Stewart. Behind them four more men.
"You!" she gasped at Robert Stewart.
"Aye. The new heir to the throne after we finish this night's work."
"Where is the tyrant? The murderer?" Graham demanded. "James Stewart. Where is he?"
Joan pressed her mouth into a straight line and tried to still her trembling.
Graham ran to poke under the bed, kicked Catherine's yapping lapdog out of the way. He threw open the shutters and called down, asking if they had seen anything. Then he whirled and strode to her. "Where is he?"
When she shook her head, he pulled back his arm and thrust his sword through her shoulder. She opened her mouth to scream, but the pain took away her voice. But she heard Agnes's shrieks.
She was somehow on the floor, although she didn't remember falling, and rolled over to crawl, but when she moved her stomach roiled. Blood dripped into a crimson pool on the floor. Then Catherine was lifting her. She ripped off her veil and wadded to press to the wound.
"Why did you do that?" Robert Stewart asked.
"You think we dare risk letting them live to tell the tale?" Graham demanded. He grabbed Catherine by the arm, jerked her to her feet, and backhanded her. "Where is he? Where?"
Joan watched desperately as Catherine shook her head. "I dinnae ken. He ran out of the chamber. How could I ken where he is now?"
Graham shoved her away. "How could he have slipped past us? He has to be here somewhere." He strode out the door, cloak flapping behind him, the others tramping after him.
Catherine ran to the wardrobe, grabbed handkerchiefs, and knelt, stuffing them against the bloody wound in Joan's shoulder. "Graham means to kill us all," she whispered.
A clatter from below the rug made Joan flinch. There was another as though someone tossed a stone at the trapdoor. "Mercy on us, it's James." Joan motioned to Agnes, who was kneeling beside the bed, hands clutched against her mouth. "Agnes, close the door!"
The girl lurched to her feet and scurried to softly push the door closed. Catherine grabbed the rug and pulled it aside. She prised at the trapdoor and grunted. "Come help, girl," she demanded.
Agnes was whimpering with fear, but she hurried over and knelt, and between the two of them, grunting, they managed to open it. A wave of stale air wafted out.
"The way out is closed," James called up. "And I cannae reach the edge to pull up. Tie sheets together and tie them to the bed post. If I can reach my armor…my weapons…then we have a chance. Hurry before they return."
Joan's shoulder seared with pain as she pressed the wad of cloth to it. Already they were soggy with blood, but she pushed herself to her knees. "The ones on the bed. Strip it!"
As Catherine knotted one end to a bedpost and Agnes knotted it to another sheet, James called up, "Was it Graham? I could not tell the voices through the floor."
"Yes, Graham," Joan said. "And Robert Stewart. His son. Those two brothers who are his friends, the Halls…"
"It's tied!" Agnes jumped up. Her feet skidded in the pool of blood and she shrieked. Catherine lunged for her but wasn't close enough. The girl tumbled into the opening and shrieked again as she fell. Catherine dashed for the trapdoor and strained to lift it, managing to lift it halfway.
Stewart dashed in. "He's down here!" Robert Stewart crowed. "We have him trapped." He gave Catherine a buffet. The trapdoor crashed open.
Joan pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from begging. Stewart dropped down into the dark mouth of the tunnel. James shouted, "Curse you!" There was a smack of a blow and a grunt. She heard a thud as though someone hit the wall of the drain. She almost sobbed as she remembered seeing James throw a man when he wrestled. There was another loud bang and a man's angry shout.
Hall and his brother ran and dropped into a crouch to let themselves down. Joan crawled to the trapdoor and leaned her head down to try to see, but it was black as pitch. There were grunts and the sound of blows.
A shadow fell across her. She looked up in time to see Graham's iron-shod foot aimed at her side. Automatically, she tried to dodge, but the blow knocked her across to the wall. He knelt, put one hand on the floor, and jumped into the hole.
Below, another man grunted from a blow Then there was a horrible moist sound, and then another and another, one after another and another. James screamed, "Misericordia, Deus!"
Graham laughed, sounding almost hysterical. "He's begging for mercy. The tyrant!"
The traitorous fool didn't care that James was praying. She stuffed her fingers in her mouth to keep in the scream of anger and pain. They were killing him! Mother of Mercy, let this be a nightmare.
There was a choked cry that died away with a bubbling sound. Catherine pulled Joan's arm around her shoulder. Putting her arm around Joan's waist, she hauled her to her feet. "They may not be watching the kitchen door. We must flee."
Joan stared at her for a second and turned to look at the gaping maw of the trapdoor. James. Then she remembered, "Oh, Blessed Virgin! The children." Her legs wobbled as Catherine half dragged her through the hall
way, into the commodious kitchen, the fire in the hearth banked. She could feel blood dripping between her breasts under her robe. The door opened into the garden instead of the courtyard; they lurched between the bare rows. The Chapterhouse was a dark bulk in the blowing snow, but monks would be of no aid. The flurries melted on her wet face, so she could pretend that she wasn't crying. But every breath was a silent scream of rage. She had to reach the Nuncio. There, safe, she could find help.
The gate through the paling fence onto the lane squealed as it opened. Joan flinched at the noise, but they stumbled on through the slush. Suddenly, a group emerged from the darkness in front of them. A sob ripped her throat. They were caught, she feared, as the shapes rushed towards them. Then in the flickering light of a torch she recognized David Dunbar, his doublet unfastened and hair wild, but the light caught on the sword in his hand. Behind him were two gate guards in ill-fitting mail.
Dunbar shouted, "It's the queen!" He ran to her and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace…" He was almost gabbling in distress. "You're hurt…"
"The king." Joan felt as though her throat was closing up, so she must force the words out. Catherine held her up as Joan gasped out, "Robert Stewart betrayed us. No guards. And Graham. They…they've…" She pointed behind them. "Murdered…"
Dunbar leapt to his feet and whirled to the gate guards. "The Nuncio at St. John's Kirk. Escort the queen to him." He pointed toward Blackfriars with his sword. "Send help to me there! But I cannae wait."
He pelted the way Joan had come, toward the monastery. The torch light gleamed in the guards' horrified eyes. One bobbed an awkward bow and reached for her but then jerked back.
"Why are we standing here?" Catherine snapped. She tightened her arm around Joan's waist, and they began to hobble toward the Kirk. The silent one lifted the torch higher as he led the way, whilst his companion hefted his cudgel, looking to and fro as they went.
Joan shook with chills. She couldn't feel her hands. Her legs were leaden as she struggled to take a step and then another. The torchlight blurred and faded out. A man's voice, sounding as though it were underwater, said, "Let me carry her, my lady. We must hurry." Then Joan was floating. She let the blackness suck her under where there was no grief.