A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1)

by Tomlin, J. R.

  The tall, long-limbed Earl of Orkney crossed the chamber to hold his hands out to the fire, his red hair catching the gleam of the flames. “Aye. Weary enough, and a wearier journey yet before us.”

  “Then they’ve agreed to receive him?” the bishop said. “I fear it is barely in time.”

  James, hair flopping in his eyes, peeked warily at the men, afraid his gaze would catch their attention. His bluff uncle, Walter Haliburton, dropped his eyelid in a wink but didn’t give him away.

  Fleming was a stocky man with a salt and pepper moustache and upright bearing. He blew out a gusty breath as he threw his gauntlets onto the table. His ruddy face was wind chapped and lined with fatigue. “Desperately past time. I would give a good deal if we had been able to act sooner.”

  The bishop jerked his head to look into James’s face. His lips twitched, and his big chest shook with a low laugh. Even with streaks of gray in his hair, he was an impressive man, tall and beefy in a purplish black robe and fine white lace. Inclining his head, he said in a mild tone, “A good try, lads. But you’ll nae listen without being invited.”

  Henry dropped his quill and poked James’s side with an elbow. He muttered, “Knew it wouldn’t work.”

  James wiped the tip of his quill and laid it neatly next to the parchment. He stood and walked around the table as he studied Fleming’s grim face, his heart hammering. “Wha’ has happened?”

  Fleming looked at Bishop Wardlaw. “He may as well hear now as later, Reverence.”

  Wardlaw nodded with a sigh. “Aye.” He dropped a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Run along, lad. It’s Scots business.”

  Henry gave the bishop a piteous look and was allowed to scoop up a cake. He ran out the door that Orkney closed quietly behind him.

  James felt cold inside. “My father? Is he—”

  “He lives, Prince James,” Fleming said, his voice gravelly with emotion. “But he… I’m sorry, lad. He weakens by the day.”

  James’s heart thudded like the hooves of a running horse. He stared at the stone wall hung with a tapestry—a hunt, and the stag lay bleeding. Moving a little in the draft, a long smear of crimson flowed from the arrow that had pierced its heart, at the feet of the hunters. Bleeding… but the colors swam together.

  He hadn’t seen his father since the terrible day at Stirling when he’d learned of his brother’s murder. Now he never would, he thought. No more than he’d seen Davey after Albany took him prisoner.

  James closed his eyes. “My uncle will slay me,” he said. Would he lie bleeding at his uncle’s feet or die starved in the dark? “As he did my brother.”

  “He must lay hands on you first,” the Earl of Orkney said. “And we mean to see that he does not.”

  “How?” James shook his head. Even the near impregnable St. Andrews Castle would stand against his uncle’s force for only so long once his father was dead.

  “A ship awaits in Glasgow to leave for France,” Fleming said. “I swear on my life, you’ll reach it in safety.”

  Orkney turned his back to the fire. He swung the heavy chair around and pulled James by the arm to face him. “We’ll travel in secret, but as long as the king lives, it is not as dire as it sounds. Letters have traveled to and fro between here and Paris. King Charles has agreed to receive you and you will be trained as befits a king. I shall head your household and see that a’ is well.”

  “But—” James swallowed hard, and his words came out in a whisper. “They say that King Charles is daft.”

  The wind rattled the shutters at the narrow slit windows, and the flames of the wax tapers flickered before they stood straight. The bishop rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his large, beringed fingers. “It is true, I am afeart.”

  Orkney squeezed James’s shoulder. “But those who govern his kingdom are not. Louis of Orléans, King Charles’s brother, is most sane. You’ll join his household as a squire, and I will be with you. You’ll wait at the royal table, hear a’ the talk of the nobles, and learn from it. There will be dozens of masters to see to your lessons. Orléans will see you trained and knighted, and you will return to claim the kingdom.”

  “My uncle will try to stop me.” James felt empty and hollow, but he always felt so when he thought of his uncle. He took one of the cakes and bit into it; the honey taste filled his mouth, but he had to swallow past a stone in his throat. “If I am alive, he cannot be king.”

  “He may try to stop you,” Sir David said. “But we will see you to Glasgow. Giffart sent word he has a ship awaiting you. From there, we can slip past the damned English pirates across the sea.”

  James said, “The Earl of Douglas holds Edinburgh. And they are allies.”

  Sir David grimaced. “Lothian is full of Douglas’s ilk, no friends to me, but I shall see you past them.”

  “I am more concerned about secrecy to keep word from the English. If they knew Prince James was at sea, you may be sure they would try for such a rich prize.” The bishop sipped his wine, his gaze distant. “So prepare, lad. You’ll leave at first light before word can spread that your sire fails.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After the bishop had sent him to his chamber, James lay for an hour or two, drifting half-asleep as he imagined thundering on his horse fast across snow-drifted braes. The sky outside his narrow window was still black when his chaplain looked in to say, “It is near time, my lord,” and James went through his treasures: a dirk Davey had gifted him on his saint’s day years ago, a gold ribbon and a much rubbed cameo of his lady mother’s he had filched after she died, and a fist-sized piece of quartz that the bishop had let him take from his table of oddments. France was practically across the world. How could he remember his home?

  During his musing, servants packed his clothes. There was thumping and shouting as the bishop ordered servants to pack gold plate for James's table and fine linens for his bedding, saying James must not give the appearance of a beggar to his French host. A servant laid out his armor and helped him to don it. He worked his shoulders, unaccustomed to the heavy weight. The bishop himself carried up his own fine copy of La Chanson de Roland to put into James’s hand. Sir David said baggage would slow their flight, but the Earl of Orkney only crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. The question in James’s mind was: Wha’ will my uncle do if he kens I am fleeing? If he tries to capture me, I shall kill him. I shall kill him. James’s hands shook as he closed his bag and hurried down the narrow stairs.

  Outside, icy rain trickled down James’s neck, and his hair was in dripping strings. The bailey yard was filled with quiet confusion. Sumpter horses were being loaded with bags. Men-at-arms were leading horses from the stables to be saddled and talking in low voices as they looked at James from the corners of their eyes. Henry Percy stood near the keep door and gave James a little wave. James thought he wouldn’t miss Percy much. They’d never truly been friends, just comrades for they were the only lads in the castle. The Earl of Orkney stood in the midst of the bustle watching, silent. Once he bent to a man-at-arms and gave a quiet order, so the man ran to lead James his horse. Sir David appeared out of the dreich, already ahorse.

  James knelt at the bishop’s feet, swallowing, clenching his shaking hands into fists. The bishop had been his only protection these last years, ofttimes stern, but James trusted him. The broad hand felt heavy on his head as the bishop prayed, “Sanctus Michael Archangelus te vigilet, et te custodiet ab omni periculo, et inimicos tuos ponet scabellum pedum tuorum.” The hand fell on James’s shoulder and squeezed. “Go wi’ God, my prince. The saints protect and shield you whilst you are gone from us.”

  James stood and raised his chin to what he hoped was a proud angle. “May they shield and protect you as well, Excellence.”

  For a moment, the bishop looked grim, but he said, “We shall await your return.”

  Orkney gave the order to move out, the talk died, and they climbed into their saddles. Sir David sent half a dozen scouts out first. Icy wind stung James’s face as he
rode between Orkney and Sir David in the vanguard of the column with his heavy cloak blowing in the blustery wind. They clattered down the incline of the stony road, past the gray-green sea that smashed itself furiously onto yellow sands. Then his chaplain rode with the sumpter horses and finally Robert Lauder with the rear guard. Two hundred men, all told.

  After they clattered through the empty streets of St. Andrews town, Orkney wheeled his horse to lead them across country. They were climbing up from the coast into the high moorlands.

  Beside James, Sir David gave the edge of his cloak a jerk, muttering a curse. “Falkland Castle is nearby. We should have traveled by night, as I said.”

  “This is the fastest way. The sooner we are awa’, the less danger there is.” Orkney loosened his sword in its scabbard, scanning the empty braes. “Send a man back wi’ a command to keep in close order.” He spurred his horse to a canter, and James eagerly nudged his horse to keep up.

  After the weeks kept under close guard in St. Andrews, the horse between his legs and the wind in his face felt like freedom. They followed a narrow trail through woods that cut off some of the wind. It also cut off seeing if there were attackers waiting, and that made the skin between his shoulder blades twitch. The men behind were silent. James thought they were afraid, though no one would say so. He knew he had to learn not to be afraid. A king must not fear. He chewed his lip and wondered how one learned that lesson.

  “The outriders will report if they spot anyone,” Orkney said. He leaned forward in the saddle and sped up to a faster canter.

  They rode in silence until James said, “How long until we’re—”

  Sir David finished for him. “We are safe when you set foot in Louis of Orléans household, nae before. Nightfall should see us out of Albany’s reach, and within that of the Douglas, but they shall nae stop us nor have you.”

  A branch whipped at James’s face as he passed. He rubbed at the sting. You sound nae too sure, he thought.

  As the horses tired, they slowed to a walk, and James patted his mount’s neck. He remembered suddenly how Davey had put him up on his first horse, laughing when James grasped at its mane. His gay and laughing brother. The weight in his chest made it hard to breathe when he thought of Davey locked in a black dungeon so crazed with hunger he’d gnaw off his fingers. It didn’t help remembering the smiling face of his murderous uncle. He dropped his hand onto the hilt of his dirk and loosened it in its scabbard. A man needed a blade when he rode across Scotland, especially if he was sought by such enemies as his uncle, the Duke of Albany.

  The sun had at last burned off the pewter clouds when their horses labored their way up the steep east face of Largo Law, their cloaks whipping around them. The harsh wet wind scoured James’s face, but he gaped as they broached the top. He stared down at a vast chessboard of fields and green haughs and then the gray expanse of the never-ending Firth of Forth that faded into the far horizon.

  Sir David muttered curses under his breath as they rode wearily down the south slope of the mound. They were much exposed to being spotted by their enemies.

  “Douglas, hell mend him.” Sir David hit his fist against his thigh. “He’s more of a danger than even Albany.” At least past its height, the south flank of Largo Law cut off some of the wind that had punished them.

  When they came to the ford of the River Forth, a few beeches grew near the water and reeds filled the shallows. James looked anxiously around, but there was no sign of other riders. The river sloshed against the stony bank, burbling pleasantly, but black clouds boiled on the horizon.

  Orkney held up a hand in command. “See to the horses, and we’ll take a few hours rest.”

  James groaned in relief as he slid from the saddle. His legs wobbled, and he grasped the saddle. Well out from the camp, Orkney set a watch to ring their campfire.

  “We’re a large party,” Orkney said as he sank to the ground with a sigh. “It will take luck to make our way through without being spotted.”

  “Ill weather is moving in,” Sir David said. “I smell it on the wind. It may help cover our passage. But we pass close by Tantallon Castle before we turn west.”

  James tried to rub away the throbbing pain in his thighs. “I’m fair forfochen,” he muttered, but he was ashamed for the hardened men around him to know how weary he was.

  Robert Lauder held out a steaming bannock toward him. James broke it in two and chewed off a big bite, stomach grumbling. His hands were shaking with something, and he wasn’t sure if it was the chill or hunger. “The Sinclairs are warders for Earl Archibald, aren’t they?”

  Orkney grunted in agreement. “I am nae afeart of Sinclair and their ilk. We're in more danger if word reaches the Earl of Douglas. He could bring out his whole army from Edinburgh.” Orkney rubbed his face, shadows dancing over it from the fire and accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. “Finish that and rest, Prince James. We must ride before daybreak.” He tossed over an apple that James caught with one hand.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sleet slashed James’s face as he spurred his horse across a narrow ford. A gust of wind caught his sodden cloak and set it slapping around him. Sir David was spurring his horse up the sloping rise from the ice rimed burn, its haunches bunching as it slipped on the slick ground, struggling. James slapped his horse’s flank, determined to keep up. He was a good rider, but two days in the saddle with only a few hours rest had him stiff, with every muscle screaming. The ground as was treacherous with ice and mud. The wind gusted again and whipped the sleet into his eyes. He thought of St. Andrews Castle, where the icy sleet would be coating everything until it glimmered, but within Henry Percy would be in the warm library bent over his books. James envied him at that moment. His wet cloak did no good against the cold, his shoulders and back ached from the weight of his armor, his legs burned with a fire he wasn’t sure would ever go out, and his stomach grumbled.

  Ahead, thin and wavering in the wind, an outrider blew his horn, sounding danger.

  Sir David shouted, “Form up! On me!”

  The horn sounded again, nearer.

  As James spurred his horse to plunge up beside Sir David’s dancing, snorting mount, the horn blared, harooooo, even closer. A line of oak and beech trees loomed blackly ahead.

  Orkney pulled up and grabbed James’s arm. “Bide beside me, lad!”

  Then James could hear horses and shouts beyond the trees. A rider galloped through past the tree line bent close over his horse’s withers. “Ware!” he shouted.

  From behind the rider, James heard shouts of, “Douglas! Douglas!”

  “Ride!” Orkney yelled as he slapped James’s horse on the flank.

  The horse surged to a gallop, nearly jerking James’s arms loose. He bit back a gasp and used his reins to whip its shoulders. Mud showered in every direction from the pounding hooves all around him.

  “A Fleming! A Fleming!” Sir David shouted. “To me!”

  But the shouts mixed with the cries from behind them. “Douglas!”

  Horns blared, and James wasn’t sure which were theirs and which those of the Douglas warlords. A horse shrieked—a horrible sound. Hoof beats were like rolling thunder as they labored up a brae. Lather whipped into his face, mixing with the sleet.

  “Pull up,” Sir David said as they reached the top. “There is no way we can outrun them.”

  Bending and gasping for breath, James circled his dancing mount. “Then we fecht.” He frowned down at the base of the hill where already hundreds of Douglas men-at-arms were forming a wide curved line. Twice their number. Perhaps three times. Mounted on the biggest horse James had ever seen, someone James thought must be the Douglas sat beneath the sodden banner. In the dim light, it looked almost gray, but James could make out the red heart it bore. Even from afar, Douglas looked nothing but a warrior in gleaming steel plate. He was pointing his men into position with a huge sword.

  “I am no weakling,” he said. “I can fecht.”

  “No,” Orkney said.
“You are the prize he seeks. And I’ll nae chance tossing you into his hands.”

  Sir David gave a brusque nod. “I shall hold them here.” He gave a look at Lauder, frowning. “We have few friends in Lothian but—”

  Lauder offered Sir David his hand. “If you can hold our backs, I shall see Prince James safe to my Bass Rock Castle.”

  Sir David clasped Lauder’s hand hard for a moment and gave a short nod.

  James worked his dirk half out of its scabbard. He was sure he should put up some protest, should stay and fight his enemies, but the men paid him no mind. He couldn’t think of the words that would convince them, though he told himself he wanted to.

  “Aye, you are right, Lauder. It’s our only chance.” Orkney stood in his stirrups to shout, “Haliburton, wi’ us.” He pointed at one man-at-arms and then another, both burly men with scarred faces. “Keep close beside Prince James.”

  “Farewell and God keep you,” David Fleming said, and he turned to one of his men. “Plant my banner. Dismount and form a schiltron.” The men were throwing themselves from their saddles and running to make a circle, hoisting their pikes whilst three of them snatched up the horses’ reins and led the snorting mounts away.

  A horn blew at the base of the hill. There were shouts, and James looked over his shoulder. A column of horsemen moved toward them. The scrape of pikes being raised and the clatter of armor blended with curses and the hoof beats of oncoming horses.

  One of the men-at-arms, the broader of the two, grabbed James’s bridle. “We’re awa’,” the man grunted as he kneed his horse to follow the earl.

  Orkney led them through the horses being hobbled, perhaps hoping they’d blend in, and their flight would go unnoticed. James had no time to think before they were cantering down the far slope. He could hear Sir David shouting commands.

  Orkney set a faster pace, turning their little band toward the tree line that was a green-black mass in the distance. James’s heart thundered in his chest in time to the fast hoof beats. A last glance over his shoulder and he saw rearing horses silhouetted against the setting sun. The circle of pikemen crumbled under the murderous charge. Men threw down their pikes to flee and were ridden down. Horsemen boiled on the top of the hill.