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

by Tomlin, J. R.

“This is not a place I would expect to sight another ship. It is why I chose this route.” The captain frowned. “There are no ports near the Head.”

  A crewman in the crow’s nest yelled down, “It changed course this way.”

  “Can you see what kind is the ship?” Captain Giese yelled up.

  “A ballinger—under full sail and oars.”

  Orkney looked up at the sky and shook his head. “Too long until dark.” He shared a glance with the captain. “They will overtake us before we can escape in the dark.”

  “We have some lead, but they are light and making good speed. We’re weighed down with cargo. If they are, as I fear, pursuing us—” The captain’s mouth was drawn into a thin line as he spoke.

  “Prince James,” Orkney said, “you should go below.”

  “If they catch up to us, will we fight?” James asked, ignoring the order to leave.

  “We must,” Sir Archibald barked.

  “Euer Hochwohlgeboren, on my ship the decision is mine.” The captain made a commanding gesture and silenced them. “I will arm my men, but we must see more of what enemy we face.”

  “Captain,” the watch yelled down, “they’re gaining fast.”

  The ship was full of sound: the captain reeled off commands, swords and knives clanked, crewmen shouted encouragement, and waves slapped the hull as it plowed through the water. James hurried to the rail. A rippling wake spread out behind the Maryenknyght, but it seemed to move like a turtle. Foam curled around the high bow of the pursuing ship. Oars dipped and scooped, churning the water beneath a great square sail.

  Orkney commanded William to bring their weapons, and soon the three were buckling on their swords, though none were in armor. When Sir Archibald said they should don it, Orkney scowled and asked if he would be pleased to swim in a suit of steel.

  “I don’t swim at all,” the knight said.

  “Then you can hold onto a piece of flotsam. In armor, you sink like a rock.”

  James looked at the earl in horror. “Do you think they will sink us?”

  “Probably not, but it is best not to risk it.”

  Across the water, the ship was thick with men and bows who stirring as they neared. James heard the sound of a fast drumbeat in time with the stroking oars. No one was watching him as they stared at the oncoming ship, so James dashed up the ladder and knelt by the rail to have a better view of their pursuers. Shading his eyes against the sun, he peered at the ship. It was crowded with crewmen, many more than were on their own. Sunlight flashed on steel in their hands.

  A shout went up from the ship behind, and arrows hissed like snakes over James’s head. He flinched lower as the fearsome shower rained down. Men were scrambling to hide from it. A yard-long shaft thrummed down a foot behind James and embedded in the deck. James pressed his body as close to the rail as he could, breath coming as though he’d run for miles. He heard an anguished scream as someone tumbled from the crow’s nest. James turned and ran for the ladder. An arrow pierced a crewman through the throat as another shrieked as he fell. Two lay moaning on the deck. Dimly, James heard cheers from the other ship.

  “Douse the sail,” the captain roared. “Throw down your swords.” Men rushed for the lanyards and frantically lowered the sail. It creaked and thudded as it came down.

  Orkney spun on a heel and strode to hammer his hand against the railing. “By’r Lady, hell mend them!”

  A few more arrows thudded around them. Amidst the sounds of moans, weapons clattered to the deck. A shout came from the nearing ship: “Up oars.” A grapnel clanged onto the railing. Another and another followed. There were shouts and grunts as ropes were hauled until the hulls thumped and the two ships were bound together. Men brandishing swords swarmed like ants over the railing. Archers aimed from the forecastle. A hand grabbed James’s arm hard. He was wrenched off his feet and would have fallen, except he was trapped between Sir Archibald’s back and the wooden bulkhead.

  “Whisht! Stay still.” The knight threw down his sword with a clank.

  James craned his neck to see around his protector’s back as Orkney raised his empty hands. Captain Giese stood grim faced.

  The dozen remaining seamen of the Maryenknyght were herded together, the captain forced to join them, backed up with a sword to his throat held by a scar-faced pirate with a huge chest like a barrel of ale.

  Then a spare, compact man jumped agilely over the railings to land, feet spread. He had black hair and eyes as hard and dark as obsidian. “I, Hugh-atte-Fen, claim this ship as my prize,” he said.

  “It is a ship of the Hanseatic League!” the captain shouted. Scar face slammed the flat of his sword into the captain’s head, and the man went down to one knee, a gash on his temple leaking red.

  “No longer,” Hugh-atte-Fen said calmly. “However, you may have the skiff. If you are any seaman, you just may reach shore.”

  Orkney stepped forward and said, “Sir, we are merely passengers—with safe conduct from both the kings of Scotland and France. But if you would have ransom, I will agree to pay it for me and my few companions.”

  “And who might you be, sirrah?”

  “I am Sir Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, on the business of the King of Scotland with whom your own King Henry is in truce, I remind you.”

  The pirate shrugged. “Truces are of little moment to me, but one of your companions is another matter.” His hard eyes darted from William to Sir Archibald and stopped as he looked at James. “The young man yon knight is trying so hard to hide. Now he is of some moment. I have sought him for days.”

  “For days? How?” Orkney exclaimed.

  “I was sent word from London.” Hugh-atte-Fen curled his lip in a sneering smile. “Lord James, Earl of Carrack, Prince of Scotland, if I mistake not.”

  James squared his shoulders, pushed his way from behind Sir Archibald and past William, who clutched at his arm. He wouldn’t cower like a craven. Not for this Sassenach or any man on earth. If his stomach felt hard with fear, well, that was his own business.

  He lifted his chin and looked the man in the eye, anger making his face flood with heat. “Aye. I am he.”

  Behind him, there was a splash as a skiff hit the water and muttering protests as the crew was driven into it. But he couldn’t look away from Hugh-atte-Fen.

  “Your servant, my lord.” The pirate touched his breast as he made a deep bow. “And welcome to England.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The bile-green Thames flowed in ripples around the ship. They sailed past a square, gray keep that rose like a growth above a dreary marsh. Was that the Tower of London where so many ended their lives, James wondered?

  Orkney made a strangled sound in his throat. When James looked at him from the corner of his eye, the earl just shook his head and glanced toward scar-face. The man had his arms, thick as tree chests, crossed, but his sword was on his hip. His pig eyes never left them, and three other pirates had hands on their hilts as they stood guard.

  Beyond the grim keep was a jumble of buildings that stretched out of sight on a reed-choked shore. The wind smelled of horse shit and sweat and smoke and rotting fish. All cities smelled, but not so strong it closed his throat.

  Dozens of wharfs thrust into the water, and masts rose around them as thick as trees in a forest. Hugh-atte-Fen called out a command, and lines were thrown to the nearest. There were shouts, and the ship was hauled in and lashed to the quay.

  James craned his neck from one side to the other. On the shore, he made out nothing but a muddle of buildings with reeking chimneys, alleys, spires, and belfries hunched under a canopy of dark smoke that covered the sky. But the quays were all noise and confusion. Crates were being carried off ships. Wagons were being loaded, and men shouted, cursed, laughed. Everyone was in an uproar to be somewhere other than where they were.

  “My lords.” Hugh-atte-Fen swaggered in their direction and gave another of his taunting bows. “I must go ashore to arrange a greeting suitable to such lofty and ho
nored guests. I shan’t be long.”

  Orkney’s lips were pressed together so hard they were white. “I would give much to know who in Scotland betrayed us,” he whispered.

  “Albany,” Sir Archibald said. “He must have sent word to the English.”

  James opened his mouth to ask what would happen now, but scar-face shouted, “Shut your mouths.”

  The earl gave a narrow-eyed look at their captors and shook his head at James. Jams looked back at that grim tower and his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest. He gripped his fists so hard that his nails cut into his palms. It hurt but helped him to be quiet. His heart hammered. He couldn’t return to Scotland, not until he was a man grown and able to fight his murderous uncle. But he couldn’t stay in England—to be locked in a dungeon. He couldn’t!

  The sun was near its zenith, and sweat was dripping down James’s back in the wet heat when Hugh-Atte-Fen strutted down the quay and up the gangplank, a score of men-at-arms, halberds over their shoulders, at his back. The man patted a fat purse hanging from his belt, his teeth flashing in a grin. “You have been profitable guests, my lords, so I wish you good luck with your new host.”

  “Enough chatter.” The sergeant jerked his thumb toward the gangplank. “We’ve orders to move you lot, and we’ve better things to do.”

  “Move us where?” Orkney demanded.

  Sir Archibald crossed his arms, glowering.

  The sergeant motioned, and the long weapons were lowered so that they bristled toward the two men.

  Orkney rubbed his dark-circled eyes before he stepped forward. “Keep Lord James between the two of you,” he said over his shoulder as he paced down the gangplank.

  With William on one side and Sir Archibald on the other, James followed close behind. The men-at-arms formed a square around them.

  The guards shoved their way between two wagons, where men were piling casks and crates. A broad-shouldered man didn’t move out of the way, and a blow from the staff of a halberd knocked him to his knees. He shouted curses behind them as they marched past and into the warren of narrow streets.

  The cacophony assaulted James like hammer blows. From everywhere seemed to come shouts, laughs, screams, bells tolling, distant hammering, horses whinnying, and it mixed with the clanking of their guards’ armor. The street squelched with filth under his feet. The upper stories of the buildings jutted out, almost meeting overhead, letting through dim shafts of murky light. “Miserére mei, Deus…” James muttered under his breath.

  The streets milled with crowds: a legless man yelled for alms, drunken soldiers staggered out the door of a public house, hawkers shouted their wares, and whores lounged in doorways making offers to their guards as they passed. Everywhere he looked, anywhere he looked, there were people. Vast seas of people, and no one he knew. Fiercely, he jammed his trembling hands into his armpits and kept trudging along. When a man carrying a barrel on his shoulder got in the way, two of the guards shoved him head first into a wall. The barrel leaked ale in a puddle as the man knelt and moaned.

  On a street corner a Gray Friar in a soiled robe was praying loudly for Prince Hal, but the crowds paid him no more mind than if he were a yapping dog. They passed four men struggling to work a pushcart free, its wheels stuck in the muck. An acrobat in ragged motley tottered on stilts to the delighted shouts of a drunken throng.

  Walking through the streets of the huge, strange city surrounded by armed guards, James gaped at everything, yet he hardly drew a glance. He was glad, but what kind of city was it where prisoners were so common? The Tower of London was out of sight now, and they were going in the wrong direction to go there. “Where do you think they’re taking us?” he asked William in an undertone.

  William shrugged, and from the glazed look he gave James, he was no less confused. The bells of the Angelus began to chime, and James looked up to see the gray stone of a minster rising before them. He nudged William with his elbow.

  It wasn’t a great castle. In fact, it was plain and unimpressive, though the entrance porch was polished stone with elaborately carved faces. Splendid flying buttresses on the sides supported the rather plain building. Men-at-arms threw open the carved, arched double doors.

  As they were escorted through chamber after chamber, nobles in fine dress, servants in livery, and robed clerics turned to stare. The rooms were a jumble of multicolored carpets, statues, tapestries, carved benches, and burnished armorials beneath crossed swords. James had never seen rooms so awash in colors and furnishings. When he realized he was gawking, he snapped his mouth shut and stared straight ahead.

  At last the doors to the audience chamber were thrown open. It was flooded with noonday sun through immense, arched windows. James blinked in the sudden light, trying to make sense of the sudden chaos in the vast chamber. Overhead, the beams soared to an unbelievable height, and around James and his little retinue, men bellowed laughter and shouted to be heard. They churned in a sea of colorful silks, and James could see no more than a few feet into the hall awash with courtiers. He chewed his lip as he slid his gaze to look from the corner of his eye at the earl. Orkney was white to the lips, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

  James took a single step forward and squared his shoulders. One of the Englishmen, fine as a peacock in blue satin, nudged his neighbor with an elbow and sneered in their direction. James dug his nails into his palms as he forced himself to look through the beautifully dressed rabble as though they weren’t there.

  Trumpets blew at the far end of the hall, and the babble quieted to a murmur. “Our most dread lord, Henry, King of England,” a strong voice shouted.

  Orkney laid a hand on James’s shoulder and squeezed so hard it hurt, but James gave a little nod. He kept his eyes straight ahead.

  The men around them were bowing low, and at last James caught a glimpse of a throne on a far dais. The chamber was huge, he thought, bigger than any he’d ever seen. But then his breath caught. A burly man with a plain gold coronet encircling his dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard paused half way to the dais. He bent his head as a prelate in a crimson robe dusted with jewels put a hand on his shoulder and said something into his ear. In his rich black tunic and cloth of gold cloak, he threw his head back and hooted a laugh. James’s stomach twisted in his gut.

  Henry Bolingbroke, King of England, laughed hard for a few more moments before he strode to the gilded throne and threw himself down in an inelegant sprawl. His squinting blue eyes fastened on James, and he called out, “Come. Bring my new guests before me.”

  An usher stepped forward. He motioned to the four of them. Orkney nodded, and side by side with him, James approached the throne. Sir Archibald and William followed on their heels.

  A few strides from the throne, Orkney halted and his hand stopped James. They bowed deeply to their captor.

  The king grinned as he looked James up and down, paying no heed to the others.

  “A whelp of Scotland.” He snorted. “James, they call you?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. James, Earl of Carrick and Prince of Scotland, and this is my household.” He motioned to the grim-faced Earl of Orkney. “Sir Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, Sir Archibald, and my squire, William Giffart.”

  “You were fleeing to France, I am told, to be educated and properly schooled in French.” King Henry leaned forward with his elbows on the arms of his throne, pondered James for a moment, and grinned. “Your father should have sent you to me straight away. I am, after all, the rightful King of France and speak excellent French, having spent much time there. There is none better to school you than I.”

  James gritted his teeth as his face flooded with heat. "Son Altesse Royale, vous me feriez trop d'honneur."

  King Henry looked at him. There was silence, as though the men around them held their breaths. When the king snorted back laughter, chuckles rippled through the chamber. “C'est vrai, mon enfant. I have no time for schooling a child, but we shall see that you have a tutor who is suitable to your rank.” Hi
s glance slid over William. “And you have a squire. That is seemly, but you have no need for a large household in the Tower.”

  “Your Grace!” Orkney’s hand tightened on James’s shoulder. “You can’t mean to send the lad to such a terrible—“

  “Silence,” the king said, rising from his seat, his voice thick with annoyance. “I did not give you leave to speak. You will be allowed ransom, sir earl, you and the knight with you. Until then, I shall hear nothing further from you.” A hush fell, and he glowered around the great chamber. “Now, where is Thomas Rempston?”

  James glanced back and saw a slight, middle-aged man, dressed in rich blue, with a bald head and a beak of a nose threading his way through the press. When he reached the dais, he bowed deeply. “Your Grace?”

  The king took his seat on the throne and nodded curtly. “Sir Thomas, as you see, we have more guests for you to lodge in the Tower. Young James here must have tutors and be kept in reasonable comfort.” He eyed James and his companions with a smile on his lips. “Allow the earl messengers to arrange ransom for himself and the knight—as quickly as possible. I don’t intend to support a large household for the boy.”

  James was sure Orkney’s fingers would leave bruises, so hard did they dig into his shoulder. The man made a strangled noise in his throat, and words seemed to burst from him. “Your Grace! Surely a lad of such tender years—you cannot truly mean to send him to—”

  “By the mass, I bade you be silent!” The king pointed a finger at Orkney. He turned to Thomas Rempston with a narrow-eyed look. “As my Constable of the Tower, you will see to them.” He flourished a dismissive hand.

  It was a stiff and shallow bow that Orkney offered the English king. James gave the earl a doubtful glance from the corner of his eye and followed suit. Sir Thomas Rempston motioned for them to follow him, and outside the chamber, they were once again surrounded by guards.

  “It will take much time for arranging ransoms, lad,” Orkney said through gritted teeth. “Much time…” Nothing else was said through the chaos of the London. At last they came to a long, open marketplace of tents and stalls of every color. On one side, cattle were lowing and bawling in an enclosure. Poultry honked and cackled within pens, adding to the cacophony of farmers shouting out their vegetables, women bargaining, and bakers’ boys calling, “Bread. Fresh bread.”