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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  James’s shoulders slumped. He righted the stool, eyes burning with tears he would not let fall. He walked slowly back and forth across the room before he sat back down. Propping his elbows on his knees, he sank his hands into his hair and gripped. “He let them kill Davey. Did nothing. He never did anything. If he was so grieved at my capture, why did he nae do something? Only my mother did—when she lived. Wha’ kind of king is that?”

  “You will be different.”

  “Why do I feel so… so lost, though?” His voice choked. “I should nae care.”

  “He was your father. He would not have grieved so if he hadn’t cared for you, lad.”

  James rocked where he sat, and tears began to run down his face. “That makes it worse. Don’t you see?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  June, 1407

  As he bent over the book on his table, James laid down his quill and ran a finger across a bright illustration that filled half the page. A wheel held a woman in finery at its height but had flung a king in ermine and a ragged peasant onto the ground. Kings, princes and beautiful ladies awaited their turn on the wheel. He was chewing his lip and frowning over it when a sharp thud on the table made him jump.

  The black-robed monk, Brother Odo, rapped the thin birch cane on the table again, and James looked up into his piercing stare. The monk was a small man, no taller than James, slender and quick, with sharp features and threads of gray in his dark hair. The tonsure atop his head shone as though he polished it.

  James bit the inside of his cheek to stop his grin, which hurt less than that rod would have, had it smacked on his hand.

  “You were not given Boethius to daydream over.”

  “Aye, Brother. I only wondered wha’ the wheel meant.”

  “The wheel means a wheel. Consolatio Philosophiae is but a story which Boethius wrote whilst imprisoned, as are you. You are to use your time more productively than staring at pretty pictures.” He pointed a narrow finger at a word. “Tell me what those four lines mean—in English.”

  A word of his own Scots often earned James a stinging rap on the knuckles, or sometimes a caning, so he sighed and examined the line the brother was pointing to. His Latin was mainly that of the Church prayers, and Boethius’s book made him struggle. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. He could grow to hate this foul tome, though the illustration made him think—perhaps too much.

  “Who formed my studious numbers,” he translated aloud from the Latin,

  “Smoothly once in… happier days,

  Now helpless in tears and sadness

  Learn a mournful tune to… to…” He sighed, bracing himself. “…attollo… I don’t remember.”

  “Raise!” The birch whistled when it slashed across James’s shoulders. “Learn a mournful tune to raise.”

  It was only the sound that made James wince. The cane stung but was nothing to a blow from Gruffudd’s practice blade. His knuckles were skinned from the day before, and his shoulders were bruised from being knocked from his horse riding at the quintain. Besides, even Bishop Wardlaw said that the sting of a cane was a fine aid to memory.

  Brother Odo made a disgusted sound in his throat and motioned to the parchment, which was much marred where James had sanded out errors. “Write it out. Cleanly, boy.” He thumped the can down on the table. “I expect the next ten lines written when I return in the morning.”

  “Aye, Brother Odo,” James said, meekly keeping his eyes on the parchment until the door banged closed behind his tutor.

  Smoothly once in happier days…

  But there was no point in thinking of happier days. Those days were done, though later he would give more thought to that wheel. Brother Odo might be mistaken that it had no meaning when it cast men from the heights to the depths. The tutor never wanted to talk anent anything except the translation of the words, and James suspected the monk had no imagination at all. Shaking his head, he closed the book. He would write out all the lines, even if it meant burning down his last candle, but for now in the practice yard, he would find Gruffudd and William and perhaps some of the other prisoners and something fun to do.

  He jumped up, checked both in the hallway to be sure Brother Odo was out of sight, and hurried down the narrow stairs, out into the sunlight. He gaped at a line of riders streaming through the open gates, two dozen in polished steel. And there rode the Earl of Orkney in the middle with on one side Master John Lyon, who had brought word of King Robert’s death. James did not know the big man beside them, red-faced under his dark, wiry beard and belly straining against his embroidered doublet.

  Orkney vaulted from his horse and tossed his reins to a sergeant, who was muttering a protest which the earl ignored as he strode toward James. “Your Grace, I have news I would give you privily.”

  The stranger was climbing heavily from the saddle. “He’s no more ‘grace’ than I am. Less than my lord father,” the man rumbled.

  James looked past Orkney, who was slowly shaking his head, and took a slow, deep breath. “Murdoch?” James asked Orkney in a carefully controlled tone. If he had ever seen his cousin before, James didn’t recall it.

  Orkney jerked a nod.

  Murdoch Stewart, Earl of Fife, eldest son of the Duke of Albany, swaggered across the bailey yard. “If it isn’t my little cousin, James.”

  Thrusting his trembling hands into his armpits, James narrowed his eyes at the man. “Aye. And my brother Davey was your cousin, too.” His face felt scalded with heat. “Were you at Falkirk Castle when he was murdered? Cousin?”

  Murdoch threw back his head and laughed, exposing trembling jowls under his beard. “Aye. And I was there when parliament voted that we had no fault in his death.” His laugh broke off like a snapping branch, and he scowled. “Before the Battle of Homildon Hill, when I was taken prisoner.”

  James drew in a slow, steady breath and then another. He swallowed down the tears of fury at Murdoch’s laughter. He had no doubt that his brother’s murder was at least partially Murdoch’s doing, but screaming at him or weeping like a lassie would gain nothing. “Och, my lord…” He forced the words out. “We are both prisoners, then, whether you think I am entitled to be ‘graced’ or nae. Our differences must wait until we regain our freedom.” A pulsing pain began to throb behind one eye at having to speak to the man he was forced acknowledge as cousin.

  “My father will ransom me. You may be sure.” Murdoch glowered at James and then at Orkney and back to James from eyes that were bloodshot. “But do nae expect him to agree to any ransom for you to be freed, whelp.”

  “Your father is hardly the only noble in Scotland,” Orkney said.

  “But he is the regent.” Murdoch shoved past Orkney. “Bring my supplies. I am thirsty,” he called over his shoulder. A servant, who James realized had a badge of the Albany Stewarts on his shoulder, hefted a tun of wine onto his shoulder and plodded after Murdoch. Orkney squeezed the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath.

  “His being moved here from Nottingham Castle was part of my news for you. From wha’ I have heard, he spends much of his time drinking, so I doubt his presence will be something you are forced ofttimes to suffer.”

  “I suppose I knew I would see him one day.” James looked at Orkney’s thin-lipped face. “Part, though? Wha’ is the rest?”

  The bailey yard was raucous with noise, men-at-arms talking and leading away their horses to the stables and a couple of sumpter horses being unloaded whilst William and Gruffudd stood near the armory watching. Orkney took James by the arm and led him into a corner where a wall met the tower.

  “My ransom has arrived. I was allowed to return only to bid you farewell.”

  James felt his stomach lurch. Once Orkney left, he would be truly alone.

  “Don’t look so, lad. William will remain with you, and I convinced King Henry to allow you a chaplain, so Master Lyon will remain, also. He can arrange messages between us. Once in Scotland, I’ll do wha’ I can for your release. There is nothing I ca
n accomplish here.”

  “But my ransom…?”

  “Albany has…” Orkney took a pained sounding breath. “He has stolen your lands. A’ your regality… You have nae funds for ransom or even for comforts, even if King Henry would agree to it.”

  “If?”

  “Henry has sworn you’ll be released if you swear fealty to him. Fealty as King of the Scots.” Orkney scrubbed at his face with one hand. “If you agreed to it, I have no doubt he would give you an army to take Scotland. The damned English have done such before. The Balliols, Toom Tabard and his son, both of them, were put on the throne by English armies before we rid ourselves of them.”

  “But… wha’ would that mean? If he put me on the throne? Would he throw down the Albanys?”

  James’s heart gave a lurch at the thought of destroying his enemies. If they would kill him, why should he not use the English against them?

  “It would mean that you owed King Henry obedience, though how much power he would give you, I cannot say. A’ Scotland would be under his heel. And never—never would our parliament accept such an agreement.”

  “So… I would be king at his pleasure and Scotland defeated.” James tried to wrap his mind around the idea. “And if he didn’t like wha’ I did, wha’ then? If I did the best for Scotland and nae for him?”

  “If we already weren’t under their heel, we soon would be, for there is no way we would win against him or even more so against Prince Hal of Monmouth. You would—” Orkney shrugged. “Probably, you would lose your throne, although he might let you keep it if you knelt at his feet.”

  “He has put no such proposal to me,” James said. “Did he to you?”

  Orkney nodded. “Though he says that you are yet too young to lead an army. But others might in your name in a year or two—especially once the English have put down the rebellion in Wales. I told him no. Eventually, the demand will be put to you directly.” Orkney grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. “And you must tell him no.”

  James swallowed. “Though it will mean they keep me locked up.”

  “It will cost you dear, lad. But saying yes would cost us a’ more—including you.”

  “But… How do I regain my freedom?” Too many thoughts were spinning through his head. “Albany seized my lands? Then I have no coin for my needs? For William’s?”

  “I will leave you coin from my ain purse. In Scotland, I can work along with Bishop Wardlaw and the Lauders toward freeing you. But you must take my oath.” Smiling a little, Orkney knelt on the ground and held up his clasped hands. “Take my hands between yours.”

  Blinking, James knew he should say something. He was sure he had seen his father do this, though it was long ago. He clasped his ink-stained hands around Orkney’s larger ones.

  “I do swear fealty and homage to you, my lord, James, King of Scots, and I will keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead, and I will defend you and a’ your successors against a’ malefactors and invaders, as God and his saints help me.”

  James licked his lips and said, “I… I take you as my man and will keep faith with you and defend you and your heirs, as is my duty as… as your liege lord.”

  James raised his eyebrows for Orkney’s approval, and the earl gave him a brisk nod of approval. For a moment, he grasped James’s arm. “Do nae lose heart, Your Grace. However long it takes, we will free you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  November, 1412

  “Beautifully written, Your Grace,” Master Lyon said, leaning over two charters laid out on a long table.

  The featherbed was plush with comfort, and James had piled pillows behind his back. He stretched his legs out, crossed his ankles, and strummed a note on the lute. It was a rare treat to be brought to Bishop Arundel’s Croydon Palace with King Henry’s court, dragged as a prize to increase the English king’s fame and prestige. But James could almost forget for the moment that he was a prisoner, and he intended to take full advantage of it. “Nae badly done, though I say it myself. But you taught me, Lyon, so I suppose the credit is yours.” James hummed a tune under his breath.

  Lyon straightened and sat on the stool in front of the table. He studied James for a moment. “You were always a good pupil, though I am no tutor. You should have had better.”

  “Those provided me by King Henry were well enough, but none were Scots. And none as skilled wi’ the lute and the harp as you. Forbye, you did nae cane me at every error. You were ever kind.” James twitched a wry smile. “Except in your news from home.”

  “I wish I brought better. Albany has no intention of cooperating in your release—ever, even if it means they continue to hold his own son.” He motioned to the charters that James had penned with his hand. “But these are a step you needed to take: the first documents sealed by you of your reign. And the Douglas of Drumlanrig will be much in your debt. He may even have influence wi’ the Earl of Douglas.”

  James sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and laid the lute aside. “Thanks to you.” He stood to smooth his doublet, worrying at a worn spot. “And you brought me funds from the bishop, for which I am much in your debt—and his. I hate when I my clothes are as ragged as a beggar’s.”

  “They are nae that bad, Your Grace, though that you must plead for wha’ is yours…” Lyon paused when the door opened and an usher in the king’s red and gold livery bowed.

  “My lord, I bring a summons from His Grace, the king.”

  The usher preceded James into the marble hall as Lyon gathered the documents and followed. Bishop Arundel must be immensely rich, James pondered, as they walked past walls hung with French tapestries and niches containing statues of Medea, Hyacinthus and other figures he couldn’t identify. The usher opened a door flanked by statues of Cerberus, eyes of onyx gleaming in their snarling faces.

  Prince Hal confronted James the moment he entered. Tall, lean, dark hair cropped in a ring above his ears, and hatchet-faced, a white scar on his left cheek from a Welsh arrow stood out livid against his tanned skin. “And here is Lord James fancying himself some sort of ruler in spite of our paying for his bread and wine.” He had two or three inches on James, which grated almost as much as his sneers whenever they met.

  James took a deep breath and looked past the prince to King Henry, who sat beside the hearth speaking to two men: Sir William Douglas of Drumlanrig and his brother, both tall and wiry with red-blond hair, though Sir William’s was thinning on top. Happiness was too thin a word to describe his leap of feeling to receive his own ambassadors, a blaze of delight.

  Joy was a naked emotion. He couldn’t hide it. Even King Henry smiled, as James strode to the king’s side, ignoring the prince. It was the king, even though he was James’s captor, who must be greeted first.

  James said, “Your Grace, I am beyond pleased to see you looking so well.”

  That the king looked well was a vast exaggeration. His face was pallid and gaunt, and a livid boil was angry and weeping on his neck above the collar of his doublet. Yet the king’s smile broadened, and he extended his hand. James took it and bowed over it—only courtesy.

  Prince Hal swaggered to stand beside his father with a smile on his thin lips that was pure insolence. “Whilst you always look well, thanks to my royal father’s care.”

  “His Grace has been generous,” James said. It was less than true, but James had no intention of being provoked into an argument, however rude the prince was. “As is his receiving my ambassadors.”

  James turned with a smile to the two men who were waiting his attention so patiently. He held out his hand.

  William Douglas of Drumlanrig dropped to a knee to grasp it. “Your Grace.” His ruddy face was high with color, and a wide smile spread across it. “To see you… I cannot tell you my happiness.”

  James clasped the man’s hands in both of his. He felt as though his grin might break his face, it was so huge. “And my joy as well. But I have more to share wi’ you than joy, my friend.” James loo
ked past the Douglas to the other man, ruddy as well but several years younger than his brother. “And your brother—Sir Archibald.” He held out his right hand. “Welcome.”

  Archibald Douglas knelt and kissed James’s hand. “Your Grace.”

  When the men rose, James said, “Master Lyon brought me word of your efforts for my freedom, and I will nae have it go unrewarded. The charters are no less than your due.”

  Lyon carefully spread the two documents out upon a massive table against the far wall. “Writ wi’ His Grace’s own proper hand,” he said with obvious pride.

  James squeezed Douglas’s hand before he strolled to stand beside the documents he had spent so much time penning and waited until the two men rose to join him. He pulled his signet ring from his finger, the one ring that he wore. “This is the seal I use for my letters, but they will be sealed with my great seal in time to come.” He pretended not to hear the snort of derision from Prince Hal as he tipped wax onto the document and pressed his seal into it. “As I promised, this confirms to you the lands of Drumlanrig, Hawick and Selkirk.” He did the same to the second parchment. “And restores the grant of Cavers to you, Sir Archibald.”

  Douglas of Drumlanrig took the long parchment from the table, examining it closely. “By your own hand, Your Grace?” He raised his gaze to look into James’s face. There might even have been tears in his eyes. James lowered his gaze to the table for fear there were tears in his own. He briefly gripped Douglas’s arm.

  Douglas looked past him to the English king. “Your Grace, we would have your leave to discuss negotiations for the speedy release of King James.”

  King Henry leaned back in his chair, looking into the fire.

  “Your Grace?” James said, but the king didn’t reply or look his way.

  “That will have to wait until arrival of news regarding ambassadors anent the Duke of Albany’s interests,” Prince Hal said smoothly. He could be smooth when he wanted, as James knew well. “His representatives left for France a few days past, we are told. Until I know that they do not conspire with our enemies, there will be no negotiations. Charles d’Orleans and the others of his Armagnac party are not likely to forgive the Duc de Bourgogne for his father’s murder, which complicates the affair. Whether the Scots ally with one side or the other—” Hal seemed to decide against sharing his thoughts with James and broke off.