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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  James opened his mouth, closed it. Then he opened it again to say, “The duke negotiating wi’ the French has naught to do with my freedom, surely.”

  “His allying with the Duc de Bourgogne does, however. If you returned to Scotland, you would be no more than a tool to be used in his machinations with the French. I have no intention of letting that happen.”

  James’s heart thumped against his ribs. “I thought that you were ready to negotiate.” He heard how unsteady he sounded and closed his mouth. He looked at the king, who still refused to meet his gaze.

  “When we are certain of the situation with France, mayhap,” Prince Hal said. “Not before.”

  James felt his face flood with heat at the accusation that he would be his foul uncle’s tool. He took a deep breath to stop the words that wanted to flood out. He would not give Prince Hal the satisfaction.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  March 1413

  James sat on the edge of his bed, listening to William snore softly. He walked to the narrow window and swung his leg out and sat straddling the stone. The March night sky was dusted with stars, and a sickle of the waning moon hung above the dark ragged pines that surrounded Nottingham Castle. Since Croydon, this had been James’s most recent cage. But now King Henry ailed. They said that Henry of Monmouth had already seized power. James thought of Prince Hal’s hungry eyes over the livid battle-scar on his cheek. Aye, he would believe it of the man.

  Ducking his head, James pushed one shoulder out and squeezed through. The cold air nipped at his ears, and the night was quiet except for a dog barking in the bailey yard.

  He bent his other knee and squeezed it outside so that his arse rested on the narrow outside ledge. Awkwardly, he shifted around, winding his arms back over the window opening. He dangled his foot down and felt for a space between the stones. The outer wall was all about strength, rough-cut and roughly laid. When he had a toehold, he lowered himself down. The irregular rocks gave him enough purchase for fingers and toes. Carefully, he lowered the other foot, inching his way down and touching the face of the rock beneath his fingertips, the grit of the mortar, the sharp edges of the stones. His hearing seemed sharpened by the darkness. An owl screeched, and the breeze rubbed together the branches of the oaks so they creaked.

  His room was directly above the kitchen, and he was sure the cooks had already settled for the night beside the warmth of their hearth. Breathing deeply and sweat dripping down his face, he groped his way. When he was a man’s height from the ground, he kicked away from the wall and dropped with a grunt. His bent knees took the force of his landing. He froze for a moment and listened. Something took flight overhead with a great flutter of wings.

  He turned and darted across the grass to the narrow path that led down the hillside to the village. Keeping to the edge, he stayed in the shadow of the trees. He put each foot down carefully so as not to kick loose any pebbles or step on branches. A coughing sound came from beside the path, and a roe deer ran across, its light brown hide looking almost white in the pewter moonlight. In the darkened beech and oak woods, there were sounds that might or might not be owls and prowling foxes.

  He pushed his hair, still wet with sweat, out of his face. The trees had begun to thin, and thickets of hazel and alder pressed close to the road.

  At the foot of the slope, the path curved. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of lamplight from the inn. A nightingale trilled and swooped over his head to flutter into a tree, making the branches whisper. Then there was a burst of laughter, and someone began to sing in a squawking voice. Over the door, a painted sign with a crusader’s cross swung in the breeze.

  James stood beneath a spreading grandfather oak, watching. If there were guards at the inn, they would be sure to carry word to his current gaoler, Sir Richard Gray. And there were no horses outside the door. He snorted a wry laugh through his nose. Had he really been so daft as to wish for one? If he escaped so far from Scotland, they would recapture him within hours, and he would only look like a fool. Sometimes the days seemed like years and the years, centuries, and still no hope of freedom. But tonight… Perhaps for tonight, he would pretend to be free.

  So he blew out a breath and strode toward the bars of light that shone through the shutters. Within was the common room, and James gawped at the benches half-filled with men at scarred tables bent over their drinks. The air smelt of ale and sweat and oak from the fire on the hearth. Torches cast a wavering light. He peered hopefully, for he had heard some inns allowed girls to serve, and some even took coin for a few minutes alone, but he saw only men. In the corner, a skinny youth of fifteen or sixteen, red-haired and freckled, plucked at a clàrsach, badly out of tune. How had a harp from Scotland come so far south?

  An ugly man with a big belly straining at the laces of his stained jerkin and a shaggy beard covering his cheeks and chin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring. “Are you coming in or no?” he snapped.

  James closed the door behind him and felt his face flooding with red. “I was thinking I could buy a mug of ale.” It wasn’t his fault he’d never set foot in a hostelry before and that he had hoped for more.

  “That’s what I sell, but I’ll have my coin before you taste a drop.”

  He hadn’t a clue how much a mug of ale cost, but he had a few silver groats in his purse still from the last time Bishop Wardlaw had managed to send him coins, so he pulled two out and handed them over. The hostel-keeper turned the coins over in his hand and examined one suspiciously before he nodded. “Woman!” he yelled. “Bring a pitcher of ale and a tankard.”

  Through a doorway in the back came a woman in a faded dress, grumbling. She was thin with a pinched face, sharp nose and faded red hair. “Here I am. Quit your shouting.”

  “Sit you down, then.” The man shook a finger at James. “Can’t serve with you standing, can we?”

  James took the table near the clàrsach player, and the woman banged the pitcher and tankard down in front of him. He nodded his thanks, keeping his tongue between his teeth. The man hadn’t mentioned his Scottish speech, but there were not so many in these parts they might not guess who he was. He took the tankard in his hands and sipped, smiling. It tasted better than any he’d had in many a day—in the free air.

  But when Red-hair plunked another note, James shuddered. “In summer, when the thicket shines,” the boy sang with a sharp voice, picking out notes on the clàrsach that didn’t quite go with the words, “and leaves be large and long.”

  “Wait.” James shook his head to get the sound out of his ears. “Can you tune it before you torture us with that noise?”

  The boy stared at James, letting his mouth drop open with a gormless look.

  The hostel-keeper had been talking to one of the customers, but at the silence, he hurried over. “Why aren’t you playing, you worthless git?”

  The boy flinched away. “He said to wait.”

  “Never mind anent what some stranger said.” He raised his hand to cuff the boy.

  “Let me play instead,” James said before the man’s hand could fall. “And I’ll tune it for him, so he’ll sound better.”

  The woman came bustling over, frowning. “There’s no music,” she complained, as though no one had noticed.

  James reached over and pulled the instrument out of Red-hair’s arms. He rested the soundbox against his chest and turned the pins to tune the strings, plucking them one by one. “Wha’ is your name?”

  “Ralf.” The boy had leaned close to watch, but James was sure he’d be no better the next day. It had taken years for Master Lyon to teach him the instrument, though music came easily to him.

  The innkeeper clipped Ralf’s ear. “Pay attention now. Mayhap you can learn something for once.”

  The boy was cringing, so James said, “I’ll finish Robin Hood and the Monk, if you sing wi’ me.”

  Ralf shifted in his seat as he rubbed his ear. “I will.”

  James ran his fingers down the strings. “Good.
” He bent over the instrument. “It is full merry in the fair forest, to hear the birdies' song.”

  Ralf joined in with James, slapping his thigh to keep time. “To see the deer draw to the dale, and leave the high hills free. . .”

  The customers were beating on the tables along with the music. The singing and companions made the night seem brighter. It wasn’t very long before the two finished the ballad. James leaned back, smiling, and the woman poured him another tankard of ale. He took a swallow of the smooth, tingly brew, and it left a bitter tang of hops in his mouth.

  “Do you know any more songs?” Ralf asked. “I’d dearly like to learn some.”

  James nervously plucked a note. His was a song no one had ever heard, but it would do no harm to share it this once. He nodded. “High in the heaven’s firmament, the heaven’s stars were twinkling fire.” He picked out a tune to go with the words. “And in Aquarius, Artemis the pure rinsed tresses like golden wire.”

  He sang what he had written, although he was sure there should be more to the poem that had yet to come to him. Ralf stared at him when he played the last note, his thin mouth spreading into a grin. Several men thumped their tankards on the table, but half a dozen others stood to toss silver groats that bounced on the table in front of him. The hostel-keeper applauded, and James smiled up at him.

  Then James heard horses outside and the sound of men’s voices. A moment later, the door burst open. A man-at-arms stepped in and stood aside for Sir Richard, Lord Gray of Codenore and presently James’s head gaoler. He was a tall man, perhaps fifty, James thought, with thick lips, a bulbous nose, and thinning gray hair. His doublet was green velvet, and a fur cloak was tossed carelessly back from his shoulders. Through the doorway, James could make out the shape of a party of horsemen.

  “Lord James!” Sir Richard exclaimed. “What mean you by this? I sought you and found you missing!”

  James gave a long, low sigh and handed the harp to Ralf. He stood and gave the English lord a half bow. “I felt in the mood for drinking a tankard of ale and playing some music for these good folk.”

  “I gave you no leave to depart the castle. And certes not without guards.”

  James lifted his chin and looked Sir Richard in the eye. “I am King of the Scots.” However much they denied him the title and respect due a king, he could not meekly accept such reproaches. “I ask no man’s leave. Forbye, did you truly believe I was going to hie me home to Scotland—” He threw his arms wide. “—with neither gold nor mount nor men?”

  “You are put in my charge by the king, sirrah. And whatever you think you may be in Scotland, here you are to do as you are bid.”

  James twitched a smile, which he knew was going to annoy the man. Sir Richard might be a noted campaigner and chancellor in the king’s court, but he had no sense of humor. “Very well, Sir Richard, for I am indeed a prisoner here. Wha’ is it you bid me to do?”

  “Aldis, Lord James will take your horse.” Stomping to thrust his face into James’s, he said, “You will mount up and return to the castle to prepare for departure on the morrow. You are to be sent to the Tower of London at the bidding of Prince Hal.”

  James nodded farewell to Ralf. The boy pointed at the coins on the table.

  “They’re yours, lad,” James said and patted his shoulder. Even though James could have used the coins, he wouldn’t let the English see him scoop them up like a beggar. He sauntered to the door, Sir Richard’s glare burning a hole in his back.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gruffudd pushed back from the table. His smile was a flash of white teeth as he jumped to his feet and tossed a half-eaten chicken leg into the trencher. James strode across the room and threw his arms around him. They pounded each other’s backs, laughing. James thrust his old friend away to look him over. Gruffudd was less than welcome in the king’s court, unlike James, for the title the English had stolen for Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, rightfully belonged to Gruffudd’s father.

  “You look well,” James said with a smile. In truth, Gruffudd was thinner and had a few threads of gray in his black hair, but James was too glad to see him to mention that.

  Gruffudd snorted. “You’ve grown a bit—and put on weight. Did you spend all your time at Nottingham bent over a book?”

  “Nae a bit of it. To Sir Richard’s dismay, the king gave command that I was allowed to join them at the hunt, so I spent a deal of time riding.” James tore the other leg off Gruffudd’s roast chicken and stripped the meat with his teeth. After he swallowed it down, he grinned. “But they have better cooks than the Tower.”

  “Keep your hands off my dinner,” the Welshman said, but he poured a cup of wine and handed it to James. “Where is William?”

  “He said he would see to my things, but if that doesn’t include gathering the gossip, I’m a Sassenach.” James paused, eyeing Gruffudd, took a sip of the wine and then asked, “Do you ken why Prince Hal would have me brought here?”

  Gruffudd put an arm around James’s shoulder and drew him into the far corner away from the closed door. The walls were thick, but guards were always near, and voices carried strangely. He put his mouth near James’s ear. “He is ailing again—the king. And already Henry of Monmouth has seized power.”

  “That I know. But why the sudden bustle?”

  “The king was furious at his son overstepping his bounds, they say. I know that the king has been at parliament, where he forbad his son to attend, but I have not heard what he intends. And then they say he fell into a fit.”

  “A fit?” James asked in a low voice. “But he might still recover.”

  “Only God and the saints know. The guards gossip that he cannot rise from his bed, and that pustules cover his body.”

  “Is it truly leprosy, do you think?”

  “Before I was captive, I’d seen lepers enough, ears, noses, and fingers rotted off. You have seen him. Does suffers so badly?”

  James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. When, for a short time, James had been sent to join King Henry’s court at Croydon, he had knelt to take the king’s hand numerous times. James shuddered and then felt ashamed. But leprosy was a fearful sickness. “His body seemed sound, except for the boils when I saw him last.”

  “That does not sound to me like true leprosy, and if he had it, surely the court would be kept away from him. But whatever it is that ails him, everyone says he will not live much longer.”

  James sipped his wine thoughtfully. “So, Monmouth will be king. The few times I’ve seen him, he struck me a hard man.”

  “Hard and one of the best commanders England has ever seen. The strategy he used to defeat my army at Pwll Melyn was a fine piece of work, curse him. Though if I had been wiser…” He shrugged. “The French will be hard put. Once his father no longer holds him back, he’ll have his army at their door in a trice.”

  “But—” When the door opened, James broke off, but William motioned two other men inside, entered, and closed the door behind them. He was neatly kept as always, though the trip had been cold, his doublet brushed and his hair combed. The only mar was a purple bruise that covered one cheek.

  A squire, slender with long arms and legs, his dark hair in wind-tossed curls and cheeks soft with fuzz, hurried to drop to a knee and grasp James’s hand. “Your Grace, I am your servant.” James smiled and raised him to his feet, nodding a greeting to the tall, blond-haired, burly priest who had approached more circumspectly, bowing low.

  William was grinning at the squire’s enthusiasm when he said, “Iain of Alway, sire, and Father Dougal Drummond. More prisoners have been brought to the Tower.”

  “Good God, man,” Gruffudd said, staring at William. “Has James taken to beating you?”

  James made a grimace. “No, I’ve started letting him take a beating for me, and I am right sorry for it. Nae that Richard of Codenore asked my permission on the matter.”

  Gruffudd motioned for William to help himself to the wine. “What happened?”r />
  “His Grace left Nottingham Castle the night before last—through a window.” William gave a wry laugh as he poured. “Sir Richard was most displeased when I could nae tell him where my liege lord was. Nae that I would have said, had I known.”

  “You escaped?” Gruffudd whispered to James.

  “I could wish, my friend. It would take more resources than I have to make my way home, and I’m not such a fool as to give them reason to do me worse than they have, unless I feel the chance is one worth taking. No, the talk was that we were being moved back to the Tower, so I decided I would sample an evening of freedom.” He tilted his head pensively. “I hoped there would be a lass there to…” He made a vague wave of his hand.

  Gruffudd threw back his head and laughed. “And that kitchen maid I heard tell of?”

  James gave him an aggrieved look. “You may laugh, but you’ve nae been locked up most of your life.”

  William rubbed his cheek with a thumb. “Allow me to go wi’ you if you ever do that again. At least he didn’t knock you about.”

  “I should think not.” Gruffudd motioned William closer. “The tutors may have caned His Grace on occasion, but for one of the king’s men to give him a blow… No, they would not.”

  “No. And were I about, he’d nae lay hands on my squire either,” James said in a carefully controlled tone. He sighed and let his anger go for the moment. “Did you gather any gossip, Will? Why the new prisoners?”

  “I took my time taking our goods to our room, chatted wi’ the guards and shared some ale I had secreted.”

  “I have heard, Your Grace—” The priest paused until James nodded permission. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “I have heard rumors that Edmund Mortimer, the rightful king, plots to recover the throne; that his people may move against Prince Hal once his father is dead.”