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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  Murdoch rubbed at the red mark on his throat. “He tried to kill me.”

  The man-at-arms twisted his mouth into a sneer. “Return to your cell. Now.”

  James pushed his door open, his head woozy as the rush of fury drained away. His shoulder throbbed. Iain of Always, Dougal Drummand, and William turned to look at him.

  “You’ll hear from Lord Robert, you will,” the man-at-arms shouted and stamped back down the stairway, cursing.

  James closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  Iain looked at him with wide, alarmed eyes. “Wha’ happened?”

  A narrow shaft of light beamed through the window. James lifted his eyes to the sky, the color always dimmed and fouled by the smoke from thousands upon thousands of hearths. Even after all these years, the sight of it called to him to ride free, to see the true sky of home, feel the sea wind whipping in his face. Holy Mother of God, to be free… As he stood looking through the window, it overwhelmed him for a moment as it had that first day. But no, he would not meekly accept his fate like a milksop. He took another deep breath and said, “Some wine.”

  Iain poured a goblet, and when James took it, he saw that his hands shook. He gulped half of it down. “Murdoch threatened me, the drunken fool. We…” He shook his head. He still could hardly believe it himself. “We came to blows.”

  “Domine, miserere nobis,” Lyon said, looking horrified. “It is lèse-majesté to raise your hand to the king!”

  “Nae an offense I can presently punish. As if my imprisonment here weren’t harsh enough, I expect he and I will both feel Robert de Morley’s wrath over this.” James swirled the wine in his goblet and swallowed the stone in his throat. There was something he must do, and it was hard. But he owed it to William.

  “Wha’ will Morley do?” William asked.

  “Mayhap confine us to our cells for a time, nothing to worry over.” James looked morosely at Master Lyon. “You still have King Henry’s safe conduct to Scotland.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “I have letters you must carry to Bishop Wardlaw, the earl of Orkney, Sir John Sinclair, and Douglas of Drumlanrig. We are on a knife’s edge. Henry has taken Harfleur. If he wins in France, Scotland will be next, so the French must be given every aid. And yet if I could promise that aid from Scotland would not reach them, it might be a price for my freedom that he would accept.” James strode across the room and turned, his gaze fixed beyond the walls. “My allies at home must know my state here and give me their advice. You will leave forthwith. And take William wi’ you. See him settled in a good place whilst you’re there.”

  “Wha’?” William squawked. “You would have me leave?”

  James ran two fingers over his moustache and goatee. He couldn’t look at William, but this had to be done. He felt an odd pain in his chest. He must have pulled a muscle fighting with Murdoch, he thought, that was all. “You have been in this cage past long enough,” he said hoarsely. “It is time you went home.”

  “My lord,” William protested and took a quick step toward him.

  Finally, James forced himself to look his squire in the face. William was no longer in his first youth, with no wife, no bairns, and had spent most of his life in a prison. James could no longer keep him here. “It is time, William. I owe you too much. Wha’ kind of king will I be if I repay my friends with ill instead of good?” James forced himself to smile. “You will be there to welcome me when I return home.”

  “But… But your father commanded that I serve you.”

  “My father is long dead. I am the king now. I command you to go home.”

  “Then I must obey.” William twisted his hands together, looking distressed. “I will be there to welcome you. As you say. And then you will be wearing your crown.”

  “Soon.” James pulled William to him and embraced him. “God go wi’ you.”

  William hugged him back. “Iain will serve you in my place.”

  “I shall,” Iain said.

  They broke apart, and James twitched an embarrassed smile. “Now you must go before there is time for more trouble to brew.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

  November 1415

  Across London, bells tolled. The air had a stench to it of dead fish and wounds rotting and horse shit blown by a harsh wind that carried a hint of snow. James was chilled to the bone.

  A maze stretched before him, close-packed with a cheering crowd. King Henry had returned from France in triumph. He would make a show of parading his prisoners, James amongst them, though James had been nowhere near the battle. James was clad in a doublet with the Lion Rampant of Scotland and shoved roughly into line with the French prisoners just brought off the boats. Hundreds of them were ragged and dirty although their wounds had been bandaged. But now they were tied by rope into three long lines. James clamped his jaw shut on the curses that boiled in his chest so they could not escape.

  A yellow bitch with its teats drooping ran up and crouched to growl and bark at the countless French prisoners, until one of the men-at-arms rode his horse at her and she fled, yelping. A tall, dark-haired prisoner, the bandage around his head clotted with blood and his clothes covered in streaks of filth, collapsed face down in the mud and lay still, fingers twitching as he moaned. The rope looped around his waist jerked on a tight-faced Frenchman next in the long line of prisoners, who grunted as he stumbled and regained his balance.

  Eyes wide, Iain of Alway looked James askance, and James nodded his permission. The lad scurried to kneel next to the man who had fallen. The tight-faced Frenchman turned the injured man onto his back and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him erect, saying, “Je vais prendre soin de lui.”

  Iain of Alway looked at James.

  “Etes-vous sûr mon écuyer ne peut pas aider?” James asked.

  “Un Anglais?” the man snarled.

  James motioned to the device on his chest. “Un Ecossais.” But the man gave a stubborn shake of his head, so James said, “He doesn’t want our help.”

  A knight trotted up a Scottish Saltire tied to his horse’s tail and dragging in the dirt. Rage shot through James like fire, but he kept his back stiff.

  “The king is ready to proceed,” the knight snapped at James. “You’re to walk beside Charles, Duc d'Orléans and Jehan le Meingre, Maréchal de France.” He pointed to the front of the lines of prisoners. They were to be herded like animals. Mounted men-at-arms were forming a column on each side of the prisoners. Rigid with outrage, James followed the horse that dragged the Scottish banner before him to the front of the horde of stinking, filthy, limping men. The knight pointed out a young, battered nobleman and the older Maréchal de France standing fix-faced beside him.

  “Your Grace of Scotland, yes?” the young man said in a heavily accented voice as James stood beside him.

  James nodded. “And you, Your Highness? Charles, Duc d'Orléans?”

  The nobleman was a few inches taller than James, but many men were. A purple bruise covered half of his forehead. In spite of the soiled doublet and hose, the duke gave a scornful look at the crowd awaiting them. Then the wind gusted, and he shivered. “Yes, I am he.” He grimaced, raising his arched nose to an imperious angle. “Do you know where they take us?”

  The noise from the crowd rose to a roar when King Henry and his men clattered to the front of the procession, the king’s banner as large as a ship’s sail held high aloft. Shouts of, “Make way! Make way for the king!” echoed back to James.

  The horse dragging the flag of Scotland in the dirt started forward at a slow walk, following the king’s cortege. One of the sergeants yelled for James and the duke to move along.

  “Windsor Castle, I suppose. Most of us, at any rate. The Tower of London is nae large enough to hold such a throng of prisoners.”

  The curious crowd gave way before the king, but the cheers turned to shouts of derision as the prisoners walked past. Servants, soldiers, merchants, and whores all gathered to howl insults. Bells tolled t
o celebrate. A gang of boys ran alongside him, stamping through puddles. James cursed under his breath when they splashed freezing water and mud. The rope around the Duc d'Orléan’s waist jerked and made him stumble whenever one of the men behind him slowed or fell. James grasped his elbow to keep him upright, and the man gave him a haughty, reluctant nod of thanks.

  James knew very well how much the humiliations stung. He trod carefully to avoid stepping on the captured flag they dragged before him and longed for some way to repay King Henry for the affront.

  The gate of Windsor Castle was like a tunnel, but the thick walls made the crowd’s shouts fade behind them. Yet the clatter of horses being unsaddled and led away, prisoners being untied, and the constant shout of commands was overwhelming. Before them, beyond the wide bailey yard, broad stone steps led up to Windsor’s massive Round Tower. A man-at-arms swung from the saddle to untie the rope around Charles d'Orléans’s waist and pointed in that direction.

  Charles glanced at James and said, “I thank you, Your Grace, for your courtesy. If I did not seem grateful—I beg you put it down to grief.”

  As the horse dragging the shamefully abused flag was led away, James walked beside Charles toward the doors of the tower. Glancing around to be sure no guards were near, James lowered his voice and leaned close to ask, “Is it true wha’ they say? King Henry executed prisoners who had surrendered?”

  Charles’s lips tightened to a line of white. He jerked a short nod. “Some of my own household,” he said in a voice like gravel. “They gave up their arms. Were surrounded by guards, no threat to the English. He ordered them slaughtered.”

  “I knew he was a hard man, but—” The dark, iron-banded doors were thrown open with a crash. A shove from behind in the small of his back caught James by surprise and made him stumble to one knee.

  “See that the prisoners are taken within and those who are injured given aid,” Bishop Beaufort said to a dour sergeant, who had removed his helm and waited to the side. “Lord James and Monsieur le Duc will remain.”

  Beaufort’s calm gaze was a thousand times more threatening than a man-at-arms’ casual shove. Within folds of fat in his doughy face, it concealed more than it told. He continued in his oily voice, “No need to kneel. Save it for declaring King Henry your liege lord.”

  James ground his teeth and surged to his feet.

  Charles gave James a wary glance from the corner of his eye and stepped forward. “When will your king seek ransom for me and my people?”

  “It is being arranged as we speak—for most. Some… are more valuable in our possession.” Beaufort’s pause said that Charles would be part of that number. “You will share a suitable quarters with Lord James. With so many to house, we do not yet have room to give you separate chambers. Once we are able, you will be more suitably housed.” He motioned to a sergeant who had been shouting orders as the hundreds of prisoners were hurried indoors. “See to our two guests at once.” He turned and walked away, his rich robes flapping in the sharp wind.

  James only had time to mutter, “Sleekit creature makes my skin prickle,” to the white-faced duke before they were marched through the doors and up the winding stairs.

  At the highest part of the tower, the guard opened a door for them. Iain followed them in, and Charles collapsed onto the chair. He plunged his hands into his hair. “I almost died on the field, buried under the bodies of the fallen—my own knights who died protecting me. Now I wish that I had.”

  Iain knelt to light a fire. At least there were faggots in in the hearth. When James spotted a flagon and cups, he poured the wine and handed one to the duke, who straightened to take it. James took a stroll around the room. Being jerked hither and yon, never knowing how long he would be imprisoned in the Tower of London or another castle at the whim of the English played with his patience. There had been days when James had felt exactly as the young duke did, but something he had heard anent Charles made him turn and look him over more closely. “They say you’re a poet.”

  Charles was staring into his cup, swirling the malmsey pensively. “I attempt it.”

  “You will have a new theme to write, then.” James jerked a corner of his mouth up into what he hoped was a smile.

  Charles breathed a laugh through his nose. “That I shall.”

  “And I’ll ask you to read my own poems. I am never sure if wha’ I write is worth the scraps of parchment I use.”

  “It will serve to pass the time. And I fear we may have much time to pass.” Charles tipped up the goblet and drained it. After a moment, James did the same. He feared the duke was correct.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  August 1416

  All the gaolers had been whispering that Henry would soon leave England for Calais to plot with Emperor Sigismund and John, Duc de Bourgogne, to finish the defeat of the French king. Charles could not hear the Bourgogne’s name without cursing him for his murderous treachery. The talk of it only frustrated James, locked as they were in the Tower, although James had come to prefer it to Windsor. The men-at-arms were always glad to give him a round with the sword. Wrestling was now his favorite, though. And when Charles wasn’t cursing the treachery of the Burgundians, he was good company. James had promised him a new verse, since it occupied the time read each other’s work. He frowned over what he had written:

  Then would I say, "If God had me devised

  To live my life in prison thus and pain,

  Wha’ was the cause that He me more adjudged

  Than other folk to live in such a ruin?

  I suffer alone as though I am nothing,

  A woeful wretch that no one may aid,

  But every man in life of help has need."

  James tossed down his quill, and ink splattered across the page. Where could he go with the verse except more bewailing of his estate? He had had enough of it. Perhaps in the bailey yard he could find someone who would work him until he was too tired to think, too tired to moan that he was a prisoner still—after ten years that had stretched out like a long black tunnel—dark days without end.

  He jumped to his feet, took a deep breath and released it. Very well. To the bailey yard. The man-at-arms flinched when James banged open the door. James gave him a curt nod, knowing he would follow. Taking the steps two at a time, James plunged down the winding stairs and out into the smoky sunshine, through the bailey, and into the practice yard. He slapped his hands on his hips. “I can defeat any man here in a wrestling match,” he shouted. “Will any of you try to prove me wrong?”

  “I can prove you wrong any day, Lord James.” The sergeant James had seen wrestling Berolt some time back sneered. He worked his heavy shoulders as he strode toward James.

  James unfastened his doublet and tossed it aside. A murmur of anticipation was spreading through the grounds.

  James swung his arms to get the blood flowing.

  The man stopped in the center of the practice yard in a half-crouch, arms cocked, a grin lifting a corner of his mouth.

  Moving around him in a slow circle, careful to stay beyond his reach, James said, “You ken my name. Wha’ is yours?”

  “Adam.” He wheeled to keep James in sight. “Not that it matters when I have you pinned. I plan on making you eat dirt, Scot.”

  Dashing forward, James grabbed for an armlock. Adam slapped his hands away and went for James’s shoulders. James let him close, and Adam had him by the arm, using his hip to throw him to the ground. As he went down, James grabbed Adam around the chest, taking him down with him. As they rolled, James used his powerful shoulders to throw him off. They both jumped to their feet and backed away.

  “Make me eat dirt?” James jeered. “I’ll feed you horse shite first.”

  Adam rushed in and seized James in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. He squeezed, and James thought his ribs would shatter. The man had more strength than anyone James had ever fought before. Desperately, he put both his hands to the man’s chin and pushed, forcing his head back. Adam grunted, sque
ezing harder. James straightened his arms, locked his elbows, and broke the hold.

  James landed with his knees bent, took a step back. Adam was burly and fiercely strong, but he wasn’t fast. They circled each other, and James considered how to take advantage of the man’s slowness.

  James feinted. Adam answered by trying to encircle him with his arms, but James ducked under and grabbed him around the waist as he wheeled behind him. He locked Adam’s arms in a tight bear hug. Then, stepping his right leg over, he twisted Adam over his hip and slammed him face down to the ground. Whilst Adam lay stunned, James grabbed his legs, crossed them over his thigh, locked them in place with one arm, and sat back onto Adam's spine.

  James grinned. “Shall I make you eat shite, Sassenach?”

  The man was growling and heaving his body, but James had him pinned.

  The ring of guards who had gathered to watch were whistling and calling out for Adam to get up. “Throw him off, Adam. Have at him,” one shouted.

  The man was in pain, but James had him firmly secured. Each thrust to break free only increased the strain on his legs.

  James, sweat dripping off his head and shoulders, laughed as he pushed, twisting Adam’s legs further back. Adam screamed. James rocked back again and again until Adam slapped a hand on the ground in surrender.

  “What is to do here?” a voice bellowed.

  James looked up to find King Henry glaring at them, his mouth in a hard line. “Up from there, both of you. Now!”

  The watching guards had scattered like a flock of geese. James cuffed Adam’s shoulder and rose to his feet. He looked around and found his doublet. As he donned it, the king barked, “You. If you have nothing better to do than fighting our prisoners, I’ll see that your commander mends matters.”

  At King Henry’s elbow, Beaufort looked on silently, dressed in flowing red robes of silk and reeking of some flowery perfume, whilst the king’s guards looked on open-mouthed.