Adam was backing away, stuttering apologies and excuses as he went. Henry’s scowl at James would have flayed the hide from a boar, had one been there. As it was, James laced his doublet and then bowed with a half-smile.
“Were you seeking me, Your Grace?”
“God damn you, James. Playing at fighting with guards? You have more important things to think on.” King Henry looked around the practice yard as though expecting some help to appear. “After all these years, have you gained no sense? You force me to hold you under harsh durance from your obstinacy, and you learn nothing.”
Beaufort gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a pudgy hand on his sleeve. “I understand your disappointment in Lord James. It gives me no joy to see a nobleman play the ruffian. Yet you must remember your own dignity, and the matter you came to discuss with him is serious. It is best discussed privily, do you not think, Your Grace?”
King Henry’s face flooded with color, and he shook off his uncle’s hand. He turned on a heel and stormed into the White Tower, down the narrow hall, and into the chapel, never once bothering to glance to see if the others followed. He stood for a few minutes, seeming to stare at the watery light which filtered through the stained glass windows. When he turned, his expression was mild. “When my father allowed you at his court, I always said you were a fine hand with a harp.”
“His Grace does me too much honor. I dally with both harp and sword.” James crossed his arms and grinned. “I am trying to convince your Constable of the Tower that we need a tennis court. I believe I would enjoy that as well as I do wrestling.”
“So, you are happy enough to remain my prisoner? You will not seek your freedom? Are you truly so craven?”
“No, Your Grace.” James fought to keep the anger out of his voice and failed. “It is you who denies me freedom, whether I would seek it or nae. Have you forgotten?”
“Denied it?” Henry had the gall to look incensed. He pointed at James. “I deny you nothing. You deny it to yourself. Swear your fealty to me, and you have your freedom. I require nothing more. And count yourself blessed, for I am defeating the French even with the Earl of Buchan and his followers from Scotland taking their side. Albany is too craven to do so himself, but thousands of Buchan’s followers are in France.” Henry stepped closer to glower into James’s face. “I shall defeat them with or without your fealty.”
“The king is all kindness,” Beaufort said. “I have advised His Grace against freeing you, but his conscience pricks him that he promised the late king.”
James slowly shook his head. “I cannot. You ken that I cannot.”
“I do not know that.” King Henry stepped even closer to him and spoke slowly, softly, as though to a child. “Think, James. Soon I shall have France in my hands; after, I shall not long leave an enemy at my northern border. But I would not lead my armies against a sworn liegeman. It is the only way you can save Scotland. The only way you will free yourself. I weary of waiting for you to see sense.”
To his amazement, James was sure Henry believed what he was saying. “You truly believe that my people would accept an English overlord? That they would nae throw me off if I did such a thing? Because I assure you, they would.”
“The French are coming to accept me, however much they have fought the idea of being ruled by an English king.”
“Have you terrorized them enough that they will in truth? Burning a’ the way to Agincourt… The slaughter of prisoners…”
A deep red climbed up from Henry’s velvet collar until the deep scar on his cheek stood out bone white against his flaming face. “There was no slaughter!” When James just raised an eyebrow, Henry visibly took a deep breath. “You know naught of battle. I could not risk the prisoners rising in the midst of my men.”
James opened his mouth to ask if Henry had forgotten to have his prisoners disarmed that they could be such a danger, for James knew they had been disarmed, but from the look on the king’s face, decided that there was wisdom in silence. He snapped his mouth closed.
After a pregnant pause, James motioned around them. “Aye, it is true I know more of imprisonment than of battle. But I will never give away my kingdom. Nae to any man on this earth.”
“God damn you!” King Henry shouted, the words roaring out of him as though he could no longer contain his ire. “I am out of patience. Enjoy your imprisonment, if you can.”
“So be it, if I must, but I will nae kneel to you to give you my fealty.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, and he jabbed a finger at James. “Get out of my sight. Out! Run back to your cell like a craven.”
James turned on his heel. As he marched from the chapel, he could feel Henry’s stare stab his back. As he reached the doors, he heard Beaufort say in his sleekit tone, “The Scots will be nothing for you to defeat, Your Grace. Now we must prepare for your departure for Calais.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
March 1420
James rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he had read, but the fat tallow candle had burned down to a stub, and the light of morning lit the room. His copy of Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde he had received just before he was brought to Windsor Castle lay on the table. He had much to learn from Chaucer’s work for his own poetry. Forbye, it was all that kept him sane some long days. With a sigh, he turned to read:
Tisiphone, help me to compose these woeful verses that weep as I write, that flow like tears from my pen.
He closed his eyes and groaned. The sound felt as though it must have come from his very bowels. He could not read that now. Miserere mei, Deus! He had enough to lament in his life without their misery as well!
He should have slept, but last night he’d not even touched his bed. The words in his books called out to him—he read until he fell into the stories, as though his cage did not exist. Iain would scold, but he had been too angry and restless for sleep. The longing for freedom he kept within tore at him until sleep was a long-lost memory. It ripped at his heart, and death seemed preferable to life.
It was wrong that the knife in his belt meant for cutting his meat at table should call to him with its siren’s song. The only thing that kept him from a plunging it into his chest was that men would call him a coward.
A nightingale twittered outside. He pushed back from the long table, stiff as a board and his legs half-asleep. He shook out the stiffness, went to the window, and looked out. The little brown bird trilled as it fluttered into the leafy branches of a tree by a pond. Months ago he was allowed for a time the freedom of the gardens. He was still a prisoner, yet the ability to come and go into the courtyard had given him an illusion of liberty that had eased the darkness for a few days.
He leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the window, wishing it would cool his fevered thoughts. King Henry… war… freedom… home… They circled in his mind, day after day which turned into year after year, until he felt he might go mad. But the breeze carried a scent of green and spring rain. The hawthorn hedge around the garden below was studded purple with berries. He wondered if there was pestilence in the city that had him moved once more from the Tower to Windsor Castle. He had more freedom of movement within the Tower, for they feared less that he could escape.
At least the view from his window, even in this corner tower where he was stuck away, eased his melancholy. The pond shimmered in the morning sunlight, and a willow hung over it casting shadows that ruffled when a fish darted to the top. Sun sparkled on a little marble bench. The nightingale trilled again, clear, first soft and growing louder.
It burst with a rustle of the leaves to a higher branch when a small, white dog rushed up to the tree, yipping fiercely. The dog jumped, bounced in a circle, and propped its feet as high as it could reach, panting. James couldn’t help but smile. What a silly useless creature, yet it brought a spark of joy into his dark thoughts.
A golden-haired girl hurried up, her skirts swishing about her feet. She knelt, scolding the dog as she fastened a gold leash to its collar.
He was entranced by the vision. If it was a happiness he could not share, it was one he could watch. It was like soft rain on a parched soul. She looked up at the sky, and even from his window, James could make out her inscrutable smile. When she stood and tugged on the leash, he decided she was older than he had first thought: a young woman rather than a girl, her long neck white as cream and her shape softly curved. He strained to make out more of her face, but she bent, speaking to the dog that first pranced about her feet and then darted to nose in the grass next to the pool. When a frog leapt and it growled, she threw back her head and laughed. Something in James’s chest burst free.
Unmarried, she must be, her hair a loose tumble of curls down to her waist under a sheer chaplet. Her green gown shimmered like silk in the sunlight as she sank down upon the bench. She took a small ball out from a purse at her belt and tossed it across the grass for the dog to run after. When she bent back her head, eyes closed, as though she drank in the sunlight, he saw a gold chain about her neck hung with a heart-shaped pendant, ruby red against the white of her throat.
James realized he was open-mouthed, watching, and snorted a small laugh. But she had brought him more joy in these minutes than he had felt in years. She took the ball from the dog’s mouth, bent to kiss its nose, then rose and strolled past the pond, its leash in her hand. James cursed under his breath as he thrust his head further into the window and craned to watch her slender back as she walked through the gate.
He turned and threw himself down at the table to pull a parchment close. He dipped his quill in the inkwell. His hand was shaking as he wrote as fast as he could to keep up with the sprawling words that rushed through his mind:
Ah, sweet, are you a worldly creature
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?
Or are you god Cupid’s own princess
And are come to free me of my bonds?
Or are you very Nature, the goddess
That has painted with your heavenly hand
This garden full of flowers, as they stand?
Wha’ shall I think? Alas, wha’ reverence
Shall I devote to your excellence?
If you a goddess be, and that you like
To give me pain, I may it nae escape.
If an earthly being is that does me such,
Why does God make you so, my dearest heart,
To do a wretched prisoner hurt.
He probably would never see her again, whoever she was. But she was fixed in his mind forever, of that he was sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bishop Beaufort’s apartments were every bit as lavish as James had expected, although Windsor was, of course, not the Bishop’s own dwelling. Half a dozen thick carpets covered the stone floor, and every inch of the walls was draped with embroidered tapestries of men at the hunt, ladies sending knights off to war, and nobles feasting. A fire crackled in the marble hearth. There wasn’t a cross or religious item anywhere in sight. James snorted a soft laugh.
Beaufort was humming to himself when he strode in the door, dressed in his flowing red robe and reeking as he always did of a flowery perfume. When he saw James, he nodded with an unctuous smile. “Lord James.”
James gave a half-bow. “At your command, Excellency.”
“It is good to see that you have been well cared and provided for. It has been some time since I have had cause to see you. How long has it been?”
“Three years, I believe.”
“I hope they have not been excessively tedious.”
James managed a thin smile. “I have kept myself occupied. And Charles d’Orleans is good company. I confess, however, that I am curious why you summoned me to Windsor.” He motioned. “And to your own apartments.”
Beaufort closed and barred the door. “It is a good place to talk privily.”
“We have reason to talk so? Odd. I thought the last time I spoke with King Henry that he gave me his final word.”
“Few things in life are final, my lord, you may find as you grow older.” The bishop crossed to a table and picked up a gold-chased flagon. “Will you join me?” he asked as he poured a cup.
James shrugged. If the bishop wanted him poisoned, surely he would not do it in his own apartments when it could be done any day in James’s cell, so he nodded and poured himself a cup.
“You are aware that Murdoch of Fife was ransomed by his father? The ransom was considerable.”
James jerked his head back and felt the warmth drain from his face. “I knew he was no longer at the Tower of London, but…” James felt as though he had been slapped. Money had been received from the Pope in return for letters and support James had given that some thought might tempt Henry into changing his mind, for he needed funds for his endless war. Had Albany managed to lay hands on that? Where else would he find so large a sum? “No. I did nae know.”
The bishop smiled. “The king has decided to give you another chance at freedom as well, Lord James. He is most fond of you, though I have never understood why.”
Nae this again, James thought. “A puzzling way to show his fondness, keeping me close confined.”
A wicked snicker burst out from the bishop. “He can be puzzling, Lord James. Even strange at times, though if you repeat that I said so, I shall deny it.”
“So strange that he has forgotten wha’ I said the last time he demanded it? I will gladly repeat it for you, Excellence. I shall never swear fealty to him.”
“Fortunately for you, he does not ask it. He will take your parole and allow you a year’s freedom in return for hostages. Many hostages, of course. After all, you are, you claim, a king.”
James’s breath hitched. “Hostages? Has this been negotiated with ambassadors from Scotland? Who is he demanding? How many?”
“No, this is a proposal for you alone. Agree to it, and we will send the demand to Scotland for you.”
“How can I agree when I don’t know who you are demanding?”
“Why, they are right in front of you.” The bishop pointed to a parchment weighted down by a marble statuette of a woman in remarkably few clothes.
James raised an eyebrow as he moved the statuette and picked up the parchment. He scanned the long list of names in three columns. James opened his mouth, and then he laughed. “You jest. This is a list of near every noble in Scotland. It is impossible.” James was not nearly such a fool as they seemed to think him. “They will never agree to it.”
“You cannot be sure of that. Mayhap they will, and you would return home. Nothing would please my nephew more. He has agreed that you may go to Raby Castle to await word. Under close guard, of course.”
What a strange offer. Raby Castle was far north, nearer Scotland and home than James had been since that day he had climbed aboard the Maryenknyght. But King Henry had to know that his demand for this many hostages, the highest nobles in Scotland, was insufferable. He had some other plot in mind.
James chewed his lower lip. Would he be best served by agreeing? Holy Mary, Mother of God, but he wanted to accept. To be so far from London and so near home… There had to be some trick, a hook in the bait. Yet he could not see it.
Perhaps it was merely that they thought a taste of freedom after being close kept would soften him to their demands. Or it might be some deeper plot.
He would take the bait and see what they would want of him. “Very well, Excellency.” James gulped down his wine and gave the bishop a grin that felt more like a grimace. “I will put my seal to it and wait at Raby Castle. But they will nae agree.”
Beaufort bowed. “Then, if it please you, my lord.” He motioned to the table and waited with a smile that made James shudder as he tipped wax onto the document and used his ring for a seal.
“You and your people will leave in a few days’ time. I shall need so long for the messages to reach Scotland, as well as arranging for suitable guards. I’ve summoned Sir John Water and a dozen men-at-arms to oversee you. Tomorrow, you’ll be sent back to the Tower, but you may join th
e court tonight for supper, such as it is with the king absent.
James left the document, which he was sure was useless, lying upon the table and considered the bishop, wishing with all his might he knew what was passing through his mind. Whatever it was, James’s benefit was not the goal. Still, it had been a long time since he had dined with the court, and he would not pass the chance to see a certain gold-haired lass. She had been bejeweled and finely dressed as only a lady of the court would be. If he were blessed indeed, he would see her one last time.
The rest of the day crept by as slow as a flow of honey on a cold winter’s day. James climbed to his tower room and tried to distract himself yet again with Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, but he could hardly see the battles of Troy for imagining sunshine gleaming on a head of golden hair. In the afternoon, he called for hot water and scrubbed himself until his skin was red. He sat still, although his fingers twitched with restlessness, while John shaved his cheeks and trimmed his goatee.
Once he was trimmed and smelled sweet rather than of sweat, he had John pull all of his clothing out of the chest it was carried in and lay the dozen pieces across the bed. He scratched at the hair on his chest as he looked them over. There was no way he would compare to the peacocks who would strut at the court.
At last he settled on what passed for his best doublet, white, embroidered with the red Lion Rampant, the one he had worn the day the French prisoners arrived. Now it had places worn almost through the fabric. He had no jewels except the signet ring on his hand. It was when he was dressed and looked down at his threadbare court clothes that he realized the extent of his madness. Did he truly think she would look his way? A foreign king, imprisoned and impoverished... As he waited for the page to summon him, he thought, but whatever you wear, however poor, you are a king.
The sun was setting behind the castle wall when the page opened the door and had James follow him past the yard to the great hall in the royal apartments.
A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1) Page 11