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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  “I shall ready your belongings to leave tomorrow,” Iain said as James left.

  With the court in residence, although the king was in France with his army, even the sprawling Windsor Castle was crowded. The guards at the door of the Round Tower ignored him, accompanied as he was by his own guard and the page. Near the doors to the main residence, a group of men-at-arms were crouched, tossing a die. One shouted a curse when he lost. James earned a bay of laughter when he observed that the loser next time should wager that he would still be King Henry’s prisoner next year. He then followed the page up the short flight of stairs to the main doors, which were flung open.

  The hall was an eddy of satins, silks and velvets with jewels glittering amidst the waves. Some of the guests were finding their places on the long benches. Others were milling about, chattering like magpies and enjoying music from the lutists in the gallery. The page led James around the edge of the room as everyone they passed gave him sideways looks and edged away.

  He was always an embarrassment at the court. As a member of a royal family, they couldn’t sit him low at the tables, but he was a prisoner, so couldn’t be set high. At last, the page bowed and motioned toward a place at the distant end of the high table on the dais. For once, James thought he was glad for it as he sat between two knights, no doubt members of some great lord’s tail. He smiled as he scanned the throng. This would be a perfect place to watch the pageant of finery and spy one nightingale in particular. He frowned and shook his head. That was bad poetry. As beautiful as a nightingale’s song was, it was a plain bird, brown and ordinary. No, that would never do, not for his beautiful lass.

  The smell of roasted meats and fruits baked into sweets carried in from the kitchens. The heavy hangings in dizzying colors on the stone walls kept out the chill of the early spring night. A singer joined the lutists, but James could not make out the words over the clatter of servants filling cups and the mutter of a hundred guests finding their places.

  A herald called out the names of the Constable of England, John de Beaufort, Earl of Somerset and of Lady Joan de Beaufort. From his place in the side, James had a good look at them. The earl was tall and dark, but then James saw Joan and nothing else.

  She was even more beautiful than he had thought when he saw her in the garden. Her creamy gown was worked with pearls that could not match the luster of her skin. Her movements were graceful and studied, her skirts swirling around her feet as . Her stepfather, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, kept her arm on his as he helped her up the steps of the dais and to her seat, his head bent as he spoke close to her ear. She kept her eyes modestly down, but her straight spine and the firm line of her mouth hinted at a strength within her softness.

  Others had followed whilst James stared at the lady, and he realized the chairs and benches had filled. Bishop Beaufort rose and gave thanks, mercifully brief, since when he stood he blocked James’s view of Lady Joan. A servant filled his goblet, and James took a sip of the purplish wine. When the rich taste with a hint of plums and currents filled his mouth, he leaned back, smiling. He could be quiet and simply look his fill.

  Perhaps she felt his stare, because she looked in his direction and cocked her head. Her eyes met his. She seemed to study him, but her stepfather spoke to her and she turned away. His stomach grumbled again at the scent of a capon redolent with hyssop, rosemary, and sage, so he cut off the leg. He stripped the meat with his teeth, tossed the bone in his trencher and went back to watching.

  “James Stewart? Is that truly you?” a familiar voice asked close at hand.

  James looked up and gaped at a face he barely recognized after so many years. “Henry Percy.”

  One of the knights interrupted regaling them with his story of a glorious fight at Agincourt to make room for the man who was now Earl of Northampton. Percy sat with his back to the table and stretched out his long legs. James signaled for more wine, and they saluted before they both drank. “It has been many a year, my friend,” Percy said thoughtfully.

  “It has.” James smiled. “I’m glad you finally reached home, Henry.”

  Percy leaned an elbow on the table to be closer to James. “Albany traded me and a room full of gold for his heir. He was desperate to have Murdoch back.”

  James glanced at Joan de Beaufort, who was laughing at some quip, before he turned back to Percy. “Was he? Why do you suppose now, since he took his time about it before?”

  “You know Albany opposed Pope Martin?” When James nodded, Percy lowered his voice even more. “The new Pope may see that he pays for that. He is at odds with all the bishops. Of a certainty, he cannot live much longer, as ancient as he is, so he needs his heir. And his others in his family do whatever the devil they please. The monasteries are a scandal all over Scotland. Forbye, he’s near at war with Douglas over sending troops to the French.” He grinned. “A few months back, the Earl of Douglas attacked Berwick and Roxburgh, but I saw them off, so the king named me Warden of the East March.”

  James drained his cup. “You cannae expect me to congratulate you for defeating them, though.”

  “Why not? It’s not as though they are your friends.”

  James realized that knights around them had fallen silent, and this was not a conversation to be noised about. Nor would he mention the letters he had managed secretly to send to the Douglas. “Mayhap not.” He drained his cup, and a page refilled it, doing the same for Percy. The tables in the middle of the room were being cleared. James stood and nodded toward Joan de Beaufort. “Is she betrothed?”

  Percy stood too, and they moved around the table as the musicians played the chords of a quadrille. “The Beaufort girl? She’s past an age when you’d think it, but her stepfather seems none too eager to marry her off. Odd too, since she would be quite a prize, so I am sure they have a good reason for waiting.”

  Across the dance floor, Joan put her hand on her stepfather’s arm as the music began. Five other couples joined them, and she floated through the figures, smiling up at each man whose hand she took as she gracefully circled.

  “You have an interest in her?” James’s heart thudded.

  Percy laughed, slapping his thigh. “I forgot to tell you. I married this year. If not as beautiful as that lady…” He nodded toward Joan, who was curtsying deeply to a man dressed so brightly in blues and greens that he outshone peacocks. “…he is a Neville, and has connections I needed.”

  James clouted Percy on the shoulder, beaming with relief. “Well done.”

  The quadrille ceased and dancers scattered, but Lady Joan accepted the hand of the peacock, so she was taking the floor once more. James spun in a circle, desperately looking for a possible partner. When he spotted a restless looking matron, her tapping foot peeking out from beneath her skirts, he bowed and held out his hand. She looked at him with narrowed eyes, but then she curtsied, and he led her out on his arm as another quadrille began.

  He bowed and held the lady’s hand as he circled, allowing her to dance around him. The dance turned. The ladies skipped to a new partner, curtseying when they reached him. Another spin and James had to admit he enjoyed dancing even when Joan had not reached his place. Then she held out her hand. He bowed over it and turned, his face burning with fever as she smiled up at him, her eyelids crinkling. She had eyebrows like wings over blue, glittering eyes and a long slender neck, smooth shoulders sloping down to hidden breasts. He stumbled a bit in the turn. By the Holy Rood, James, he thought. Remember the steps or she’ll think you a fool.

  Her hand slipped from his when she skipped to a new partner, and then the dance ended. He backed slowly off the floor as she walked to her waiting father. When he took her hand to lead her to their places, just once she peeked over her shoulder in James’s direction, and his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.

  Percy put a hand on his shoulder and laughed. “Don’t think it, my friend. She’s for some deeper plot than any to do with you. You may be sure of it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


  April 1420

  Sir Richard de Neville swayed in the saddle but managed to right himself, as he tossed down his shattered lance. He yanked the reins and turned his horse to ride back for a second pass. James handed John his broken lance and took a new one. “I hope this holds up better,” James jested, and John grinned up at him.

  Neville spurred his horse to a hard gallop. James couched his lance and galloped to meet him, leaning forward as he rode and holding his lance as steady as steel. As they met, he saw Neville shift in his saddle. James tried to jerk the same direction, but it was too late. A force like thunder exploded into his chest, and he was flying. He crashed down on his back, the wind forced out of his lungs. His head whanged on the ground. He saw stars. Or maybe it was bits of dirt dancing in the sunlight. He blinked, trying to clear them away, coughed, and gulped for air that wasn’t there.

  Iain was shouting, “Your Grace!” and hauling him to sit up.

  James coughed again and gasped, “I’m a’ right, Iain.” His riderless bay was trotting to the stable. James pulled at his borrowed helm, already dented when he had put it on, but it wouldn’t budge. The handful of men-at-arms who had gathered to watch were hooting and calling out taunts. At the entrance to the practice yard, the gray-haired Sir Ralph de Neville, lord of Raby, was laughing loudest of all. Dougal Drummand came to help, and between the three of them they wrested the helm from his head.

  A wave of nausea hit James. He bent, swallowing bile and breathing deeply. By’r Lady, I’ll not humiliate myself by spewing after a joust. Sir Richard swung from the saddle and strode over. “Do you need our physician, Lord James?” he asked.

  James gingerly shook his head and then regretted it, but he felt sure now that his belly would not shame him.

  “Good.” Sir Richard turned to walk away but then turned back and nodded to James. “It was a decent match.”

  In truth, James knew he needed more practice at the tilt to judge his opponent better. His skill with the horse and lance he had no doubt of. But judging men…

  John was tugging at him, and James let his squire put his arm around his waist and help him limp to the armory, Drummand carrying the dented helm. James sank onto a bench so John could strip off his borrowed harness and sweat-soaked, padded arming doublet.

  Shadows danced around the armory from the brazier that burned at each end. The only sound was their breathing and the clank as John dropped the gauntlets onto a table with other pieces of armor.

  Dougal said, “John, I need to check His Grace to be sure he is nae injured. Put off doing that for a bit.” He gave a significant nod toward the door as he passed by John and came to kneel next to James.

  James crooked an eyebrow at him. Putting a hand to his head, Drummand tilted it back, coming close to stare into his eye whilst lifting an eyelid. “Thomas Payn has contacted me with a plan. Whilst you jousted, I met with him,” he whispered. “He has a list of inns where there are Lollard confederates between here and Edinburgh.”

  Dougal Drummond released James’s head, and James closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He could feel his body quiver. He gripped his hands into fists and forced himself still.

  Dougal looked to be sure John was still guarding the door as he moved to the other side and checking James’s eyes again. “He will have horses for us at midnight outwith the postern gate.”

  “You are sure we can trust him?”

  “Since Oldcastle’s execution, he has been on the run. He has as much reason to reach Scotland as you do.”

  James rubbed his forehead. The situation was nearing desperation. If Henry married the French princess, as they said was agreed in the Treaty of Troyes, it would truly be disaster for Scotland. “And wha’ is the price?”

  “Merciful treatment for Lollards who flee England to Scotland.”

  “Their argument is with the Church, not with me,” James whispered. “I will not pursue them if they aid me. I can make no promises for the Church. But escaping the castle will be no mean feat. There’s a guard on the postern gate.”

  Dougal just raised his eyebrows, with a grim tightness in his face. When James nodded, his mouth hard with the knowledge of what he was called upon to do, Dougal stood and called to John, “His Grace suffered no injury, but he should rest.”

  James put an arm around Dougal’s shoulder, as though for support, and said in his ear, “They’re watching the roads to Berwick. Supposedly for the expected hostages.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Does he ken?”

  Dougal jerked a nod as he put an arm around James’s waist. John was hurriedly tossing the pieces of harness into bins, whilst with Dougal’s aid James limped out into the sunshine. James entered the east tower and climbed the winding stairs, the back of his neck prickling for someone to seize them.

  In his room, he was grateful to stretch out on the bed. His head still pounded from his fall, though for a time excitement had made him forget it. John roused him when a page came to the door announcing supper. He was tempted to plead injuries, but the last thing they needed was attention, so the three of them dined quietly at the far end of the dais before returning. James took out the knife he used at table and sharpened it. The snick, snick, snick on the whetstone seemed like the beat of a dance he had yet to learn.

  John knelt before their chest and said in an undertone, “You must have a change of clothes.”

  “One only. We must not weigh ourselves down.” James stripped and donned his darkest blue doublet and hose and picked up his riding boots. He threw a dark cloak over his shoulders and waved away the gold pin John would have used to fasten it. Then he looked the two of them over. He would have wished for black or gray, but only Dougal’s priestly gown was of black. It would have to do. A look and nod passed between the three of them.

  Silently, he slipped down the stairs, the only sound their fast breaths in the quiet of the night. At the doorway he paused to listen before he eased it open and scanned the empty bailey yard. Stealing across the castle yard made his nerves jump under his skin. He slid his back along the rough stone of the wall in deep shadow, the others copying his movements. He could hear the thud of the guards’ feet on the parapet walk above, but they would have had to look straight down to see him. His heart was pounding so loud he was surprised the guard couldn’t hear it. But the footfalls faded around a corner, and James let out a breath.

  “Stay. I’ll give an owl’s hoot twice when it is done,” James whispered. He slipped through the shadows around the corner tower. His fear was a tangible thing; it writhed within his belly. The only weapon he had was the knife he used for meat, and he had never shed blood. But the knife was sharp. It would do the job. The postern was a narrow oaken door with bands of iron set in a corner of the wall where it met a tower. One man stood guard before it, but there were guards nearby on the parapet. Whatever happened, the guard must be silenced.

  James chewed his lip for a moment as he considered. There was no way he could sneak up on the man, so he straightened his shoulders and strode boldly toward the shadowy shape in the darkness. He made no attempt to hide. The guard didn’t move, but James knew he’d been seen, so he nodded. When he got close, he saw that it was a tall, wide-shouldered youth, his eyes big in the faint moonlight. A lock of brown hair stuck out from under his mail cowl to fall across his forehead. Is there some way I could let him go? The idea of killing the lad made his stomach clench. But no… He didn’t dare chance it.

  James took another step and said, “A braw night for taking some air.”

  The lad snorted. “I’d be in a warm bed if I had my choice.”

  James could see the gleam of the young man’s mail armor, but only the sides of his throat were covered by the cowl. James wasn’t sure his knife would have penetrated the mail, but it wouldn’t have to. For a moment, he felt cold to the core. He could return to a warm bed and prison. Instead, he said, “Mayhap an ale will make up for your pain. You’ve been courteous, so let me reward you with a few groats to buy a treat.”
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  “A reward?” He sounded doubtful but stepped closer anyway.

  James reached into his purse with his left hand, fumbling around in it to give himself time, and the guard’s gaze followed the movement, his mouth dropping open. James slipped the knife from his sleeve and plunged it hard into his throat, grabbing him with the other arm to haul him close. The struggling guard opened his mouth and made a gurgling sound. Warm blood gushed over James’s hand and down the front of his doublet. He held a dead body in his arms.

  James gasped in a breath that felt like a sob and whispered, “Réquiem ætérnam dona ei.”

  Outside the walls, a dog barked. James heard a footfall on the parapet. His breath came so fast he might have been racing across the moorlands. When the body stopped twitching, he lowered it to the ground, lifted the bar, and softly eased the heavy door open.

  Outside, James pressed his back against the rough stone of the wall. Despite the cool night wind, he could feel sweat drip down his face. Twice James’s hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo broke the still of the night. When Iain and Dougal hurried through to join him, he was wiping his sticky hands on his tights, his stomach roiling at the coppery smell.

  “Wha’ if they find his body?” John panted.

  “We’d best be awa’ before they do,” Dougal said and pointed toward a copse of beeches that formed a distant black hump some hundred yards away. “Hurry!”

  James gripped the knife in his hand as they ran, wishing beyond words for a good sword. Perhaps Payn would have one, he hoped. In a few steps, James was in the lead. John and Dougal followed. Dougal stumbled when he stepped on his robe. A dog was howling near, and James could hear John panting. No one spoke as James pressed to run faster, cold fear crawling up the back of his neck.

  He was only a few yards from the trees looming in front of him. A silhouette of a man showed in the shifting patterns of moonlight and shadow. There was a shout.

  “Who goes?” Horsemen rode out of the darkness, harnesses ringing and swords thudding against their saddles.