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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  De Barbazan’s face stiffened. “Richard Beauchamp gave us your word that we would be treated with honor. Did he lie?”

  “You would not be the first man of your rank I have imprisoned. Or higher rank than you.”

  James felt his face flame as the King Henry’s gaze flicked toward him.

  Henry continued, “I am the regent of the king of France. Had you submitted to me as you were obliged to months ago, we would not have come to this.” Henry called for a guard. “Find me carpenters. I need a narrow cage built on one of the wagons. Sire de Barbazan needs lodging.” He turned a cold smile on the aged knight. “And long may you enjoy it as our guest.”

  De Barbazan’s thin face paled, but he gave King Henry a straight look. “I have never in my life been called a coward. If this I must suffer, I shall do it.”

  “Then so you shall.” The king turned his back and walked a few paces to look toward the ruffled blue-green of the River Seine, where a barge was being loaded with prisoners.

  I just want this to be finished, James thought as he stepped forward. “We found the man Chaumont, but the men the duke named as murderers were nowhere to be found.”

  “If not in Melun, they will be in Paris,” Henry said in a calmer, determined voice. “They were helped to escape. Sire de Barbazan has chosen his cage over speaking, but others have said they saw the miscreants with Chaumont.” He shook his head. “My vassal, who fought at my side at Agincourt. And he has betrayed me.”

  Sir John gave Chaumont a hard shove in the middle of his back with both hands, hard enough that he stumbled almost into the king. A guardsman grabbed each arm and forced him to his knees. James pressed his lips into a tight line. He had no hope for mercy for the man. Perhaps he didn’t deserve it.

  “I thought you honorable, Chaumont,” Henry said. “Now I give you a chance to salvage that honor. Confess, or I will find more of de Barbazan’s men to share your punishment with you, and you can watch them die before you do. Mayhap they will curse you as they hang.”

  “Your Grace—” Barbazan shouted in protest, but Henry cut him off.

  “Gag him if he opens his mouth again.” Henry looked down at the prisoner. “Well?”

  Chaumont was shaking and his voice broke when he confessed. “I led them out of Melun. I knew the way through one of the contre-tunnels out of sight of your camp.” He looked up at Henry with an expression that begged for mercy, but showed no flicker of hope. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed.

  “And where did they flee?”

  Even with his hands tied behind his back, the man managed a shrug. “I do not know, Your Grace. Away… Where Bourgogne could not find them.”

  “Traitor.” Henry looked around and pointed to a burly, bristling man-at-arms armed with a heavy war axe. “You. How many blows will you need to take his head off?”

  Chaumont was struggling to climb to his feet, but the guardsmen grabbed him again and held the thrashing man in place. After a moment, he slumped, head hanging down, hair covering his face.

  The guardsman was staring at his king, open-mouthed. “I don’t rightly know, Your Grace. I never tried.”

  “Make a good job of it and you shall be my headsman when we’re on campaign.”

  The guardsman hefted his axe and walked warily to stand beside Chaumont, eyeing him much as though he were a log to be chopped. The two guardsmen forced Chaumont forward so his shoulders touched the ground. He made a single sound that James thought might have been a moan or perhaps a prayer. The man-at-arms raised his weapon high over his head and brought it down with all his might. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones and seeped into the cracks.

  “I’m sorry, sire.” Chaumont’s head lolled, still attached by skin and gristle, his eyes wide and blank.

  “Again.”

  He raised the axe high once more, and when he brought it down, the head rolled free.

  “Not ill-done for your first time,” Henry said. “James…” He motioned James over with a friendly gesture and put an arm around his shoulder. “I shall follow the prisoners to Paris. It is opening its gates to me. I have already received word. But after we celebrate Christmas there, we are for England and you by our side to crown my queen. But for the nonce, you’ll go to Rouen. Some of the prisoners will be sent there, and you are to be in charge of the arrangements of their ransoms.”

  James wasn’t sure why his stomach felt like it was twisting its way up his chest, standing next to the crimson puddle. He had seen blood enough before. He cleared his throat and said, “Wha’ of the Scots, Your Grace? Have nae seen them. Will they be sent to Rouen as well?”

  “They are outside the walls awaiting you. But they will not go to Rouen, I fear.” He patted James on the shoulder and turned to Duke Philip. “We shall find those who escaped. Of that you may be sure.”

  James stared at Henry’s back, feeling as though every bit of blood had drained from his face.

  Sir John strolled to join him, smiling. “The guardsmen are bringing our horses, Lord James. It will not take long for our men to pack the tents and gear, so we can leave at first light.”

  James nodded dully. He looked once more toward Henry, considering with horror why the English king had him sign that proclamation. James had never considered that Henry might use it himself.

  Beyond the square, the streets were narrow and crooked, and the red-roofed houses blocked off much of the sun. But they were of solid gray stone and might have been pleasant had they not been so silent. Nothing moved. The townspeople were in hiding. Even the rats were gone, eaten no doubt. No pigeons fluttered. Eaten as well, he supposed. The silence was eerie and made his skin crawl, but better to think about that than what awaited beyond the gate.

  The walls of Melun were so thick that it was like riding once more into the depths of one of the mines before emerging again into the watery autumn light. The sky churned with dark clouds. The earth was icy muck. A horse snorted behind him from amidst his guards. A flock of ravens, blue-black wings shining, flapped overhead, gruffly laughing. His horse’s hooves kicked up clods of mud from the broken ground.

  He rode, keeping his back straight as he stared. Two long gibbets of raw wood stood, and two rows of bodies dangled there. Twenty bodies. He counted them one by one. Koww-koww-koww echoed back and forth as ravens ripped at their flesh and hopped from corpse to corpse, quarreling over their dinner.

  James turned his horse’s head and nudged it closer to the first body. A crow screeched and flapped away. The man twisted on his rope, mouth agape, purple tongue protruding. His red hair lifted in the wind.

  Sweat broke out on James’s forehead and dribbled down his face. The crow had eaten out the man’s eyes, leaving gaping, red hollows. Black swarms of flies rose and sank like storm clouds. The air reeked of shit and piss.

  His head swam from the smell, but James forced himself to ride to the next man, neck twisted by the tight rope and a livid scar up his bare chest.

  A gaunt dog, ribs like ladders in its sides, crouched below the body, snarling. James rode to the next body and the one beyond that and the one beyond that, Scots all. Dead because they obeyed their own liege lord and ignored the command James had given. The wind caught the next, and the body turned slowly, as though protesting.

  This was not my doing. I refuse to claim it. Scottish corpses, stripped of their armor and dignity after making an honorable surrender. Not my fault. This cannot be my fault.

  With a lurch of his stomach, he knew the lie he told himself. He signed that proclamation, never thinking that Henry would use it so. He should have died before he signed it. To truly live, with honor, was to have something worth dying for. He should have died before he allowed them to force him to put his name to this deed. It was a stain that nothing would erase from his name or his soul. He had learned a harsh lesson—and others had paid the cost.

  He had actually considered swearing fealty to Henry. He had thought perhaps it would save suffering. His stomach heaved, and h
is mouth filled with bile. He forced it back down with a swallow, though it burned like a heretic’s fire. But the English would not see him spew. And they would not receive his fealty. Never. Let Henry think wha’ he will. This was a lesson that would stay buried until he used it. And use it he would.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  December 1420

  “Iain,” James called. “We both need practice.”

  His squire was wiry and fast, too light to be a great swordsman, but James never forgot his duty to see that he had enough skill to stay alive when Iain followed him into battle. Not that they would see battle today, or any day soon, beneath Rouen’s chill gray sky.

  The city was long since repaired from the siege when Henry had taken it. Its spires rose high to pierce the clouds, its brick walls solid and slate roofs whole, protecting from the Christmas cold people who now served the English. Rouen was little more than a way station for Henry’s war. James had but little to do in Rouen, though it had women and wine enough when the lonely winter sent him out to seek company. He was tossing aside a blade that didn’t match his requirements, the blunted practice sword rusted and notched, when Iain came in and tugged on his arm. James raised his eyebrows at being handled.

  “Your Grace, come look. Sir John is riding in with riders under a flag of truce. And they fly the Douglas banner.” A banner one couldn’t miss with its large red heart for the Douglas ancestor who had carried the heart of Robert the Bruce on crusade.

  “Which Douglas?” James strode out into the wintery light.

  William Douglas of Drumlanrig swung from his bay and hurried to drop on a knee before James.

  “Your Grace.”

  Sir John dismounted. “He bears a safe conduct from the king and news for you, he says.”

  “Sir William.” James gripped the man’s arm as he rose, more glad than he could begin to say at a friendly Scottish face besides that of his own folk.

  The Douglas gave James a somber look. “I have much news, Your Grace. But nae news I would give you here.”

  “We’ll go in out of the cold. I have comfortable enough rooms.” He nodded to Sir John. “Iain, see that we have wine and food for my guest.”

  Flecks of snow swirled on the wind as they walked together through the narrow street. A dark-haired whore in a wisp of a nightdress pushed open the shutters and called down that she could service the both of them. James shook his head at her and said, “Not today.” They went into the narrow brick house and up a winding stair to the rooms James shared with his household. Sir John and his guards took the level below. Since his chaplain and secretary were away on their own errands, they had the place to themselves.

  James sat, propping his elbows on his knees, and gave Douglas a serious look as he waved him to a chair. “It must be serious news to go to Henry.”

  “First—” Douglas took a seat and let out a long breath. “Albany is dead.”

  James felt as though he had had a great fall and the air knocked completely out of him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, and then he sucked in a great breath. “Dead.” He stared blankly into the distance. “I spent my whole life knowing he wanted me dead. And he is the one who is gone. Strange to have an enemy who shaped my whole life—dead.”

  “He was ancient. Though strong of body and mind, even in his age. Not that I ever understood his mind. He was regent, yet used his power little, except to increase his own lands and keep you in chains.”

  James laughed. “You exaggerate, my lord. I, at least, have never been in chains. But I ken your meaning. He did everything to see I wasn’t ransomed. But now?” James got up and strode to the door, calling for Iain and wine, and Douglas rose. “How stands Scotland? Who rules as regent?”

  “Murdoch.”

  James turned, his mouth opened to protest, and burst out, “Who agreed to such a thing? That wine pot? Regent? That idle weathercock? Did Orkney agree to it? He could not.”

  Iain stood in the doorway, a wine flagon in one hand and a cloth-covered tray in the other, staring at his feet as he tried to look as though he was not listening.

  “No. Orkney… Your Grace, the Earl of Orkney is dead also.”

  James stood silent as the words washed over him. Orkney. Orkney who had been as near to a father as he ever truly had. He brought Orkney’s face to mind as he had knelt that day in the Tower yard and had given his oath.

  “It was a catarrh that went to his lungs. They say he went quickly. His son William inherited the title, but he is young. You cannot yet depend on his support.”

  James nodded numbly. “But the lad is safe? In his own lands and protected?”

  “Aye. Even Murdoch is not fool enough to try to reach past their galleys. And it would be more effort that he would put forth.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Though I might not say the same of his brother, John. He is fat as a hog but not idle, as is Murdoch.”

  James sank down into his chair, mind flying from one thought to another. “Without the old man to oppose it, Murdoch might be pressured to allow my ransom. The problem is as much convincing King Henry of it.”

  “Last year, he agreed to giving you parole in return for hostages, so mayhap he is nae so hostile to the idea.”

  Snorting a laugh through his nose, James shook his head. “Only my parole, not a true release. It would have been madness to agree in exchange for so many hostages of the highest degree.” James realized Iain was straightening the table where he had laid out the wine and a platter of soft white cheese, bread and dried sausage that gave off a spicy scent. “I’ll call you if we have need of aught, Iain.”

  “The earl had another concern to bring up with you.” Douglas went over to pour two cups of wine and turned, frowning at James. “We was bothered over this proclamation of treason. You truly signed such a thing?”

  “I thought I had little choice at the time.” James scrubbed his hand over his face with a hollow feeling in his chest. “You know that he executed the Scots at Melun? The proclamation was his excuse. One I am shamed that I gave him. It was under duress, but I sore regret it.” He snorted what he meant to be a laugh, though he was sure it hadn’t sounded like one. “The earl surely does not intend to obey it.”

  “No, certes not. Nor does Buchan with his thousands of men.” He handed James a cup of wine and sat down to take a drink.

  “What Henry was willing to do, I cannot say. I should have forced his hand to see. Never have I regretted an action more.” James swirled the wine in his cup as he thought of exactly how much dire force Henry of Monmouth would use to achieve an end. “I’ll ask you to carry a letter to Archie Tyneman for me. The earl needs to know how things are with me. But— How badly do things stand? At home?”

  “His father could not control Murdoch’s sons, and he, even less. They pillage at will. He enforces no laws. Taxes go uncollected, felons unpunished. They’re grabbing everything they can. Governance of the realm in a’ respects has ceased, for to enforce the law might cause ill feeling toward him. If anyone rules, it is the Earl of Mar, but he cares for nothing but his own lands. Murdoch won’t raise a hand to keep the law or the peace, even less than the old man.” Douglas shook his head. “Things are ill and worsening.”

  James tilted his wine cup to his mouth and drained it. He bounced the it in his hand, thinking of throwing it, but instead slammed it down on the table so hard that the table shook. “You know wha’ this is— Bringing me with his army— Arming me— Allowing me to fecht for him…”

  “More than that curst proclamation, you mean?”

  “He thinks he can convince me to swear fealty.” James jumped to his feet and made a furious turn around the room. “He wants me to see wha’ he will do to Scotland once he finishes with France, unless I bend a knee to him. More times than I could count he has sworn I’ll not go free until I do.”

  “You truly think that’s wha’ he intends? But how can he think we would agree? Any more than we had Toom Tabard back when the English tried to force him upon us.” />
  “I have no doubt of his intent, my lord. And if he can force France to accept himself, as he has, he is sure he can force Scotland to accept me as his vassal. I need advice from you and from the earls. We have some time. This defeating the Dauphin will not be fast, but we must have a plan for when it happens.” He propped his hands on the window’s surround and looked out at snow that had begun to fall, swirling in eddies in a darkening day. “We must save Scotland from Henry of Monmouth, but how?”

  “Murdoch will not raise a hand to free me. He combines the worst of idleness and greed. Archie Tyneman knows that you must be freed, though he has yet to convince Buchan of that. It is Wigtoun he left to work for your freedom whilst they aid the Dauphin. But we must free you. Somehow.”

  Douglas had no more of an answer than he did. James gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll ready a letter for you. This war of Henry’s is costly. More than I ever imagined. Mayhap we can tempt him with a large enough ransom.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  February 1421

  The crowds were cheering outside Westminster Abbey. James could hear them even within its great walls. The rabble loved Henry so much they were even willing to love a Frenchwoman for his sake. She belonged to their strong young king: the conqueror of their ancient foe. They weren’t worried anent what the conquest had cost them or how much more it would cost to complete it.

  James wiped a drop of sweat from the back of his neck. In spite of the frigid February, the abbey, now filled with hundreds of nobles, was stifling. He licked his dry lips, wishing he’d broken his fast and drunk wine or even some ale before they started their long trek. The streets of London, were draped in long pennons of velvet and silk and crowded with screaming onlookers.

  The soon-to-be queen-consort looked beautiful in her magnificent gown, white velvet with lions and fleurs-de-lis formed from pearls and rubies. An ermine and red velvet cloak stretched out twenty feet behind her, the end carried by three ladies in waiting. James caught his breath when he recognized Joan de Beaufort. When they reached the front, between the other ladies in waiting, Joan glided to stand at the side of the nave, an enigmatic smile on her lips.