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

by Tomlin, J. R.

  “Yield?” Sir John taunted.

  “Hell mend you,” James growled as he came in with a sweeping side cut. Sir John smacked it away and made a vicious downward blow. James deflected it with his shield. Sir John followed up fast, sliding his blade down James’s until their hilts locked. James was the first to move, and the knight tried to slam his face with his hilt. James backpedaled, drawing the knight toward him. For a second, he was open, and James slammed with his shield into his forehead. The knight’s face went slack as he fell.

  Sir John was on his back. In the moonlight, his eyes looked dazed, blank. James put his sword at the man’s throat and pricked it. A drop of blood welled up black in the faint light. Sir John blinked and his eyes widened. James could press home here on the road with only his guard dog, who would be dead. He stared down, his heart thundering like a horse at the gallop. He watched the drop of blood run down Sir John’s neck, and then he stepped back.

  He snorted a breath. No horse. No coin. And a man dead who only did his duty. He offered Sir John his hand, and the man took it to be jerked to his feet.

  “I thought I was a dead man.” Sir John rubbed his throat and looked at his fingers smeared with blood.

  James cuffed him on the shoulder, his arm stinging where it had been nicked. “Not today.”

  The next day of their journey chilled James through. The wind swirled dead leaves around the legs of their horses and creaked the branches in the trees. Even in his heavy fur cloak, James could feel the icy northern kiss. Joan hunched on her horse, next to her dignified mother, whose golden hair was streaked with silver, and James thought he saw how she would look someday as a matron.

  He spurred to trot up beside her. “This is cold too much for you, my lady,” he said. He unfastened his cloak. “Let me put this about you.”

  Joan smiled at him as she shivered. “My lord, thank you. I should have brought a heavier cloak for riding, but I am not such a frail thing that I cannot live through a cold north wind.”

  As her mother turned her gaze on them, mouth thinning, James swung off his cloak to wrap around her and smiled when color flushed her cheeks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  March 1421

  “How long is Henry going to drag us about the kingdom, I wonder?” James said. Already it had been more than a month of constantly moving from Bristol to Leicester to Coventry, and yesterday it had been late afternoon when they had sighted Middleham Castle rising over huge oaks bright green with the first leaves of spring and hills awash with bluebells.

  With the castle so crowded, the outer bailey had been given over to guards and some of the guests to raise tents and pavilions. In his tent near the entry to the keep, James fastened the brooch that held his cloak, a brass lion rampant that would almost pass for gold. Iain straightened the wrinkles it had from being folded in a chest and nodded that he was done.

  Lyon snorted and looked up from the table, where he was writing a letter for James asking Perth to send funds. “Until he’s wrung every pence from every lord that he can.”

  Only part of the time had the queen and her ladies-in-waiting journeyed with them. The king had sent them on side trips to Hertford and Bedford. But for much of the past month the queen, with Joan at her side, had ridden with the king. The very thought of the nights Joan had slipped her hand into his for the dance made his heart beat fast. That she slipped her hand into his so readily, looked around for him after the feasts and that color rushed to her face when their eyes met, that made him hope for more than he ever had before in his miserable life.

  A page appeared at the door saying that the feast would begin soon, and James sighed. Even freer than he had once been, though Sir John was never far and gave him looks as wary as a snarling dog, James had not learned to love castles. But he followed the lad up the steps to the towering slate-roofed keep. Outside its massive door, guards in the red livery of the king stood with halberds in hand, but the doors were flung open, and the usual crush of nobles and royals were streaming through. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes mixed with lavender that gave up its sent when they trod on it. Long trestle tables draped in white filled the room. A fire crackled on the hearth. Everyone seemed merry. The winter winds had eased, and they had shed heavy furs and smothering cloaks for colorful silks. Henry Percy had joined them, since it was near enough that he could leave his duties holding the north border. He grinned at James across the vaulted hall. Humphrey of Gloucester guffawed at some jape by Jack of Suffolk. Joan was bright-eyed as she smiled faintly and listened to her elegant mother, who seemed to be lecturing her. The queen and king swept in with only a blare of trumpets, the queen plump and blooming.

  James was seated, as he often was, by the queen, but Joan had never before taken a place on his right. He saw her mouth twitch as he took her hands and kissed her on each cheek. She used a scent of rosewater that well became her. James was glad, as always, that Bishop Beaufort was not long-winded in his blessings. They king’s fool soon somersaulted into the hall. The servants carried out a huge platter with a quarter of stag cooked with parsley and vinegar, and giving off a strong scent of ginger.

  As James offered Joan his wine cup, she murmured, “My lord, have you ever desired just a bit of cheese in a quiet corner?”

  “I have been too much alone to desire that.” He covered her fingers with his hand when he took back his wine cup. “But I often desire someone to share one wi’ me, and then it might be a pleasant thing.”

  “Secret corners are hard to find in a castle so crowded.” She gave him one of her puzzling smiles, her lips closed, but sweetly curved. Then she lowered her eyes. “Though I know a secret that is not a place.”

  He raised his eyebrows as she toyed with the dove pie in front of her and whispered, “The queen is with child.”

  “Och, so an heir…” James thought that over. An heir to the throne was important news.

  Her laugh was low and throaty. “It is not a thing one can keep secret long.”

  “The king will be pleased.” But he was weary with thinking of Henry of Monmouth, so he lowered his voice and leaned close as he offered her a sliver of meat from his knife. “There is a garden lined wi’ willows that I walked through today. The ground is deep with bluebells. In the evening, it would remind me of a garden at Windsor. If I could, I would walk with a lady I saw there.”

  “Lord James, that lady would walk with you.” When she smiled and her lips parted, his heart did something queer in his chest, as though it stopped and restarted. “If you asked her.”

  A shout at the door turned both of their heads. A courier brushed by the heralds. The hall fell silent as he hurried to throw himself on his knees. On the breast of his soiled surcoat was the lion device with a label of three points that belonged to Thomas, Duke of Clarence.

  “He is dead, Your Grace,” the courier said in a voice that dragged with exhaustion. “Duke Thomas fell in battle to the Scots.”

  King Henry froze for a moment, his mouth open and the color slowly receding like a tide. “My brother…” he said and shook his head, as though stunned by a blow. “Where? What of his army?”

  “Near Vieil-Baugé, Your Grace. There was great slaughter, but the Earl of Salisbury saved some few.”

  “How could such a thing happen?” the Earl of Suffolk wailed. “His Grace left ample men to hold Normandy. The duke was to lead a chevauchée. All the reports said it was progressing well, burning and destroying in Anjou and Maine.”

  It would have been worse if he had left you in command, James thought. He took a drink of his wine to hide a twitch of his lips. It would slow the English advance, but Henry would not be in a mood to show any mercy, if he ever was. How this would help the Scots or himself would take some thought to untwist. Only when he heard a soft moan from Joan did he remember that Thomas of Lancaster was her stepfather. He wanted to shake his head at himself for not thinking, but he took her hand and pressed the back to his lips.

  “My mother…” she said
. She released his hand and hurried to kneel at the side of her sobbing mother.

  “The Scots, along with some of the French troops, blocked his progress. They agreed to a truce for Easter, but Duke Thomas attacked before it began.”

  The king rose. “This is no matter to discuss at table.” He glanced at his cousin with her mother’s head on her shoulder. “Take your mother to her chamber and see to her, my lady. I shall see all of my commanders in the privy chamber. And you will give us all that you know anent this monstrous act by our enemies.”

  James watched as Joan walked away, her arm around her mother’s waist, although by this time her mother had regained her control, pressing her hand to her mouth. He wasn’t sure that he would be welcome, but he could at least offer to do anything he might. So he had started to follow when a page tugged on his sleeve. “My lord, the king sent me to bring you.”

  James puffed out his cheeks, blew a long breath and followed the lad. When the page closed the door behind James, King Henry was sitting silent with his wine untouched before him, his face stony and unmoving. The only noise in the room was the crack of a log splintering in the fire on the hearth and John of Bedford tapping his fingers on the table. When James took his place, Henry nodded to his brother to proceed.

  “You said the Scots had blocked the way?” Bedford prompted.

  The courier shifted from one foot to the other and nervously licked his lips. “Mayhap his lordship didn’t realize how big their army was.” He shrugged, looking at his feet. “The archers were scattered and the army in no order, but he commanded an attack. John Holland and Gilbert de Umfraville advised that he wait, but he sent the Earl of Salisbury to round up all the archers and bring them after him. The… The duke…”

  The king leaned forward on his elbows, his face grim and dour. “Proceed.”

  “I’m not sure how many men he had. Less than half of our army and near no archers. But he charged the bridge, where they held the way to their main force. The Scots were rallying on the other side. If he could have reached them before they formed…” He was blinking nervously, obviously too fearful to look at any of the royalty around him. “He tried to cross. There were a hundred Scottish archers cutting our men down, and half a hundred knights and men-at-arms held the bridge.

  “But he fought his way across, Your Grace. No one would say he didn’t fight. Then we faced the main body of the Scottish army. They were dismounted, and their archers had the height of a hill. He was still mounted, and one of the Douglas men met him with his lance and unhorsed him. Then… there was no reaching him, Your Grace. They swarmed him. One held his helm aloft on a pike and it became a rout. The army was cut down as they fled. De Umfraville was killed. John Holland captured. Edward Beaumont as well, and the Earl of Somerset. Captured. It… it was a disaster.”

  Henry flicked a glance at James but didn’t speak to him. He just nodded to the courier. “What of Salisbury? The archers?”

  “He reached the battle too late to do aught except cover the army’s retreat and retrieve your brother’s body, sire.”

  “God’s blood!” Humphrey of Gloucester said.

  “Salisbury said to give Your Grace his oath that he would have revenge and would burn all of Baugé.”

  “Damn him.” John of Bedford sounded more angry than grieved. “Was Thomas drunk, do you suppose?”

  King Henry formed his hands into a steeple beneath his chin. Under his golden coronet, his face was so wooden it might have been that of a statue, but James could see his eyelids twitch as he listened.

  “How could this happen?” Young Suffolk moaned again. “The king’s brother dead. Our army shattered!”

  John of Bedford glared at him. “We know how it happened, Jack of Naples.” Suffolk slammed his cup down on the table at the hated sobriquet but subsided when Bedford glowered back at him. “My brother was a fool, a kindly fool but a fool, and was probably drunk at the time. That does not matter now. So I will thank you to shut up.”

  “It might be a good time for a truce,” Beauchamp said. “We could offer a trade of prisoners as they took so many. We could trade Sire de Barbazan for Beaumont, John Holland, and the others.”

  King Henry rose to his feet. “They killed my brother,” he said in a low, cold voice. “Prepare to depart at daybreak in two days. We are for London and then for France.”

  James shouted for Dougal and Iain as he hurried into the tent. “Dougal, write a letter for me to the Earl of Douglas.” He jerked off his cloak and flung it onto his bed. Iain had awaited his return and watched his king pace, picking up the cloak to fold it. “You and Iain will leave at first light for Scotland to carry it. And one to Bishop Wardlaw as well.”

  Dougal sat down at the table and pulled a parchment in front of him. “What should the letter say, Your Grace?”

  James took another turn around the crowded tent, kicked a stool out of his way, and stopped, arms crossed. “That the Earl of Buchan had a great victory at Baugé. That it changes the possibility of my ransom, which I would discuss with him, and that it cannot be said in a letter. Pray that the earl use your safe conduct to join me in London at his best speed before I leave once more for France.”

  Lyon was hopping to take off a boot without sitting down, which he couldn’t whilst James stood. James growled at him, “Oh, sit down, man.”

  When Lyon dropped onto a stool and levered off his boot, he said, “You think he will come? He hasn’t been eager to return to England since years ago when he was a captive.”

  “Aye, I do. He has been speaking kindly of helping me and has reason and more for anger at Albany. Forbye, Albany’s brother of Buchan winning at Baugé could tilt the power, could weaken the Douglas. A’ the more reason to help me.”

  The scratching of Dougal’s pen paused for a moment as he said, “But Douglas’s son, Wigtoun, was at Baugé at well.”

  James laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time Archibald Tyneman was on both sides of a battle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  May 1421

  The fact was, James was hungry and his knees ached after a night of fasting and praying. He was glad that the whole ceremony would soon be over, but being knighted by Henry of Monmouth was a mixed blessing. Whilst it said to many he was a true and valuable knight, it came alarmingly close to making him seem Henry’s vassal. James shifted on his knees and glanced out of the corner of his eye. George de Neville knelt beside him, and beyond in the chapel, a dozen men awaited dubbing.

  When the doors were thrown open, a flourish of trumpets blared, and a herald intoned their names as they filed out of the chapel and through the long halls to the throne room.

  Before them was the gilded throne with scarlet cushions, where sat King Henry, crowned and a sword across his knees. James walked to stand before a kneeler, the first in a line that stretched across the vast chamber. A hundred nobles at least filled the room, watching intently, for many of their sons and cousins were being knighted for battle. But Joan was still making a slower progress to London with the queen. James wished she were here to see, and he felt his face heat.

  Light flooded in from the high windows, and motes swayed in the sunbeams, seeming to celebrate the day. He knelt and found his mouth dry as sand. He worked moisture into it and swallowed the stone that lodged in his throat.

  The trumpets flourished, and Henry rose and strode to James. Bracing himself, James waited. The bruising clout on his shoulder rocked James. Henry lifted the blade and slammed the flat into his other shoulder. “Avance, Chevalier au nom de Dieu,” he pronounced. James rose, and the movement sent hot twinges through both shoulders. He held a laugh behind his lips. He would have purple bruises tomorrow, but his knighthood was worth it. A squire handed Henry a pair of golden spurs that the king thrust into James’s hands and turned go to where George de Neville knelt.

  There should have been a great feast after the dubbing, but Henry had forbidden it. There was too much to be done, he had said. Messengers had been sent acro
ss the kingdom, and thousands of troops were gathering for Henry’s push to punish the army that dared to kill his brother and take lands he had won with force of arms. He had no time to spare for frivolity. James clutched the spurs and waited for the dubbing to be completed, which Henry went about briskly, moving from one new knight to the next.

  He was still mulling over why Henry had decided to include him in the honor. Though it was nearer to vassalage than he liked, it did not include the essential oath that he would have refused. All too often, the English king was a step ahead in his thinking. There was no doubt in his mind, however, whom his knighthood was meant to serve. Another flourish awoke James from his musing, and the ceremony was over.

  Henry beamed as he handed the Master of Arms his sword and came to grip James by the shoulder. “I have word that the Earl of Douglas is in the city.”

  “You are better informed than I, sire. I had nae been told.”

  Henry gave him a push toward the doorway. “I’d a word with you, Sir James. Since the earl is here, I have a bargain for the two of you to think on.”

  He urged James along to his privy chamber and a guard closed the door behind them. Henry removed his crown. “It weighs on me,” he said as he laid it aside.

  James noticed for the first time as the king took his chair that Henry had a little gray mixed in with his brown hair above where it was shorn on the sides.

  “Albany… I hoped to deal with him.” Henry shook his head. “That is not to be. He lets Buchan do whatever he pleases in France, whilst his own sons and grandsons rampage about your kingdom. What a family. Not a coward like Albany, though, sending his brother to do his dirty work. But the Douglas, Tyneman, you Scots call him, is another matter. I think he may be brought to our side, convinced, if not to aid us in France, at least not to oppose us.”