The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  With hardly a fight, the Earl of Richmond surrendered to James, rather than be butchered like a pig in a slaughtering pen.

  ***

  Rievaulx Abbey, 1322

  “Argh!” Boyd blew his nose and wiped it with the backside of his hand. “Damn English weather.”

  Rievaulx Abbey stood defiantly against a gray sky. A heavy mist saturated the air. I shivered as the oncoming cold of night settled in my bones. “When the rain clears, Boyd, see that they torch it ... just like Melrose. Have they found the abbot yet?”

  Through the wretched rain, a parade of monks was prodded past. Beside me, Randolph scowled in reproach at Boyd for not keeping a tighter rein on his men.

  “Careful there,” Boyd said as one of his captains, who was taunting the monks with threats of castration, marched smartly by. “Mercy on Our Lord’s, ah ... pack of bloody, worm-eating, boy-swiving chanters ... I’ll take a look about, sire, and bring him to you ... if he lived.”

  Boyd pounded up the steps to the church, paused to share a brief word with Gil, and then ducked inside. Gil came across the open green, his lean legs swallowing up the distance lightly, even after so long a day on the battlefield. He held out a silver plate, a barely touched meal of salmon and fruit piled upon it. He tipped the plate sideways and let the food rain onto the ground. “Appears the King of England left in a hurry. Two roasted swans untouched on the table, kegs of French wine, jeweled goblets. Everything stone cold by the time we arrived, but the men are cleaning it up well.”

  “Which road did they take?” Randolph asked.

  Gil looked to the dimming east and raised a finger. “That one.”

  Toward the coast. Ah, very good. If Walter cannot run him down, then let Angus pursue him across the sea.

  That night I slept not in the chill and damp of the open, but in the Abbot of Rievaulx’s own down-filled bed, my belly stuffed full and the taste of Burgundian wine on my tongue.

  We had stood against the English at Bannockburn and brought them down. Taken from them Stirling and Perth and Edinburgh and best of all – Berwick. Driven them from Scotland time and again. This time we had pursued them deep within their own borders and beaten them soundly.

  Still, it was not enough. Never enough. I wanted Edward of England kneeling in deference before me, promising all.

  Always, there was one more task to accomplish.

  ***

  “King of bloody nothing is what you are. I’d sooner scrape my knees raw to pet a flea-infested mongrel than kneel to you.” John of Brittany, the Earl of Richmond, sneered at me. “Now have these bindings removed. I am a nobleman, not some commoner.”

  In the center of the abbey’s nave, Randolph and James flanked a mounting pile of valuable relics and royal treasures. Randolph picked through the items on his side, methodically separating them into piles, while James plucked up the tall, curve-topped crozier and tested its weight. Beside him, Abbot John of Rievaulx swayed and made the sign of the cross.

  “There’s no doubt of your identity,” I said to the earl. “I’d know you by your Plantagenet tongue alone. That is why you were spared. That is also why you will be escorted back to Scotland, like it or not.”

  Rain had lasted through the night, drumming steadily at the roof. I stifled a yawn. Hoping for news of success from Walter, I had risen far too early and now, near noon, I was suffering the effect of too little sleep and too much drink. “You took a thorough thrashing yesterday. Again, you English underestimated us. Didn’t think we would come this far, aye, let alone outwit you, did you?” I turned to Abbot John, who had been brought before me that morning, looking every moment like he was on the verge of spouting some protestation. Vaguely, he reminded me of Bishop Lamberton in demeanor – that noble, restrained countenance, the cool, thoughtful squint, the slightly pursed lips. The build, though, was altogether different. Lamberton was taller and square-shouldered. The Abbot of Rievaulx had sloping shoulders, a stunted neck, shorter limbs. I studied him a moment and was about to speak when Richmond started again with his complaints.

  “You cannot keep me this way. Where’s your chivalry? Name your price. Release me on my honor, Lord Robert, and you’ll get your ransom as soon as can be arranged.” He strained to slip a hand free of the ropes that kept his hands behind his back, but they were tightly done. It would, in fact, be quite a trick to cut them loose at all without doing some harm to his person. Gritting his teeth, he kept on trying. It was amusing to watch.

  “Ransom?” I said. “I do not think I mentioned any ransom. I may, however, consider it, after I have had some time to weigh your worth. Then again, perhaps you’re not worth anything. After all, your king abandoned you both. Sped off without his queen, as well, from what I understand. How much do you reckon she’s worth?”

  The abbot’s jaw dropped. Richmond’s cheeks blanched.

  I played along. “And the king himself ... even more, aye?”

  The abbot drew himself up to his full height. “They’re both long gone. There is no information to be gained from either of us, because we haven’t any to give. You’ve come as far as you can and earned your success, my lord. The king and queen have fled to safety and unless you intend to march on London –”

  “Hah!” I raised my forefinger in the air, laughed and then thrust both hands heavenward. “Randolph, James ... did you hear that? We’ve been invited to London.” I stomped at the abbot and put my face so close to his that I could smell the scented oils he had recently bathed in. “You want us gone from here, do you? To merely stroll back north, content in this one battle’s victory? To clasp you to our breast in brotherhood, sharing well wishes and call the day done? Is it arrogance or delusion that guides you, your grace? After Melrose, how can you believe that we would not, for a moment, seek justice?”

  Wide eyes bespoke his innocence. “Melrose, my lord? I know nothing recently of Melrose.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Richmond visibly cringing, retreating into his shirt collar like a badger backing into its burrow.

  James thrust forth the crozier. “Let him swear upon this.”

  As the abbot reached for the curve of the crozier, I waved the gesture off. “No, no, I believe him.” I laid my hand on the abbot’s shoulder. “Let me tell you what your fellow Englishmen have done. I trust your king boasted of his occupation of Edinburgh? Did he tell you, as well, that he put torch to Holyrood Abbey? That on his way south, he did the same to Melrose? If it were naught but timbers burnt to the ground, we could easily do the same in reprisal. After all, what is an abbey, but a group of buildings, hewn of stone and cut from wood and erected through the sweat and muscle of men, aye? Ah, but Edward of England did not stop at that when he came to Melrose. He ordered the murder of every monk there. And they nailed old Abbot William to the doors of the nave and shot him full of arrows for sport.”

  I withdrew my hand and unsheathed the knife from my waist.

  The abbot flinched, but he did not retreat. “Vengeance belongs to Our Lord.”

  “You and I agree on that.” In one swift motion, I cut the cord from his waist. “Now remove your vestments, although you may keep your undergarments. The rest of the monks will be asked to do the same. I’ll send you from here, lives and souls intact. But the next time you, in any manner, support the actions of your baseless king, think of Melrose, your grace. Meanwhile, we will be collecting our recompense from the abbey before we burn it to the ground. There are plenty of your brethren in Scotland who will appreciate these fine raiments.”

  “And what of me?” Richmond demanded.

  “I said” – I turned toward him sharply, annoyed at his flippancy and curtness – “you will come back to Scotland as my prisoner. I’ll set your ransom if and when I have need of more monies. For now, we’re well provided for.”

  “You can’t!” Richmond flailed his arms behind his back and stumbled forward, nearly falling on his face before catching his balance. “I am King Edward’s cousin!”

  �
��All the more reason to bloody stuff you down a hole and close it up. Your kind should never be allowed to procreate. And there is a solution to that.” Having suffered enough of Richmond’s company, I spun on my heel. “See that the abbot and his people leave their clothes behind and send them on their way, Randolph. And Douglas, keep the earl well under guard and out of my sight on our return. Once all the treasures here are uncovered and packed away, this place will be filled with smoke.”

  I made it down the outer steps and was halfway across the cloister when I heard the clatter of hooves on stone. Walter, mounted on his own horse, led a spirited gray charger by the reins. Behind him was a small contingent of about fifty men. He dismounted and pulled the gray toward me. Wild with anticipation, I hurried toward him.

  The moment his features came sharply into view, my hopes tumbled.

  Breathless, tired, he hung his head a moment, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry. We lost him on the road at nightfall. That was after we followed him as far as the coast and came within sight of him. Angus’ galleys were there, just up from Bridlington. The only ships available to Edward were nothing but trading ships – they could not have outpaced Angus. So he turned back inland – that is when we lost him. By the time we found his tracks again, he was already well on his way to York. He did abandon this horse on the way, though. Not much compensation, but ...” His head dipped again.

  “You did well, Walter.” I pounded him on the upper arm. Although gravely disappointed, I dared not show it. “Keep the animal for yourself. You’ve earned it this time.”

  “Queen Isabella?” he asked.

  “Left from here in a nun’s habit, we learned. I sent men out as far as I dared. Nothing.” Together we walked across the open cloister. The first tang of smoke drifted on damp October air.

  “We’ll collect what tributes we safely and swiftly can,” I said. “Then I want to go back home. You, as well?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Aye. Home.”

  ***

  The following year, Andrew Harclay, the Earl of Carlisle, weary of our renewed raids on the north of England and swimming in futility with his king, proposed to me in person at Lochmaben that a lengthy truce be drawn up between Scotland and England, so that both kingdoms could recover from what was proving to be a never-ending quarrel.

  Upon hearing of this, King Edward of England flew into a rage. He had Harclay taken by treachery, tried and hanged as a traitor – the very man who had captured and delivered Thomas of Lancaster to him. Carlisle was now without a competent governor. Edward of England hurried to undo his error. He extended the offer of a truce between the kingdoms of England and Scotland – of thirteen years. A pity such a worthy opponent as Harclay had to give his life for our benefit.

  I affixed my royal seal to the treaty as King of Scotland. Though smug in the acknowledgment, I was no more a fool than I was hopeful. Peace would prevail only for as long as there was no alternative for Edward of England. He had little loyalty among his liegemen. And I had one of his few faithful in my captivity: his kinsman, that surly Earl of Richmond. I had not yet named a price for his ransom and when I did, the amount would further bankrupt poor Edward.

  There remained one further confirmation I sought that the crown I wore sat justly upon my head. I would dispatch Thomas Randolph to the pope in Avignon. My nephew was both delicate and adroit in his diplomacy. In return, I would tender a promise that one day I would do the work of God and lead an expedition to the Holy Land. Only then would my heart rest content.

  For now, there was peace. Scotland belonged to the Scots.

  And Elizabeth was with child again.

  Ch. 22

  Edward II – Tower of London, 1323

  A dozen beeswax candles flickered on the supper table at staggered heights like stars suspended. They sputtered and waned with the cross-draft that swept from the open window behind me and stirred the hairs on my neck. With one breath, I thought, I could perish the lights of heaven.

  The pressed ride back to London from Lancashire had only intensified my growing suspicions and sunk me in a mood so glum and surly nothing could have revealed the light of hope to me. Following the execution of Thomas, the earldom of Lancaster had become a matter of contention. His brother Henry, Earl of Leicester, had clamored for it, but I reminded him such matters were not so lightly handled. I hoped he would be less recalcitrant than his sibling had been, but recent events had indicated otherwise. I gazed down the length of the table at Isabella as she hunted through the cinnamon sauce drizzled over her capon. She speared a cherry with her knife and brought the red, glistening fruit to her lips.

  Her hand froze in place as she looked up at me, gold-green eyes flashing like the flicker of lightning in faraway clouds. “You arranged matters in Lancaster quickly? He was agreeable?”

  “Indeed, I did not. Henry is every bit as much of a boorish prig as his brother Thomas was. Worse, perhaps. Like a ram that butts without provocation.”

  “Then,” she began, as she looked back down at her meal, searching for another cherry, “why did you return to London so soon if trouble remains?”

  “Because, my dear, when one of my most dangerous enemies escapes from imprisonment here, don’t you think I’d want to look into it?” I scoffed at her. The woman could be sly, but her feigned ignorance was nakedly absurd. “Roger Mortimer escaped not a fortnight ago from here. The rope he scrambled down was still dangling from the wall the next morning. He disappeared from London without a trace – time afforded to him by the sheer fact that nearly every man in this garrison, as well as the kitchen cooks, succumbed to a sleeping potion slipped in their ale as they celebrated the feast of St. Peter. Obviously, Mortimer did not manage this feat alone. But of course, my dearest wife, you already know that, don’t you? I came back because I feared for your safety. We have spies, traitors, at work in our midst.”

  I paused there, studied her a moment. She looked away. So telling. “When I find them out, I will hang them by their necks from London Bridge. Already, I have dispatched agents into Wales and the Marches to hunt the foul bastard down. Anyone who aids him shall pay a dear, dear price. I’ve no tolerance for liars, none at all.”

  At one time, she had befriended Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, in an effort to oust Hugh from my council, until she perceived it to be more to her advantage to abandon my cousin and nestle under my protective wing. Her jealousy over my intimate bond with Brother Perrot had been the sole cause for the wedge driven between us in the first years of our marriage. Now she sought to dislodge Hugh. When would the woman ever desist from creating such strife? Did she thrive on it out of amusement?

  Isabella’s voice was irregular, uneasy. “I pray you find the traitors, whoever they are ... and that they are punished properly. But enough of unpleasantries. May we talk of our children? You see them so little.” She forced a smile and tilted her head of pale, golden curls in an attempt to lighten the mood, but even so her shift in subjects was blatantly awkward. “Edward excels in his studies, his tutors say. His French, it is perfect. As if he had been born there.”

  “Commendable.” I slid my chair back and turned it so that I faced the hearth, watching the sparks fly out and skip over the stones before the embers faded and died. Heat, as in a passion, lives but briefly before it goes forever cold. Such had it been between Isabella and me since fair Joanna had arrived in the world, four long years ago. Years without the Lords Ordainers. Years in which power had sifted through my fingers like quicksand when it should have grown.

  Once upon a time, there had been some tenderness between us – Isabella and I. A need of sorts. True love? Never that. Dependency rather. I had required an heir. She had come to accept her purpose, where once she had resented it. Now she had her children to coddle and fawn over. And I had immortality. Young Edward was a boy just crossed over into manhood who sat tall and comfortable in his saddle, wielded a sword with surprising strength and captured glances from blushing court maidens with subtle aplomb. Isabell
a had dominated his early years, insisting upon overseeing his lessons and teaching him courtly manners herself in the casual French fashion. Although I had not the luxury of time for my children, Isabella’s close involvement with them unsettled me – particularly in regards to my heir. A woman’s influence was seldom beneficial.

  I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my knees as the fire warmed my face. “Can our son thread a loom, too?” When she didn’t return the barb, I looked again at her.

  Isabella carved her meat into thin slices and nibbled delicately. “I do not know. Perhaps you could ask him? He spends much of his spare time with his friends now. ”

  “May that be his salvation,” I said with an unintended growl. She did look at me then – so intensely that I could tell there was another announcement coming. One I would not like.

  “He said he would gladly go to France in your stead. Pay homage for your holdings there as my brother has demanded. I have written to Charles, to ask if that is acceptable.”

  Her brother Charles had of late come to the throne of France, but only after three older brothers had died. Unlike his slovenly and stoic predecessor, his father King Philip IV, he was worldly and full of guile. My consort’s proposition had stirred yet more suspicions within me. An itch I had to scratch. I got to my feet and approached her. “How dare you do so without first asking me.”

  She stiffened at my words. “I write to my brother frequently. It was a question, only. I do not speak for you. That is why I mentioned it.”

  “When? When did you write to him?”

  She slammed the butt of her knife against the table. “I told you – I write to him often. I do not know when I asked. Charles has flaunted his demands since he took the crown. You cannot avoid him forever, unless Ponthieu and Aquitaine mean so little to you that you would give them away. Why is it important to know when I asked him that? Should it matter? And as your wife,” – her eyelids thinned to slits – “am I to cease corresponding with my own brother unless I gain your permission first as to what I compose?”