A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  The bishop, thin, dark hair lightly streaked at the sides with gray, sat at a table, a calfskin folder open in front of him. He closed it with a snap. "So."

  James bowed. "You sought me, my lord?"

  Lamberton rose to his considerable height, though James was taller since he'd gotten his full growth. He racked James with a look. Chewing a lip with a guilty pang, James held Lamberton's glance. The bishop, even at so great an age as forty, was handsome in a hawk-faced way and dressed in his usual blackish purple and fine lace, suiting a bishop.

  The bishop inclined his head and said in a smooth tone, "Did I not order that you stay within the manse? Do my commands carry no weight now?"

  James winced but forced himself to meet the bishop's deep-set gray eyes. "You did, my lord."

  "You disobeyed me. I expect obedience in my own house."

  James couldn't help ducking his head. The bishop had the right to be obeyed, especially by someone he'd rescued and taken in. The saints only knew what would have happened to him if the bishop hadn't taken him as a squire out of regard for his father. "I know." He wanted to say he was sorry, but choked on it. As direful as the day had been, he would do it again if it came to that.

  Lamberton sighed. "It did no good for you to see that. Nothing could stop it."

  "He knew I was there," James said. "He knew."

  "It's done, and mayhap it gave him some comfort. God knows..." Lamberton shook his head. "You're bloodied. What happened?"

  "A small accident. No one recognized me. I did nothing that would bring harm to you. I swear it."

  "It's not me I'm worried about, Jamie. As a bishop, they can do little to me. But I couldn't protect you, I fear, if you crossed King Edward's people. Not after he refused your fealty. There's no forgiveness in him for your father's offenses."

  Heat flooded James's face. "Offenses?" His father's offense had been that he was a loyal Scot and had sent James to France so the English could not hold him as hostage.

  Lamberton shrugged. "So he sees it. And the power of how to see it is his. Never forget that, James. Do not forget it for even a moment." Lamberton turned and walked to the window to look out over the garden where roses climbed the outer wall.

  "I never forget. But," James frowned at Lamberton's back. "I have never understood. You wanted me to swear fealty to King Edward. I would have been Wallace's enemy."

  "Would you have been, Jamie? At Douglasdale, you would have had your men, all the spears of Douglasdale, a thousand strong. You would have held Douglas Castle. Would you have held it against Wallace or the King of the Scots?"

  James opened his mouth to answer but then closed it. His throat tightened. "There is no King of the Scots."

  Lamberton lowered his voice. "No. There isn't." Lamberton drummed his fingers on the edge of the window for a moment. "We leave for St. Andrew's tomorrow at first light." He turned. "I grieve for an old ally and friend. But I worry, too, for others. Wallace carried letters when he was captured. Almost certainly from the good Bishop Wishart. From whom else? Today, Edward has revoked certain gifts to Robert de Bruce."

  A chill went down James's back. Wallace's death was even more hideous than his own father's by starvation. Who else might be at risk now? Now that the King of England had decided his enemies in Scotland should be killed rather than brought into his peace. James had guarded the door the night his lord the bishop signed a secret pact with Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick. He still wasn't sure what was in the pact or others from secret whispered meetings with John, the Red Comyn and the withered old Bishop Wishart, meetings too secret to be known by a squire. Whatever the secrets were, they must be protected. James flushed hot and then cold. What would they do to the Bishop if those were revealed?

  Lamberton held his gaze and nodded. "I see you understand."

  They had a small tail of guards in London this late summer visit, only a score of men-at-arms, with the bishop's chaplain, his secretary, James himself and the page Giles. Such a party could leave quickly and quietly and before the English king thought to order them otherwise, if God be merciful. James would do his best to see to it. It was his duty.

  He sighed and shifted where he stood. "I'm sorry, my lord. Truly. I--It doesn't excuse me, but to think of everyone cheering whilst he was tortured so..." His voice broke, but he went on. "He knew me as a lad."

  The bishop nodded. "I know that and I forgive you, Jamie. No worse harm has come than you grieving yourself seeing the horror of it. Now I'm packing my papers. It's best out of the leopard's sight when he's angry, lest one become prey. The men-at-arms aren't to be told we're leaving the city until the moment." He seated himself and nodded his dismissal. "Clean yourself up and see to it."

  Chapter Three

  St Andrews, Scotland: March 1306

  James ran his eyes over the high table and leaned against the wall. His duties seen to and all of the guests around the bishop enjoying their meal, he could relax. He picked up a cup from the side table of squires and filled it from a passing flagon. He took a deep drink of the fruity red wine.

  The great hall of St. Andrews Castle was hazy with smoke. The scent of roast pheasant and spices filled the air. The brown stone walls were covered with banners, the Cross of St. Andrew and the bishop's own banner, pennants with heraldry of green, and gold, and white, but no sign of the blue Saltire of Scotland. A singer plucked a lute and sang a tender song of a maiden left by her love. At this side of the hall, James could barely make out a few words over the roar of the fire, the clatter of cups and the murmur of half-a-hundred conversations.

  A party of English knights had arrived during the afternoon. Now they were in the second hour of a feast. My lord bishop sat in his black velvet robe, chin resting on his hand as he listened to the thickset man attired in green seated at his right, one Sir Edmund of Hylton.

  James snagged half a roasted grouse dripping with brown gravy from another boy’s trencher and crunched into it.

  The freckle-faced squire looked up at him and grinned. "Mind eating your own food, Jamie?"

  James shrugged. "No point in trying to sit down until these English have their fill." Perhaps then, he could slip through the side gate and down to the town. He smiled as he wiped the gravy from his lips, thinking of a red-haired maid at the Traveler's Inn who had given him a long gaze from the corner of her eye two days before. She'd brushed against his arm when she'd filled his cup with ale.

  Giles stood behind the bishop with a flagon of wine ready. A servant walked by with a bowl of frumenty sending up wisps of almond-scented steam, but if the trenchers weren't refilled properly, it would be James's fault as the most senior of the squires.

  He washed the grouse down with a long pull of his wine.

  A bustle and raised voices at the far end of the room made James stand up straight. The gates were closed for the night, and any seeking shelter should have gone to an inn in the city. It had to be someone seeking the bishop.

  James edged his way past the side benches where two score of English men-at-arms sat at the lower tables. One finished a bawdy story, and a loud laugh went up. James narrowed his eyes. One of the younger pages was passing a flagon of wine. The bishop was straight-laced about such. James would hurry the pages to bed as soon as he saw to these newcomers. The squires would have to do what was left of the serving.

  He pushed past the boy. In the door speaking to one of the guards was a young man, well dressed, a squire probably from his age, wearing the red saltire of Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick, and a step behind him a bearded man-at-arms.

  James lengthened his stride and stepped beside the guard. "What goes here?"

  "I bring a message for Bishop Lamberton," the squire said.

  "From Lochmaben Castle?"

  At the young man's nod, James held out his hand. "I'll take it to him. You'll want food and rest."

  "I must myself put the message in the bishop’s hand." The squire grasped the purse at his belt. "His Grace's command."

  Th
e phrase was like a slap, and James caught his breath. He went hot and then cold. His grace?

  Shaking himself, he looked over his shoulder at the bishop, still deep in conversation with the English knight. "I can not allow it. But you may watch me tell him. If your lord wants that message noised to the English, I mistake your words."

  The squire looked as though he'd protest but after glancing from the guard to James, he nodded shortly. He drew a folded paper, slightly crushed, out of his purse and put it into James's hand. The seal on it was intact and it was the crest of the Bruces without doubt. Turning it over, James nodded. The inscription read to William de Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews in a tolerable hand but not that of a scribe. No nobleman wrote his own letters, except at great need.

  James waved towards a place at the lower tables as he slipped the letter into his tunic. "I'm sorry. It's late and the table is crowded, but there's always room. Take meat. Drink."

  He frowned as he circled the long tables and made his way across the raised platform where the bishop sat with his more honored guests. James slipped the flagon out of Giles's hand. He bent to fill the bishop's goblet with the pale golden wine. "A message from the Bruce, my lord," he whispered.

  The bishop leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table, and gave James a long look.

  "Aught amiss?" The knight took a deep drink of his wine, but his eyes were shrewd as they darted between James and Lamberton.

  "Why no, Sir Edmund." Lamberton smiled slightly. "Were you expecting such?"

  "Expecting something amiss?" The knight laughed. "And in the house of a bishop of the church?" His eyes slid towards where the squire and man-at-arms sat, plain in Bruce colors.

  "My lord, I'll send the pages off to their quarters," James said. "And wait on you myself. The other squires will see to the lower tables."

  Lamberton nodded.

  James pulled Giles aside and told him to gather the pages for bed. He signaled the squires that they were to attend the tables. Standing behind the bishop's high-backed seat of honor, James surveyed the room. The men-at-arms were deep in their cups and full with a heavy meal. Soon they'd wrap themselves in their cloaks and push the benches aside to sleep in the warmth of the great hall. Getting Sir Edmund to retire would be harder. Nothing to do but to wait him out. James bowed to him slightly as he refilled the knight's half-empty goblet.

  "Attentive squire you have, Sir Bishop. Mine are more like to go off and swill wine themselves."

  "James is a good lad." The bishop picked up a sweetmeat and rolled it between his long fingers before nibbling on it.

  By the time the man finally gave up and made his way to his bed, swaying slightly, James was ready to dump him head first into the castle well or into one of the deep dungeons so as not to spoil the water. James gave a sigh of relief and followed the bishop up the narrow stairs to his chamber.

  From far below, the crash of waves sounded like muted thunder. The worn stairs were empty, a single man-at-arms at the turn of the landing. James closed the door.

  Lamberton took the letter and examined the seal, walking to stand in the light of the candles. Then he ripped it open and unfolded the parchment. After he read it, he crushed it in his hand. "You did well, James. Well, indeed. The question is--what does Sir Edmund know? An oddly timed visit. Yet, he can’t be sure of my knowledge, any more than I am of his. He must guess that I have the news. But as long as he only guesses--"

  The bishop strode across the chamber as though it couldn't contain his emotions. His face was taut and his stride full of the energy of excitement.

  "Yes, I must make plans. To reach Scone and in secret. I've no doubt these sudden guests mean to keep me from leaving."

  "Scone." A shiver of excitement went through James. "To crown Robert de Bruce then."

  "Comyn betrayed us. He revealed our plans to King Edward. Sent him proof--an agreement they'd signed. Robert killed him."

  "What?" James shook his head in disbelief. "He killed the Red Comyn?"

  "In Greyfriars Church." Lamberton stared at the wall for a moment, face grim. "In a church. Those two always hated each other. I hoped that this once, for Scotland--" He shrugged off the thought. "It will mean the Comyns and all of their kin joining the English, of a certainty."

  "But they're the most powerful clan in Scotland. How can he fight the English and the Comyns, too?"

  "I fear it won't just be the Comyns. The MacDougalls will side with them, as well. Possibly others. It will be a civil war." Lamberton's mouth thinned to a line. "Betrayed. I never suspected such treachery from John Comyn. Now there's nothing for it but to crown Robert. It must be done before Edward or the Pope can act. He begs me come to him there. It's over-early for our plan. Yet, we may still have a chance. And if we can win, he'll make a king for us. I believe that." He turned to James, his eyes wide, blazing with emotion. "So help me God, I believe it."

  "Is there really a chance?" James wanted to laugh. He wasn't sure that he cared if they had a chance. Not as long as he could fight for what was his.

  Lamberton shook his head. "It's a slight one. Yet, King Edward is old. His son will not be the king that he is. To hold out against the whole of the English army is a small chance indeed, but the only one we have." The excited look dropped away. He smiled, his sharp face alight with pleasure. "So, first, we'll get Robert de Bruce crowned King of the Scots."

  "I would go to him," James said in a rush. "I'd throw my lot in with him. It's what I must do. For good or ill, to win our freedom or die trying."

  Lamberton studied his face carefully. "James, this is a throw of the dice that is... Lad, if it fails, you saw the cost the day they killed William Wallace. Have you forgotten what they did?"

  "I haven't forgotten." He had thought long and hard lying abed in his chamber with the other squires. He was meant to care for his people and his lands. It was what he was born for. Without that duty, he had no place in the world. He'd rather die in the attempt than live so. "It's time for me to take a man's part. I'll give him my oath. If it means Wallace's fate, then I'll pay it."

  "You're your father's son." A sad look flickered over the bishop's face, but he shook his head as though dismissing an unwelcome thought. He opened a casket that sat on the table and took out a small purse. "You'll need this. Take my palfrey. There's no stouter horse in the country than my Ferrand. Tell Robert..." He smiled. "Tell his grace that I will see him at Scone."

  James took the purse from the bishop and weighed it in his hand, heavy with coins. He might never see this room again. Would never again be here as the bishop's squire. A good thing--yet-- He opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure how to thank Lamberton or say what he'd meant to a homeless, fatherless boy, surviving alone on the streets of Paris.

  The bishop pulled James to him and embraced him fiercely. "Go. Get your things and sneak down to the stables. I'm not ready for anyone to know I'm throwing my lot with Robert, not until I reach Scone, so pretend you're taking the horse without my permission."

  James dropped to a knee and clasped the bishop's hand in his own.

  "God be with you." The bishop sounded a bit hoarse, but James jumped to his feet and dashed for the door.

  He took the stairs down two and three at a time to the chamber, almost filled with narrow cots, which he shared with two other squires. Both were asleep. James buckled on his sword and stuffed a shirt and trews into a bag. One of the boys mumbled, but pulled his coverlet over his head and went back to sleep.

  This night seemed so strange, like something James was dreaming as he softly closed the door behind him. A torch flickered and cast dancing patterns in the dark hall. He looked around, heart hammering. His life. At last. It was starting.

  He pelted down the few steps to the side door. A man-at-arms stood on the parapet, warming his hands over a brazier. The cold night air slapped James's face, and he strode through the empty bailey, breath fogging, face hot with excitement. The wood door to the stable squealed when James pushed it open.
The smell of hay and horses rushed out at him.

  When he led the bishop's tall gray gelding out of its stall, it nickered, tossing its mane. He patted its neck, a fine animal, no huge destrier but big with bulging muscles fit for a hard, fast ride. He took the bit like a prince and James threw the saddle over his back.

  "Hoi. What you doing wi' the bishop's horse?"

  James whirled; his sword scraped coming out of the sheath. "I'm taking it."

  A compact man, spare and hard with a face like old leather, the stable-master stepped towards James, a club raised. "That you'll not."

  James swung with the flat of his sword. The man jerked back and caught the blow with his club. James's blade slid down the club, and he leant into it, shoving the man backwards, nearly taking him off his feet. James jerked his sword free. A feint to the side deceived the man. James caught him with a hard blow to the side of the head. He went down to one knee, his eyes glazed. James reversed his hilt and brought it down hard on the stable-master's head.

  Breathing fast, James knelt to flip the man onto his back. Blood was trickling from a gash in his head. James put his hand on the old man’s chest and, with a rush of relief, felt a steady breath. He should make this good, so he grabbed a short rope from a neat stack in a corner and tied the man's hands.

  A few minutes later, James rode out the postern gate, nodding to the guard. For a moment, he paused on the road and looked at the moon reflected on the gray sea below. The crash of waves was carried up on the night wind. The road showed clear in the light. James grinned as he clapped his heels into the horse's flanks and took off at a canter. A shout welled up, and, at last, he couldn't contain it. "A Douglas! A Douglas!" His battle cry echoed in the night.

  The second daybreak after leaving St. Andrews, James stood at the top of the Arrackstone looking down the long slope of the hill. Dawn tinted the eastern sky all shades of gold and rose. He breathed in the heather scent of the morning air and dismounted. Leading the bishop's horse beside the road, he let it crop at some golden gorse. It shook its mane and gave what James would have sworn was a reproachful look. Surely, it had never been ridden so far and so fast with not even a curry. He patted its neck apologetically.