A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland

by J. R. Tomlin

  "There's some mutton roasting and I'll send one of the girls to the baker for some fresh bread," the dark-haired one put in.

  He handed over a groat and sat in the common room to eat his mutton with a mug of watery ale. A serving wench took a customer up the steep creaking stairs. The man patted her rump as they climbed.

  Mabel sat down on the bench beside James and smiled at him. "Mayhaps you're looking to do more than sell a horse."

  "Just selling the animal is all."

  "Well, nobody I know needs one." She shrugged and her gown slipped even lower over her full breasts. "I bet I could make you happy though. Want to?"

  He sighed. "I said no." He drained the mug and climbed the stairs to the sleeping room. There was only one bed, a big one that he'd probably end up sharing with another traveler. It filled the whole room with just enough space to squeeze around it. The musty smell of the straw-filled mattress made him sneeze. He pulled off his boots and lay on top of the blanket in all his clothes.

  Sleep came as soon as he closed his eyes. He dreamed of swords flashing as he hunted through dark woods. He killed and killed, blood spattering until he reeked with it, but no matter how he called, he couldn't find the king or Isabel.

  He awoke to a man snoring loudly to his left. Sitting up, he pulled on his boots. When he went out, the morning was gray and overcast with a smell of rain in the air.

  He chewed his lip. The horse would almost certainly get him into the castle even if they didn't buy it. But he needed information first so he strolled past the dock and up the slope. A baker yelled out that he had fresh pies. James bought one, savory with meat and onion.

  He licked the crumbs off his lips as he tilted his head contemplating another. "My pa was at the castle when Lord Douglas commanded it."

  The man spit. "Old man didn't do nothing to save the town, he didn't."

  James blinked. What could his father have done with not even enough men to hold the castle much less defeat Edward's army? But he thought better of saying it. "I guess he didn't. Some Sassenach commanding it now though."

  "Like everywhere. If the King Alexander had left us a son--" He shrugged. "Guess they'll let us live if we keep quiet. You want another pie?"

  James shoved over a pence. "I hear they have some woman in a cage over there."

  "Oh, that they do. The MacDuff woman. She was fucking Bruce and put a crown on his head. She'll not get out of her cage after that."

  James took a big bite of the pie and chewed it. Nasty mind but mayhap people were bound to think that. Few women had her courage or men for that matter. "Never saw no woman in a cage. Guess she's inside the castle though."

  "Nah. On top of the hanging wall, high up. On bread and water, I heard. Have to feel sorry for her even if she did put horns on old Comyn."

  James worked a bit of gristle from between his teeth with his tongue and nodded. "Mayhap I'll see her if I go up there. Looking to sell a horse and thought the horse-master might look at it."

  The man shrugged so James wandered away. He walked around some more by the empty buildings where the Flemish merchants used to be until Edward had them hanged. He passed a kirk where a priest used a hoe in a garden. James stopped and thought about confession. No, he'd trust no one but Moray or Lamberton with what he had to tell. This poor man would probably shit himself with fright. Another inn up the slope a way where he drank a glass of ale told him nothing. Finally, when the afternoon was half over with shadows long and heavy he took the horse from the stable and led it up the wide stony way to the castle.

  He walked the horse along the road that seemed strangely quiet except for the wash of the water against the shore. It splashed and splattered against the wall.

  High against the merlons, hug a square cage from creaking wooden posts. Inside was a pile of cloth. James walked towards it, his belly cold. The cloth moved and a sun-darkened arm reached out to grasp a bar with stick-like fingers. The cage sifted. A face peered down at him, hair sticking out from it, white as a bone.

  The hardest thing he had ever done was to turn his back and walk to the gate. He wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

  A man-at-arms stepped in front of him. For a moment, James couldn't find his voice to speak. His throat had shut on a scream, but he managed finally to say, "I seek to sell this." He jerked his head towards the horse.

  The guard pointed across the yard to the stable. "Stable master's that way."

  It seemed too easy to get in but the fighting was far away--minor yet. Mayhap they'd not even heard of it. That didn't mean that getting to Isabella would be easy. They wouldn't just let him wander up on the parapets. And once he got there, Holy Mother of God, somehow he must help her.

  Crossbowmen paced the walls. A boy shoveled horse droppings in the bailey. The sound of a hammer on steel came from a smithy as he passed it, but behind it was in dark shadow. When he reached the wide doors of the stable, a man's voice barked to bring hay down and hurry up about it.

  "Stable master around?" he said into the dim interior.

  A tall gray-haired man came out from a stall. "That's me."

  "Thought you might could use a horse. I need to sell it."

  The stable-master walked around the animal and James crossed his arms. Take your time, he thought, the longer the better. By now, shadows had engulfed the yard. Soon it would be dark except for spots where torches and braziers lighted the walls.

  The man mounted and gathered the reins. He let the horse amble around the yard once and then again. "Not a bad animal," he said as he dismounted. "Might do for a man-at-arms with some work. I'll give you a pound for it."

  "I was thinking more like two," he said in a doubtful tone.

  "Well, tell you what. I'll throw in an extra shilling. Best I can do."

  James nodded. "Done, then. And I thank you, sir." He waited, propping up the stable wall whilst the horse master went to get the money. On the parapet, a crossbowman paced near Isabella's cage, looking bored. A servant climbed the steps carrying a hunk of bread and bowl that she slid through a slot in the bars before she left. The horse-master returned and handed James his money, taking the reins of the horse. James nodded as he sauntered towards the smithy. In the half-dark, the man was closing the door when James stopped. "Wouldn't happen to know a good inn, hereabouts?" he asked looking beyond to see the horse led into the stable.

  "One next to the square."

  James nodded, pausing to straighten his tunic and stepped around the corner behind the smithy. He smiled as he unlaced himself and pissed--just in case. But no one appeared. The bailey had grown silent. A horse whickered in the stable. He heard two men, laughing and talking. A door slammed.

  James slowly laced his breeches and slid one of the dirks from his boot top. He backed into a corner and waited. The night grew black and moonless, clouds hiding even the stars. A fine rain started. He didn't move and it soaked him to the skin. Water dripped from his hair down his neck. With no moon or stars, it was hard to judge the time but at last, James slipped out of his hiding place.

  He pressed against the wall and slithered towards the stairs, watching the parapet. In the dense murk, he couldn't even make out the crossbowman at first. Straining, he picked out an even darker shape, hunched as it made its way to a corner of the tower. James crept up the stairs, eyes fixed on the shadows where the guard hid from the rain.

  When he was close, James saw the whites of the man's eyes staring. He lunged.

  "Wha--"

  James' dirk went through his throat and jammed in bone. Gurgles came out of the man's mouth and a gush of hot, sticky blood. James caught his waist and lowered his body, working the dirk from side to side to free it. He wiped the blood from his hands on the man's cloak. A voice in the across the courtyard was answered by another. He waited in the dark. Footsteps sounded and another slamming door, then quiet again. The rain turned to mist and then stopped. He knelt and waited some more.

  Finally, letting out a long breath, he rose and we
nt to the cage.

  As he ran his hands over the bars searching for the door, a hoarse voice croaked, "Who's there?"

  Thin fingers touched his. He knelt. "Isabel," he whispered. "God's mercy, what have they done?"

  "Jamie." Her voice was part wheeze and part croak. Her breath rattled as she spoke. "How?"

  He reached through the bars and touched her hair. It felt like wet straw under his fingers. "I sneaked in. Isabel, love, I'll get you out of here."

  "They said--Bruce is dead?"

  "No, love. He lives. We struggle. Many died but not the king."

  She put her hand over his. Her skin felt like parchment. So hot, yet strangely dry with it wet from the rain.

  He reached up. "Where's the lock? I must open it. Force it." He felt for it in the darkness. Merciful God, he had to get her out of here.

  She began to cough, a tearing sound. He took off his mantle and slid it between the bars. "I'm sorry it's wet. It's all I have."

  She pushed it back towards him, the cough shaking her whole body, ripping at her chest.

  "Take it," he said.

  "I can't," she croaked. "A guard slipped me a cloak once. When they found out--took it and didn't give me food for three days."

  His hand found the lock and he shook it. The thing didn't even rattle. He took out his dirk and slid it into the crack. "I'll get you out. Then it won't matter. I'll get you away. The smith shop. A bar to pry it open"

  "Jamie, stop." She hacked again, a wet horrid sound. "I can't even stand." Then she sobbed.

  He let go of the lock and dropped the dirk. His arms barely fit between the bars but he forced them through and pulled her against his chest. He stroked her sodden hair and felt her body jerk, half in sobs and half in coughs. Her face burned with fever. "When I get you out, I'll carry you," he said.

  "They'd hear. I know what they'd do." Now it was purely sobs that racked her. "They made me watch when they killed Nigel."

  His tears were silent and he let them run down his face. "I can't leave you. God in heaven, Isabel." He stroked her back. Under her sobs, he could feel the grinding in her chest but he kept stroking. The bones of her spine stuck out so much he wondered they didn't cut her skin. How had she lived exposed to the Scottish winter, with no shelter except the bars of a cage? He pressed his forehead against the iron so hard that it hurt. "I won't leave you."

  At last, her sobs stopped. The only sound was her breathing, like pebbles tumbling down a cliff. "Jamie--" she whispered.

  He kissed the top of her head through the bars.

  "If I were a man--if I were your friend--would you give me a dirk?"

  "No!" He looked around to be sure he hadn't been heard. They were both quiet, listening. "I have to get you out. Don't talk about that."

  Another cough racked her before she could speak again. "I won't. I won't watch you die. Not like Nigel. Choking back screams whilst they slit open your belly." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You can't make me suffer that. I won't let you. I won't go with you."

  He let her go. Desperate, he picked up his dirk and slammed it into his boot, shoved his hands through his wet hair to push it back. "I love you. Don't ask me that. I--"

  She sighed faintly and leaned against the bars. "I'm so cold. And it hurts. Has it been a year, Jamie? It's spring again so it must be. I tried to count the days, but it's too hard."

  "Let me try, Isabel. Please."

  "My sweet love," she whispered. "Can you magic open a lock? Make me invisible so they don't see me?"

  "I can go over the wall," he said trying not to sound angry. "I'm strong. I can carry you." He shook the lock. Took out his dirk and slid it into the hole. But the fact was he knew nothing about such things. He cursed under his breath. If he broke into the smithy to get a bar of some kind--

  "You'll climb the wall carrying a dying woman? And they'll catch you. And kill you, too."

  "You're not dying."

  "Jamie, I am." She stretched her arm up and clutched at it with her hot, dry hand. He knelt and pulled it through the bars--so easily. Her wrist was no larger than a child's. Her arms were skin over bone.

  He kissed her fingers. "I can come back with my men. I can..."

  "You can take Berwick Castle--from Edward?" She gasped and her chest heaved. James clutched her hand as she struggled for breath. Finally, it eased. She coughed and spit something out onto a scrap of cloth. "My lungs bleed. More every day."

  James grasped the bars with both hands and jerked on them. But he was no Samson to tear them to bits. Would to God that he were.

  What was he to do? He couldn't throw his men's lives away. They trusted him, and this wasn't a castle he could take with a handful of men and a trick. It was one of the strongest in the kingdom, garrisoned with hundreds of guards.

  "My sweet knight. Don't let me suffer. Please. Give me your dirk."

  He scrubbed at his eyes. "Isabel--I'm no godly man. But to suffer damnation--" He wanted to sob but wouldn't. Not in the face of such suffering. "You can't kill yourself."

  "Could hell be worse than this?"

  He knelt down, as close to her as he could get. Pulling his dirk, he tested its edge on his thumb. It cut and he sucked at the blood. Then he laid it in his lap. "I won't leave you, my love. I swear it." He looked up. "I wish the stars were out. I watched them so clear last night. I won't mind dying with you."

  "I would though." Her breath choked again and she paused. "You can't die. You have an oath. And--I'd like for what I did to mean something. Can you make it count for something? Would someone care that I crowned the king?"

  He reached through the bars and took her hand. Stroked the twigs that were her fingers.

  "I'd like--not to go to hell, Jamie."

  "No," he begged.

  "But I don't want to hurt. Please. I want out of this cage. And that's the only way."

  He held his head in his hands. God in heaven. She was right. He couldn't get her out--not without getting caught. And he couldn't leave her here.

  "Come close to me," he said. She scooted against the bars. He forced his arm through so he could put it around her. She leaned against them and her head touched his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her hair. "God forgive me. I can't tell you no."

  He squeezed as close as he could, trying to give her some of his warmth.

  "Thank you." Through the bars, she touched his face. "Kiss me--and don't let me hurt any more."

  He would never forgive himself for this. He stroked her cheek, the bone so sharp under her hot skin. "I love you." He pressed his lips to hers and they parted. He held her tight against him. He wouldn't let her do something that would condemn her to hell. Better him than her.

  The dirk slid into her throat. She jerked. Her blood soaked his hands, his chest. He cradled her through the bars until she was still and limp.

  He sat holding her. Her body grew cold. Inside him was a place that was as dead. This was a sin he'd never forgive himself for. Never.

  A light shone across the bailey from an open door. "Cursed rain," a voice said.

  James stood and ran to the part of the hanging wall that ran into the River Tweed. The water wasn't deep enough to dive into so he jumped. The jolt hurt when he hit. He ducked under the water. It wasn't deep, not even man a man's height. But he held his breath and swam as far as he could. The icy water numbed him and even his thoughts stilled. He came up for a quick breath. The night was quiet. Mayhap no one had heard the splash. Another dive took him far enough from the castle to climb up on the shore. At first light, he'd be away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Douglasdale, Scotland: April 1307

  James rubbed his hand against his leg.

  Still, days after he had snuffed out her life he could feel the dirk in his hand as it slid through her throat, and his fingers twitched.

  He had felt guilt at beheading his prisoners, but nothing like this. He had never known that grief and guilt could hurt so much. Unbidden, old prayers passed through his lips, prayer
s of contrition that the priest had taught him when he was a child, but he felt no forgiveness. Once he even wept, but it seemed to shame her suffering so he forced his eyes to go dry.

  He had ridden straight from Berwick to Douglas, stopping only to water and rest the animal. Mayhap someday he'd be weary enough to sleep. He knew he was flagging. Every muscle ached, but it wasn't enough to make him close his eyes and see Isabella as she had suffered, hear her pleading for death.

  He needed to talk to Will, so in the semi-dark of night he stood in front of their hearth watching the glowing embers as the fire died. Alycie opened a pot and steam drifted up bringing a meaty scent of rabbit.

  "I'm to meet with my woman from Bothwell, my lord," Will said. "Her son brought me a message that this news is too important to trust to another."

  Alycie put a bowl on the table. "Eat, please. You--don't look well."

  James looked at the bowl. He'd forgotten the last time he ate. "Thank you. I'm just tired, but it smells good." He pushed the stool to straddle it and took a bite of the stew. Rabbit. His mouth watered and he shoveled in another bite. "How long will it take you, Will?"

  "I'll be back soon after first light, I hope. Early enough that I won't be missed cutting the logs. Clifford has us working hard at rebuilding the castle. A few of the stone split from the heat of the fire but mostly it's rebuilding the floors and inner walls."

  James paused in his eating to look up and smile. "I'll be sorry to waste your labor."

  As the man laughed, James scraped the bowl clean. "I didn't know that I was hungry. Or mayhaps it was just how good it was."

  James leaned his elbows on the table and plunged his hands into his hair. "I think I've never been so tired. I'd best wait for you, Will. When I was at Bothwell, Valence wasn't there. I want to know if he's returned."

  Will put his hand on James's shoulder and squeezed then jerked it back. "I'm sorry, my lord."

  "When did I become so fine that I'd mind a man's hand on my shoulder?" James stood. "I'll put a wood on the fire and sat for a while if you don't object. I don't like to waste it, but--sometimes it seems a good thing of a dark night."