Finally, the horses’ hooves clattered over the wooden bridge, spanning the wide, dry ditch meant for defense, and then into the arched, stone entrance of Castle Berwick. Off to the side the Douglas standard hung, half dragging in the mud. Blue stars on a silver field. The flag that had flown over the castle ramparts before it was taken in spring. The proud Douglas standard was now splattered with horseshite.
Tamlyn observed a row of halberd-bearing minions in dented jacks. They stood positioned at the entrance asking of the people arriving, “English or Scots?”
English were pointed to the right and quickly led into the cool castle, out of the blistering August sun. Scots were herded into a double line to the left, occasionally threatened, “Move quicker!” by the foot soldiers brandishing their weapons. The procession slowly snaked outside the bailey, through a side postern door, and into the inner ward. From there, they crossed the cobbled courtyard and were hustled toward the kitchen. There, they entered the castle proper through the servants’ entrance. They were not permitted to break from the long line. Double ranks of armed guards, nearly shoulder to shoulder, held their halberd points like a schilltron, turning the Scots back to the line should they try to leave it.
Tamlyn looked back, saddened as Julian ushered her into the castle with Damian and Aithinne. She glanced up at her husband, feeling as if she somehow betrayed her country by entering with the English. She would have held up her chin, marched over and joined the Scots, but the nausea was increasing and she felt faint. She needed to lie down. There was no way she could take the endless waiting in that line in the sun. She glanced at her cousin, who seemed to fare no better.
More importantly, she promised Julian she would compose her emotions and follow his lead, trust him to see them through this nightmare. The dark stone of the castle sweated in the summer humidity. The whole area reeked of pine-pitch from the torches lining the walls. The smell was overpowering, but after the repellent haze hovering over the streets, the scent was almost welcome. From the gatehouse to the Great Hall had seemed to take forever. By the time they entered, Tamlyn could barely stay standing. Nervously, she took Aithinne’s arm, lending her support.
Julian had rushed off, but returned shortly. “I’ve secured a room. The four of us shall have to share the bed. I ordered the squires to bed down on the floor for added safety. There simply is just no space in this madness. Come.”
Tamlyn had a sense if Julian and not been the Black Dragon of Challon their quarters would have been even less accommodating. In short order, the squires had carried their belongings into the room. Tamlyn felt blessed they were afforded an honor in having one as spacious. Though they would have to share the bed, there was plenty of room on the floor for the squires to place their pallets. She doubted most others found such comfort.
Julian watched her with worried eyes. He walked over to where she unfolded the gown she would wear tonight. With the back of his fingers, he traced the curve of her cheek.
“Fare you well, my lady?”
She swallowed the weariness, the fear of being in this town of death. “I manage, Julian. How long must we remain here?”
“As long as Edward wishes. I know this shan’t be easy, Tamlyn, but we cannot think of our personal comfort. We must consider Glen Shane. Let us get through this ordeal, then we shall make haste to return, and mercifully, never shall have to put eyes on this place ever again.”
Tamlyn nodded, but said nothing, knowing the memories of their ride into Berwick would never be banished from her memory.
“I suggest Aithinne and you rest after you unpack. This eve promises to be a long one.”
♦◊♦
Tamlyn was no coward, but her knees shook as they approached the Great Hall of Castle Berwick. Evidently, her panic showed on her face, because Julian gripped her upper arm as if he feared she might flee. She truly wanted to.
“Ceum gu foil, is fheàrr dràm toinisg na bucaid leòm.” Julian warned in a whisper. Walk softly, a dram of sense is better than a bucket full of pride.
As they entered the double doors, she heard Damian telling names to Aithinne, pointing out the privileged people afforded rank at the long tables. Longshanks sat in the middle, dressed in his royal splendor. Close by him were Bishop Anthony Bek; the earls of Surrey and Hereford; Richard de Burgh, earl of Ulster; Master Hugh de Cressingham; Gartnait, earl of Mar; Gilbert de Clare, Earl Gloucester and son-in-law to Edward. The few ladies were arrayed in brilliant silks and trimmed with gold braid and heavy jewelry.
Tamlyn deemed it in bad taste. On the surface, the evening appeared a festive celebration. Mummery in the town of rotting flesh and death.
A din of conversation filled the air, nearly drowning out the minstrels that played softly high in the gallery. Four dwarves capered around, doing feats of tumbling, and tormenting a tamed bear. Tamlyn flinched at the cruelty, but tried to control her face to show no emotions. Few seemed to pay the performers notice other than Edward. He occasionally pelted them with sweetmeats, chuckling as if this were a joyous occasion. His laughter roared and filled the vaulted hall when one dwarf tossed the treat back to the king.
Tamlyn’s eyes swung to the small makeshift table just behind Edward and within the king’s reach. A rough-cut slab of red sandstone. Upon it sat a golden pitcher and two goblets. It drew her eyes because the thing seemed out of place, odd. When Edward was so trying to impress the Scots with the English riches and splendor, why would he be compelled to make use of such a poorly chiseled stone as a tabletop? It made no sense to her.
Scots nobility pressed against the walls, and wound around three-quarters of the room, until the line led up to a small desk before the lord’s table. Pinched-faced clerks with scrolls and dusty tomes fussed about, turning page after page, until one suddenly called out a name and title,
“Sir Nicol Graham of Linlefcu!”
The noble came forward, as another clerk checked his name off a long list. Grim-faced, but trying to hide indignation, the older man knelt before the table facing Edward, speaking his oaths of homage and fealty. When he rose, he was led to sign a sheepskin scroll to which he then affixed his seal.
Tamlyn turned to watch the impeccably groomed man at the center of this crafted charade, a spectacle organized with all the details of a battle-hardened general leading his army to war. Edward Plantagenet. None would question if he were king. He was in control of all about him, so completely self-assured of achieving his pale aims. His eyelids drooped slightly—a trait they said was inherited from his father Henry III. But what struck her the most was his eyes—so vivid a blue, they were piercing, incisive, a striking feature that compelled all to quail before him. There was coldness to them, as if they were touched by ice. She had heard he was possessed of a great mind, only that was blunted, flawed by a mercurial behavior, violent tempers and a deep streak of vindictiveness.
While his Eleanor was alive, she evidently exerted some control over this dark side of his nature. Tamlyn wished the woman were about still. In his youth, he clearly had been a handsome man. The once streaked blond hair was now nearly white, the cheeks ruddy from his time spent outdoors campaigning on his many wars. Dressed in red velvets, trimmed in heavy gold and a wide gold collar, Edward Plantagenet was the most fearful man she had ever met. She sensed a dichotomy when Julian spoke of him. He held a grudging admiration for the king. There was also extreme hatred.
Sensing her trepidation, Julian placed his hand at the small of her back and gave her a squeeze of assurance, then escorted her before the king. As per Julian’s instructions, she made a curtsey, as did Aithinne, only to have Edward wave his hand to say such was not necessary.
“Arise. We understand the heat is stressful on ladies carrying babes in their bellies. Our beloved Eleanor fatigued easily in the early stages of breeding.” Edward rose, slapping Julian on the back as if glad to see his old friend, then greeted Damian in the same fashion.
Tamlyn flinched, wondering how the king could tell she was with chi
ld. Julian showed no reaction, though she saw his eyes stare at her with a distance, a question. She had not told him, fearing he still harbored doubts when she said Dirk did not rape her. She almost blanched under the force of those green garnet eyes.
Dreams of Berwick had haunted Julian since Edward’s summons came. Nightly, he suffered such torment. She had not wanted to add to his stress by bringing up she carried his child. She hoped to wait until this nightmare was behind them before she told him of her news.
“Seems my Dragon plows a fertile field, eh?” Edward was almost giddy at the prospects.
Julian inclined his head, feigning ennui. “Is it not what you willed? Breed these Scots females into loyal English subjects? I merely obey my king.”
“Eh? My Seeding of Scotland Campaign. I see the lords of Challon wield their mighty swords for the good of England.” Edward’s blue eyes lit as a young woman entered. “Ah, come, join us, Lady Elizabeth. Meet the Dragon of Challon and his lady, and Lord Ravenhawke and his ward, the Lady Aithinne.”
The daughter of Richard de Burgh was a tall beauty, stunning. All eyes turned to watch her crossing to the king. The wheat-colored hair was piled up high on her head, and vivid blue eyes flashed intelligently. Their hue was emphasized by the blue velvet of her kirtle. The gown was trimmed with a braid in silver, accenting her high breasts. Silver fox fur trimmed her wrists and collar.
Edward laughed, leaning to Julian. “We think to make her a gift for Carrick. As one now steeped in wedded bliss, what think you? Shall they make a good match?”
Julian nodded, looking slightly uninterested. “They would make a handsome couple, Sire. If Carrick breeds like Annandale did, you will have an army of Bruces, eh? But I thought you already overly kind in paying all of Young Robbie’s debts.”
“’Struth. Surprised we would seek an alliance between Richard’s daughter and Carrick? We seem to have a new taste for match-setting. As you say, breeding the country to be English.” Glancing around, Edward frowned. “We expected to see Annandale and Carrick here before now. Here to do the pretty.”
Julian’s eyes roved about the mass of people crammed into the hall. “They are about. You might say they nearly ran down Lady Elizabeth outside of town.”
The young woman’s laughter bubbled forth. “Oh, dear, that was Robert Bruce?”
Julian nodded. “Aye, you gave him a few words on decorum, I believe.”
“Oh, how precious! What a first meeting, Sire. He and his brothers—I presume—scared the jennets pulling my brancard. They dumped me on my…pride. I cannot wait to see his face. He told me I was impertinent. I informed him he was rude.”
Julian stroked Tamlyn’s hand, as he seated her at the table. “First meetings are always memorable.”
Behind him, Damian snorted, causing Aithinne to turn bright red.
“Eh? What’s this? Sounds like two tales we wouldst hear more of,” Edward commented, arching his brow. Not a remark. A command.
A sudden commotion thankfully drew the king’s attention away. Edward smiled, slyly. “Ah, seems Clan Bruce finally reaches the end of the long line.”
Julian’s face was composed, but she recognized he was stunned. Lord Annandale and his sons—including the Earl Carrick—had been made to wait in the long line with the rest of the Scots. A grave insult to the clan who had supported Edward’s invasion of Scotland. The Bruces had been with Edward when he rode northward, and had given oaths to him again at Wark. ’Twas naught less than a total affront to be herded into the castle with the rest of the rebel Scots.
“We see censure in your eyes, Earl Challon. Think we should exempt the Bruces from this dance to this ragman roll?”
Julian’s head tilted to the side, a gesture of inconsequence. “Well, they did not even hold lands in Scotland at the time, and rode with English forces. Balliol stripped them of their holdings. Why Robbie was pinch-pursed.”
“When a new knight is made, he is given a buffet by his liege—a reminder of who still holds the real power. The Bruces believe We shall now put Annandale on the throne. Idiocy. Traveling north to subdue Scots once is enough. We give Annandale and his pup a buffet, eh? Remind Clan Bruce there will be no such undertaking by this demonstration. Their lands are returned. I aim to offer Carrick a rich bride with a plump dower to appease his stinging pride.”
Tamlyn glanced to Elizabeth de Burgh, wondering how she was taking the king discussing her like she was a prize brood mare. She sat with a composed face, beside her father. He showed no reaction to Edward’s words. Then, Tamlyn looked down to the woman’s lap. Her pale blue kerchief was grasped in her fisted hand. Clearly, Lady Elizabeth was not so untroubled as she was showing.
The Bruces were not only humiliated by this indignity from the king they had served, but also they were receiving snide comments and outright slurs from the Scots that had been loyal to John Balliol. One commented his heart bled for Clan Bruce, who betrayed their true king to follow the English, only to be rewarded so shabbily.
“Come! Let us share a toast to their betrothal over their Stone of Destiny,” Edward announced for all to hear.
Tamlyn’s head snapped around to look again at that ridiculous chunk of sandstone, wondering what sort of bizarre jest was this.
Edward noticed her reaction and inquired, “Lady Challon, have you not seen your country’s coronation stone?”
“No...Sire, I have no’,” she replied, thinking neither had Edward Longshanks, if he claimed that clumsily cut rock was the Stone of Destiny.
He could pronounce before all it was such. True Scot of the nobility would ken different. This stone was not very tall. The real stone was higher, almost perfect height on which to sit. It was black stone, hard and polished like a jewel. Pictish drawings were carved all the way around its sides and filled with gold.
Julian asked through stiff lips, as he lifted the cup for her to drink, “Some concern, lady wife?”
Tamlyn mimed drinking, careful of the wine, being sure just to take a few sips. With this constant struggle against dizziness, she did not need a head full of the grape. Besides, she rarely drank wine, as it made her legs ache later.
“Just confused.” She turned her head to her husband, so none saw what she was saying. “’Tis no’ our stone. Lia Fail be a black stone, three times that size, and Pictish drawings on the sides hammered in gold. Be this Edward’s hoax?”
“Either Edward knows this is not the true stone and pulls a power ruse―daring any Scot to say otherwise―or he does not know and someone played a game of switch with him. Yet, another scenario comes to mind―Edward knows they made the switch and flaunts this fake, hoping a Scot will blurt out he has been tricked. Little matters which. Only a fool would dare speak such to the king.”
Another commotion broke out as Robert Bruce tried to gain the king’s attention. Clearly, Carrick was incensed at having to go through this humbling, and was certain Edward remained unaware of the treatment. Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Longshanks, but also cousin to Annandale, went to Edward and whispered something to Edward’s ear.
The king laughed and shooed him away.
“See, see...Lord Challon. We pay their debts, restore their lands, and give them a thing of great value.” His blue eyes roved over the Lady Elizabeth. “And this is how they show thanks? We are grateful you are cut from a different cloth, eh?”
Tamlyn’s stomach knotted, knowing whilst the words were meant for the Bruce to be chastised, they also carried a veiled threat to her husband.
♦◊♦
By evening’s end, Tamlyn’s head buzzed. Julian finally gained Edward’s leave, citing the stress on Aithinne and her. And frankly, she did not care what excuse he used, just so she was away from the crowd, the noise and the smells.
“Julian, how long must we endure this farce?” she whispered, as he ushered her down a long, darkened corridor.
“Damian and I have an audience with Edward in the morn. I hope to secure his consent for us to return to Glenrogha aft
er Parliament meets. Edward seems disposed to Aithinne and you—since you both are breeding.” His words had a hard edge.
Tamlyn tripped on the hem of her gown, but Julian’s strong hand about her upper arm kept her from falling. Her cheeks burned hot, as she heard the barb to his words—his accusation.
Two men stepped from the turn in the hall, blocking their way. Julian shifted in front of Tamlyn, shielding her, as Damian moved up to stand beside his cousin. Shaking, Aithinne reached for Tamlyn’s hand.
“Challon, St. Giles,” the tallest man addressed them, but it was not in warmth.
Julian merely stared at the men. They grew uneasy under Challon’s fixed glare, and shifted from foot to foot. “You have business, Pendegast?”
He nodded. “We wanted to speak to you about the death of our brother.”
“Your brother died in Trial by Combat, John. The Lord judged him guilty before all. You know Edward has great faith in this. He understands,” Julian said with finality.
“We sent him to you, the mighty Black Dragon. We assumed he would be in safe keeping, not to die by your hand,” John Pendegast pressed.
Having none of it, Damian snapped, “You sent him to Challon because you could not control him.”
“I owed an accounting of the circumstances to our king. He agreed the matter rested within the hands of God and He decided Dirk’s fate.” Julian’s hand began to move slowly to the hilt of his sword.
Suddenly, a commotion rose behind them―raised voices of several men arguing, but in a manner of jesting. Robert Bruce and his brothers came hastening down the corridor, but pulled up when they saw the group standing in the hallway, unmoving. Robert, Edward and Nigel Bruce casually pushed past Tamlyn and Aithinne, creating to buffer between them and the confrontation, to come up behind Julian and Damian.
Carrick turned from side to side, looking at two men who were nearly mirror images. “I am damn glad St. Giles is taller than you, Challon. In the shadows ’tis bloody hard to see the difference in you two. Rather close to be standing here in the hall, do you not think, Challon? A tad oppressive in this heat. The foul stench from this town seems to permeate the whole place. Shall my brothers and I escort you and your ladies to your room? Seems to be a lot of—” He looked down his nose at the two Pendegast brothers, his look giving them a clear idea of his disdain for them. “—riffraff clogging these corridors this night.”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 35