by J. R. Tomlin
The bishop smiled at her and prompted, “James de Douglas, I take you...”
As her silence stretched into long seconds, there was a faint shuffling from the crowd of onlookers. Someone coughed, and James felt a burn creep up his face.
“Lass,” the bishop said firmly, “you must say the vows of your own will. Were you forced?” He flicked a glance toward her father.
James knew his face was flaming. Thanks be to St. Bride his back was to everyone except the bishop who gave him a piercing look. He slid his eyes toward the King and caught him glaring at Robert de Keith.
She gave a stiff nod of her head. “I... must.” James heard her swallow.
The bishop gave her a sympathetic look and prompted her again. “James de Douglas...”
She made another strangled sound. “I take you to my wedded husband, for fair or for foul...” She paused, a stubborn jut to her jaw until, behind her, her father whispered her name. “...in sickness and in health, until death us depart, and thereto I plight you my troth.”
There was long expelled breath that James suspected came from the Keith. Perhaps he wasn't the only one humiliated this day. James took the gold ring set with a sapphire from where he'd tucked it into his belt and handed it to Moray. The bishop blessed it and gave it back. Elayne's hand was stiff, fingers tightly together, as she glared at his chest. Jesu. He angrily pushed the ring onto her middle finger. His jaw was so tight he could barely grind out the words, “With this ring, I you wed and with your dowry I endow you.”
James spun on his heel and gave the Keith a look that promised words later. But there would be no more humiliation this day. He managed a smile. "My lady wife." He put a firm hand on her upper arm and strode to her father. If she dragged her feet, no one would see under her long skirts. He sucked in a long, calming breath. She was just frightened. She'd get over it. He had to be gentle. Patient. And not be angry.
In a bright voice, he called, “Musicians, play something merry to guide us.” The lutist struck a chord and the other musicians followed in a tinkling melody. Everyone clapped and cheered.
The King grasped his shoulder and shook it a little. “Aye. Lead the way to the feast.” He gave James a little shove ahead toward the door of his manor a short way from the church. “Lord Marischal,” he boomed, “your daughter is a lovely bride.”
Elayne's mother put an arm around her daughter's waist. “Silly goose. But all is well now.”
James kept a tight hand on Elayne's elbow, keeping her at his side as the music pulled him through the street to the door of manor house. “A wedding feast in the King's own manor,” her mother chattered as they walked. “Why I'd never have believed such an honor.” The King and the bishop followed, and her father. The rest of the crowd fell in behind, babbling, laughing and making jokes about tonight's bedding.
A guard in the King's livery opened the door for them and they entered to the merry strains of the musicians. The hall was not as big as that of a castle but prepared with royal elegance. Torches shimmered in silver sconces though light flowed in from the arched windows in the north wall. Rushes sweetened with lavender covered the floor. Long trestle tables draped in white cloths were set with gleaming silver goblets. Pages scurried carrying silver platters and flagons of wine.
“I don't want to,” Elayne whispered and stopped in the doorway.
“We must,” James said through gritted teeth. He tried to soften his voice. “Come, I'll pour you a goblet of wine. You must tell me what dish you prefer.”
Her lips pressed together so hard that they turned quite white. Please don't make me drag you, he thought. He tightened his hand on her arm and guided her past all the nobles as they stood in their places and up to the dais for the two of them would have a place at the right hand of the King.
“Be seated, my friends,” the Bruce said as he sat. On the other side of the King Robbie Boyd took his place with his recent bride. When she smiled and laid a hand on his arm, Robbie looked smug. James shook his head and called the page to pour a goblet of a sweet honeyed vernage wine for him to share with his new lady wife.
The King called for the tumblers as the pages brought out a course of great loaves of brown bread, mounds of rich cheese laced with tracery of blue, trenchers of beef stewed in a peppery sauce, and apples poached in honey.
Robert de Keith, now James's good-father he realized with a start, leaned forward to look past his lady wife and raised his voice a little to be heard to say, “When will your men arrive, Sir James?”
James opened his mouth but before he could manage a reply the King cut in, “Not now, man.” He shook his head with a genial smile. “Talk of the war at a wedding feast? For shame.”
“Your pardon, sire. I've not had a chance to talk with my new good-son, but you have the right of it. Such things should wait.”
“Indeed,” his wife said and patted Elayne's hand where it lay pressed flat on the tabletop. “You are beautiful today, child. You make us proud.”
She turned her head to look at her mother but said nothing. James coaxed her to try the vernage. “You'll feel better.”
She shook her head. He sipped it. Too honeyed for his taste but surely to the taste of a lass. He took her hand and bent it within his own around the goblet. “Just a sip.”
She gave him a look that seemed more cold anger than fear, but he would be patient. He would. He put an arm around her shoulder and lifted the goblet, his hand wrapped around hers, to her lips. She narrowed her eyes, but swallowed a bit.
“You see.” He smiled stiffly. “No poison in the cup, my lady.”
“Sir James, is it your plan to keep a manor here in Perth?” His good-mother asked.
He gave her a non-committal reply. In truth, he'd give it little thought and paused over the problem as he cut off a slice of the cheese, rich but it would be easy on a nervous stomach. He offered Elayne offered a sliver. When she shook her head, he popped it in his own mouth. They'd make it through this feast, somehow.
Courses followed and a singer came in to sing. Perhaps the feast would never end. Eel in wine. Buttered herbs. Goose stuffed with parsley and eggs. Almond milk blankmange. Honey cakes and berry tarts.
James's stomach was in a tight knot. He pushed aside the sweetened wine and signaled for the page to pour him a goblet of a strong red wine. He sipped and tried to smile at the people around him. Caitrina, Robbie's lady wife, was smilingly chaffing the King whilst Robbie looked on. She was comely though well past the flower of youth with a son long in English hands. There was little meekness in her mien, which probably meant she could handle Robbie Boyd right well. From time to time, Robbie offered her a choice morsel from the point of his knife and James remembered his own duty. He looked desperately around, spied a swan dressed in its feathers and cut Elayne a bit of the breast. She looked down her delicate nose but took it between her lips, rather as though he had indeed given her poison.
The guests were getting noisy. A fool the King had hired was capering about with a wooden sword, chasing a large cat painted with a leopard's spots around the room. The animal yowled and made for the door as everyone laughed. Ross's sons were arguing over a horse race as their sister Isabel looked on. Maol of Lennox was loudly criticizing the singer who didn't compare to the ones in his own household.
The King raised an eyebrow at the fool. “What can you expect after years of war? Few good to be had.” He called for more music and amiably went back to pressing food and drink on his guests. So far no one had noticed his bride's grim countenance, but perhaps brides were often fearful. It wasn't as though he'd been to many weddings.
When the last course was down to a few broken tarts, Elayne's mother leaned forward, “It's time, daughter.” She looked past at Caitrina. “My lady, you'll help with the bedding?”
Caitrina smile and reached to catch Matilda de Bruce's hand. The King's youngest sister, not much like him with her slender build and red hair, sat next to her. “You'll help as well, Mathilda? A lass her own ag
e will make a gayer bedding.”
Mathilda giggled a bit giddily. “May I, my lord?” she asked her brother.
James didn't see the King's response as he watched Elayne's white-fingered clutch on the edge of the table. He patted her arm and would have spoken, but her glare silenced him. She wanted no comfort from him, of that he was sure. Instead, he picked up his goblet and drained it as the three women led Elayne, her back as straight and stiff as a sword, toward the stairs. Isabella of Ross jumped up from her place, clapping her hands, and scurried, skirts swishing, to join them. They rushed out to the sound of raucous laughter and cheers.
“Don't look so serious, Jamie.” The King poured himself another goblet of wine and leaned back, his face a little flushed from drink. “A lass is nervous her wedding night. You'll be gentle and she'll take to it. They do, you know.”
James couldn't stop the laugh that erupted. Robert de Bruce should know. Women loved him even better than they did his brother, Edward, and with his wife in an English dungeon, he'd never played the monk. Not that James blamed him. No one did. But if anyone knew if women took to it, the King did. He was receiving an odd half smile from his liege lord and James said, “Mayhap I have a bit of nerves myself, sire.”
“You're hardly a blushing maid, Jamie.”
“No, but a wife...” James decided the King's idea of more wine was a wise one and motioned to the page to fill his goblet. “...a wife is a different thing. If she mislikes me, life will not be much joy.”
The King grasped the back of his neck and gave him a fond shake. “She won't. Now give them a few minutes, and we'll escort you up to do your duty.”
At that, Robbie Boyd grinned and slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “About time! Let's drag him up the stairs and throw him into bed to get himself an heir!”
Amidst the cheers, whistles and laughter, James gave a quiet sigh. His close friends shoved away from the tables and gathered around him, like a hounds on a hart. Robbie had him by one arm whilst Sir Hugh Ross grasped the other. Walter tugged at James's belt and stripped it off as they dragged him toward their upstairs chamber.
“Jamie can practice with his pole weapon tonight,” Gilbert de Hay said, laughing and all the men joined in as he was hustled through the doorway. Elayne lay like a white-faced corpse, unmoving in the red-draped bed, the coverlet pulled up to her chin.
The King joined in the laughter. “His lady wife will be more receptive than the English, thank Jesu.” James shoved them back. Walter had his tunic unfastened and tugged it off, tossing that and the belt onto a chair next to the hearth fire.
James managed a grin. He grabbed the King's arm and urged him toward the door. “Out! The lot of you.”
“Lese-Majeste!” the King said. He smacked the back of James's head good-naturedly “Did you see my lord of Douglas lay hands on his liege lord?”
But the King had allowed himself to be pushed outwith the chamber and James shoved Walter after him.
Robbie snickered and pulled Gilbert de Hay into the hall. “Leave him to sheath his sword. The poor lad hasn't the stamina to jest with us and do his duty.” He dropped his eyelid in James's direction.
James slammed the door shut on their japes and laughter and leaned his forehead against it. The cool wood felt good on his heated skin. It would be a fine thing to just lean here for the rest of his life. This was what a wedding was supposed to be so it shouldn't seem like ashes in his mouth. And a man didn't weep so the stinging in the back of his eyes was from being weary. That was all. Of course, it was.
He turned to his bride who stared at him, her eyes narrowed and wary. She looked cold but not of her body. James ran a hand down his bare chest as he walked softly to the bed and sat on next to her. He picked up the silver flagon on the table beside the bed and poured a cup. He took a sip—hipocras… Perhaps it would calm her. They could both use calming so he held it out to her. “It's been a wearying day, Elayne.”
She scooted up in the bed, clasping the bedcovers to her breast, and took the cup. Staring into it, her lips in a thin line, she shook her head. “I don't belong here.” She lifted her eyes with a challenging gaze. “I don't!”
“You're here. We're married before God.” He licked his lips wondering how he could ease this for her, for both of them. They had a lifetime before them—if he wasn't killed betimes. “If it wasn't what either of us would have chosen, that doesn't matter now.”
She thrust the goblet at him. “I don't want it.”
He rubbed a hand over his beard and took the thing from her, drained it, and set it firmly onto the table. He stripped off his hose and took the top of the coverlet in his hand. For a moment she clutched it harder and then she let go and threw herself flat in the bed, staring up at the embroidered draperies. He stripped the coverlet down with a jerk. Her hands pressed palm down into the mattress, body rigid, breath coming fast.
She was comely. He couldn't deny it, even white faced and furious. Long golden curls flowed down over her shoulders. Her breasts were small, only buds but pink and puckering as cool night air touched them. He knelt beside her, his cock half-hard, and laid his fingers on a white thigh, stroking the soft skin. She flinched a little and closed her eyes tight. “You burned it,” she whispered. “Everything. You're a demon from hell.” She jerked her eyes open and turned her head to look at him, a grim expression as though today had been a death instead of their wedding. “I hate you.”
He felt his arousal wilting. “It is war,” he said hoarsely. “That's all. I'm... sworn to my King, do what I must.” Why was he defending himself to this child? She knew nothing. Living soft in the south whilst Scotland was raped and torn.
Her gaze was steady and hard. “Do it. I don't care.”
He sat back on his heels, heat that felt like hatred washing through him. “You're beside yourself.” He slid off the bed and jerked the coverlet back over her. “This can wait. We're wed whether I bed you this night or not. So says the church. Later... when you are... calmer.”
He took a deep breath. If he took her now he might do her some harm. He strode to a chair beside the little fire in the hearth that crackled so merrily and shoved the tunic and belt onto the floor. He sat and glared at the flagon.
The simple truth was he didn't want her. He wanted Alycie. He ached for Alycie as a wild thing that bayed for the moon. He wanted her now. He wanted it to be three years ago before he sent her to her death, when he didn't know how empty he would be without her.
The bed covers rustled as his wife moved in the bed. He dredged up a smile. “Sleep, child. It will be better tomorrow.” Elbows on his knees, he thrust his fingers deep into his hair and pulled. What had he done? Holy St. Bride, what had he done?
He closed his eyes and took a long calming breath. Another. Exhaustion seeped through his limbs, heavy as lead. The fire was warm, it's sounds comforting. He closed his eyes, welcoming darkness and quiet, but after a while he dreamt distant echo of shouts and blows, war horns and men screaming their last breaths away and then a soft voice that called out his name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
James saw the haze from the camp's fires when they were still north in Ochil Hills. Noise drifted across the rolling plateau like the wash of the sea on rocks, and growing as he rode closer. By the time he turned his horse to ride beside the Black Devon River, shimmering in the spring sunshine, he could make out the shouts and clatter of a large camp. James called to Robbie Boyd and set his horse to a canter, and the camp spread before them across the valley.
Wisps of smoke meandered into the air from a thousand campfires. A horse line stretched across the far side of the camp. Row upon row of canvas lean-tos and tents crouched in the heather in front of a line of knights' pavilions. Teamsters unloaded wagons stacked with barrels and crates. Men sat shoving steel skullcap helms on and leather brigandines over their bodies. Camp followers knelt to wash close by the river and sashayed by the men. Blacksmiths hammered blades onto the long poles of pikes. A shepher
d drove bleating sheep and a farrier bent over a horse's hoof.
All of Scotland had answered the King's call to arms. The blue Saltire of Scotland was on tabards and servants tunics. It waved and fluttered from staves and was painted on hundreds of shields. He spotted the red saltire of the House of Bruce that be the Earl of Carrick, the blue and white checky banner for Walter the Steward, Angus Og's black and white banner.
There was the banner of Maol of Lennox and the Earl of Strathearn. He even spotted a banner with the wheat sheaths of Buchan that must be some minor relation of the disgraced family. Somewhere amidst them all, no doubt Wat had set up his own pavilion and starred pennant. But most of the shelters were of minor knights and freeholders, for all of Scotland had flocked to the Ochils. At last, they had a hope to stand against their enemy.
Over the largest of the pavilions flew the King's own banner. From the top of the tallest of the staves it shimmered gold. The crowned lion of Scotland reared proud, claws extended, ready to defend the land. Beyond the pavilions gathered a huge press of men.
“Never saw so many Scots all in one spot,” Boyd said as they across the narrow wooden bridge.
“Even more than we had at the Battle of Methven.” James's mouth twisted at the sour memory, and he lowered his voice. His men were close behind. “But are they enough?”
Boyd grunted a neutral sound. “You think the King will decide to retreat?”
James flicked a glance over his shoulder. Rumor would run like fire through a camp like this. “I don't know. I saw the last army they brought, and the message I had from Bishop Lamberton said this one will be even larger.” He shook his head and shifted in the saddle. Apparently the King meant to prepare for battle. Why if he didn't mean to fight it?
“What the...” Boyd stood in his stirrups. “What's happening?”
James frowned at the sound of shouts and battle cries. They had been riding past the hodge-podge of rough tents and lean-tos. As they approached the press of men, the sound grew louder. Beyond, the field had been kept clear. Robert de Bruce on a small gray mount in plain armor sat with no more than a simple coronet on his head, war axe resting across his saddle in front of him, in the corner of the field. A square schiltron had formed in the middle, and as hundreds of men moved in a line, pikes wavering like wheat in a hard wind held pointed before them. The lines of the schiltron wavered. Half of it broke and a gaping hole appeared in the middle.