A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (3 page)

"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."

The 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.