Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (2 page)

Isobel paused, Leith’s eyes tenderly searching her face. “‘Tis nae a common practice, Malcolm, but men accused of practicing charms on a king are sometimes burned at the stake. That is why the other fortune tellers summoned by the king will spin and weave shimmering lies about his future. They dunna wish to displease him and meet a gruesome end. They seek favor and gain and will ne’er tell the king anything unpleasant. And neither should ye, no matter what ye ha’e seen in a vision.”

“Perhaps they should be called fortune
hunters
,” Malcolm said.

“Aye,” Isobel replied. “Indeed. For they practice little more than coggery, illusions using mirrors, bowls of water and smoke, polished stones, crystals, or dice. Some claim they can read the future by reading the stars in the sky. They draw symbols on parchment and claim to chart a person’s future. They merely hope to please the king and increase their own coffers. Dunna trust anyone, and choose yer words wisely when the king asks ye to speak.

“If ye havena seen his death in a vision, tell him so. And if ye ha’e seen his death, tell him only vaguely what ye ha’e seen. Make it like a puzzle, or a riddle. Dunna tell him exactly what ye’ve seen or dreamed, and
ne’er
speak of a king’s death. If he asks ye what yer vision means, tell him only the good that can be found in it.”

              “’Tis a lot to remember.” Malcolm frowned. “Did the king invite me to Edinburgh because he heard of my vision before the battle of Arkinholm, with the Black Douglases and the Red Douglases?”

“Aye,” Leith said. “Yer dream of a battle between a blood red sky and a black sky, with the red sky being victorious, and the bloody head of Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray, being presented to the king after the battle, spread far and wide. Indeed, it reached the ears of the king before the battle and gave him confidence. He wants to meet the bairn of such great visions.”

“I willna be a bairn much longer,” Malcolm said. “Soon I will be a man.”

“Yea, soon ye’ll be a man,” Isobel said, smoothing a lock of hair from his forehead. “But such an awful thing for a child to dream about. Ye should be dreamin’ of riding yer horse in wide summer glens bursting with blooming heather, of hunting and fishing, and swimming in sparkling lochs when the sun is high and the day is bright. Nae of men’s heads on pikes delivered to kings.”

          They had finally reached the top of the hill. Malcolm took a last look at the town below, noting the close-pressed houses that seemed to stretch toward the sky. He was glad he lived in a castle in the Highlands, far from activity and crowds, where there were thick woods to explore with wind-buckled trees and lochs that mirrored the ever-changing skies and sloping hills to climb. There was the sea, and sea caves and beaches, where he could find treasures and feel the wind and sun upon his face.

They approached the gatehouse and were halted by guards who demanded to know their identities and their business.

              “I am Leith Maclean. With me is my wife Isobel and my son, Malcolm. We are here to see the king upon his invitation.”

Soon the carriage moved through the gatehouse arch. In the courtyard, a throng of the king’s richly dressed men-at-arms marched toward them.

              “Remember too, dunna stare at the king’s birthmark,” Isobel whispered. “‘Tis said to be bright red like an amethyst from his forehead to his chin.”

Malcolm nodded as his Mum clasped his hands in reassurance. He lowered his voice so only his parents could hear his words. “’Tis nae a man that will kill James the Second in five summers,” he said. “’Tis a lion.”

            The guards did not catch Isobel’s quick intake of breath as Malcolm was parted from them and taken away to be presented to James of the Fiery Face.

2

Stern-faced guards led Malcolm through the dimly lit castle, which was more like a fortress. He was taken to the wing with the royal apartments. A large, double oaken door with a great lion carved upon it was opened, and one of the men motioned for Malcolm to step through it.

              He found himself in a grand room with carved white ceilings, tapestry draped walls, and all manner of people. There were men in simple tunics and men in doublets heavy with jewels. More of the king’s guards were stationed around the walls, swords hanging from their belts or long, gleaming pikes gripped in their hands.

Tables were spread with fine white damask cloths. Bowls of apples, platters of roasted meats, and sweet delicacies sat atop the tables, as well as silver wine goblets filled to the brim. And yet somehow it seemed like a place that was seldom occupied. Then Malcolm remembered his Da had told him that kings and queens, when visiting, much preferred the comfortable quarters in the Abbot’s house of Holyrood. And that might be especially true for King James, for as a child, after the assassination of his father, he was held here against the wishes of his mother, Queen Joan, by powerful men who sought to control the kingdom and his minority.

A grizzled, old woman smiled at Malcolm, revealing a twisted mouth with most of its teeth gone. She had probing eyes and bushy hair stuffed beneath a bonnet, and a short, tattered cloak hung about her bent shoulders. She cradled scrolls for casting horoscopes in her frail arms. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he should return her smile so he nodded instead.

Several beautiful young women with pearls twined in their hair and silk gowns adorning their trim figures also looked at him with curiosity, some with disinterest. A few giggled. A man with two different colored eyes studied a great cloud of smoke rising from a small, black bowl. His back was bent, as if he’d spent many years bowed over scrying stones and bowls, trying to tease out the secrets of times to come, maybe while his own life passed him by.

“Yer Grace, we present Malcolm Maclean,” one of the guards said.

There was only one other child present, a brown-haired boy dressed in a purple velvet robe. He stood next to a man wearing a similar robe, who was clearly his father. The robes had various gemstones sewn into the fabric and they both wore sapphires around their necks. To the right of the boy was a large, bronze lion and a table laden with curious objects. The boy studied Malcolm with interest.

The colors and sounds of gaiety and chatter were not what Malcolm had expected, for wasn’t the king concerned about his future? But where was the king?

“What do ye think, Malcolm, of this great fortress of Edinburgh?”

The rich, confident voice seemed to part the silky threads of smoke, and as the smoke thinned, Malcolm found himself staring at King James the Second. For a moment his eyes alighted on the fiery half of his face, and then he remembered what his mother had told him. He bowed quickly and studied the king’s bold person instead, the gold-and-red embroidered doublet he wore and the thick chains of gold about his neck. “I thought only white-haired, auld men lived in the castle, yer Grace,” he said as stole a glance at the Seer with the black bowl.

The king laughed heartily and the others joined him, except for the man who studied the patterns of smoke. The man’s blue eye and green eye were now trained on Malcolm, and his gaze was cold.

Malcolm turned back to the king he stood face-to-face with. Jewels hung from his ears. His skin was surprisingly ruddy. This was no king who sequestered himself indoors. Malcolm had heard that James was fond of hunting, falconry, climbing cliffs, and fighting battles.

The king’s eyes were kind and fierce at the same time, his nose long, thin, and straight. The shape of his chin proclaimed pride and mischief, but there was a firmness of character, too. Malcolm could imagine James as a young boy, his mother allowing him to ride at the head of a large armed force, banners flying, plumes tossing, steel weapons glinting. Even as a child, he wouldn’t have had it any other way, for he was king, even if he was just a boy then.

Malcolm could also imagine him as a scared child when his mother, the queen, had come to Edinburgh, charmed the Chancellor, and smuggled him out of the castle inside a trunk, sailing with the young monarch up the Forth to Stirling Castle. There had been two trunks that day that had supposedly contained the queen’s clothing and ornaments, but one had hid the small form of her son, the future king, who was being kept from her and controlled by power-seeking men.

              Malcolm could envision the young king again at age ten, when he’d been tricked into attending court at this very castle, making merry with two Douglas brothers close to his own age, for they were not yet enemies then. While guests were eating and being entertained, the steaming head of a black bull was brought into the hall upon a platter, meant to forewarn of the death of the principal dinner guests. Armed men silently stole into the hall and seized the two Douglas brothers. They were accused falsely of treason.

It was reported that the young king had wept loudly, clinging so fiercely to the Chancellor’s bony knees and begging for the lives of his new friends to be spared that he tore the man’s stockings. But his friends were proclaimed enemies of the throne and hurriedly taken to a block in the back court, where their heads were struck off. They were boys of only sixteen and eleven summers.

              Now James the Second stood before Malcolm as a man, the man who had stabbed William Douglas, the Eighth Earl of Douglas, to death three years ago, and had callously thrown his bloodied body from a tower window. The king before him had also recently defeated the Black Douglas at Arkinholm. The childish times when he’d hidden in trunks, laughed with Douglas lads, and had other men control and determine his future were long gone, like wisps of smoke from a scrying bowl.

The Black Douglas’ estates covered whole provinces. He’d had many warlike vassals living on his lands, ready to follow his banner and garrison his castles. The Black Douglas had lived in a style that outshone even the royal court, and when he rode out, he was followed by an armed trail of at least a thousand men. Lesser ranking nobles, barons, and knights of the borderland owed first loyalty to the Black Douglas, who had even called his own parliament and forbade his dependents to attend the legitimate parliament when summoned by the king. But no more.

              “Malcolm Maclean, ‘tis a pleasure indeed to meet the bairn who foretold of my great victory over the Black Douglas.”

              “The pleasure is mine, yer Grace. Yer a great fighter, like yer father was before ye. I admire great fighters.”

              “Yea, my father was a great fighter,” James said. “But when they came to do him in, he was in his nightshirt and had no weapons. He was betrayed, and his attackers had dirks and swords while my father had only his hands to defend himself. He was soon cut to ribbons. One of the queen’s ladies, Catherine Douglas, thrust her arm through the staples on the door frame, trying to stop the murderers from entering the room. Her arm was badly mangled. Her mother was daughter of David Lindsay, First Earl of Crawford and his wife Elizabeth Stewart, daughter of Robert the Second, making her first cousin once removed of the king. But let us talk of other things.” The king’s eyes narrowed as he studied Malcolm’s person. “Ye ha’e brought no dice with ye, Malcolm Maclean, no scrying stones, no mirror. How will ye tell my future, lad?”

              “I am nae a fortune teller,” Malcolm replied. “I dunna throw dice or rub stones or gaze into mirrors. I simply see and I tell. I dunna ken when my visions will come and I dunna always ken what they mean.”

              There was derisive laughter, but James raised a hand to quiet everyone. “This boy is more honest and humble than the lot of ye,” he said. A woman offered the king a goblet of wine but he declined, waving it away. “Would ye like some wine, Malcolm, or something to eat? Perhaps a candied cherry or a candied violet?”

Malcolm shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was eat. His stomach felt as knotted as a hemp rope in the rigging of a sail.

James strode to a table and sat down on a cushioned chair. He patted the plump, gold cushion of the chair next to him and motioned to Malcolm. “Come, my lad. Sit next to yer king.”

              Malcolm obeyed.

              “Let us ha’e the dwarf,” James said. A merry dwarf emerged from the crowd to cartwheel and somersault. Someone tossed him a bit of venison, which he caught in his mouth. There was laughing and applause, but the king looked bored. He spied the man who had thrown the morsel of meat. “God’s bones, he is nae a hound!” James rubbed his temples. “Enough. Let us ha’e the juggler.”

The dwarf had the good grace to retreat to the back of the room, and a juggler with lit torches emerged from the crowd. The flames whirled as he expertly tossed them in the air and kept them rotating, never dropping one. The king waved him away, too.

The boy in the purple robe, eagerness writ on his young face, stepped forward. “I will do magic for ye, yer Grace!”

One of the king’s guards grabbed him and the boy’s face froze in terror.

“Those who approach the king without an invitation get a beating or worse, lad!”

“Please, yer Grace, forgive my small son,” the boy’s father implored, his face pinched with worry.

James sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

Malcolm stepped forward almost without thinking to chastise the guard. “Take yer hands from the lad. Dunna strike him or harm him in any way. I had a vision just now, a flash, a premonition. If ye harm a single hair on this lad’s head, a curse will befall the king’s guards, and what good are men-at-arms who canna protect a king?”

In the shocked silence that followed, James studied Malcolm, his eyes curious. Malcolm remembered his parents’ warnings, to be careful with his words, and he waited, his heart thumping, to see what James would do. Perhaps he had been too bold.

The room seemed to hold its breath. The boy magician trembled slightly.

“What is yer name, lad?”

“Jehanne.”

“Yer a magician like yer Da?”

“Aye, yer Grace. My father and I hail from France, where we ha’e been to court. We brought the giant bronze lion and other wondrous things. Wait until ye see what the lion does!”

The King clapped his hands, the sound like the bark and scrape of a cannon firing. Then he smiled. “Well then, wee Jehanne, show me some magic, for I am in the mood for magic!”

Malcolm remembered to breathe and the boy and his father shot him a grateful glance.
Malcolm had never seen a magician until now. He knew they could perform illusions and make objects move on their own. Some even knew how to turn bread into wine. He watched as
Jehanne pulled an apple from his robe, setting it before the king.

“I will make the apple move without touching it.”

“Marvelous,” James replied.

Jehanne begin to sing, concentrating on the apple, and soon it began to wiggle and rock.

James clapped his hands in delight and the boy smiled and bowed. “The hour is soon turning,” James said. He motioned for the boy’s father to approach. “What is yer name?”

“Enguarrand, yer Grace.”

“I think I see a clock on that table?”

“Yea, yer Grace, a water clock.”

“Well, let us ha’e a demonstration. Quickly now.”

Jehanne helped his father retrieve the clock from the table and place it before the king. The crowd gaped as not a minute later the clock announced the passing of the hour with a clattering of brass balls, and three miniature horsemen appeared in the tiny windows to indicate the time.

“Exquisite!” James remarked. “I find my mood considerably lightened. Let us drink wine!”

Jehanne slipped the apple back in his robe and Enguarrand took the clock back to the table. “Thank you,” Enguarrand whispered as he passed Malcolm. “I am forever in your debt.”

The King studied his wine goblet. “Tell me Malcolm, what is strongest, the king or fine wine?”

              The room grew quiet as all awaited his answer.

              “Women!” someone shouted. There was more laughter, but a cutting look from James caused the room to fall silent again. “Let the lad answer,” he said. “What is strongest, the king or fine wine?”

              “The truth,” Malcolm said quietly. “The king and fine wine are surely strong, for both affect men’s actions, but ‘tis truth that is the strongest.”

              Murmurs swept the room. James did not smile and he did not frown. Malcolm was not sure if he had displeased the King of Scotland and he tensed.

              A smile finally crested James’ face. “Malcolm, I think yer a vera wise lad. Did ye ken once there was a king named Malcolm who lived in this vera castle?”

              Malcolm shook his head.

“Many, many years ago, King Malcolm the Third of the House of Canmore built his castle at Edinburgh, and his wife, Queen Margaret, built a chapel within its walls. King Malcolm
admired his wife’s piety and he loved her so much that he had jewel-encrusted bindings made for her religious books. He himself was unable to read. My father thought that vera sad. My own father was a fighter but he also loved to read. Malcolm invaded England five times. He was a warrior king and he ruled for thirty-five years before he was killed in battle. I think a king canna always ha’e his head in books when there are battles to be fought and enemies to be slain.”