by J. R. Tomlin
Queen Joan de Beaufort, in her mid-thirties, was full-figured from much childbearing but tall and regal, with striking blue eyes and a firm chin. Dressed in silken mourning white that shimmered in the sunlight, she was breathtaking. When he got nearer, he saw that the yellow remains of a bruise marred half her face. Across her forehead, a half-healed cut disfigured her forehead. Blemished as her face was by the attack, Patrick could still see why, as a maiden, she had been the object of the king’s love poems.
When he finally wormed his way through the crowd to the queen’s party, Patrick bowed low.
She offered her hand to be kissed. “Ah, Sir Patrick, your father and James Kennedy have spoken highly of you.”
“I’m eager to be at your service in any way that I may, Your Grace.”
She turned to look at her children where they were gathered. James, in a fine purple cloak and bonnet, had the large eyes and long nose of the Stewarts, but his livid red birthmark splashed across his left cheek. Two of his six sisters, both with shimmering blonde hair like their mother, stood with him. Another sister was in France and married to France’s Dauphin. The others, too young for a long ceremony, were evidently to be left behind. It was an oddly hushed group for healthy children, all wide-eyed and looking nervously about.
“James, come to me,” the queen called.
Turning back to Patrick, she continued, “It is for my son’s service I would have you. I must have someone with him I can trust to keep him safe.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead and tightly closed her eyes. After a moment, she regained her poise and went on. “Trust comes hard after being murderously betrayed by men we trusted.”
The six-year-old prince, a tall lad, reedy as though growing fast, reached her side and she took his hand.
“James, this is Sir Patrick. He is now the master of your guard and will protect you. With his life, if need be.”
James gave him a long, searching look. “They murdered my father. So…” He blinked two or three times. “You must not let them murder me.”
“He is young for such an important position,” said a tall man Patrick did not recognize with a short, dark beard, finely dressed in red silk-lined sleeves edged in marten. He looked closely at Patrick with dark eyes and then cast a pointed look at James, who stared at the both of them wide-eyed.
The queen shook her head. “Would you take on the job, Sir James? I’d trust the Black Knight of Lorne as I would few others, but I think you have other duties.”
Patrick nodded in acknowledgement. “I am young, Sir James, but my sword and my life are the king’s.” He would have knelt to his new liege lord, child though he was, but instead squatted so as not to soil the knees of his best hose. “I swear to you, Your Grace, no harm shall come to you. Not as long as I draw breath.”
“Your Grace,” a voice boomed behind him, and Patrick rose. Approaching was a burly, broad-shouldered man, black hair and beard liberally streaked with gray. Archibald Douglas, Fifth Earl of Douglas. He was trailed by two youths, from the resemblance obviously his sons. The older, in his early teens, swaggered a bit, but the younger brother looked about with wide-eyed curiosity.
The earl bowed deeply and kissed the queen’s hand.
“How well-grown your lads are since I last saw them,” she said. “Mayhap they might keep James company on the way to Holyrood Abbey.”
The two older lads looked uncertainly at the young king who instantly forgot he was doubtless supposed to be on his dignity.
“I’m riding to the Abbey,” he told them. “Are you?” They nodded, and he asked where their horses were. At nods from the adults, the three scurried toward horses being led from the stable. “This is my first real horse,” James chattered as they went. “Not a pony and mine own!”
“A few moments distraction may help him to endure the long ceremony,” the queen murmured when the three were out of hearing. She watched with a smile as her son preened, showing his new friends the finer points of his horse. Around them, dozens of mounts were being readied.
“Aye and parliament he must attend after the coronation,” the earl said. “With serious decisions to be made. That may be a long affair, so mayhap we should nae delay.”
Queen Joan looked around at the packed bailey. “You are right, of course, My Lord. It is time.”
On her signal, heralds shouted to make ready. Riders called for their mounts, horses snorted, and harness clanked above the clatter of hooves. The Earl of Argyll, a big fair-haired man with a wind-chapped face, clad in cherry velvet and yellow silk, helped the royal children to mount. He knelt and held his hands in a stirrup to lift the queen onto her horse. Patrick swung into the saddle and nudged his mount to a few horse’s lengths behind James.
Horns blew and the heralds shouted to let the royal party through. Drummers and trumpeters started up at the front. The excitement had all the horses stamping and snorting, but shortly, the queen, with the prince beside her, formed the head of the procession. All around them, jostling nobles argued about the order of precedence as heralds urged them into a column.
At last, they rode through the portcullis gate and between the hulking bastions that guarded the way over the drawbridge. Patrick stayed as close to James as courtesy allowed, but the two Douglas lads rode beside him, the older bragging that his father would soon allow him to tilt in the list. He had much to say about his skill with the lance. But soon, any speech was drowned by noise. Cheering crowds lined the way along the Via Regis and through the city to Holyrood Abbey. The thronged streets rang with shouts of, “God bless the King! Wee Jamie Stewart! God save the King’s Grace!” The soon-to-be king grinned and waved hard to the onlookers.
At the end of the Via Regis, within high stone walls of the monastery, the twin towers of Holyrood Abbey rose like a cathedral, centuries old and breathtaking in their magnificence. All around spread extensive monastic buildings, gardens sparkling with the light green of early spring, and a palatial marble abbot’s residence.
The trumpeters were blowing another fanfare as the king reached the abbey steps. The way was already thronged when they dismounted. The sounds of choir and instruments and hundreds of voices rolled through the doors like a tide as they entered the abbot’s door into the vestry. Patrick nearly choked on waves of conflicting smells of incense, musk, lavender and stale fur.
Patrick barely had time to pick out familiar faces. Men he’d seen in his father’s company, the Earl of Argyll; Alexander Nairne, Lord Lyon King of Arms; Robert de Keith, the Marischal of Scotland; Bishop Ochiltree, who would conduct the ceremony, and more he couldn’t even put a name to. The queen, soon to be queen mother, the princesses and all of their ladies, bustled out through a side passage to the choir stalls where they would not suffer the press of the hundreds within the abbey. Patrick moved with the throng into the abbey itself.
Columns soared to impossible heights, casting long shadows across the crowd. Courtiers filled most of the front, although in the rear crowded some of the rabble. Patrick had no desire to put himself forward in this exalted company, although he felt he must stay within sight of the prince, who had begun biting his lower lip and looking about nervously. Why wouldn’t he? It had to be impossible to know whom to trust when members of your own family had murdered your father. Patrick managed to give him a reassuring smile. He had to wonder if the lad would ever again completely trust that those around him didn’t mean murder. How many might? The crowd made Patrick twitch with nerves. Anything could happen with so many around the king, but surely he was safe with the Douglas and the Earl of Argyll so near. He shook off the thought.
The voices of the choir rose in a final soaring: Propter domum Domini Dei nostri, quæsivi bona tibi.
Trumpets blared. Patrick slipped discretely through the door and stood with his back against one of the great marble pillars. He found his gaze roving. Gilt candlestands alight with beeswax tapers cast nimbuses over the garlands and runners. But it was still shadowy in the corners and behind the painted co
lumns.
With ceremonial flourish, Alexander Nairne, the Lord Lyon, led the king to the throne-like chair placed in front of the altar. Fortunately, someone had thought to place a step stool next to it so the lad could clamber up into the great seat, and when the Bishop Ochiltree, a man of middling size and years, and a great friend of the dead king, approached and began a long Latin prayer, the lad watched him tensely.
At last, the prayer was done. Standing next to the throne, Nairne took out a long scroll and proclaimed the lineage of the Kings of the Scots, beginning with King Vipoig, through the Pictish kings, on to King Gartnait, and on and on to the great King Cináed mac Ailpín through King Máel Coluim, and finally to King Robert the First, King David the Second, King Robert the Second, and King James the First.
Bishop Ochiltree lifted high a gold embossed ampulla, intoned a prayer of thanksgiving, and carried the container of sacred oil to the king. Once more, the massed voices of the choir rose as the bishop anointed the king on each of his hands, above his heart, and on the forehead.
William de le Haye carried the Sword of State, an enormous bejeweled weapon, to lay it across James’s lap. When it slipped sideways, de le Haye quickly lifted it and stood to the side to hold it before him point down, as ceremonial guard. The Earl of Argyll knelt to press the Scepter of Scotland into James’s hands. The boy fumbled the heavy thing and there was a gasp, but he managed to grasp it before it tumbled. He grinned with satisfaction and held it up proudly to the onlookers.
The Earl of Douglas entered carrying the crown. Patrick breathed out a soft snort. The Douglases were truly in power if they were now crowning the king, but on second thought, he realized that there was no one else to do so. It should have been the duty of the Earl of Atholl, who was being pursued for aiding in regicide.
In fact, the earl only touched the crown to the king’s forehead because it was far too large to fit on his small head. “God save the king!” Douglas shouted as he raised the crown high and the youngster beamed up at him.
The crowd took up the cry. “God save the King!” resounded off the high marble walls in a deafening cacophony. Patrick joined the shout as his ears rang with the noise. Church bells tolled and clanged, first above their heads in the high towers of the abbey, and soon echoed from across the city.
Bishop Ochiltree knelt, took the young king’s hands between his own, and swore an oath of fealty. He rose, and the Earl of Argyll took his place. In a booming voice, the earl declared his loyalty.
Douglas, still holding the crown, looked a bit frantic as he tried to find somewhere suitable to place the crown while he took his own oath. The bishop reached for it and Douglas reluctantly gave it into his hands. He knelt and took his oath. A line was forming as the great ones scrambled into place to swear their fealty. Lord Lyon hustled his heralds out to check a few who put themselves out of their place. Voices were raised as they disputed precedence, but a scowl from the Lyon quieted argument.
With a flex of his shoulders, Patrick straightened and walked to take his place in the long line. They shuffled along, air musty with the scent of incense and sweat. Patrick stared at the velvet clad back of the man who preceded him, wondering how long it would take for them to reach the king. At last, the man knelt, mumbled the words and it was Patrick’s turn.
He looked into the face of the boy who was now their king and returned the lad’s faint smile. Dropping to his knees, he took James’s hands, a child’s hand to wield a royal scepter. Jesu save us.
“I, Patrick Gray, become your man in life and in death, faithful and loyal to you against all men that live, move or die. I declare you to be my liege lord and none other—so may God help me and all the Saints.”
For a moment, the boy king’s hands tightened on his and he felt within bones as fine as a bird’s wing. “By the favor of God, I take you as my man to defend and to aid in all that I do.”
With a sigh, Patrick rose and went to wait at the side, thankful each oath was short. He was sworn in life and death to this boy, and he’d try not to think about where his true loyalty might lie. He’d pray to the saints he never had it tested.
The fealty-taking still dragged on. And on. By the time the end of the line reached the throne, King James sagged in his throne, shoulders drooping from fatigue. Or perhaps from boredom, because he instantly sprang erect when the Earl of Douglas shouted, “God save the King. Long live King James!”
Once more, the assembly took up the shout.
As the gathered guests continued shouting “God Save the King,” James hopped down from the high throne. He looked up at Douglas, who thrust his chin toward the Abbey’s nave. James grinned in obvious relief and scampered through the nave toward the door where the royal ladies gathered. Douglas and Angus followed. The crowd parted to let them pass. Patrick shoved through the press, stepping on toes and elbowing anyone who didn’t move.
Trumpets blared.
Outside was pandemonium. The sun was shining, and a cool March wind scattered rags of clouds across the sky. Douglas hoisted the king onto his horse. The horses stamped and shook their manes. Crichton, a short, hard-bitten man with a tanned face, was helping the queen, her daughters, and ladies to mount. The red-haired, burly Earl of Angus hurried over to boost one of the princesses onto her mount. Heralds begged people to form up according to precedence. Patrick was as weary of ceremony as the soon-to-be king, who was bouncing in the saddle with impatience to be off. The queen sidled her horse closer to him and said something in his ear.
Lord Gray lifted an eyebrow at Patrick and scowled. Perhaps he was judged not near enough to the king, but the street was a madhouse as the nobles impatiently urged their horses forward once more to the blaring of trumpets and bagpipes and the rumble of drums. An argument broke out between two sweating, velvet clad noblemen. Several put their heels to their mounts and trotted ahead, ignoring shouts from the heralds. The queen shrugged and nudged her horse to a walk. Glowering, the Black Douglas shouted for all to follow the king. The heralds gave up on keeping hereditary order, and the irregular procession, now closer to a mob, set up back toward Edinburgh Castle, bathed in afternoon sunlight.
Patrick’s stomach grumbled and he sighed. Next would be long hours of the parliament and no hope of a meal any time in the near future.
Chapter 3
The great hall of Edinburgh Castle, an oblong chamber that reached from one side of the keep to the other, still had the polished look of being newly and richly refurbished. The high oak ceilings and the paneling, bosses intricately carved with foliage and corners of silver-gilt moldings, sparkled and gleamed. Torches flickered in silver sconces high on marble columns. Before the high carved fireplace was a dais with a gilded chair and a ponderous table stacked with parchments held down by a massive gavel.
A steady stream of noblemen filed through the doors as Patrick protested he was not needed at the parliament. He could only imagine how tedious the old men’s debate would be.
His father speared him with a dour look. “I expect your presence in the gallery. The queen will be there as well as several of her ladies. Make yourself pleasant, but attend all that is said on the floor as well as in the gallery.”
Patrick rubbed his hollow stomach, but it seemed to have given up on ever receiving food. It no longer even grumbled. He gave his father a grudging bow and trudged up the narrow steps to the gallery that would normally be given over to musicians. Queen Joan stood at the railing and three ladies-in-waiting with her.
She smiled at him. “You are kind, Sir Patrick, to lend us your company. Looking on while they talk and talk and taking no part becomes…” She gave a wry shrug. “…tedious.”
Below, there was murmuring, shuffling and scraping of benches as hundreds of nobles took their places; earls, lords, bishops, mitered abbots, and even a few wealthy merchants representing the royal burghs. “I am happy to keep you company.” He kissed her hand. “Hopefully, I can break the tedium somewhat.”
“I am right sorry to put
my poor ladies through the dreary affair, but it must be.” Her tone did not sound all that sorry, and she had good reason for sharp interest in the proceedings. She motioned to the young woman with her who smiled at him. “Lady Annabella Forbes.” The girl was splendid in green silk and a gauzy veil. She was perhaps sixteen, tawny-haired and brown-eyed, slender and lovely, her creamy skin marred only by a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
Queen Joan took the hand of a lady-in-waiting in her late twenties, tall and dignified with blonde hair beneath a modest wimple. “Lady Barbara Campbell, who stood beside me so bravely on that dire day.” Lady Barbara nodded to him but turned back to watch the confusion below. She nodded to an older woman, “And wife to Sir Alexander Callendar, Lady Janet Dundas.” Lady Janet gave him a brief nod.
Lady Annabella made her curtsy to him with a solemn look. “You will be one of the king’s gentlemen of the bedchamber, sir?”
“Yes, my lady—” He broke off at a flourish of trumpets. As he turned to watch, King James was ushered in by the Lord Lyon. The lad clambered up the stool and squirmed onto the huge throne. The Earl Marischal and the High Constable took their places behind the throne. The young king gazed around, wide-eyed, but he settled back, his legs sticking straight out on the enormous gilded seat. He crossed his arms and seemed to have settled in to watch the show.
The Earl of Douglas marched up to a table placed near the throne and bowed. “With Your Grace’s permission, I declare the parliament in session.”
Well-coached, James piped up with a loud, “Aye, My Lord Earl, you have my permission.”
Douglas called for Bishop Ochiltree to begin the proceedings with a prayer for aid from the Almighty in dealing with the kingdom’s grave loss, which prayer was mercifully short to Patrick’s relief. The queen sat in a large chair placed there for her and Patrick snagged a seat next to Lady Annabella on a padded bench. He suspected she would be more congenial company than the other women.
