by J. R. Tomlin
While pipers and fiddlers took up a gay tune, servants carried in roast goose for the first course. Since the wine was quickly going to James’ head, as soon as he offered Joan the best slice off his knife, he dug in. Then he remembered there would be many more courses to come, so he leaned back and watched Joan laughing as she leaned forward to trade a quip with Henry Percy further down the dais. Dutifully, he turned to Lady Margaret on the other side. She looked glum, and he wondered if it was only that she had always despised him.
Courses of venison, partridge, and fresh salmon followed, each course crowned with an elaborate subtlety. There was a sugar modeled into a castle with moat, nestling doves, and a ship under full sail. With so many of the English court either fighting in France or some prisoner there, many faces were missing, but they weren't ones James missed, but Joan must. She would have no chance to say farewell to her brothers. James motioned for her cup to be filled with honey mead, and she absently sipped. She was sparkling with gaiety, laughing at the tumblers who were chasing a one of their number dressed as a pig around the tables. But he squeezed her fingers anyway, and she smiled at him from the corner of her eyes. Finally, and James thought it must have been hours, the trumpets blew and dozens of servants scuttled out to clear the trestle tables.
Once the tables, except the one on the dais, were cleared, the doors were flung open and servants wheeled in a great pie, three feet across with a luscious brown crust, to push it in a slow progress up the length of the hall. The guests shouted and clapped as it went. Two men followed, each with a brown sparrowhawk on his gauntleted arm.
James leaned close to Joan and whispered, "This will be unruly, my love. But we could turn it to our advantage if you like. If you would prefer a quiet to the bedding revels, that is…" He raised his eyebrows, for he wasn't sure what she would prefer.
"I've no great taste for them. But how so?"
"When I rise to go cut open the crust, make your way to the doors." James grinned. "Once they loose the hawks, I wager no one will watch what we are doing for at least a few moments."
Bishop Beaufort stood and bowed, motioning for James to take the honor, so James put a bit of swagger in his stride as he went to meet the pie below the dais. James drew his sword with a flourish. He lifted it high, held it for a moment, and then swung it down. The crust shattered. Two dozen white doves flapped into the air with a burst of squeaks and coos, feathers flying as the birds tried to escape into the rafters. More laughter and cheers went up from the guests who lined the walls and crowded the doorway four deep, drowning out the lively tune coming from the gallery. "Release them," James shouted to the falconers.
The hawks burst from the falconers’ arms and soared into the air, circled, swooped through the rafters in pursuit of their prey. There was utter chaos with doves dashing against the windows to try to escape while the onlookers shouted wagers and cheered when one of the hawks plunged in to take a dove with a welter of flying feathers and speckles of blood to loud applause. As feathers drifted down, James darted through the crowd into the doorway where Joan stood, nervously chewing her lip. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the corridor. "Haste you," he said, smothering laughter, "before we are missed. They'll soon be after us like the hawks on the doves."
Joan gathered her skirts in her hands and dashed beside him down the corridor and for the stairs. He snatched her arm and hustled her up the steps. They had barely set foot at the top when James heard a shout and laughter from below. "After them," came a shout that James was sure was Henry Percy. James cursed and shoved a panting Joan ahead of him toward the door to their chamber. By then he could hear hoots, whistles, and laughter from their pursuers. James jerked the door open, thrust Joan inside, and slammed the door. He was laughing so hard he had to lean his head against the wood as he dropped the bar into place. There was a thud and hammering.
Joan sank into a chair giggling and covered her mouth with her hands.
"Damn you, James Stewart, open the door," Percy shouted, and there were catcalls.
"He doesn't want to admit he doesn't know how to sheath his sword!" someone else taunted.
"I'll bed my own bride," James shouted back. He turned to Joan, still laughing. A second later they were in each other's arms. Joan's mouth was tender and tasted of honey mead. James was sure he would grow to love the taste of mead on her tongue, and he loved the feel of her soft arms around him. He kissed her deeply, running his hand through the cascading fall of her honey-blonde hair, and tightened his arms around her. She shifted so she could pillow her head against his shoulder.
"I think," giddy, Joan began to giggle, "that I am tipsy with happiness."
He put his lips to the pulse in her throat. With his free hand he began unfastening her lacings. "My heart's desire…" he murmured against her skin.
"I feel as though all the bone and blood in me is no more than a feather, and if you didn't anchor me with your touch, that I would float away." She shivered when his lips brushed her ear and his tongue traced a path up its curve.
"Forbye," James said with a smile, "I'll have no floating away on our wedding night."
Suddenly serious, she whispered, "Where you will stay, I will stay…tonight and every night…" Looking up at him, her eyes were so soft and glowing, showing nothing but trust, that James caught his breath.
"You shan't ever regret our marriage, Joan," he promised. "I swear it by all that is holy."
Chapter Five
April 5, 1424
They rode at a steady pace, at James insistence, stopping only to allow the horses to drink and Joan to rest and stretch the cramps from her legs. She rode near at his side, companionable as she pointed out birds and flowers she hadn't seen in the south. Henry Percy ofttimes rode beside them with their escort strung out for a mile behind them, and his old friend's jibes about James missing the English court began to fray at his temper. Behind the long train of men-at-arms and the nobles, sent more for Joan's honor than his, chattered like magpies above the clank of harness and plod of hundreds of hooves.
Freedom was before him. The desire to hurry burned in him like a fire, but he pressed it down. When he saw the band of the River Tweed stretched through the green valley, its wide turquoise waters rippling with silver in the May sunlight, James drew up his horse and raised his hand for a halt. Grass grew thick in the shallows that edged the ford. A brown adder basked on a log in the sunshine and raised its head before slithering out of sight in the reeds. A golden eagle flew in lazy swoops overhead.
On a hill beyond the river haugh, a thin tendril of smoke rose and twisted, but the scent on the air was of thyme and heather and the river gave up a faint gurgle.
"My lord, are you all right?" Joan asked.
He nodded, his throat closed up so tight he could not speak, for beyond the Tweed, Scotland was laid out before him. First lay a checkered range of pastures and meadows that slowly rose to braes dappled with green and yellow and purple heather and jasmine and patches of gorse. A dozen miles away, clear in that spring sunlight, the purple Lammermuirs rimmed the rich Scotland sky.
James struggled for a breath against the tight band that had formed, squeezing him, almost as much grief and the lost years as joy at the sight of…home. He reached a hand for Joan's blindly, for he wouldn't turn so that others would see the tears that leaked from his eyes. He cleared his throat roughly, shamed at his weakness.
Joan's horse whickered, and he felt her as she nudged her mount closer and squeezed his fingers. "Look," she said. "There are people gathered beyond. In Scotland."
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, pretending there had been no tears.
"At last," Percy announced as he thudded up at a canter. "My duty is done once we cross the Tweed. I've kept my oath to the chancellor to deliver you safely to Scotland."
The bands squeezing his chest released at last as James sucked in a great breath of the moist river air. A laugh welled up, surprising him. "Indeed, my old friend. So you have." He turn
ed his head as the sound of bells reached him, he wasn’t sure from whence, but a joyful carillon and then deeper, steady tolls joined them, carried on the breeze. "So let us be about it. There is one more river to cross."
Joan's bright gaze caught his. She bent her head in submission, but her eyes sparkled as she said, "At your command, my king."
James grinned and put his heels to his horse's flanks. "Home!" he shouted. His horse caught his excitement and took off down the slope with an arm-wrenching plunge. The chime of Joan's laugh mixed with music of the pealing bells and the splash of the river as he crossed, but he heard her horse splash into the river behind him.
He felt as though he might choke on the joy as he pulled up his prancing, plunging mount in front of the shouting, cheering host of bishops in finery along with abbots and nobility, with commonality around the edges of the crowd. "The king!" they shouted. "It's the king!" He jumped from the saddle and rushed to catch Joan's bridle. He swung her down to put her on her feet. She was gasping with the fast ride and her laughter. He took both her slender hands in his.
Turning, he gazed at the hundreds of faces around them, slowly shaking his head. So many strangers, who should have been friends, should have been known to him, all of them.
But his heart lurched in his chest with a desire. He sank slowly to his knees and bent. He plunged his hands into the heather to pull it away and pressed his lips to the raw earth. He kissed his native soil and took a deep breath of its sweet smell. When he raised his eyes, Joan was kneeling beside him, her gaze solemn.
As he knelt there, an old man in the purple robes of a bishop stepped out of the crowd. His hair was gray and his face thinner than James’ childhood memory, but there was no mistaking Henry Wardlaw, Bishop of St. Andrews. The bishop raised his hands and the cheers faded away.
In a voice deep as the ocean that boomed like breakers on the shore, he intoned, "Welcome home, my king." Then, holding out his hands in blessing, he gave thanks in the words of a Psalm, "Quia apud Dominum misericordia: et copiosa apud eum redemptio. Et ipse redimet Israel, ex omnibus iniquitatibus eius. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Amen."
James gave Joan his hand and helped her as they both rose, but he was shaking his head at the sight of his old tutor and mentor. He reached his free hand to grasp the bishop's. "Your Reverence." His voice broke. "To see you again."
Bishop Wardlaw beamed. "The joy of welcoming you home, my son, I cannot express it." He turned his gaze to Joan. "And your bride."
"I forget myself. My lady, this is my beloved tutor and father in God, Bishop Wardlaw of St. Andrews and Primate of the realm. Come himself to greet us."
Joan gave a sweeping curtsy. "Most Reverend Father."
James turned at someone saying his name. "I am another here who remembers you well, Your Grace, though after these years…" The man who greeted James so was in his fifties and yet appeared fit as a man much younger. He was tall with long legs and broad shoulders. His head was bald, so smooth that James thought it must be shorn, as was the man's face except for his moustache, a thicket of wiry auburn hair that reached nearly to his jaw. His piercing eyes were a pale blue. When James frowned in puzzlement, the man bent a knee and said, "It is no wonder you dinnae remember me. It has been too many years, Sire."
"Many years indeed, my lord," James said coolly. He couldn't afford to offend this man, but warmth was truly beyond him.
"I swear to you that my brother's actions and Murdoch's were none of my doing. If any action of mine would have freed you sooner—"
James waved away his uncle's protests, which he supposed might be true. How much he could trust Atholl remained to be seen, but he might be telling the truth. "All in the past, uncle, and I hope you will ride with us to Scone." He smiled and wondered if it looked as false as it felt. "But you have not met my lady wife."
Though there were many who needed greeting, he spotted Walter Giffard and motioned the man who had been his main companion in imprisonment for so many years to his side, before he turned to Henry Percy, who was frowning as he was ignored amongst the crowd. "I owe you an oath, my lord, and I hereby give it. The provisions of the treaty will be kept, and I swear to honor the truce between our kingdoms as well as pay the ransom agreed on."
Percy gave him a formal bow. "You will send the treaty under your great seal for me to forward?"
At James’ nod, Percy turned and strode back to his horse. Under his own banner, Percy splashed across the wide River Tweed to rejoin the armed troop that awaited his return.
James signaled to Iain to lead his horse to him. First he lifted Joan by her waist onto her mount before he swung into the saddle. He drew his sword and displayed it before he rested it before him. Slowly he spread his gaze across the waiting crowd, most notably lacking the great lords of the realm. Nowhere were the Douglases or Murdoch Stewart in the crowd. As he looked from face to face, a silence fell over the people beneath the sound of tolling bells.
He stood in his stirrups and raised his voice. "Hear me. The rapine in my kingdom will end. My royal coffers are empty, and too many of my nobles are but a pack of wolves devouring the people like sheep. But I will bring the rule of law to the land." He took a deep breath. "If God grant me but the years of a dog, I swear to you that whilst I live, the key will keep the lock and the bracken hedge the cow."
There was a rustling, and James saw in the darting eyes a deep doubt that he could keep such an oath.
Chapter Six
The scent of Scotland was strong in his nostrils, and James found it strange that what he remembered most, now that he was once again home, was the smell of earth and river and plants. The crowd had formed into a long cavalcade, and they rode through the meadows, grain fields, and pastures of the green Merse, ranging alongside the River Tweed. With Joan beside him, he pointed out stone towers of knights and churches as they passed. As urgent as it was for him to be crowned, he needed to immerse himself in the feel of his homeland and share it with his bride, so he led them in a leisurely ride westward until they would swing north toward Scone.
The afternoon sun was high in the sky when Robert Lauder urged his horse beside James. The lion banner flapped overhead in a slight breeze. A chunky red finch fluttered across their path to disappear into a patch of trees. Lauder cleared his throat. "A word if I might, Your Grace."
"Of course." James smiled. "I have to remember you're a man grown and not call you Robbie. I remember our days as lads too well. I was sorry when I heard of your father's death. I should have mentioned it sooner."
"I need to…feel you should see a village over yon." Lauder shifted in the saddle, and he gave James an uneasy look from the corner of his eyes. "We could take a small party whilst your good lady and the others rest just ahead."
There was a shady copse of birches a few minutes’ ride ahead on a heathery slope. "Your words when you arrived, that you would bring law to the lands. Braw words, Your Grace, but I'd show you what you face."
James gave a sharp nod and motioned for a man-at-arms. Joan was murmuring a protest at being left behind. James helped her from her saddle and leaned close. "Please me, my lady, by staying safely here. Until I ken better what we face, I'd take no risks." She squeezed his hand, but hers was trembling, so he motioned to Walter Giffard. "Stay with Lady Joan until I return."
"No," she exclaimed. "Better he stays with you if there is danger. I'm not afraid for myself."
"My lady," Robbie said, "I swear there is no danger, and I have my own men with me." Indeed, Robbie had a full score of men-at-arms in his tail.
James nodded and patted her hand. "I've faced worse in France than any here will pose."
James remounted, with Robbie climbing back into the saddle beside him. William Wardlaw slapped his horse's withers to ride beside them, so they ended up with fifty men-at-arms in all riding behind them as Robbie put his horse into a trot and led them over a rise. "How bad?" James asked brusquely as they rode.
Robbie pressed his lips into a
thin line that whitened with his tension. "Murdoch Stewart is furious at Atholl supporting your return. But the worst is Walter, his eldest son, a violent and rapacious man. He kidnapped the heiress of the earldom of Mar and forcibly married her. Does whatever he pleases and snaps his fingers even in his own father's face. But you'll judge for yourself."
James saw the first cot, a little thatch-roofed dwelling surrounded by a trampled barley field and a dead dog before the door. At least the place had not been torched. Robbie rode ahead, shouting a halloo, but got no answer.
"Dead? Or hiding?" James said. He had seen too many similar scenes in war-torn France. But Scotland wasn't war torn and such shouldn't be before him. "Robbie, with me." He drew his sword and kicked the door open. There were pots and bedding thrown about but no food and no sign of people. "Fled, then," he said with a sigh of relief. At least there were no corpses about.
They rode through another field, barley that was half trampled. There were no people tending it. All was silence. Then on the breeze James smelt smoke, not fresh but the ash of fires gone cold. Finally the remains of a village came into sight. James pulled his horse up to a slow walk, hand on his hilt as he rode toward the reeking debris, for there was nothing more than scattered heaps of charcoal where once there must have been cottages. There was more left of the church, for the walls still stood though the roof had fallen in. But there was no sign of people. A dog growled at the edge of a field of grain beyond the ruins as they rode closer. When James saw a body, shapeless and swollen, with its head hidden by a black swarm of flies, he sucked in his breath.
