by J. R. Tomlin
Bishop Lauder walked beside James, with Iain and Sanderis trailing, toward the jousting field. The grassy haugh of the River Tay spread out before them. It was abuzz with brightly dressed nobles, and commons in hodden-grey strolled toward hastily erected stands, horses were led as they snorted and tossed their manes, servants dashed through the crowd on errands. Chunks of meat sizzled over braziers, giving off a savory scent. Hawkers cried that they had meat pies and bread fresh from the oven. A herdsman leading a goat dropped to a knee as they passed. "My lords," he said as the goat butted him in the back and sent him onto his face. James laughed. He would have tossed the man a coin had he had one. His purse was still as empty as it had always been.
He watched Bishop Lauder take a place next to the queen. She had changed from her coronation finery, and her skin looked like rich cream against the blue silk. Her new crown gleamed against the braids in her golden hair, its sapphires a perfect match for her eyes.
James stood beside his horse, young Sanderis holding the reins, and Iain knelt to give him a boost into the saddle. In the heavy armor, mounting unassisted was possible but not pleasant, but James waited for the first rider to appear. He was to ride against the champion.
Alexander Stewart, youngest son of Murdoch, rode out on a fine-moving bay courser clad in gilded barding. Young Alexander glittered with gold from head to foot. Wigtoun entered the list in a blue surcoat with the crowned heart of the Douglases over steel armor that glinted in the sunlight. He got his gamboling horse in hand and took his position. He dropped his visor with a clang, ignoring the grinning Stewart, who bowed to the galleries. There were shouts and a few jeers as he set his lance.
James couldn't think the two men were well matched. Alexander was too much younger and inexperienced compared to Wigtoun, but he'd won the right in earlier jousts.
They both leaned forward and at the same moment kicked their horses into a fast canter. James held his breath as they closed in on each other. At the last second, Alexander tilted his shield. Wigtoun's lance scraped across it screaming, but the maneuver made the younger man miss with his own weapon. Wigtoun lurched in the saddle from the force he'd had behind his own blow.
There were a jeers and even a few laughs from the gallery.
Iain grunted and muttered, "Alexander doesn't have as much skill as he thinks he does."
James nodded as Wigtoun straightened in the saddle. Neither man had shattered his lance in the poorly done tilt, so they both trotted back into place. Young Alexander Stewart shouted something at a laughing spectator. There were more hoots and taunts. He spurred into a hard gallop, not even waiting for Wigtoun to start. James grunted. Wigtoun set his horse at a slower place, lance rock steady as he rode to meet his opponent. Half way up the tilt, he raked his horse with his spurs and leaned further forward, shifting his lance down. This time when Alexander tilted his shield, Wigtoun hit it in the low quarter so hard that he lifted the man out of the saddle before the lance shattered. Alexander's lance flew out of his hand and clattered at the base of the gallery. Alexander Stewart rolled in the grass.
James glanced to see that Joan was standing and clapping. The gallery had leapt as one to their its feet, shouting and cheering. Wigtoun raised his visor and bowed left and right to the cheers.
Alexander lurched to his knees. As his squire ran toward him, he jerked off his helm and flung it at the running lad, who didn't even have time to dodge. The force of the heavy helm in the belly knocked him on his arse, and the gallery broke into laughter again, whooping and shouting. Alexander stared around him, his face dark with fury. He stamped away, shouting at the squire as he went.
Wigtoun trotted up, his helm resting before him, and wiped sweat from his brow. "Aye. That went well." He shook his head laughing softly.
"And I'm going to knight him tomorrow…" James rested a foot on Iain's clasped hands and was given a lift as he flung himself into the saddle, reins in hand, he wheeled and grinned at Wigtoun. "Let's see if you find me a tougher opponent."
"Will I have your ire if I toss you on your arse as well?"
"You have to do it first."
James turned his horse's head and rode to his end of the cloth barrier that stretched between the paths of the two riders. He saluted the queen. His horse whickered and he said, "Steady, lad. Steady," quieting it with a touch. Iain handed him his lance. James couched it as Wigtoun took his place opposite.
James put his spurs to his horse's flanks, and it ran. Wigtoun's lance was steady as a bounder as they galloped at each other. The man was no trickster, but obviously he liked to use his bulk to defeat his opponent. James had to defeat him cleanly, clearly. So he gripped his lance harder and leaned farther over his horse's withers. He tightened his arm in his shield.
The two lances exploded in a shower of fragments. Pain shot through his shoulder from the force of the blow. His horse was on its haunches. He clasped the horse's flanks with his legs, half out of the saddle, grunted, and righted himself. When he could look up, Wigtoun was righting himself and cheers were going up from the gallery. He turned to look at Joan in the royal enclosure. She had jumped to her feet, hands pressed to her mouth. He tossed down the stump of his broken lance and gave her a brief wave.
Wigtoun took a fresh lance and laughed at something his squire said to him. James took his own with a nod of thanks. Wigtoun spurred at him at a hard gallop. James rode to meet him. Again the lances shattered and James felt as though his shoulder would shatter, but he managed not to reel in the saddle. Wigtoun threw down his broken lance in obvious disgust but gave James a courteous bow when they once more took their places.
Sweat dripped down James’ face and the back of his neck. The May afternoon wouldn't have been hot, but inside his armor was like an oven. Sweat dribbled down his sides.
Wigtoun took his time with settling his lance, so James thought perhaps he was tiring. Someone from the stands shouted for them to hurry it up, so he set his spurs to his horse and they thundered at each other again. The first times he'd used no technique, so he knew Wigtoun would expect the same again, but unlike Alexander, he had the strength to carry out a tricky hit. When Wigtoun's lance tip was an arm's length from his shield, James twisted in the saddle. It took all his strength to hold his own lance rock steady. Wigtoun had no time to adjust his aim and his lance scraped across James’ golden shield with a lion rampant. James’ hit solid. Wigtoun lifted straight backward from the saddle. He landed flat on his back with a clatter of armor, and the gallery burst into applause, cheers, whistles, and shouts. James smiled to see Joan clapping and Bishop Lauder beaming beside her.
James reined up at the end of the list. His lance hadn't even broken, and Iain ran out to take it from him. He paused until he saw Wigtoun's squire help him to his feet. The man directed a deep though somewhat wobbly bow in this direction before he walked off the field. Then James rode slowly past the gallery, waving, and dismounted to climb the steps to the royal gallery.
Joan shook her head at him. "What if you'd lost?" But she was beaming.
"Then they would have seen that the king expects honest fights."
As James walked Joan to the archery field along with Bishops Lauder and Wardlaw, Robert Lauder joined them along with a few others. "There are only a few archers," Robbie said. "It shan't compare to what you've seen in England, I'm afeart."
James frowned. "All men aren't required to practice with the bow?"
"Nae, each freeholder must provide his own kettle helm and leather gauntlets for when they are called. But only a few practice with a bow, mainly in the forest."
"I'll have to think on that. Since the Battle of Crécy, not having archers to call on is madness."
"Douglas has held his own in France with few archers," Wardlaw objected.
James hoped that Robbie was exaggerating the weakness in archers, but there were only twenty in the contest. That afternoon a lanky redhead named Adam Byset, a commoner from Lanark Forest, won the competition. He was good and easily outshot all the others. Jame
s added making a law that all men must practice at the butt to his long list of what he must accomplish. James sent Sanderis to seek him out to join James’ train and had Bishop Lauder add a purse to sweeten the offer. Having to do so soured the moment for him, but not for long in the fragrant spring afternoon.
The mêlée that followed went on for an hour. Twenty-five men fought afoot, knights and squires, for the profit of ransom of anyone they defeated. James had forbidden the use of war axes as too dangerous, so they fought with tourney swords, and a few even used clubs. In a pandemonium of flying clods of dirt, sprays of blood, and swinging weapons, they rushed each other, first in small groups that then broke up to whale at each other. The defeated limped off the field, one with a shattered arm was carried, and two were dragged off, unconscious. The victor, Walter Haliburton, James’ cousin through his mother, held his sword over his head and turned to the screams of the crowd. James chuckled at the reaction. His coronation and the celebration could hardly have been more successful.
That night at the banquet at Blackfriars Monastery in Perth, James was happier than he had ever been in his life. The Earl of Atholl was grinning and drinking deep of the wine, Murdoch Stewart was nowhere to be seen, nor the two of his sons still not imprisoned, and Joan was beaming as they listened to minstrels. Wigtoun had taken his defeat with good grace and sat next to the king in high good humor.
"My shoulder will ache for a week," James said happily, rubbing where the muscles had taken the brunt of Wigtoun's blows.
"I was surprised that you took the chance," Wigtoun said. "I dinnae throw at the tilt."
James frowned. "I never thought that you did, nor wanted you to."
Joan leaned forward to speak past James. "King Henry jousted often enough and even lost on occasion." She shrugged. "It's not that I like His Grace taking chances, but I know the kind of king he means to be, so he must start as he means to go."
Later, while he wandered through the vast hall with Joan on his arm and watched the mirth and dancing, Bishop Lauder joined them. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" James asked.
Lauder ran his hand through his hair. "I am. But I do not ken what I can do to make it easy. It has been almost twenty years since the last parliament. People no longer look to it, and you plan such changes…" He stuttered and looked for a phrase. "…such changes that the nobles will not accept happily."
"As long as you're ready," James said. He hoped he had planned well enough to accomplish what he needed, but he knew depending on guile, as he must, was a risk. "I ken what I am doing."
Much later, he took Joan back to their chambers and their lovemaking sent her to sleep, her hair spread out. He ran his hand down his sweat-slicked chest and went to the window to open the shutters and let in the sweet night air. He noticed the glow of a candle from a window though the night was half gone, and two of the last of the revelers stumbled across the yard, holding each other up.
James remembered the few times he had attended the English parliament. They had not been friendly to King Henry's demand for more gold and men for his war, but Henry had prevailed in the end. Pray God and the saints he had learned enough from that strange, hostile mentor to prevail as well.
Chapter Ten
Through the high, narrow windows of the Blackfriars’ cavernous refectory, where just the night before they had reveled, morning sunlight spilled, laying golden stripes across the granite floor. The stone walls were bare as befit a religious house. James sat on one side of the dais in the Abbot's high-backed chair of gleaming oak. On the opposite side, Bishop Lauder took his place as chancellor, whose duty it was to preside over what James had every expectation would be a raucous gathering. The Earl of Erroll, Lord High Constable of Scotland, took a place behind James and Lord Scrymgeour, the banner-bearer of Scotland, in the rear.
He could feel the unease in the air as lords and knights as well as prelates and burghers took their places. The chatter was low and uneasy. All three estates had been commanded under the severest of penalties to attend. After his taking prisoner of Walter Stewart, apparently they had not wanted to test him, not yet anyway. He moved slightly in the chair with its thin cushion, sure his arse would soon be numb. But at least he had a cushion. The parliament was consigned to long, hard oak benches normally used for monks at their meals.
When the benches were at last filled, Bishop Lauder rapped a gavel. When silence didn't fall, he rapped harder. "My lords temporal and spiritual, barons, lords, and burgers," he intoned in a voice that filled the vast room. "His Grace, King James, has a number of provisions which this first parliament of his reign shall consider and enact for the good and peace of the realm."
A blare of four trumpets announced the next part of the ceremony and a side door was thrown open. The first of the candidates swaggered in clothed in a white linen tunic: Alexander Stewart, Murdoch's youngest son. Dark haired like his father in his youth, but clear eyed and muscled, he looked more of a knight than his father ever had, but he made no attempt to hide his pride and arrogance. James wondered if this was a mistake, but perhaps knighting him would help bring at least some of that ilk to side with the crown. Alexander continued his way to kneel in front of the dais and the rest followed: Walter Giffard, whom he owed so much, Seton of Gordon, young Robert Graham, Douglas, Earl of Wigtoun, Lord Lyon, and Walter Haliburton, the son of Sir Walter Haliburton, who had helped James escape to Bass Rock all those years ago. The earls of Angus and Mar followed, for knighthoods had been long neglected with no king to perform them.
James’ heart thudded, and he realized this was the first ceremonial occasion of his reign. None of them would ever forget this. He held out his hand to the Lord High Constable, who handed him the sword of state. James stepped first to Walter Giffard. Alexander gave a smothered grunt, but James tapped his faithful squire on each shoulder, a gentle blow that King Henry had served him those years ago. "Avance, Chevalier, au nom de Dieu,” he pronounced. Walter grinned up at him and arose. James moved on to Alexander Stewart and then to the next. By then his heartbeat had slowed. But he still felt a flush of excitement to be finally acting as king.
When the last of the new knights took their places on the benches, for all were part of the parliament, James sat. He nodded his permission at Bishop Lauder, who cleared his throat. They had consulted long over the order in which the new laws should be presented. James was not sure that any would be less difficult than another.
Lauder began with those least likely to cause an uproar. "The king proposes that there will be weekly musters of men for training in arms and archery for all men between the ages of sixteen and sixty," he announced. "The parliament will impose export duties on cattle, horses and hides shipped from all Scottish ports. Warfare and disturbing of the king's peace or failure to aid the king in maintenance of that peace shall be deemed treason, and the lands of any so acting shall be forfeit. Further to that peace, no one shall take to the road with an excess of retinue in arms to be limited to a score for an earl, twelve for a bishop or lord, eight for a knight or abbot, and six for a prior or gentleman. That in the furtherance of trade, hostelries shall be built in all towns of the realm with stables, chambers and with bread and ale and fodder at reasonable prices." He droned on for several minutes and James watched as the tension eased out of the room. Some were nodding; no one seemed surprised or bothered by the acts so far as he had hoped.
The burghers were the least powerful of the estates and James had decided that putting an enactment that would anger them would probably soothe the lords when they found out exactly what he had planned. It would be a sour dose for the burghers to swallow but must be done. He nodded to the chancellor, who continued, "All burghers of this realm will collect from the burgesses, guilds, and citizens a portion of the king's ransom in the amount of ten thousand Scottish merks within the year."
The burghers, who were mostly in the back and around the edges of the refectory, were on their feet shouting, but James noticed a number of the noblemen nodding in s
atisfaction. Of course, they didn't mind seeing the heavy ransom paid by someone other than themselves. A burly, heavy-shouldered man in blue merchant's robes strode toward the dais, his face mottled red. "You will ruin us! We shouldn't have all the weight of the taxes!"
"There will be no disturbance in my presence." James gave the man an icy glare. "I will not permit lèse-majesté. So take your seat or you will find yourself in a dungeon." The High Constable took a threatening step forward, but the burgher quickly retreated, though not looking any less angry. James knew the man had been no threat, but establishing his authority early was essential.
The smirking nobles who did not object to new taxes falling mainly on others would soon be less pleased. James let the din go on for several minutes before he made a sign to Bishop Lauder to silence them.
When Bishop Lauder announced that all gold and silver mines were to be declared property of the Crown and no gold would be sent beyond the borders of the kingdom, the Bishop of Moray, Columba de Dunbar, a spare, white-haired man in a high-necked black cassock and massive gold pectoral cross on a gold chain, quickly stood. "You can nae mean to prevent payments of gold to be sent to the Papal Curia. That is…unthinkable."
Bishop Wardlaw stood and glared at the clerics until an uneasy silence fell on the room. "That is exactly what the king means. We can no longer impoverish the realm with an excessive flow of precious metals to the Roman curia. What is more, I have agreed with the King's Grace that no cleric is to leave or send a procurator over the sea without his express consent." He swept the room with a heavy gaze. "Is there any here who would dispute my right?"
Above a current of murmurs from both the nobility and the burghers, James said, "Then you, Reverence. Scotland needs its gold far more than His Holiness. I gave him my support whilst I was imprisoned, so I am sure he will not begrudge rebuilding my realm after its long years of neglect."
The cleric was shaking his white head, his mouth open as though to continue the argument, but James motioned to Bishop Lauder to continue.
