by J. R. Tomlin
Near the rear of the church, the Earl of Atholl stood up. "Your Grace, surely in the church before the very altar, mercy should be given even to a criminal. Consider, nephew, that all of us require forgiveness in this life. I beg that you offer it to Alexander MacDonald."
James stared at his uncle. They had never become close, but since his return, the man had always been quietly loyal. And James owed him consideration for bringing word of the Albany rebellion to him. He turned his head to look at Joan, and clasping his hand in both of hers, she slowly knelt at his feet. "I add my plea, Your Grace. By your love of me, please offer him mercy. He admits his faults and his crimes. Can you not spare his life?"
He tugged at her. "Do not grovel, love. It is not seemly. Since you ask it of me." He sighed slightly. "I grant your request." He reached out and reluctantly grasped the hilt of the sword that Ross still extended to him. "The sentence of death passed by the parliament on Alexander MacDonald is remitted. All of his titles and estates are hereby forfeit." James looked around the church until he spotted the Earl of Angus. "My lord Earl, take this man into your custody and confine him in your Castle of Tantallon until I require him of you. I bid you hold him most securely."
James blew out a long breath. But the Earl of Atholl was walking up the center aisle and said, "I would make another request of you, Your Grace. Sir Robert Graham awaits without also to throw himself on your royal mercy. I beg you consider extending what you offered to Alexander MacDonald to him. I kent him as a lad; his father was a friend. If you feel you owe me some consideration, give him your compassion and receive him into your peace."
James sank down onto his throne and looked at his beautiful wife. She smiled and shrugged a little. Why not? Graham can do me no harm, James thought. "I grant your plea, uncle."
Chapter Twenty-Two
February 1430
James reflectively eyed Henry Beaufort, now a cardinal and still Chancellor of England. The years had changed him little. He was still the greedy Sassenach he had always been, and James had no reason to trust him more than he had in those days of imprisonment in England, which was why they were meeting now in Coldingham Priory a bit north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. James certainly did not trust either Beaufort or the English enough to set foot in that kingdom.
That Beaufort had agreed to a council within Scotland, braving February chill and rains, and had travelled so far meant that he wanted something. The man did nothing that was not to his own benefit. Light from the blazing fire on the hearth in the Prior's study glittered on the rich brocade of Beaufort's gown, the gold of fittings of his belt, and the gems in the rings on his fingers as he gave James his blessing.
Even with the fire, there was a moist chill in the air that matched the cool calculation of Beaufort's greeting. Henry Percy's greeting had been warmer, though the strain of disputes over the truce had put a chill in even their old friendship. "Your Grace," Percy exclaimed and gave his braying laugh. "Strange to give you that title after all these years." The years had not been particularly kind to Percy. The man’s girth had grown to match his height and his short beard did nothing to hide his double chin and the sag of his jowls, yet he was only a few years older than James himself.
But Percy was a friend from his childhood and an envoy in his realm, so James said, "Henry, it is fine to see you looking so well."
Lord John Scrope, a short wiry man, his hair lightly salted with white, made a deep bow. "It is an honor, Your Grace."
James took the prior's chair comfortably placed near the fire, which earned a glare from the sullen-faced Beaufort. After a servant had poured their wine and retired, James gave Beaufort a sly smile and said, "It is indeed fine to see old friends from my days in England and France. Mayhap you've visited with Duke Philip of Burgundy. He and I were comrades in arms in those days." He smiled broadly at Beaufort. The rumors had been rife for months that in spite of having turned the Maid of Orleans over to the English, Philip was deep in negotiations for making peace with Charles and returning to the French side.
Beaufort sputtered. "Duke Philip is a good friend to the English as always, and thanks to him we'll soon be rid of that witch, that so called Maid of Orleans! Once that is done and her evil influence destroyed, we shall have the Dauphin on the run once more."
James sipped his wine and mused that perhaps poking at Beaufort was not wise since they were to negotiate, but he gently sat down his cup and said, "Dauphin? I must have been misinformed by my envoys to France, who told me that Charles was at Reims last year."
"His crowning meant nothing," Beaufort said stiffly. "I would remind Your Grace that the crowned King of France is Henry Plantagenet."
"She enchanted him; otherwise he never would have had the courage to put the crown on his head," Percy put in.
"Ah. And yet he did so. Removing a crown once it's placed is not always an easy matter."
"Merest folly," Beaufort said. "There have been setbacks this last year. I admit as much, but that will not last. I assure you that the Duke of Bedford will soon put things to right."
"Mayhap, but I suspect the…attrition in your war with France may be why you found reason to visit me here in Coldingham."
"Not at all, Your Grace," Beaufort protested. "I am charged with expressing the loving regard of our liege lord King Henry and to convey all of our congratulations on the birth of your two sons. What a great gift of the Good God, two sons born to you in one day."
"My thanks." James nodded. In fact, it was a sore point which he certainly would not share with the oily Beaufort. Joan was worried almost to death over the sickly elder of their twin boys, and James feared that Alexander might not survive. Every day the child weakened yet more. There seemed to be some weakness in his breathing that no physician could cure. Yet the younger, James, was a strong, lusty babe. He begrudged being from Joan's side for even long enough for this meeting, for she would most surely need him if Alexander should die as he dreaded. He continued smoothly with what was no doubt a false-looking smile, "But I have no doubt so illustrious ambassadors as the Cardinal Beaufort and the Earl of Northumberland did not journey so far to merely convey congratulations that could have been sent in letters."
"I assure you the wishes are most sincere, although we would bring up a private matter in addition to expressing our deep love for Your Grace." Beaufort looked in his cup and swirled the dark wine. "The Privy Council bade me to bring up the marriage of our liege lord, King Henry."
James steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He suspected that the Privy Council bade whatever Henry Beaufort told it to.
"His Grace approaches a marriageable age, and so we are seeking an appropriate bride, one of a royal house. The Privy Council believes that The Lady Margaret would make an excellent queen for our young king. They are close in age. Her mother is near to the royal house but not so close in consanguinity that the Pope would deny dispensation for the marriage."
James smiled mildly. He would force Beaufort to say the truth of the matter. "I have three daughters. I am sure that we could consider promising one of them to the King of England."
"Exactly what we have come to consider," Beaufort said looking satisfied. "The eldest princess, of course."
James leaned back in his chair. "Your Reverence, I regret to tell you that my eldest daughter is already promised to young Louis, Dauphin of France. But I would be happy to discuss one of my other daughters."
Scrope leaned forward eagerly. "They have no formal betrothal. It is only a promise, so it could be undone as we are suggesting."
"I am not in the habit of undoing my promises," James said.
"Sometimes one must do what is best for the realm even if it means doing something…regrettable. You must agree that a marriage to the King of England would be better for all than a marriage to this false-Dauphin, for he is not even truly that."
"And yet he might be soon, for your conquest of France is not looking certain, my lords. Not certain at all."
"We have had no mo
re than setbacks," Percy put in. "We still have Paris and will soon regain what has been lost."
Lord Scrope was nodding vigorously. "Exactly."
"And you would seek to guarantee this regaining of what was lost by preventing a resumption of Scotland's Auld Alliance with France. And what do you propose that the Scots would receive for this?" James looked from one of the Englishmen to another and slowly nodded. "Aye, there we have it, then. Only the daughter who is promised to the Dauphin is to be considered. That is exactly what I suspected. You have no desire for a Scottish princess to marry your king, but only to deny a French alliance to the Scots." He raised an eyebrow. "And where would your armies turn if you did indeed batter the French into submission, My Lords? How long would a peace treaty keep you from turning your eyes upon Scotland?"
"No, Your Grace," said Beaufort, indignantly. "How can you think we would break such a treaty?"
"As you broke the sea truce when I was taken prisoner to be held for eighteen years?" James stood, which forced the other three men to stand as well. "I do not break my word, my lords. My daughter is promised to the Dauphin. And as for continuing the truce, I shall take it up with my parliament."
Chapter Twenty-Three
The parliament was once again being held in the refectory of Blackfriars Monastery in Perth. James looked with some satisfaction at the gathering, for the Highland Lairds were well represented, including Alexander MacDonald, whom he had released from imprisonment and returned to his grace the year before, though he had not returned the earldom of Ross to him. In spite of occasional outbreaks of violence in the Highlands, James was convinced he had brought most into his peace. The burghers were well represented and most of the Lowland lords were present. He took his place on the throne, and John Cameron, for some time now the chancellor, banged his gavel and announced that they would consider the proposal of renewing the Auld Alliance with France.
Since his son David's death in England, the Earl of Atholl had aged almost beyond recognition. His face was gaunt, and his hands shook as he stood to speak. "Your Grace, I must tell you that an alliance with France is utter folly. Never when we have had an alliance with them have they defended Scotland, but always our blood has been poured out on their soil to defend them. Nor is their King Charles likely in the end to defeat the English. And once they are defeated and we've made an enemy to the south, what are we to do?"
There were some murmurs of agreement in the refectory, and Atholl seemed satisfied when he took his seat. Cameron recognized MacDonald, who argued in favor of seeking a permanent peace treaty with England. Not being forced to fight English pirates at sea would be an advantage for the Islemen, who depended much on their galleys and sea trade.
The Bishop of Argyll rose, shaking his head. "Folly? Is it folly to prefer to fight our enemies in France rather than on our own soil? I say it would be folly to allow the English to conquer France, for if they did, you may be sure their next prize would be Scotland. I have no great love for the French, but that is not the root of the Auld Alliance. France and Scotland need each other. We need each other no less now than we have in the past. His Grace has agreed to a five-year renewal of the Border truce. We need no more than that. And while that is in place we must succor the French if Scotland itself is to survive."
At the rear of the refectory, Sir Robert Graham leapt to his feet and waved to the chancellor. Before he was even given leave, he was shouting, "My Lords, you are being deceived. Lied to by traitors, men greedy for our lands. Churchmen in the pay of the French and a King who betrays—"
The uproar drowned out his voice. Cameron banged his gavel. Everywhere men were shouting. Mar jumped to his feet and was roaring curses at the man. "Silence!" Cameron shouted. "In the name of the king! Silence!" He banged his gavel again. When the hall had quieted, although there was still a buzz of whispers, Cameron asked Mar to take his seat. The earl did so with obvious reluctance.
"Sir Robert, you have the right to speak in this parliament, but not to speak slander and calumnies. That is to cease forthwith."
Graham sneered. "Aye, I see this is the freedom of speech of the parliament we were promised by this…this…king. This tyrant! Speak what his chancellor tells you or have your lands stolen from you."
Cameron hammered the gavel, his face crimson with fury. "For the last time! Keep a civil tongue!"
"Wait!" James held up a hand. "My Lord Chancellor, as Sir Robert has said I have declared freedom of speech in the parliament. I would hear what he has to say. He has allegations to lay so let him lay them."
Cameron bowed to the king before he turned back to the parliament. "You heard the king. Of his mercy, you may speak. I say the word traitor comes strangely from a man convicted of treason, but name your traitors then, if you can."
Graham's face twisted into a snarl, a mask of hatred. "The king! I name the king a traitor and tyrant. And you, John Cameron, as his tool. Both of you have sold us to the French and stolen our lands and our rights. Turned Scottish barons into lapdogs. You and your master are the traitors in Scotland!"
Cameron jumped from his chair, his face a chalky white, and all around there was a pandemonium of shouts, but none of it was a match for the screech of hatred from Robert Graham.
He thrust a finger at James. "There!" he screamed. "There is the tyrant! James Stewart! Thief! Murderer! Traitor!" Graham was gasping for air after his outburst.
Mar was once more on his feet shouting, "Seize him! This is madness!"
Sir William Hay, the High Constable, was already signaling for guards who had been to frozen by shock to do more than gape. Two guards rushed to seize Graham, who seemed stunned by his own outbursts. He hung between them unresisting.
"Silence," James said in a quiet voice. "High Constable, escort Sir Robert from the chamber."
There were gasps and then shouts of "Treason!" and "Behead him!" and "Put him to death!" from all around the chamber.
The Earl of Atholl stood and said, "Your Grace, you promised him freedom of speech, so I trust you are not going to arrest him. It must be brain fever or some temporary madness. I am sure he did not mean what he said."
James rose to his feet. "You are right, uncle. It was lèse-majesté, but I do not break my promises." He nodded to the High Constable. "Escort him from the monastery and he may go where he wills, but he shall not be allowed to return to parliament."
Graham was led out, unresisting, but no shouting or beating of the gavel quieted the uproar that followed, so James called for a vote on the maintaining the alliance with France. It was some relief to him when it passed. Atholl stomped away, scowling and grumbling under his breath.
James breathed a sigh of relief and went to spend an hour of peace with Joan and the children.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When Wardlaw stepped through the door, James, writing, put down his quill and said, "Your Reverence. Is it still raining? I hope your journey was nae too uncomfortable." He rose and said to a hovering servant, "Where is the wine? The bishop is weary. What? No sweetcakes?" He sighed. "Must I have the queen present to be well served?"
Then the room was bustling. Food and wine were carried in, the fire stirred. A page took the primate's wet cloak with a murmured apology. The servants slipped away, the door was closed, and James waved his guest to a seat and himself brought the bishop a goblet of sweet, rich malmsey.
"As for Your Grace's business with the Holy See…"
"I am listening." James sat down and regarded the bishop, waiting.
Wardlaw was dressed in blackish-purple robes and fine white lace, though they were limp from the damp. His jowls hung loose and his hands were spotted with age, but he still had a hawk's gaze that stabbed when he looked James’ way. He set the wine aside and sighed. "I was afeart it would come to this, Sire. From the first when you proposed the laws against the Church, I warned you. And then, in spite of the appeals of the Holy Father, you refused to send a delegate to the Congress of Arras." Wardlaw shook his head sadly, his jow
ls swinging. "You must return to obedience, Your Grace, or he will be forced to harsher action."
"Continue, Reverence," James said. "Indeed, I wait to be instructed as a good son of the Church."
The light through the windows was dim, and rain splattered against the glass of the window.
"In the next parliament, you must repeal the laws that harm the rights of the Church. I would say that you should call a parliament now, but if I write to him that you swore to me that you will act in the next one, I believe the Pope will hold his anger."
James stared at his desk, at the poem he had half written. He looked up. A draft from beneath the side door made the candles bend and then they straightened. "So if I change the laws and give the Holy See more power in Scotland, he will be satisfied."
"And he would have you give aid to the French."
A log split in the fireplace with a loud snap; James rose and prodded it with the poker. He stood for a few moments, twisting the rings on his fingers and thinking. "I give you my word that I will think deeply on your advice." He turned back to the bishop. "Now you've had a long journey. Rest. We will speak further another time."
Wardlaw opened his mouth to protest, but James took him gently by the arm and showed him to the door. He jested, "Mayhap you would have a word with God so that your king and his Court could have a surcease of rain and ride out to the hunt instead of hunkering inside; it would clear his mind to consider what you have said."
Wardlaw sketched a blessing as James closed the door. There was a sound of the side door and a footstep. "What do you think?" James asked.
"You will nae like it."
