A King Ensnared
A Historical Novel of Scotland
Book I of the Stewart Chronicles
By J. R. Tomlin
A King Ensnared
Copyright © 2013 by J. R. Tomlin
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CHAPTER ONE
March, 1402
CHAPTER TWO
February, 1406
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
March, 1406
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
April, 1406
CHAPTER TEN
May, 1406
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
June, 1407
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November, 1412
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
March 1413
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
August 1413
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
November 1415
CHAPTER NINETEEN
August 1416
CHAPTER TWENTY
March 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
April 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
May 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
June 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
July 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
August 1420
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
September 1420
CHAPTER THIRTY
November 1420
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
December 1420
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
February 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
March 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
March 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
May 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
August 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
September 1421
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
May 1422
CHAPTER FORTY
August 1422
Historical Notes
List of Principal Historical Characters
Author's Notes / Scottish and Archaic Words
Credits
Novels by J.R. Tomlin & C.R. Daems
CHAPTER ONE
March, 1402
A black and gray lizard disappeared into the jumble of a patch of bluebells. Kneeling next to them, James pushed back the stems. If he caught the lizard, he could find out if the stories were true that it would regrow its tail. The bushy leaves rustled further into the patch. James lunged, and his fingers brushed the cool, dry skin of his prey, but it slithered away. The scent of crushed leaves and moist earth drifted on the air.
The murmur of his royal father’s voice and that of Bishop Wardlaw blended with the buzz of bees in the flowers. Sir David Fleming of Biggar stood listening to their words. James glanced to be sure that they were paying him no mind. Even seated, his father bent forward, leaning upon his staff. He was a tall man but gray. His hair, what little remained, was gray, and beneath his long, thin beard, his face was gray. Facing the two men, father’s grizzled chancellor sat with his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he listened to the bishop talk to the king. A man-at-arms was lounging, propped up by the garden wall, eyes half-closed as he drowsed in the sunshine. The bishop gestured as he leaned, so his mouth was next to the head of James’s sire.
The man-at-arms at the gate smiled in James’s direction and winked.
The bluebells rustled again. James spotted the lizard in the greenery and leapt. He seized the lizard, which was not much longer than his hand except for its tail. It wriggled as he lifted it carefully. If he grasped it by its tail, the thing might come off so it could escape, but he wanted to watch the tail regrow. It would be amazing to see. He chewed on his lip. He had a wooden box in his chamber. In that, he could be sure the lizard wouldn’t run away.
The creature stilled as he clutched it to his chest, and he glanced around, still on his knees. If they noticed his leaving, they’d believe it if he said he was going to his books, for he liked reading. He didn’t mind his lessons and the stories in his few books, but now he had better things to do. He looked down at the lizard’s bright black eyes and laughed a little. He stood to brush at the dirt on his knees. His tutor would be displeased if he came to table covered in dirt again.
The man-at-arms gave James a half-grin and said softly, “Caught it, did you, my young lord?”
James grinned back at him. As he sidled past a rosebush toward the gate, a commotion came from the castle bailey yard—clattering hooves and shouting.
“I have news for the king,” someone yelled.
Feet pounded. The man-at-arms jerked around and dropped a hand to his pike.
It was only William Giffart, his brother's squire, and a few men. As Giffart strode through the garden, his band of men-at-arms filled the gateway. James sighed. No escape now.
Giffart, his handsome face still and serious, had reached the king, so James might as well listen, he decided. Forbye, the knight might have news of Davey.
“Your Grace!” Giffart dropped to a knee next to the bench where the king sat.
It had been long since he’d heard news of his brother, and Giffart had accompanied Davey when he had been given as a prisoner to their uncle of Albany. Mayhap he was at last free to return home. James shook his head. He’d never understand why their father had let him be taken prisoner. Davey was supposed to be Lieutenant of Scotland, so it made no sense. They said he was wild, but a young man was supposed to be wild.
“Whisht, man,” Sir David said. “The king must suffer not excitement.”
“My lord, he must be told,” Giffart gasped. “It is the Duke of Rothesay, Sir David.” He paused, eyes wide and face flushed from a frantic ride. “He is dead.”
As though his chest were wrapped in ice, James couldn’t breathe. His fingers let go the lizard, and it dropped to the ground. He stared as it skittered away, shaking his head. It must be a lie. “No,” he wheezed with what felt like the last air in his body. He dashed to grab Giffart, who just raised an arm to hold him off.
“Prince James!” Sir David leaned forward and grabbed James’s arm. He hauled him back, but James dragged his feet. Sir David threw an arm around his chest and held him tight. “Tha’ will not help, lad.”
“It’s a lie,” James said, through a throat that seemed to be squeezed closed. “It must be. Davey can’t be dead.”
Giffart shook his head and turned back to the king. “Your Grace, I swear it. In the dungeon at Falkland Palace. I waited in the town, thinking the duke would let me join my lord after a time. But they say…” He wiped a hand across his mouth and ducked his gaze to the ground. “They say the Duke of Albany ordered Lord Robert starved to death.�
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James jerked against William’s arm, grabbed it, and pushed, struggling to free himself.
His father raised his head and gazed past them at nothing at all, his face blank and still. Slowly, the king let his head sink until it rested in his hands. “He swore to me he meant Davey no harm.” His voice wavered.
James plunged and broke free, shouting, “You must do something!”
Sir David grabbed him around the waist.
He lunged at his father, fists clenched, straining against the tall knight. “Do something. Make him—make him pay for hurting Davey!”
His father’s mouth moved without sound.
“Mother would have done something!”
A sob ripped the king’s thin voice. “My son…” He reached for the bishop’s arm. “It was for Davey’s own good to imprison him for a while, not to hurt him.”
“For his good?” James shook from head to foot with an emotion he could not name. “You… You let them take him, and they killed him!”
“Prince James, be still,” the bishop said.
With Sir David holding him against his chest, James felt as though he were floating, and only the regard of the two men held him to earth.
The bishop rested his chin upon the palm of his hand. He rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb, looking unbearably weary. “We must take the young lord to safety.”
The king opened his mouth and shut it. “Miserere mei, Deus. Why did I trust him?” he choked out. Tears gleamed in his eyes and dripped down his lined cheeks into his beard. “Wha’ should we do?”
“You must call a parliament,” the bishop said. “Give James the earldom of Carrick as his regality, but do nae give him the dukedom of Rothesay, to leave his uncle in doubt to your intent. But by the time that is done, I shall have him safely awa’ in St. Andrews Castle as his tutor. Even the Duke of Albany will not be in a hurry to attack me there.”
The bishop was tugging on the king’s arm, urging him to his feet. “William, see Prince James to his room. Some watered wine to calm him. Bide wi’ him there.”
“If he hurt James…” His father’s voice broke. “By the Holy Rood, he might kill James, too, so he would be my heir…”
“You’re supposed to be king.” James shook his head, ashamed that his nose was dripping. He couldn’t make them listen if he wept, but a sob shook him. “You will not even try. You are supposed to protect…” The rest wouldn’t go past his closed throat, however hard he tried, as the though sobs he hadn’t let out had scraped it raw.
“Enough, lad,” the bishop said. “This is not your royal father’s fault. For the nonce, it is you we must be concerned wi’, and for a while, I can protect you.”
Sir David tightened his grip, and James hunched, ashamed of the tears. “Lad, you must be strong.”
“We must make plans, Your Grace,” Sir David said. “We must see to the lad’s safety.”
The king leaned on the bishop's arm, and his staff quivered in his other hand. “Help me to my bed,” he whispered.
James glared at his father’s back. “Devil take him,” he rasped out. “I hate him! He is no king.”
William pressed a hand over James’s mouth. “You must not say such things, my lord. It is only that he is a gentle man.” He sighed. “Too gentle.”
CHAPTER TWO
February, 1406
James fastened his grip on the rough stone of the merlon and swung a leg through the crenel so that one foot dangled over the outer edge of the castle wall. Henry Percy stuck his head through the opening behind him.
“What do you think?” Percy asked.
An icy sea wind whipped James’s hair around his face. “Don’t shove so,” James muttered and held on as he bent to peer down.
Since Henry’s grandfather had fled for Wales the week before, at the threat of being traded to the English usurper, they’d both been forbidden to leave the safety of St. Andrews Castle by Bishop Wardlaw. Every gate was locked and guarded, but that did not mean there was no way out. Even if they couldn’t ride, at least they could clamber over the rocks free of lessons and clerics’ disapproving stares.
“One of the stones sticks out enough to stand on. Not too far to jump onto—halfway down.” James chewed on his lip, trying to see what they might hold onto. The rocks below the walls of the castle that edged the gray, white-capped sea were fearsome if he slipped.
“Let me see.” Henry pulled on his arm and slid into his place. He clung, white-fingered, to the merlon as he leaned far over. “I think my feet would almost reach it if I hold onto the edge,” Henry said with a worried tone.
“We’d have to jump the rest of the way.” James had jumped from high up, but those rocks were sharp and hard and further from that narrow perch than he was tall.
“You’re afraid,” Henry taunted. “I’m not afraid of anything.” He swung his leg back onto the parapet walk to sit on the edge of the stone and frowned up at James.
“I am not! I’m not afeart of anything. My ancestor, the great Bruce, would have leapt down like a stag. And he beat the English as well.” There was nothing that Henry Percy would do that he wouldn’t. Henry might be a year older, and taller, but James knew he was stronger than Henry was.
“He did not!” Henry glowered. “No Scot can beat us.”
“He did.” James gave him a shove, and Henry shoved back, but it wasn’t very hard. James grinned. “We have little time before the bishop sends someone looking for us.”
“We should bring our cloaks. If we drop them over and—” A horn blew, wavering in the distance. Henry’s eyes widened.
Henry didn’t talk about his grandfather, the earl, who had fled Scotland to escape the Duke of Albany and the lord of Douglas. Henry’s grandfather had led a rebellion against the English usurper, Henry the Fourth, when he overthrew King Richard. The rebellion failed. The Scottish nobles would gladly trade the Earl of Northumberland for their own relatives, captive in English hands. The bishop had been grim-faced at the threat to his guest, had sworn to keep the earl’s grandson safe, and had seen the earl off secretly in the dead of night.
James raised his eyebrows at his companion and then looked toward the road out of sight beyond the Sea Tower. For months, riders had galloped out at night, and the bishop’s clerics had carried messages that had gone to ash on the hearth as he and Henry sat writing out their lessons. A week after the earl fled, the bishop had sent James’s own esquire, William Giffart, on some secret mission they would not discuss.
“Come on,” James said. He gripped Henry’s wrist and jerked him to his feet. He whirled and dashed along the parapet walk and into the tower and through the far door.
The road to St. Andrews Castle was narrow and steep; it ran beside a steep drop to the rock-torn surf that threw spray high into the air. Men-at-arms, a hundred of them at least, came two abreast up the twisting, stony road. James let out a breath as he peered between the towering merlons. It was too few to be an attack. He chewed his nether lip. “Too few men to be Albany or Douglas. Forbye, they want your grandfather.”
“They might be after you, though,” Henry said. Everyone knew if James were dead, Albany would be the next King of the Scots.
Two banners flapped atop pikes. James recognized the white and black one. “That’s the Earl of Orkney,” he said and felt a flush of relief, but the second banner had wrapped itself around the pole at the head of the column. “And my mother’s brother, mine uncle, Sir Walter!”
“What’s the other?” Henry asked.
There were too many men-at-arms for it to be Giffart. Then the banner unsnarled itself and James made out the red and blue quartered banner of David Fleming of Biggar. “Sir David.”
Henry shrugged. “Who?”
“My sire’s chancellor. He must have come from Dundonald Castle.” Sir David wouldn’t have come for a minor matter. But what news would bring him all the way to St. Andrews?
Wood and metal creaked as the counter weights and pulleys raised the portcu
llis and lowered the drawbridge. James gulped a breath of air as though he’d been running hard, chest heaving. Whatever news Sir David brought, James was sure it would be dire. As dire as when Giffart had brought the news of Davey’s death.
“Why would they come, do you think?”
“Let us to our lessons,” James said and darted past Henry to clatter down the narrow stairs, leaping them two at a time. Hoof beats drummed behind them, crossing the drawbridge. “If we’re there and quiet, we’ll hear the news. He may be too busy to notice.”
James ducked into a narrow side door with Henry on his heels. A gust of wind set the torches flickering as they hurried on tiptoe through the dimly lit stone passage. James hesitated at the door, but all was quiet within, so he pushed it open.
Henry snorted. “The bishop always sees what we’re doing.” He massaged the back of his head where he had received a slap from the bishop when he’d dozed off over morning lessons.
A small fire burned on the hearth. A long oaken table stacked with scrolls, parchments, and leather-bound books stretched near the length of the chamber. A single, heavy tall-backed chair was drawn up. The draft from the open door set tapers on the table fluttering.
James pushed the door closed behind them and scurried to the smaller table at the back of the room, where he and Henry spent long hours studying.
James’s stool scraped on the floor as he pulled it out, plunked himself down, and hooked his feet around the legs of the stool. “Whisht.” He lowered his voice to a whisper as he picked up his quill. “We can listen outside the door if he—”
Voices in the passage made him bend his head close over the parchment, where he was writing out Latin verbs before he’d fled his lessons. He dipped his quill in ink as the door opened.
“Bring wine and food for my guests,” the bishop said to a servant as he entered. “My lords have had a weary journey.”
The servants scurried like a covey of quail as they fetched wine, cakes, a faggot of wood to build up the fire. Pine logs on the hearth wafted a resinous scent. Men took the newcomers’ cloaks, bowing and murmuring. All the bishop’s servants were like that, solicitous and comforting, before they withdraw humbly out of sight.
A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1) Page 1
