Iain of Alway gaped, but James merely raised his eyebrows.
“They say that the king will not last the night,” William whispered, “and that he has told the prince that his soul is stained wi’ holding you wrongfully a prisoner, Your Grace. Everyone is saying that he has told Prince Hal to release you wi’ no ransom.”
“That—can’t be true.” James shook his head. “The king has never once hinted that he would lessen his demands.”
“It is what everyone is saying. And that he was furious when the prince removed the crown before times. The prince had to carry it back, and the king was in a rage, shouting at him from his bed.”
“Could it be true, do you think? That the king has said I should be returned home? Released from this durance vile? I am afeart even to hope.”
There came the sound of feet running in the hall. In the city, bells began to toll. “The king is dead,” someone shouted. “Long live the king!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
August 1413
“You are to wait here, Lord James, until you are wanted.” Sir Richard, Lord Gray, turned his back to stride out the door. It slammed shut and the lock clicked.
James stared after the man, grinding his teeth. At last, he ran a hand over the goatee he had grown since he returned to the Tower and paced across the room, spun on his heel, and retraced his steps, irritated that the scarlet carpets underfoot kept him even from the satisfaction of hearing his heels ring on the stone. A single large chair sat at one end of the long chamber, not grand enough for a throne. James continued his path back and forth. William stood at the narrow arched window, craning his neck to see into the bailey yard. No noise penetrated the walls, fifteen feet thick, atop the castle mound.
Since Prince Hal’s coronation, there had been no word, no news, no sign of the new king. But both James and his cousin had been more closely guarded than ever before. The gaolers had been much excited about the latest news of some Lollard named Sir John Oldcastle. King Hal had quickly put down the man’s rebellion. Oldcastle had been sent to the Tower, and a few nights later was slipped out of the prison. He was well known to be a friend of the new king. James snorted and made another pass across the room.
“Why were we brought but Gruffudd left behind?” William asked. “And why separated from your cousin Murdoch?”
After months of being closely confined within the Tower of London, James had been bustled to Windsor Castle at daybreak and hurried into the Round Tower. “Windsor. They have never before brought me here. Why is an excellent question. If it is true that there is pestilence in the city again…” James rubbed his forehead. “Gruffudd looked ill yesterday.”
“I tried to see him to let him know where we were bound, and they had locked him in his cell.” William turned from the window with a look of horror. “You don’t think he has it?”
James paused in his pacing. “Holy Mary, I pray not. No one else in the Tower had been ill, and he is a braw, strong…” He shook his head. “No, it must merely be some ill humor that gripes his belly.” James turned in a circle, scowling. “Devil take them, why do they have me waiting here?” James was grinding his teeth. “Do you have me presentable? Damn them.” He held up his arm to show the frayed edge of his sleeve. “Look at that!”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s mended the best that I could manage.”
James sighed. He knew that. With as little money as he received from Scotland, William did as well as anyone could.
William returned to his vigil at the window, twisting his head to try to see what was happening outside. Where they were, in a side tower far from the main halls of Windsor, they could see only a bit of the yard.
James began pacing again.
“Horses are coming into the yard,” William said hesitantly.
“I’m not fashed wi’ you, Will.”
William looked over his shoulder and twitched a smile. “You’re impatient wi’ being kept waiting.”
“It is nae knowing, say. Why so close kept in the Tower? Why brought here? Wha’ do they want of me?”
“Mayhap…” William turned and leaned back against the wall. “Mayhap Iain St. Clair and William Douglas of Drumlanrig have arrived, and the king has agreed to negotiate for your release, after a’ the delays. That must be what has happened, and they need you for the negotiations.”
James strode across the room again, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Delay. A nice word for it. Moneys for my ambassadors’ expenses stolen. A feud between the Drummands and the Grahams, so that Lothian runs with blood. The Earl of Strathearn murdered. My own regalities stolen. I call it baudrie!” He gave a bark of bitter laughter. “My uncle does a braw job of ruling my realm.”
William shook his head and turned back to the window. “More horses, dozens of them, but from here I cannot see who.” He pressed his face as far through the window as he could. “Wait! I see the royal banner.”
“It is Hal, then. Or should I now call him King Henry?” James said in an acid tone. “I suppose that I should. Though never once has he named me as a king.” Coming to Windsor should have been a good change. He would have hoped it, but his reception had been harsh; he’d been bustled into a chamber and locked in to stew. “I’m sorry, Will. I do nae mean to inflict my ill-temper on you.”
William smiled and shrugged. “You’re my liege.”
The long chamber was aglow with torches burning in gold sconces on the wall between the windows. A fire blazed in the hearth, filling the room with the snapping of pine knots. The heat was welcome. It was only October, yet the air was sharp with an early winter’s chill.
James made another turn around the vaulted chamber. “Wha’ do you suppose they use this room for? It isn’t the audience chamber, is it? But Windsor is immense enough, they may have a dozen, for a’ I could tell.”
William’s stomach rumbled and James had to laugh. It caught him by surprise.
“Mayhap it is a dungeon and they mean to starve us to death,” James said. Normally that would not amuse him, but in this sumptuous chamber in one of the royal palaces, it seemed merely ridiculous that they’d not even been given food or drink in the hours that they’d waited. They listened as footfalls came and went in the hall outside and the stairway beyond. James made a few more passes around the chamber.
When the door was flung open, he spun.
“His Grace, Lord Henry, King of England and Prince of Wales,” a page announced.
At the undeserved Welsh title, James blew out a quiet snort through his nose but kept his face a mask as the new king entered. He had obviously changed from stained traveling clothes into a red doublet with a gold chain draped around his shoulders and high polished boots. Sir Richard, Lord Gray of Codenore, entered with one of the royal family, who James liked the least, the old king’s half-brother, Bishop Henry Beaufort. Oddly enough, everyone said that King Henry cared for his uncle more than he ever had his own father. There was something about Beaufort that made James’s skin crawl, a hint of the foul under the sweet smell of perfume and his embroidered purple robe.
King Henry held out his hand for a greeting with a look from his large eyes that would have stripped the skin from James. As James bowed over it, the king said, “I see you are well, Lord James.”
James looked up in surprise. “I am, Your Grace. Was there a question of it?”
“Pestilence has broken out in the city,” Bishop Beaufort said. “It has even spread to the Tower, so our more important prisoners have been moved. I commanded that all of the churches light candles and pray for the end of this new outbreak.”
“The Tower?” James’s stomach lurched. “I shall pray for everyone there, indeed.” Beaufort hadn’t mentioned praying for the victims. If Gruffudd did sicken, he would find no prayers here, considering King Henry’s hatred of him.
King Henry waved a dismissive hand and strode to take the only chair. As the other two men took a place on each side of the king, it struck James that he was much like game bein
g hunted.
“You will remain here until a return to the Tower is safe. But there are more important matters to discuss.” King Henry nodded to Bishop Beaufort.
Beaufort favored James with his oily smile. “This morning His Grace commanded me to prepare a letter assuring you of his willingness to release you to return to Scotland.” He withdrew a tightly rolled parchment from his sleeve and handed it to James. It bore the royal seal. James gave the king a doubtful glance and broke the seal with his thumb. He unrolled it and read it with growing disbelief.
Was there no end of what the English would demand of him? To bring him here with this demand and claim it meant they would free him was the twist of a knife. “You cannot think I would agree to this,” he demanded indignantly.
“We kept you safe from your uncle. Fed and clothed you. The late king saw you were tutored as well as any man in England.” Sir Richard pushed his face toward James. “I hope we have not wasted our years of good care of you.”
“Then it is wasted. I will nae.”
“If you mean to return to Scotland, you will,” King Henry said. “My father on his deathbed entreated me to release you without ransom. I agreed to do so—if, as King of the Scots, you swear fealty to me.”
“The Scottish parliament would never agree to it,” James said.
The king’s mouth curved into a tight smile. “They will when faced with an army, which I am willing to give you. If you are my liegeman. An army you may use to defeat your uncle of Albany. Execute him, if you like.”
“Why? Why would you give me an army?”
King Henry widened his large eyes and shook his head. “I would have thought that even you could see that. I mean to conquer France. Whilst I do that, I do not want the Scots at my back or aiding my enemies. You will accomplish that for me.”
“And if I refuse?” James said with a chill in his voice. The condescension of the man stung.
“If you refuse, you will return to the Tower—when the pestilence has passed. And there you will remain, at my pleasure.” King Henry watched him, like a lion with prey, judging and weighing every movement and word.
James tried to mutter a curse, but his throat was too dry. He stretched himself tall and lifted his chin. He had always told himself that, when it came to it, he would die well. Living well, doing what was honorable, that was harder, he suddenly realized. “If I must remain your prisoner, so be it. I will nae conquer Scotland for you.”
King Henry studied James. “I suggest you consider your words carefully, Lord James. If you are to be freed, it is at my pleasure. And I assure you that your stay in the Tower can be less pleasant than it was under my father. For you will remain there unless you give me your fealty.”
James felt cold to the soul. He turned his gaze out of one of the high arched windows to a bright autumn day: a day upon which he would give up his last hope of freedom. “There is nothing to consider,” he said carefully, trying to keep the quaver from his voice. “I will never betray Scotland so.” He turned his gaze to stare into Henry’s face. “Never. That I do swear upon the Blessed Virgin and a’ the Saints.”
The king nodded to Bishop Beaufort. “If Lord James will not swear fealty to me, the Tower is the place for him. How comfortably kept he is there is not my concern.” He inclined his head regally, dismissing James.
James turned and nodded to William to follow. He felt their eyes stabbing his him as he went. A snort of laughter went up behind him, but he didn’t look back. Hell mend them, all of them. He’d not give them Scotland or his pride.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
James irritably told Iain and Dougal to return to their chamber in the White Tower. He’d had enough of sympathy since they’d returned to find that Gruffudd had died, alone and untended, locked in his cell. James knew that there was nothing that could have been done, but his friend shouldn’t have died so. Had he cried out for water? Had he thought his few friends had abandoned him?
Yet if he let the English know that he grieved, they would count it as weakness. He could manage better alone. James plunged his hands into his armpits and, scowling, he paced the perimeter of the yard that was the limit of his world until he heard shouts and cheers past the bend of the Tower. Some contest of the men-at-arms, he decided and strode to watch. At least, they would not try to make him feel better.
As he came around the bend, a burly sergeant moved slowly forward, naked to the waist and his face blandly calm. A couple of the watching men-at-arms cheered when an older man, spare with hard, stringy muscles, his sparse black hair cropped short, stepped forward from the far side of the practice yard.
“You’ve gone old and bald, Berolt,” the sergeant taunted.
“You didn’t have to go stupid. Always were.” Berolt pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to a supporter.
The sergeant circled, arms spread wide and empty hands twitching slightly as he awaited an opening. “Not as stupid as you to challenge me.”
Berolt rotated to keep the sergeant in front of him. They grabbed each other’s arms, testing strength and balance.
The sergeant looked as though he might say something else but stepped forward instead, his shoulder driving into Berolt’s chest, and his arm slipped around his waist for a throw.
“Watch out,” James muttered under his breath. He had no fondness for the mean-tongued sergeant, who regularly screamed curses at everyone in the Tower.
Berolt dropped to one knee and grabbed the sergeant’s leg, breaking his throwing hold, attempting to unbalance him. The sergeant leaned over onto Berolt's back, grabbed him in a bear-hug around the waist, and lifted him into the air, laughing. Berolt lost his grip on the sergeant's leg and hung, back pinned to the sergeant's chest, head down.
“No!” James shouted and jumped to his feet, sure Berolt would be dropped head first to the ground, but Berolt slammed his knees into the side of the sergeant’s head, once, twice, thrice. The sergeant cursed in pain, and Berolt jerked loose, landing on hands and knees. The sergeant staggered backward to dodge Berolt's grab for his legs. He rubbed his ears and shook his head, face twisted in anger.
They glared at each other and then approached slowly, arms extended. The sergeant lunged into Berolt in another attempt at a throwing move, but Berolt sidestepped and tripped him. He went flying to the floor face first with Berolt on top of him. Berolt's arm slipped around his neck, and his bicep bugled as he strained to pull the struggling, heaving sergeant's head back in a death grip.
Finally, the sergeant pounded a palm on the dirt, yielding.
James was clapping and shouted, “Well fought!” What a fine skill and one James had not learned. If he were busy with a new skill, he wouldn’t have time to think anent having lost his only friend or never returning home, so he strode to the man and said, “Can you teach me to do that?”
Berolt looked him up and down. “Who might you be?”
“That’s Lord James, one of the king’s prisoners,” the sergeant spat out as he worked his shoulders.
Berolt tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can you pay?”
“A little.” It would be well worth the few coins in his purse.
“Then meet me here this time tomorrow. But I won’t make it easy on you just because you’re some lordling.”
James managed a smile. “Good. I shall be here.”
It would take his mind off—everything. But that was tomorrow. Today he had to go back to his room and treat his people as he should. How unfair had he been to William all these years? James knew he owed his squire too much to let it continue, so he trudged through the yard and up the steep winding stairs, gaze fixed on his feet. Shadows flickered and writhed around him as he climbed. They seemed to fit what his life had become—for how long? Years perhaps. Forever perhaps. How could he know? Until he died here as Gruffudd had? Deus, misereátur… No, he would find some way to be free.
“Ha! There you are, you useless pig filth!”
Hell mend him! Murdoch Stewart, stinking o
f wine, was leaning on the wall. Big, red-faced under a wiry beard sprinkled with gray, his belly straining against a stained doublet. As James snorted, Murdoch straightened to block his path. His cousin was there to make James’s day more of a hell than it already was.
“Just let me be, Murdoch. You have nothing to say to me.”
“This is your fault! If you’d only agree to what King Henry demands he would let us out of this cage.”
James glowered at Murdoch. How could any branch of the Stewart line have come to this? “You’re drunk.”
Murdoch raised clenched fists, his face flushing scarlet. “You! Weakling son from a bastard line…”
James stepped forward, blood going through him in a hot rush.
“I’ll make you agree,” Murdoch said. “You’re no king to have such power.”
James spread his feet, wishing for a sword. But he wouldn’t need one to handle a drunk. He gave Murdoch a thin smile and shoved him out of his way and stepped toward the door of his little room.
Murdoch grabbed his arm, twisting it behind him.
“You’ll do wha’ I tell you.” Murdoch jerked upward hard on his arm.
Pain lanced through James’s shoulder.
“You’ll swear fealty to Henry.”
“How dare you lay hands on me!” James smashed his heel down on Murdoch’s instep. The man gave a cry of pain. James rammed his shoulder into the arm holding him, twisted free to face him. He knocked Murdoch against the wall, shoving his forearm into Murdoch’s windpipe.
A booming voice cut through the murk of the tower. “What is this? Guard!” One of the liveried gaolers hauled on James’s arm. James shook him off. A man-at-arm thundered up the steps. He grabbed James from behind. James let his muscles go slack, and the man shoved him across the hall.
“The Constable of the Tower will hear anent this! He’ll deal with you lot.” The gaoler strode away.
A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1) Page 9
