A burst of laughter met James when he strolled into the long common room. A fat, gray-haired man greeted them at the door, bowing. “There’s no rooms, my lords,” he said in accented but understandable English. “We’re full up. All the English army has been at my door looking for shelter better than their tents, and they’ve taken every bed.”
“Some supper and a good flagon of wine will suit us, if you can manage that,” Sir John answered with a look down his crooked nose.
“And company, if any such is to be found,” James put in, smiling broadly.
The hostel-keeper gave a hrmmph. “I don’t run a whorehouse, my lord. But I suppose if one of the girls takes a liking to you, that’s not my affair.”
James raised his eyebrow at that, suspecting the man would take his share of any ‘gift’ the girl required. Even he was not so green. The hostel-keeper sat them by the window, and James could make out through the oiled linen the fading light of the summer evening. As the darkness ate the world outside, James wished he had someone to advise him. If only the Earl of Orkney were here. He trusted his household with his life, but they could not advise anent the quandary that clattered in his mind.
There was a row of wine kegs at one end of the room and an empty hearth at the other. A woman was drawing wine from the kegs, and three serving girls were running back and forth with flagons and cups and trenchers stacked with sausage scented with thyme and sage that made James’s mouth water. The tables were crowded with townsfolk and soldiers mingling happily enough, or so it seemed. Five men-at-arms by the hearth wore the blue and red badge of the king’s brother, John, Duke of Bedford. One slapped at a server’s arse, but she danced away as she flashed him a smile. There was also a large party of Welsh archers in simple chain mail. At another table, a tonsured priest in a brown robe and a man with the shoulders of a smith sat with a hard-eyed merchant.
Sir John ordered the four of them sausages and wine in an arrogant tone, and the girl scurried to bring it. “Don’t scare her awa’.” James held out his hand. “I’ll pay. Your voice would flay a mule, much less a lass.”
With a sour look, Sir John dropped a few coins into James’s hand. Once James had handed them over, the girls laid thick trenchers of bread filled with browned, steaming sausages dripping with juices in front of them.
One of them filled his wine cup and looked at him from under her lashes. There was a gap between her front teeth when she smiled, and her smock was stained, but she had a sweet smile. Besides, she was plump, and her cheeks were round and rosy. “It’s lonely for poor soldiers a long way from home,” James said in French. “Would you be kind enough to keep me company for a while?”
“My master might be angry if I don’t serve the tables,” she said, looking modestly down.
“Wha’ if I gave him a coin or two? Mayhap he could spare your time to sit with me.”
She gave a glance toward the hostel-keeper, who was watching them with a bland look on his round face. “There is no chair for me, my lord.”
James pushed his chair back to make room and said, “I have a lap that will serve nicely. But if you sit in my lap, you must tell me your name.”
“Béatriz,” she said as she settled herself on his thighs and slipped an arm around his neck in a much less modest move than he’d expected, but he decided he had no complaint. He could feel the softness of her breast against his chest.
James drained his wine cup. “Do you have a room here, Béatriz?”
“I do, my lord, but it is small, with only a bed and a hook for my Sunday kirtle.”
James gave her his best winning smile. “There would be more room than on my lap there. And if I gave you a little gift out of his sight, you master would not have to know.”
“But you promised coins for him so he wouldn’t be angry,” she said, pushing out her lower lip. But her lips were pink and inviting, and James shrugged.
“Of course. But you must have one for yourself.” He lifted her off his lap with both hands on her waist, and she held out her hand. The back stairs to the third floor were narrow and dark, with only a single torch to light them. Her garret room at the end of the hall had no lamp or candle. But the sun had set, and it was bathed in pewter moonlight. She wriggled her kirtle and under dress over her head and tossed them aside. James gaped her soft skin and soft breast, and no underclothing. His hands were shaking. She was deft and sure unfastening his clothes. It had been far long too long since he’d had a woman. Many months ago, once in a kitchen garden, there had been a servant who had been glad of him—or of his few coins. But a prisoner… Then he thought of it no more as she murmured soft words and pulled him with her onto her bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
From his place at the side of Saint-Jean Church, James leaned a shoulder against the thick marble column and squinted. Flashes of red and gold light from the stained glass bounced off gold candlesticks and the white marble. They were like splinters driven through his eyes. Gusts of incense that boiled out of the censer a priest was waving about made him gag, and James swallowed down bile that tasted of last night’s wine. The church was already full to overflowing with guests, except for two chairs at the very front.
A blare of trumpets made James flinch. A small, dark woman in a red silk gown cut so low that James felt his eyes widen and a high headdress flowing with veils, entered with a lady-in-waiting on each side. James had heard so many stories of Queen Isabeau of France, but somehow she looked nothing like the stories had led him to expect. She turned when a wavering voice made some indecipherable noise of protest, and then a thin man, pale as whey, and supported under each arm by a page, was helped through the door. His black, embroidered, velvet doublet hung on his thin frame, and his trembling hands fumbled at the rings on his fingers. The pages lowered the poor mad king of France into a throne-like chair at the front of the church, and the queen took a seat in the one beside him.
Another flourish, and a choir sang in the gallery as the bride walked from the main doors on the arm of a reedy, grim-faced nobleman, the Duke of Bourgogne, James supposed. She was slender and graceful in her silk gown, with a skirt covered in fleurs-de-lis picked out in pearls and wide sleeves that brushed the floor. He could understand the rumors that Henry was much taken with her. Her gold hair was bound in a bejeweled roll under a sheer veil. Her face still had a bit of childlike roundness, but over her blue eyes, her eyebrows were fashionably shaved, and she smiled confidently up at the awaiting Cardinal of Troyes when he took his place in front of the altar.
There was a crashing fanfare of bells and cymbals, sackbuts, and trumpets. James put a trembling hand to his pounding forehead, and his stomach lurched. But like the rest of the hundreds of nobles packed into the church, he turned to see King Henry striding up the center aisle with his brothers, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, and John, Duke of Bedford, behind him.
The axe-faced king was dressed with his usual severity in a black doublet, the sleeves slashed in crimson, and a chain of gold thickly set with rubies and pearls. He wore only a simple coronet on his dark head.
James shifted restlessly as his stomach roiled. Perhaps he should have been more moderate, but his rare chance to carouse had been too good to give up, although Dougal had snorted when he staggered in at midnight, and this morning Iain had complained that he looked like something a castle cat had thrown up on the bed.
The nuptial mass droned on, and James dozed on his feet in the shadow of the column. Another violent fanfare jerked him awake. He breathed a soft chuckle when he realized he had missed the blessing of the couple. A rainbow of light from the stained glass windows danced around the two as King Henry offered Catherine his arm and walked her toward the door. The church bells tolled. The cathedral—and James kept wondering why the wedding had not been there as had been the signing of the treaty—joined the clamor. Soon the tintinnabulation spread across the city.
He hoped he would be able to slip away from the feast early and either return to his own rooms—or may
hap find more congenial company, although he had few coins without Sir John to pay the cost. He smiled at the thought as he followed the procession from the church. The cheering outside blended with the clanging bells. People were throwing flowers and shouting the princess’s name. Perhaps they saw her as a path to peace with the warlike English and an end to the destruction and death as Henry clawed his way to the French throne.
He stepped out into the dazzling June sunlight. Sir John shouldered his way through the press, and James had to grin. At least the wedding had separated him from his watchdog. “I was afeart you wouldn’t find me,” he quipped.
James thought the man snorted but couldn’t hear him for the cacophony.
A line of men-at-arms surrounded the broad marble steps of the church, where King Henry and Catherine stood with King Henry’s brothers, as well as the Duke of Bourgogne and Queen Isabeau. He saw no sign of the king, who must have been shambled off out of sight.
Sir John grunted an agreement when James nodded toward the king, so they shuffled their way with the queue to offer their congratulations. James bowed over Catherine’s hand and was happy to be shoved ahead by those behind him waiting their turn. The crowds were shouting King Henry’s name along with Catherine’s, to James’s surprise, the shouts growing even louder. He had to escape the press of the crowd making his head throb, and the questions that buzzed in his head like flies.
Even through the pounding in his head, James was tempted to laugh as Sir John stuck to him like a burr in a horse’s tail. Did the man think he was going to try to flee from the middle of the English army? But he could pay for their food. Something greasy and a flagon of wine would surely cure the hangover that made the bright sunlight stab his head like a dagger. The nearest hostelry, with some sort of fish over the door on its sign, tempted him within, and he found a quiet corner to collapse into.
A boy brought them trenchers and dipped cassoulet, redolent with onions and duck amidst the beans, and a golden wine the hostel-keeper said was the best in the region. James downed the wine and bent over the table to spoon up the food.
Sir John paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m to escort you to the bishop’s mansion for the feast. The king’s own command. He expects you there especial.”
“I am one of his prize trophies. Why wouldn’t he want me there?”
James sighed gratefully as the pain in his head eased and the wine and good food relaxed the muscles in his neck that had felt as hard as a rock. He wished he could ease the doubt anent what he should do as pleasantly. He brushed a hand over the doublet that had been provided—blue silk with red slashing in the sleeves. “These are my best clothes. There is no need to return to our rooms.” James motioned the boy over. “And this is indeed the best wine I have ever had, so I’ll have some more.”
James drank it looking out the open window as the shadows crept across the cobblestones, brooding over why Henry had brought him to France after so long and what he wanted of him. And if James should agree. Fourteen years he had been a prisoner, and he was—weary. Besides, was it truly worth the fight? Would anyone truly care? Many kings had an overlord. If Henry was his, what might he demand? If it were something that James could not give, the cost would be terrifying.
“Lord James.” Sir John was standing already. “It is time for us to leave for the feast.”
James decided he might get drunk again tonight. “Very well. Let us go make merry.” He drained the dregs of his cup and slammed it down on the table.
They walked briskly through the crooked streets to join the river of peacock colors streaming into the bishop’s mansion. As usual, James was an outcast to the English, but they didn’t quite dare ignore him since obviously the king had desired him here, so he received nods and even half-bows as he wended his way through the crowd.
When he reached the door, Sir John grinned. “I only have to see you here, not put up with the crush.”
James laughed silently. “Och. I would it were me. But mayhap they have more of that wine I liked.”
Although dusk was an hour away, the great hall was ablaze with torches burning in bronze sconces.
“Lord James, son of the late King of Scots,” the herald called out as he entered.
He pressed his lips into a thin line. It wouldn’t cause them harm to give him his title. It was just another prick Henry used against him, but one that hurt every time. He could feel their eyes on his back. I’m naught but a showpiece for Henry to parade his power.
The guests wandered amongst the tables, talking and laughing, as heralds called out the names and ranks of the new arrivals. Above in the gallery, fiddlers, harpists, horns, and drummers were trying to compete with the noise.
When he turned, James saw that Queen Isabeau’s dark eyes were fixed on him, and she motioned him to come to her.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“These geese are as skittish of you as they are of me. The fools actually believe the lies my enemies put about.” She smiled and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened into creases. “And you would think from their faces that being a Scot was catching.”
He supposed it was true. Everyone had heard stories that she was a witch and an adulteress, though considering how mad her husband was, it was perhaps no more than human failing. They all gave her deep bows and curtsies but edged away as though she rang a leper’s bell. Him they merely gave uneasy looks, not sure how to treat a king who was not truly a king.
She put her arm through his. “I do like the company of a handsome young man, and since they say terrible things about me anyway, you may keep me company and let them say what pleases them. Come, and you can sit beside me when my daughter and King Henry grace us with their presence.”
James let her guide him toward the dais and even politely helped her up the steps, trying to decide how to handle this rather terrifying woman. “I am sure, Your Majesty, that my place is further—”
“Pfffttt… I am still Queen of France, even if your King Henry now rules it. At least, the servants won’t argue with who sits beside me.”
He bristled. “Not my king, Your Majesty.”
She patted his arm and ignored his irritation. When they had arrived at places just left of the seats of honor, Queen Isabeau leaned close to say softly, “You have fine eyes, Lord James, and I enjoy the pleasant company of a young man, but do not worry yourself. I have no designs on your honor.” She lifted her nose toward the crowd and managed to sneer without changing her expression at all. “I merely amuse myself with them.”
James could feel color creeping up his face from his collar and wondered if every eye in the huge hall was upon them. Did they think he was dallying with the Queen of France? She had been beautiful once, he supposed, but the thought made him queasy.
Trumpeters blew a flourish, and a herald proclaimed, “Our most puissant and dread lord, Henry, by the grace of God, King of England, Prince of Wales, Duke of Normandy, Lord of Aquitaine, Brittany, Maine, Anjou, and Guyenne; Regent and Heir of France, and his lady wife, the Princess Catherine, Daughter of France.”
King Henry and Catherine walked into the hall as pages strewed rose petals before them. The king still wore the same clothing for the feast as for the wedding. Catherine had changed her gown for one as low cut as her mother’s in light rose with a tight bodice and sleeves that swept to the ground. Yet her smile was sweet and modest. The king took her elbow to help her onto the dais and to the seats beneath the banners of the King of England and France. There were no English ladies with the army, so the tables were filled with a very male company. The king’s brothers sat on the other side and gave James frowning looks, but the king nodded pleasantly enough.
Queen Isabeau took her daughter’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks. The Duke of Bourgogne kissed her fingers and then her cheek, and then the king’s brothers kissed her as well. The queen pulled on James by the arm, almost shoving him forward, and he took Princess Catherine’s hand and bowed over i
t whilst the king looked blandly on. The Cardinal led a long prayer before at last King Henry and his bride took their seats. James had not expected to be seated so near Henry. He supposed he should take it as a rise in his status in the court, but his doubts anent Henry’s intentions made him wish he was as far from the royal couple as could be.
Queen Isabeau patted his hand and looked like a cat that had got into the bothy. “They make a beautiful couple, do they not, Your Grace?”
The cupbearers were filling the wine cups, and James watched eagerly. “Certes, Your Majesty. Your daughter is a bonny lass.”
The king rose and lifted his cup, and a hush fell over the hall. “To my bride, Princess Catherine, soon to be crowned Queen of England.” He turned to one side and the other with his cup high as shouts of “Princess Catherine! Princess Catherine!” resounded back at him.
James lifted his cup to the two of them and drained it. He held it up to be refilled as soon as he sat back down beside Queen Isabeau. The Duc de Bourgogne was giving him grim looks on his other side, and James was sure the man thought he had been displaced below his rank, but could not say anything to the Queen of France.
The first course was a dish of oysters steamed in almond milk served in gold chased bowls. James had filled himself at the hostelry, and it would be a long feast, so he picked at the dish, although it had a luscious smell. Half of France is burnt to a cinder, the people starving, but Henry’s army will not go hungry. He twisted a wry smile. Looking around the crowded hall, most of what was here was indeed an English army. The mayor of Troyes had his lady wife with him, looking satisfied where they sat at the end of the high table, but they were among the very few.
The realization made James frown as he looked at the war-hardened men around him. He felt possessed by the question of why Henry had brought him here amongst them. Not that James had failed to train for war in the bailey yard. But he had never once set foot on a battlefield. So green a fighter was of no use to Henry who did nothing without reason. He started to take another drink before he realized he had drained his cup once more.
A King Ensnared, A Historical Novel of Scotland (The Stewart Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
