by Kris Tualla
He signed it, Lord Andrew Allen Drummond, Knight and Courtier to King David II of Scotland. If any relatives were found, he did not want Eryn to sound desperate—and if she sounded well-connected, they might be more willing to respond.
Drew went to the docks at sunrise and paced along the wharf looking for a likely vessel. Something sleek and fast, and not too large. The path to Norway through the North Sea hugged the western coast of Europe, so even in the midst of winter should still be navigable. He approached one such ship, was turned down, and approached another.
This boat’s design was reminiscent of the Viking longships Drew had seen in paintings. As he hoped, the captain proved eager to the task. And he knew where Arendal was.
“Just up the coast from Kristiansand—on the way to Christiania,” he nodded.
“How long will the journey take?” Drew asked.
The man—who didn’t appear much older than him—shrugged. “If the wind is good and the weather holds, five days. Maybe six.”
Drew pressed a gold coin into the captain’s palm. The sailor’s eyes rounded.
“Ye’ll get another when ye return. Return in a fortnight, and I’ll double it.”
His head bobbed. “Aye, my lord! We’ll be off on the next tide!”
Drew and Kennan entered a tavern near the Tower of London and ordered food and ale. King Edward III lived in the Tower, and King David II was being held prisoner there in hopes of a ransom. Edward had recently ordered the Tower renovated—to bring it up to modern royal standards—and he needed money. David would not be pleased to hear what Drew had to report about that particular subject.
He turned his attention back to Kennan. “Did ye find anything?”
Kennan shook his head. “She’s no’ there. She died.”
“Did anyone remember her?”
“Aye, some. They said one old woman might recall Annais Smythe well when Rolf was around, but she’s not always in her right mind.”
“Were ye able to speak with her?” Drew prodded.
“I did no’ try,” Kennan confessed. “I saw the grave marker. That’s what we needed to know, aye?”
“Aye, I suppose that’s true. So the Lady Eryn truly is an orphan.” Drew pulled a long swallow of his ale. “When did she die?”
“Early enough in the Death that they still made markers, but there was no date.”
“1348,” Drew surmised. “Seven years past. Eryn would have been nineteen or twenty. I wonder why Annais never looked for her?”
Kennan shrugged. He applied his efforts to the meat pies while Drew pondered whether to lie to Eryn about the year of her mother’s demise. I’ll have to decide that when the time comes.
“Are ye going to see King David today?” Kennan asked, breaking Drew’s thoughts.
“Aye. After we’ve done here we’ll go to the apartments and I’ll change my clothes.”
The vassal nodded. “And I might ply the maids for more information, should ye need me to.”
Drew grinned. “’Tis a hard task, I’m certain.”
“I am always yer servant, my lord.” Kennan’s eyes twinkled.
Chapter Nineteen
January 14, 1355
Castleton, Scotland
Eryn shivered under a pile of blankets, wondering if the dark-haired woman standing at the foot of her bed was real. Ever since she fell ill, the lifelike vision appeared; and while Eryn felt she should know the woman, she could recall no placement for the spectre in her life.
Jamie shook her lightly, but even being touched hurt. “I’ve broth for ye,” he said, his gentle tone hurting her throbbing head almost as much as his hand.
“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his movement sending another wave of pain through her aching body. “I ken. But I’m going to feed ye in any case.”
She clenched her teeth to keep them from clattering against each other. A maid she hadn’t noticed helped prop her up. Jamie held a spoon to her lips and waited.
Eryn relaxed her jaw and slurped the hot liquid. Jamie said it was chicken broth, mixed with oil of lavender for its medicinal purposes. It wasn’t very tasty, but Eryn’s nose was so stuffed she could not have named the flavor on her own.
“Are ye feeling better?” Jamie asked after her third swallow.
“I can’t breathe.”
“Are ye still coughing?”
In answer, she was gripped by a round of chest-rattling spasms. Jamie held a cup for her to spit into as her body tried to rid itself of the offending slime.
“Am I going to die?” she moaned.
He shook his head. “No. Ye may no’ feel much better yet, but I can clearly see ye are on the mend.”
“Pah!” she croaked. “You are only saying so to get me to drink more of your concoctions.”
“Willowbark for the fever, and lavender for the infection. Broth for yer strength, and wine to help ye sleep. It’s no secret, any of it, and ye ken it well, my lady,” Jamie scolded and poured another spoonful down her throat. “So stop fighting me.”
Eryn sighed and pushed some of the blankets away. “Remind me never to be locked in a smokehouse in the middle of winter again, will you?”
His lips twitched. “I’ll try to remember. But my days are very busy, mind.”
“Why? Is the lady of the manor sloughing her duties?” Eryn grumbled. “Remind me to have her flogged to death. It would be a mercy.”
Jamie grinned. “I’ll note it.”
January 14, 1355
London, England
King David II of Scotland was being held in an upper room of the Tower. While the room was unadorned, it had a fireplace and a small window. The bed was comfortable and the linens freshened regularly. Meals were brought up and served on a table, which doubled as the king’s writing desk. Two heavy wooden chairs hemmed the table. A single carved cabinet held David’s clothing and other possessions.
A guard sat outside the door.
Considering David’s security and comfort, Drew decided that most of his subjects would eagerly exchange places with their king in one quick beat of their hearts.
David embraced him heartily and waved him to one of the chairs. “It has been a long time, Andrew. A very long time!”
Drew wasn’t sure if he was being chastised. “Ye gave me a very large task, Your Highness.”
“And did ye accomplish it?”
“I did.”
David stroked his long, graying beard. “So tell me, Lord Drummond, how stands my country?”
Drew thought it best to start honestly. “Scotland is on her knees, my lord.”
The king frowned. “Oh? How so?”
“The Death was long, brutal, and without discretion.”
David tilted his head, still frowning. “How brutal?”
“It would appear that fully half of your subjects are dead; perhaps more.”
Drew braced himself for the repercussions from that claim. Locked in the Tower two years before the plague hit, David was insulated from the full impact of the epic devastation.
“Half?” David barked. His face reddened. “Half? What is your game, Drummond?”
“No game, my lord. Only truth. More died in the cities, fewer where population is sparse. But overall I have seen at least half of the homes standing empty.”
David waved a hand. “I can no’ believe this.”
Drew paused and steadied his tone. “Nonetheless, my King, ‘tis true.”
The king glared at him. “Did ye see the bodies for yourself?”
More than ye can imagine. “I did.”
“Describe it.”
Drew swallowed. “My lord?”
David leaned forward in his chair and pointed a stiff finger in Drew’s face. “If ye have seen the expired bodies of over half my subjects, describe to me what ye saw!”
Drew ran his finger along his upper lip while he collected the horrific images and searched for words to recreat
e them. “The plague was called Black Death because the skin of those afflicted was covered with black spots.”
“So I have heard. That proves nothing.”
“Those infected died quickly—within a day. No treatments or preventatives were effective. The disease did no’ pass with any pattern. No one was immune, it seemed.”
The king looked bored. “Again, nothing I haven’t heard.”
“Have ye heard of the mass graves, then?” Drew blurted. “So many bodies shoved in that the ground won’t hold them and a good Scottish rain brings them back out?”
He shuddered at the memory. “Bloated and half-rotted, unshriven. God in Heaven, the stench carried a mile on the breezes.”
“Andrew—”
Drew shook his head and held up a palm. “And the animals—starving, they were, with none to care for them, ye ken? They ate the dead.”
David looked a bit green around the edges. “Ye may stop.”
“No, Your Highness. Forgive me, but this is what ye sent to me to find. Ye need to hear it.” Drew sat back, shocked at the way he had spoken to his sovereign and wondering if he had gone too far. But it was too late to turn back. “It was like riding through hell and praying for the flames.”
The king stood and walked to the fire. “But it’s over now, aye?”
“It lasted over four years.”
David turned and pinned him with pointed words. “But it’s over now.”
Drew jerked a nod. “None have died of it for more than a year.”
“And we ken which of my subjects owe back taxes, aye? So we can collect?”
What? Drew clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from shouting at the king.
“Andrew? The taxes?” he repeated.
Drew slid his hand down his chin and around to the back of his neck. He squeezed the knot forming there. “There was no way to keep track of the names of all who died. Or who paid, or who still owed.”
“Bloody hell!” David spat. “How did that happen?”
“When half your town dies, ‘tis all ye can do to keep going. To keep grinding oats, shoeing horses, or making candles! Surviving was more important than writing things down!” Drew shouted.
King David II of Scotland drew himself up to his full height. His chin-length gray hair stuck out at the sides making him appear a little crazed. “Do ye dare to raise your voice to your Sovereign Lord?” he growled.
Drew slid off his chair and knelt before David. He bowed his head and tried to corral his ragged breaths. “Forgive me, my King. In my passion to serve ye I have forgotten myself.”
“Ye have served me well for many years, Lord Drummond. For that reason, I shall overlook your outburst.” He crossed to the chair and sat. He considered Drew through narrowed eyes, his jaw set. “I grow tired. Go now and return tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Drew stood and walked, fuming, to the door. When he opened it, David’s voice held him in the chamber for another moment.
“What did ye mean the plague was ‘without discretion’?”
Drew turned slowly and leveled an intent gaze on his king. “There was no dispensation for your noble classes, Sire. Ye lost more than half of them as well.”
King David paled.
Drew pulled the door closed behind him with a percussive clank.
January 17, 1355
Castleton, Scotland
The dark-haired woman was gone, but there was still a figure at the foot of the bed. Eryn lifted her head to discern the corporeality of this one.
“Liam?” she murmured.
“Aye.”
“Do you need something?” As if she could hop up and serve him; her fever finally abated and she ached less, but she had all the strength of a soaking-wet linen rag.
“I only wanted to see ye,” he whispered. “Jamie wouldn’t let me afore.”
Eryn was warmed by the boy’s concern. “I’m sure he didn’t wish you to fall ill as well.”
Liam shrugged one shoulder. “Are ye going to die?”
“It appears not. I am getting better by the day.”
Liam pressed his lips together, and tension she hadn’t noticed in his shoulders released. He fiddled with the bottom of her blankets.
“Are ye being good?” she ventured.
He bobbed an enthusiastic nod. “Lord Andrew bade me to. He says that knights protect their homes and do no’ cause trouble.”
Eryn smiled softly and did not mention how she had said exactly the same thing to him countless times previous. “Well, he would know.”
Liam’s brow furrowed. “When he comes back, how will it be?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Will he marry ye?”
Eryn felt arrow-shot through the chest. She struggled to sound lucid. She struggled to breathe. “Why do you ask that?”
“I saw him kiss ye the day he left,” Liam confessed. “I never saw Geoffrey kiss ye like that.”
Eryn closed her eyes and fell back on the pillow. Tears leaked from under her lashes. “I—I don’t know if that will be possible, William.”
“Why no’?” he pressed.
“Lord Andrew has duties required by the king,” she explained. “And knights don’t usually marry.”
Liam was silent so long Eryn opened her eyes and leaned up to look at him again. His somber brown eyes swam in unspilled tears.
“What’s amiss, Liam?” she whispered.
The boy hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was so soft, Eryn had to strain to hear him, though he was only a few feet distant.
“I thought ye could marry him. And then he could be my da.”
The corresponding suggestion that she would be his mother wasn’t spoken, but was the loudest declamation in the room. Eryn’s chest was pierced a second time; this time she didn’t try to hide her tears. Unwise as it was to voice what could never be, she spoke complete truth.
“That would be my dearest dream as well.”
January 17, 1355
London, England
“So if I’ve lost my noblemen, I suppose I must appoint new ones,” King David mused. A liveried servant set a steaming plate of rich food in front of him. The king had been ‘indisposed’ the last two days and had postponed meeting with Drew. For a man who earlier had claimed illness, his appetite was rather impressive.
“Aye, my lord.” Drew watched the king eat; nothing was offered to him.
“Perhaps ye could help me draw up a list of potential lords?” He popped a slice of onion in his mouth and spoke as he chewed. “Then I could ask them to petition for the appointment.”
“That would take some time, Sire. Months at the least, perhaps even a year,” Drew posited.
David cocked his head to one side. “Where is the problem with that? These decisions must be made thoughtfully, aye?”
“Aye…”
David’s brow lowered. “So why do ye hesitate?”
This time Drew asked before blurting things he thought should be obvious to a king, long-imprisoned or no. “With your permission, I would like to speak freely.”
David’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.
“In most cases, when a man of authority was felled, another stepped up—out of necessity—and took over the responsibilities.”
“Usurpers,” David stated.
“Aye, my lord, that is one way to assess it. But,” Drew fought to get Eryn and her bold actions out of his mind. He did not succeed. “These are capable men. And they are willing to serve ye.”
“Have they claimed titles they were no’ born to?”
Drew gave a small nod. “Only when an entire family has died—or the children are no’ of majority age. Or even close.”
“Only the King can bestow titles.”
Drew gave another small nod.
“These are treasonous actions, Lord Drummond. And the penalty for treason is hanging, as I know ye are aware.”
“I am.”
“And how many have ye strung up
thus far?”
“None, my lord. No’ for that.”
King David made a great show of silently cutting his meat into many small pieces. Anger radiated from the man; his gray beard quivered with it. He stabbed a chunk of meat with his knife and held it in front of Drew’s face.
“And why have ye no’?” he challenged.
“Forgive me, my King,” Drew began carefully. “But certainly ye can see the wisdom in allowing these men to serve in the interim?”
“I can no’! If allowed to continue, that will encourage more of my subjects to throw off the mantle of sovereign rule!” David blustered.
“Without these men, Sire, there would be complete chaos!” Drew countered. “These men are upholding your laws! They are ensuring that order is maintained!”
“But what sort of order is treason?” The king’s face was so red, Drew feared apoplexy if he did not calm himself.
Drew leaned back in his chair. The realization that he was championing Eryn’s actions flooded his thoughts. How did he come to this pass? Defending treason? Upholding anarchy? What was he thinking?
That she is right.
His next words were critical to her future—and the future of Scotland.
“My lord,” he began calmly, deferentially. “Ye have been unjustly imprisoned these last eight years. Four of those years brought a plague upon Europe, the virulence of which none have seen afore.”
David’s cold, silent gaze flicked over him.
“God has seen fit to protect ye here,” Drew indicated the chamber with an open hand. “For that blessing, the people of Scotland are forever grateful.”
David sipped his wine, his stare unwavering.
The lack of an immediate and vitriolic response prompted Drew to continue. “But survival—survival was their first challenge. After that came safety for those who remained. I ken ye understand that, aye?”
There was no acknowledgement of his words; Drew had no choice but to press forward.
“The world has changed because of the Death. Worker’s wages have doubled—because half the workers are dead. The ideas that a man can move to another town and better his position, or a woman can run her husband’s business as well as he had, have been proven true.”
