by J. R. Tomlin
Lamberton stepped aside with another half bow to the king, since James had lagged behind him. The lad had his eyes cast stubbornly down, but that might be as well. Best the king didn't see that wild look and it made him appear humble enough even for Edward.
"Your squire, eh?"
Lamberton motioned James closer. "I ask you to grant him his inheritance as his father is dead, Sire."
"What's this inheritance he claims?"
"The lands of Douglasdale, Your Grace."
"Douglas." The king jumped up from his seat. "You dare bring me the son of that traitor?" Edward Longshanks hurled the goblet at Lamberton. It hit his chest, wine soaking his robe and splashing across his face.
In the sudden silence, Lamberton heard James gasp.
Wine dripped down Lamberton's cheeks but he dared not wipe them. "Sire, surely the sins of the father. . ."
"Silence! Douglas died in my dungeon and I am his heir." The king thrust his jaw towards Lord Robert Clifford. "I gifted the lands to one who has served me well. No traitor shall have them."
"Surely, Sire, the son is no traitor."
The king's face empurpled with rage. "His father was always my enemy--always. A friend of the outlaw, William Wallace. I'll not have the boy. Get out. Out! Before he takes Wallace's place on the scaffold."
Lamberton bowed deep before he turned. Blaming James for his father was harsh even for King Edward. He'd forgiven men who'd been in open rebellion, but now the only choice was to get the lad out of the king's sight. Another plan ruined, but a small one.
With a hand on James's shoulder, Lamberton urged him towards the door, the lad with a ramrod spine of indignation. No one spoke. No one else moved. Lamberton barely breathed until they reached the shattered stone rubble of the gatehouse. He took a deep breath. They'd live yet another day.
James untied Lamberton's gray palfrey. His hands shook and his lips were white, they were so tightly clenched. For a moment, Lamberton got James's full stare, black, wide-eyed, and fuming. After a moment, he removed his gaze to scatter it over the shadowy reach of the valley.
Lamberton took the reins from his hand. "Don't take it so hard, lad. I'll find a solution." He swung into the saddle.
James gave a jerky nod. "I know you mean to, my lord." James jumped into his saddle, settled his feet in the stirrups and gathered the reins. "But I fear this I must solve for myself."
Lamberton sighed and then nodded down the rutted road towards town, its watchtowers and church spires dark against the gathering dusk. Stirling town had surrendered with no fight. Now it was full of English soldiery, but there were yet places a bishop could be secret. "I have someone to meet. After dark."
The city gate was open when they reached the bottom of the hill. Lamberton raised his hand in blessing as he rode past four drays lined up, loaded with barrels and bales of hay. A driver slipped a coin to one of the king's guards and was waved through the gate.
The guard looked Lamberton over, raking him with a narrow-eyed stare.
"Bishop Lamberton returning from the king," Lamberton said.
The man waved them past and turned back to the wagons.
Lamberton kept to the edge of the street, nodding as James dropped his hand onto the hilt of his sword. Down the street, a Gray Friar was praying loudly for the health of the English king, but passersby paid him no more mind than a howling dog. The town milled with the usual crowd even in the growing murk: mostly soldiery in their mail with swords rattling, but also baker's boys hawking their hot pies and breads and whores leaning out of windows with their breasts half-bared. He passed two men dragging a dead ass out of an alley by its rear legs and an acrobat standing on his hands to the cheers of drunken English soldiers. But no one gave Lamberton and James a second look.
Next to the high spire of the Church of the Holy Rood, Lamberton turned into an alley. In the deepening dusk, the way was dark. He dismounted and looped his reins to the rail of a walkway that ran along the building. At his nod, James swung off his mount.
Lamberton motioned towards the street. "Check to be sure no one is in sight."
James gave him a puzzled look but tied his reins and walked towards the street, keeping in the dense shadow of the church's walkway. He paused and looked back over his shoulder, then went on. Near the street, James stopped, watching for a moment and then returned the way he had come.
"There's no one near, my lord."
"Come." Lamberton shoved open the side door of the Church. Their footfalls rang softly on the marble floor as he entered, James at his heels. The rich scent of incense hung in the air. He stopped and blinked, letting his eyes adjust.
A man knelt alone at a side altar. Light from a row of candles reflected in his golden hair. Deo gratia. He is here.
Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick, looked over his shoulder. He rose, tall with a broad forehead and strong features, dressed in black silk and a black cloak. His blue eyes caught a gleam in the faint light. He took a step and grasped Lamberton's shoulders in a hard grip for a moment, then shook his head.
Lamberton nodded towards the high altar and led the way past it and through a wooden door on the far side. He entered a square room with plain wooden walls, one wall covered with hooks where priestly vestments of white, purple and red hung. Gold censors stood on a small table in the corner next to a stack of blank parchment and a stand of lit candles. He let out a small sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure that you'd come."
"I told you I would. We must be ready..." He paused to frown at James.
Lamberton smiled slightly. "William le Hardi's lad and my squire." He nodded to James. "Keep watch outwith the door. See that we're not disturbed. Or overheard."
James bowed quickly to both men and closed the door behind him.
"He'll serve us well one day, Robert. Now..." He motioned to the table. "I didn't care to have these prepared beforehand. I'll write the agreement now. But hear you, this will be treason that the leopard would never forgive. So put your mind to it. Yea or nay. There will be no turning back."
"Wallace agreed to give me his support. In spite of everything?"
"He was wroth when you bent a knee to King Edward. But after Comyn betrayed him at Falkirk, withdrawing his chivalry from the battle, Wallace would do anything to keep that man from the throne. Yes. He gave me his oath."
Bruce stared at a fist he clenched tight, seeming to study it. "What was I to do?" His voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "How could I lead a fight for a crown while my father lived, and I knew him too weak to hold it? When Edward had harried and pillaged my own lands to a smoking ruin? I had to buy time. That meant swearing to him."
Lamberton sighed. "I told Wallace as much. Now that he's returned from France, he can see you had little choice. He's a fighter. You know strategy was never his weapon."
"So be it." Bruce raised hot eyes to Lamberton's. "Write the words of our pact, and I'll put my seal to them."
Lamberton dipped a quill in ink. ...mutual help at all times and against all persons without exception... by solemn oath before God.
Bruce took the quill and scrawled his name.
Beside it, Lamberton neatly penned his own. It was done. If ever King Edward saw this before they were ready to make their move, Lamberton knew nothing would save him from a dungeon or Robert de Bruce from a scaffold.
Bruce frowned. "There's still John Comyn's claim to be dealt with. I doubt that he will agree to our bargain. Can you convince him, think you? With the enmity between the two of us?"
Lamberton allowed himself a smile. "A prize as rich as that? Your earldom of Carrick... Annandale... To be the richest noble in Scotland for giving up a crown he would have to wrest from Edward Longshanks. That's temptation indeed."
"If you hadn't stepped between us the day the he dared to strike me..." Bruce shook his head doubtfully.
"I know the man's greed. I'll pick the right time and put it to him. He'll agree."
As Robert de Bruce used a candle to drip hot wax onto th
e document and pressed his into seal it, Lamberton laid his hand on the man's shoulder. "The day will come, my friend. You will be the king who leads us to freedom."
Chapter Two
London, England: August 1305
Sweat trickled down James Douglas's face as he moved along with the jostling crowd. Pressing and pushing, the packed throng made its way towards London's Elms at Smithfield on the eastern bank of the River Fleet. Everyone was moving in the same direction, eager to see William Wallace executed, everyone in London it seemed.
A gull screamed overhead, circling. James looked up at the bright morning sun. How could the sun shine on such a day?
Two half-grown boys only a few years younger than he was dashed by, ducking amongst the crowd and laughing when they ran through a puddle of muck. They splashed a woman in a fine apron. She yelled after them, but they kept going.
"Make way! Make way for the Lord Mayor." Four men-at-arms on huge destriers rode, surrounding a man in purple velvet on a high-stepping horse. They pounded towards James. People scattered.
He scrambled to get out of the way, but a cart full of barrels blocked the edge of the road. His feet tangled with a squalling toddler. A woman screamed, but everyone was busy dashing in all directions. James grabbed the brat up by the scruff of his neck. A blow caught James in the middle of his back. He threw his arm in front of the child and landed hard against the side of the cart with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him. A barrel bounced to crush his fingers. His shin smashed into the wheel.
The child's wail rose to a scream. "The devil take it." James managed to deposit him behind the wagon in safety as a young woman pushed and shoved her way through the crowd. She grabbed the baby up and scowled at James before squeezing her way past.
He pushed himself erect and brushed off his tunic. Gods blood, had the woman wanted the brat trampled? Blood dripped down his finger. He sucked it clean to see that he'd ripped off his nail. He felt blood dripping down his leg where he'd banged against the wheel. The bishop would surely question what he'd been doing away from his duties against a specific command when he showed up banged and bloody.
Bells began to chime, clanging, clamoring. James let the stream of people carry him, crushed in its press. His hand throbbed. He gritted his teeth as he limped along, listening to the excited chatter around him.
"Can't wait to hear him scream when they gut him."
Someone spat. "It's when they carve off his balls he'll be yelling for mercy."
"Only thing to do to an oath-breaker."
James whirled to face them. "He didn't break..." He bit back his words. People were glaring. If he started a fight, they'd arrest him and blame the bishop. He bent his head in shame.
"Here, I got me a pence says Wallace'll be screaming before they even take the knife to him."
A woman hooted. "It'll be good to hear--all the fine men he murdered up there. Good king's men. They say he raped every woman he could lay hands on, too. Only fair he loses his balls."
By the time they reached the Elms, they were packed shoulder to shoulder so tight that James could barely breathe. He let the crush push him into the middle of the square. All struggling to get closer to the great scaffold towering ahead of them, people talked and yelled over each other. From the middle of the crowd, all he could see were heads, and shoulders and a mounted knight and to one side the gray walls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
James squirmed and elbowed his way through the press. A man cursed at him, but James gave him a glare. He grunted in satisfaction when the man ducked his head. James would have felt even better if he could have hit him. Clinching his fists, James shoved his way through.
Finally, near the front of the crowd, with his shoulder he rammed a workman who was laughing as he munched on an apple. The man yelled, stumbling back, and swung around, fists raised, but he backed off muttering about noble bullyboys. Over the noise, the bells of the city tolled. They rang from every direction.
Then James saw Sir William Wallace on the scaffold.
Blood ran down Wallace's face and into his red beard. His nude body dripped with sweat and splatters of dung, his legs running with gore from being dragged behind horses on the way here. The rope to hang him draped from his neck over the upright in the middle of the scaffold. One each side of him was a man-at-arms in glittering mail with the red and gold of the Plantagenet kings. Each gripped an arm. Wallace's hands were lashed behind his back. Clustered nearby were knights and high lords in their silken peacock colors.
One man in a black tunic and breeches stood alone, thick arms crossed over his heavy chest. Next to him, a brazier held dancing flames that sent up a finger of smoke.
A long line of pikesmen in mail jacks held back the crowd, commanded by a tall knight mounted on a snorting charger. On his shield was the leopard of King Edward.
When the bells finally ceased, the man in purple velvet stepped forward to the edge of the scaffold and read the sentence of the traitor, William Wallace, to die, hanged, drawn, his heart to be cut out whilst he yet lived and burned, and then his body quartered and beheaded. His head to be placed over the gate of London Tower.
"No," James whispered. Around him, the crowd began to scream and shout. Obscenities and taunts filled the air.
A stone sailed out of the crowd over the heads of the pikesmen. James groaned when it smashed into Wallace's stomach. He stumbled but the men-at-arms kept him erect and dragged him to the center of the platform. The man in black checked the noose, adjusting the knot slightly to the side. He walked to the gibbet and grabbed the end of the rope. He walked slowing, nodding to the crowd. He began to pull, hand over hand, until the rope was taut. The noose around Wallace's neck stretched, and he went onto his tiptoes. The executioner strained and struggled to raise him. Wallace was a big man. A man-at-arms joined to help, leaning backwards as he pulled.
Wallace's feet lifted from the ground, swinging. Heart pounding, James clinched his fists. Please, by all the saints, let him die fast.
Screams and shouts of "Give it to 'em" deafened him. The executioner looped the rope to a stanchion and walked around Wallace slowly, nodding. When he got back, he loosened the rope. Wallace thumped onto to the boards of the scaffold. A man-at-arms picked up a bucket of water and dashed it into Wallace's face. He rolled over, groaning, loud in the momentary silence; the crowd cheered wildly. Whistles and catcalls went up.
The executioner pointed to the rope, and the man-at-arms began to pull it. Wallace's feet scrabbled for purchase against the wet boards as he was hauled upright. The executioner picked up a knife from a table.
Once more, the men-at-arms grabbed Wallace's arms, bracing themselves. The executioner reached for Wallace's crotch and grabbed him.
James' chest heaved with a gasp. Máter Déi... Máter Déi... Máter Déi... His eyes throat burned and scalding bile filled his mouth. He swallowed, his stomach lurching, and he whirled. Desperate, he shoved between a man and a woman behind him.
The man laughed. "Too weak-kneed to watch?"
James' elbow slammed hard into the man's belly. He shoved his way further into the crowd. Another cheer went up around him. Shouts of glee echoed across the city.
Merciful God, get me out of here before I kill someone. He couldn't bring that down on the bishop. Even more desperately, he pushed and shoved, not caring whom he elbowed to get through. Finally, he stumbled out of the crowd.
A scream echoed off the walls, soon drowned in shouts and howls of joy.
James' stomach heaved again. Bracing his hand on a wall, he hunched as he spewed vomit onto the cobbles.
His face burned, but he knew it was the fever of despair.
He drew his arm across his mouth and then leaned his back against the wall. The devil take them. The devil take them all.
He took a deep breath and straightened. He had to get to the manse where Bishop Lamberton and their party were lodged. The bishop would be furious at his having gone missing. Being yelled at by the man who'd been
a second father to him seemed like a drink of cool water. He lifted his chin and started back up the slope. Thanks be to St. Bride, King Edward had refused his own homage when the bishop had presented him. He had no tie to this horrible place, except for the people they'd killed.
He wanted to go home. All he really wanted was to go home. Or to kill the men who had stolen it. He'd get back what they'd stolen somehow. He shuddered. There was no getting back the lives they had stolen.
James wound his way through the busy streets. Apparently, some hadn't bothered with the execution. Traffic bunched around carts in the narrow intersections; green mold climbed up the brick walls. Garbage squashed underfoot, the stink rising as the day warmed with the climbing sun. Beggars lurked in the alleys crying for alms. James dropped his hand on his dirk, sorry he'd left his sword in his room. But if he’d had it, he might have used it back there.
He turned into a side street where the houses were finer, tall and freshly whitewashed. Upper windows were open and the sound of people enjoying the day drifted down. Women wearing bright dresses passed him, each one accompanied by a maid and man-at-arms as they bargained with peddlers, gossiped or ordered their servants about. James went through a gate set in a dressed-stone wall.
Inside, he closed the polished front door behind him. Leaning back, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. He would bear it. Let them say William, Lord of Douglas begat a son who could bear what he must.
"Squire James," a voice piped. The only page the bishop had brought to London with them bounced down the stairs, full of energy as always. He came to a stop, staring.
"What, Giles?"
"His Excellency has been asking for you."
James gnawed his lip. He could make an excuse and clean himself up, but he wasn't going to lie to the bishop. He never had and wouldn't start. He nodded. "Where is he?"
"In his chamber." The lad frowned. "He looks in a stew."
"How else would he be this day?"
Giles looked like he might cry so James patted his shoulder in passing. Giles wasn't so much younger than he'd been in Paris, but seemed so much more of a child than he'd ever been. At the end of the long hall, he knocked and awaited permission to enter the bishop's precisely arranged chamber.
