by J. R. Tomlin
"It was the damned Sassenach who did it. Not you. They'll know that." James dropped the tunic over the Bruce's head, fastened his belt, and draped his cloak around his shoulders.
"I should have protected them. Had I sent them to Norway straight away after my coronation, to my sister there, they would have been safe."
As he fastened the golden lion rampant pin to hold the king's cloak, James frowned and shook his head. "You can't know. They might have died in a storm on the way. Sickened in the winter." James tried to think of something that could comfort the king for all he had lost. There was nothing, any more than it comforted James. He met the king's eyes. "You have the courage to face it as you always have."
Robert de Bruce took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I'll meet them in the Great Hall."
James opened the door for him and followed. The vaulted chamber was immense but in the summer’s heat only a small fire burnt in the great hearth. Walter Stewart and Robert de Boyd were seated at a bench, talking as they shared a flagon of wine. Walter, in a blue embroidered surcoat of the Steward colors, leapt to his feet, and Robbie, a hint of laughter in his eyes, rose more slowly.
Walter exclaimed, "Your Grace, we heard. The queen will be here?"
"Pour me some of that wine," the Bruce said.
"You must keep a proper court now, Your Grace." Robbie grinned. "My lady says these years in the heather have made us fit for nothing but heathens, so it won't be easy."
The Bruce took a long drink of the wine that Walter handed him. "Aye, I've been thinking on that. How is the lad settling, your stepson? After being locked up in England so long?"
"Andrew is as wild as a falcon cut loose from a cage. There’s no mischief he won’t get up to celebrating his freedom." Robbie shook his head at the king. "As should you be. Why a solemn face? Is that any way for the queen to see you?"
"It has just been so long a time." He smiled but it was little more than a grimace. "Has the lad an eye for the ladies?"
"He's seventeen―still young for that."
James laughed. "Not too young at all. At that age, I was after anything in a kirtle. Surely you were as well, sire."
"At seventeen, I was already wed. That was the year Marjorie was born, and her mother died birthing her."
Robbie was right that the king had to show a cheerful face to the returning prisoners. James leaned close to the king and said in an undertone, "What will they think to see you with this sour mien? They'll think you didn't want them to return."
The Bruce nodded and upended the wine goblet. James saw the effort it took for him to smile. "So I shall keep a court. That means I expect the rest of my nobles to wed. Including you, Walter."
"Me?"
Robbie snorted. "What lass will you curse with him?"
James kept a grin back as his young cousin glared at Robbie. The door banged open. Gilbert de la Haye beamed in the doorway, though travel soiled and his dark hair stringy with sweat, and said, "Your Grace…"
A woman brushed past him, as plainly dressed as a nun in a gray robe, but her blond hair was uncovered. She stopped and stared at the king, flushed with excitement and eyes wide.
The king took one step toward her. "Elizabeth," he said in a choked voice.
She ran to him then and threw herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Robert."
"God be thanked." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rested his cheek against it. "Holy Jesu God be thanked."
James looked past the two to a figure silhouetted against the sunlight in the doorway. He squinted, for surely she was too slender to be one of the king's sisters. He strode to the door. She was smiling, as drably dressed as the queen but as unlike a nun as could be imagined in spite of her eight long years locked in a nunnery. Her eyes were wide blue like her father's and her hair a reddish-brown, wind-tossed mane. He hardly recognized her as the hoyden she’d been when they'd fled the English. "Lady Marjorie!" He reached for her hand and bent to kiss her fingers.
Behind James, the Bruce gasped. "Marjorie! Lass!"
"Father!" Marjorie pulled free from James to run to her father's arms, laughing. The queen pushed back from the Bruce's chest and made room for the princess. The Bruce held her against him whilst the queen wrapped her arms around them both, murmuring something incoherent. The king's face clenched, and he squeezed his eyes closed. Tears ran down his face.
"Father," Marjorie clutched him. "I thought I would never see you again."
James swallowed a rock that seemed lodged in his chest. Lady Elizabeth met his gaze. She was still beautiful even as she wept. James smiled at her and went to drop to a knee at her feet. "Your Grace," he said and took her hand to kiss. "Welcome home."
Lady Marjorie sniffled and stepped back from her father. She took a handkerchief from her belt and mopped at her face. "My lord father," she said in a choked voice, "you must think me a goose."
"I'd have to think the same of myself, lass." The Bruce shook his head as he took the cloth from her hand and wiped his own cheeks. "I'm unmanned but―God in heaven, how I missed you. Both of you."
James rose to his feet, grinning at Walter. "Cousin, didn't I teach you better than to stand gaping? Come make your courtesies to the queen and Princess Marjorie. My ladies, this is Sir Walter, the High Steward. He's not much to look at but did proudly at Bannockburn, so we decided to keep him." James twitched a grin at Walter's scowl. "You'll frighten them back to England with that look."
"I blame Jamie for Walter's manners. I've heard he was never properly buffeted about the head as a lad." Robbie gave a sorrowful shake of his head.
Marjorie hid a giggle behind her hand. Walter blushed red. He opened his mouth but couldn't seem to find a reply to suit the japes.
"Oh, I think it is safe that nothing would frighten us that much. It has been long and long since I've heard laughter." Lady Marjorie shook her head at James. "And your smile I remember well from days as we fled through the heather. You outdid all the men in hunting, and I thought you quite wonderful."
"Don’t think I’m a still green lad, my lady. You can’t make me blush like another I won’t name." He winked at her and she giggled again. James prodded Walter's shoulder, and the young knight dropped to a knee. He took Lady Marjorie's hand to kiss her fingers.
"Leave Walter be, both of you. He's not here for your japery." The Bruce was silent for a moment. "None of us have had a surfeit gaiety these last years. But I swear it will be put to right." He looked from his daughter to his wife. "We'll find musicians. And somewhere in Scotland must still be acrobats. We'll make up that―" The king's throat work as he swallowed. "We'll make up that we couldn't bring you home sooner. You have my solemn word on it."
The queen took the Bruce's hand in hers, but her smile was a little twisted. "Not solemn, Your Grace. I had enough of solemnity locked in a room of that nunnery. Truly, it was grim and solemn indeed. Now we'll have gaiety, I pray you."
* * *
James settled back in his place at the head of the table and drank. The fruity taste of the claret in his mouth made him smile with satisfaction. The Great Hall of his manor in Perth was heavy with the smell of roast venison and berries fresh picked. Under it was a hint of the rose scent Elayne wore. The manor's stone walls were draped with his banner and tapestries embroidered in gold, crimson, and blue, gifted from the king and seized from the great stores of treasure the fleeing English had left behind. A minstrel in the gallery played a harp and sang a song of a knight helplessly in love. James drank deep from his cup.
Love… He mustn't think of Alycie. The memory cut like a sword. He drained his cup. Holy St. Bride, keep me from thinking of her.
It was his duty to think of his lady wife. She smelled sweetly of roses. Her tight-bodice gown was of yellow samite; the long sleeves draped when she folded her hands modestly in her lap. Her silvery-blonde hair fell in waves to her waist beneath a gauzy veil.
It was the third hour of the feast laid to welcome him hom
e. A hundred guests crowded the benches, his retainers and allies who had ridden back with him from Stirling and some who had already returned home, raucous with drink and laughter, sharing stories of the battle. Symon de Loccart smiled when James met his gaze with a nod. James's good-father frowned, and his good-mother kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
His wife picked at her food. She thanked him prettily when he offered her the queen's piece of the haunch from the point of his knife. But she kept her eyes fixed on her hands, and what he could see of her cheek was pale.
He said, "The court abides at, for a time, to Cambuskenneth Abbey. And Lady Marjorie is with the queen. She is not so much older than you." He frowned, counting the years. "She must be eighteen years old now."
"Is she, my lord?" Elayne murmured.
"Lady Christina and Lady Mary had also arrived the day before I left." He took a gulp of wine and pulled a deep breath, feigning a smile. "Lady Mathilda and Sir Aodh are to join the court, as well. The queen is in need of a lady-in-waiting."
She finally raised her gaze to his and her cheeks flushed. "Do you mean you'd want me to serve the queen?"
"The king has summoned the parliament, and I must return. I thought to take you with me. The court will go north, I think, to Dunfermline after a time. Further from the border. The king means to slight Stirling Castle."
Her back was stiff as she slid her eyes toward him. "Will you stay with the court? After the parliament?"
"My duties lie elsewhere."
He was sure her sigh was one of relief. He stood and pulled her firmly to her feet. "Come, it's time to retire." He nodded to the company as he rose and walked quickly from the hall, her hand held in place on the crook of his arm. James shoved the door to the bedchamber closed behind them. He'd commanded a flagon of malmsey for the bedchamber. It was sweet but would be better for her tastes. This would be easier if they both were drunk, he supposed, and better this was done and done now.
He poured them both a goblet of wine.
She sat on the edge of the curtained bed and took a long swallow. "Should I call my maid to undress me, my lord?"
"Drink your wine and then I'll help you." He propped himself on the edge of the table and sipped the cloying wine. "You might enjoy being the queen's lady-in-waiting. I won't command you, but the princess is near your age. There will be dancing, and it will be gay, I think. Mayhap you'd be happy."
She drained her cup, and he held out the flagon to refill it. She seemed less timid, he thought, but she continued to stare down at her cup. "Your father was angry, you know. You needn't have told that I hadn't…" He took another drink of his wine. He needed it, as well.
"My lady mother asked questions I couldn't answer," she said.
"We both have a duty." James knew he sounded angry and softened his voice. He pushed himself to his feet and sat down his cup. "I promise it won’t be so ill."
She nodded and drained her cup in two gulps. He took it and pulled her to her feet with a hand on her elbow. She trembled as he unfastened her laces and buttons. He let her gown fall in a puddle around her feet. She was passive as a doll under his hands. His breathing was fast, and he wasn't sure if it was anger or lust. But he knew he must try to handle her gently. Her skin was milky white and soft when he stroked her shoulder. Her breasts still buds that wouldn't even fill his hands. She kept her eyes straight ahead as he pushed her silken smallclothes from her body. When he was done, she raised her wide eyes to stare into his.
"You are fair," he said.
"I—" Her throat worked as she swallowed. Her whole body was shaking. "I shall do my duty."
"Whatever they told you when you were in England, I am not a cruel man. I won’t hurt you." He thought of telling her that he wanted a wife who did more than her duty. Loyalty. Kindness. Even desire would be welcome. But mayhap those would come. "Climb into bed, Elayne."
He pulled the coverlet back and let her climb in. She stretched out. Her eyes were closed, her head turned away. He pulled off his clothes, knelt on the bed beside her and stroked her breast. She shuddered. He wanted to command her to open her eyes, to look at him, but the words stuck in his chest. He gently used a hand to part her legs.
* * *
The drizzle came and went, and there was more slate than blue in the sky. The river was running high as they crossed it below the cliff where Stirling Castle loomed above them. A rumble like thunder shuddered, and a puff of smoke rose from its walls. The king was destroying the castle. Never again would it be held by their enemies. He turned his horse's head west and signaled the party to follow. Every field they had passed was drowning in the late summer rains.
Wet and hungry, James tugged his cloak close as they slogged the last mile of the road and cantered toward the towering gray bell tower. He stepped off his horse into a puddle and pulled a face. He wanted a hot meal in front of a crackling fire to warm his feet. He looked about, wondering where their rooms would be in the vast outlying buildings of the abbey, when a guard ran toward him across the yard. The Privy Council was already gathering, and Sir James was wanted.
"Where is the chamberlain?" he asked and thrust his reins into the man's hands. "I can't meet with the council, wet and travel soiled."
A sturdy man of middle years scurried out the main doors. "My lord, you have chambers in the east wing. With so many here, even the abbey is crowded, but a fire is lit in your chambers, and I'll see you to it."
"I thank you, sir." The rest of his party was clattering and splashing into the yard behind him, surrounding Elayne's canopied litter, led by Will Dickson, whom James had named his steward. James motioned him over. "Find me something dry in the wagons and bring it. And then see they're unloaded, and my lady wife is settled in the rooms they've given us. I'm called to the council."
A half-hour later, James strode into the council chamber, still chilled and hungry, where rushes scented with lavender covered the floor. A tapestry of the Scots defeating the Norse at the Battle of Largs covered a wall and in the center of a long polished table. The chamber was full of men awaiting the king’s pleasure, all in finery fit for the royal court instead of their usual armor: Maol, Earl of Lennox; Niall Campbell; Uilleam, earl of Ross; Angus Og, lord of the Isles; Gilbert de la Haye, Lord High Constable of Scotland. The short man speaking in a low voice to his own good-father had to be William de Soules, Lord of Liddesdale and hereditary Seneschal of Scotland, newly returned to the king’s peace a week before. Robbie Boyd stood propping up a wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
Soules nodded to James with an arrogant smile. "I’ve heard much of your exploits, Lord Douglas."
"My lord," James returned the smile with a twitch of his eyebrow. "Welcome home. It may be chill for you after so long in England."
Robbie gave James a wry smile that twisted his scarred cheek.
Edward de Bruce, earl of Carrick, looked up from the chair where he sprawled and drawled, "Ah, Lord Warden of the Marches, we thank you that you deign to grace us with your presence."
"The trip took longer than I expected, Sir Edward. I crave the pardon of the council." James bowed to the king's brother, who had always disliked him. In looks, he was much like the king, blond and broad shouldered, and brave as any man alive, but be arrogant, haughty, and with more bravado than brains. "A household makes slow travel."
Thomas Randolph, standing next to a window, turned, so his back was to Sir Edward and winked at James. Laughing, he said, "S'truth. Allow twice as long as traveling alone, so I've found since the king married me off."
James grinned. "Aye, my lord, and through your wife we're by way of being cousins now." Thomas Randolph, earl of Moray, had wed one of his Stewart cousins on his mother's side. "Is your lady wife here at the Abbey?"
"I bade her stay in Moray for the sake of the bairn." He laughed and his face colored. "She scolded so that I let her come. It was a long weary trip with her litter."
James moved to the table and said, "Abbot Bernard, I trust you're w
ell and recovered from watching over all that English treasure. Is it locked safely away?"
The chancellor looked up and smiled from his chair at the foot of the table. "I've had worse jobs, Sir James. You know much of that treasure the king will gift to those who fought for him there." His brown hair fringed a sturdy, plain face. "Bishop Lamberton arrived late last night from London."
James took a seat near the Abbot Bernard. "So soon?"
"I fear so," Robert de Bruce said from the doorway, and behind him stood William de Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, his hair gone quite gray and stoop shouldered during his years in an English dungeon although only in his fortieth year. They all jumped to their feet except Sir Edward who slowly uncoiled his body to rise. The king took his seat at the head of the table and waved them to their seats. "Tell them your news, William."
Bishop Lamberton remained standing, his face grim. "They refused our terms for peace."
Sir Edward pounded a fist on the table whilst Niall Campbell slumped, his forehead in his hand. Thomas Randolph silently shook his head and looked toward James, but the others were on their feet shouting curses. James gripped his hand into a fist and slammed it on his thigh—so much for any hope for peace.
"Silence," the Bruce said. He glared at them until the room was quiet except for the sound of rain on the stone walls. "So, was it the terms? We could hardly ask for less―that they recognize Scotland's independence and our sovereignty."
"No. It was not the terms. They will not consider any terms. They still name you a traitor and all of us rebels."
"Are they fools?" Maol of Lennox demanded. "They cannot mount another invasion. Not possibly after their losses and a hundred of their lords still in our hands."
