by J. R. Tomlin
"They appeal to the Pope to renew the excommunication and interdict against you, Your Grace."
"Again?" James shouted, amid laughter.
Lamberton sank into a chair at the left of the king. "They won't invade, not soon. Eventually? Yes. If we can't force them to treat with us, we can expect to have to face another army even larger than the last. They are—" He frowned as he pondered his words. "They are convinced that our kingdom is theirs. That they cannot defeat us for the nonce does not mean they might not with another army in another year. They'll cling to their false claims and hope for victory over us in the future—whatever the cost to them now."
James leaned forward on his elbows and stared at his clasped hands against the polished wood of the table. The few losses of the English had been nothing. He looked up. "How can they know the cost? Their cost has been that!" He snapped his fingers. "Compared to what it has cost us. So we must let them know what war truly costs. Let them see if they want to pay."
"Aye," Angus Og growled.
"Can we afford to do that?" asked Niall Campbell. James looked at the man in surprise. He was the last James would expect to cry against war, but his face was drawn and pale. Niall was no older than the king, but to James he looked ill. "We need to give thought to raising our sons and reaping our harvests. Not to the English."
"Will they leave us in peace to do that?" Thomas snorted. "I think not."
"No," the Bruce said. "Bishop Lamberton is right. If we don't force them, they will be back. So James will take the war to them. Yet again." He nodded to James. "Albeit burning York didn't force them to terms before, it will not now."
"Then somehow we much reach further south," James said, but he chewed his lip. Going further south than York was a risk they'd not dared take. They’d be cut off by the strong forces in the southern reaches of England. That Scotland could not afford. "Mayhap as far as Richmond and the River Wear with a strong enough force, but I think no further."
"My galleys could reach further than Sir James. Let me attack their ports. Harry their merchant ships." Angus Og beamed as he stroked his long moustaches that drooped below his chin. "No one can catch my berlinns at sea."
Uilleam of Ross glared at his life-long enemy. "Mine can."
"Good," the king said. "Then whilst Uilleam and his galleys harry the eastern coast, Angus Og will do the same on the west. And we must push a force into England—my good Sir James and my brother together. If the English won't make peace, then they must make war. James, you and Edward will thrust into the Midlands. Burn what you cannot seize, as far as Richmond if you can."
Bishop Lamberton cleared his throat. "It isn't enough, Your Grace. I'm sorry. It won't be enough."
"You are right. So are you fit for a trip to France, my friend?" the king asked.
Lamberton raised his eyebrows. "To King Philip?"
"Exactly. Discuss renewing our treaty with the French king. I have little reason to think Philip loves his good-son. Mayhap it will accomplish little but to fash our enemies to the south, but that alone is worth doing. I do not believe that the French are ready for a treaty. So I’ll also send Thomas to Norway to renew our treaties there."
"Aye, Your Grace. I am fit for a trip to the French court."
"About Ireland," Sir Edward said, and it was not a question. "I tell you if the Irish rise against them, the curst English will be in grave case. Two wars will be more than they can fight whilst they snarl at each other at home."
The king spread both his broad hands on the table and stared past the wall. James wondered how far his gaze went beyond these walls and across Scotland. Finally, the Bruce nodded. "Send a letter to the king of Tyrone. If he will support you, I'll give you my support as well and give you an army to take with you to Ireland."
Edward de Bruce's face went blank with surprise. James bit down on a smile.
"I shall," Edward said. "He will give me the support I need."
"Mind you. I'll not support you unless they agree to crown you high king. And I am none too sure you can win. If they do then I'll do what I can, and every day the English fight there means they're not fighting in Scotland. If we can draw their fangs, so they can’t attack us on our western coast that will be a happy day." He nodded to Abbot Bernard. "Now to the matter of tomorrow's parliament."
The abbot stood with a rolled parchment in his hand. "I'll bring before the parliament a most urgent matter. Those who owe fealty to Lord Robert who serve the English to the harm of us all must be dealt with: Henry de Beaumont who claims, jure uxoris, the earldom of Buchan for his wife, Alice de Comyn; Robert de Umbraville, earl of Angus; Sir Ingram de Umbraville, late Guardian of this realm. Others of their ilk serve our enemies. We will give them notice that this must end. They give themselves into the king's peace within the twelve-month or their lands and titles shall be forfeit."
James watched the faces of the men around him. The earl of Ross had made peace with the king, albeit few in the room had forgiven his treachery in turning the queen over to English imprisonment those years ago. But he didn't seem to give a tinker's curse if others paid when he hadn't. Niall Campbell had lifted an eyebrow. James suspected the coming was no news to the Bruce's good-brother.
The chancellor continued, "I will propose to this the parliament for a vote." Several of the lords leaned their heads together to whisper comments as muttering spread through the chamber. "If they do not return to the king's peace and offer their fealty, all their claims will be forfeit to the king to be disposed of to those who have served him and the kingdom better than the traitors."
Now James raised his own eyebrows as he leaned back. Those were vast estates to be parceled out if they were forfeit. Niall Campbell twitched James a smile. Yes, Campbell had earned a share of any forfeiture, mayhap even an earldom. So had James, though he didn't look so high. He was sure that some of those men named would cut off both hands rather than put them in the king's to give him their oath.
"Good." Robert de Bruce slapped his hand down on the table. "Then it is settled. I shall call another parliament for the spring to discuss other matters, but until then you have your duties set out for you. For tonight, Lady Elizabeth expects you in your finery, as do I."
One Week Later
Young Gylmyne knelt to fasten the fine worked leather belt around James's waist over his crimson velvet tunic with sleeves fashionably puffed. James smiled as he tugged the tunic straight. The lad had yet to find the knack of hanging his clothes straight. James hoped that soon he would. He was a Loccart, a cousin to Sir Symon, and only in his thirteenth year. Surely he would learn to be less hack-handed soon.
"Are you ready," he asked Elayne. She was lovely in a blue gown with long dagged sleeves touching the floor, her skirt embroidered with white roses. The maid the queen had sent to her draped Elayne's mantle around her shoulders.
Her mouth was drawn into a thin, bitter line, but she nodded. "Yes, my lord." She dutifully took his arm. He felt her stiffness as he escorted her down the stairs, and she never looked up at him. They descended in silence.
At the foot of the tower, they joined the hurrying guests in the bailey yard. It was a peacock's show of silks and velvets in every color as they filed in through the doors. The evening was gray, and everyone was eager to enter and escape the drizzle. Inside, the high vaulted hall was ablaze with torches in polished sconces. Guests milled about the tables as heralds announced the names and titles of the lords and ladies. Music of harps and pipes and drums at the foot of the hall mixed with the laughter and chatter of the guests.
A little page in red led them toward down the center aisle. James paused to make their courtesies to Robbie Boyd and Lady Caitrina. Elayne embraced her when Robbie told her that Caitrina's son had been returned to her, complimented her own mother on her new velvet gown, and asked Abbot Bernard where the court would proceed upon leaving the abbey. She may indeed be happy at court, James thought. She had not a happy day in his company, he was sure, nor he in hers. Aodh of Ross was
limping from the wound he took at the battle trying to save his brother and his wife, Lady Mathilda, on his arm took part of his weight. When Elayne said she had heard of his brother's bravery and his own in trying to save him, Aodh blushed.
James patted her hand on his arm and said, "They're taken with you." She didn't reply as they went to their places next to Lady Marjorie and her uncle Sir Edward.
Robert de Bruce and Elizabeth de Burgh strolled into the Great Hall. The king wore black tights and a red tunic embroidered with lions, but Lady Elizabeth outshone him in green velvet, with a tight-laced bodice that showed her full bosom and her hair was in a silver net, winking with sapphires. On her brow was a slender gold crown. She smiled like a girl at her first ceilidh as the king led her past the bowing throng to seats of honor at the high table before a banner of the Scottish lion as large as a ship's sail. A dozen others were sat closer to the king, the earl of Lennox, the earl of Ross, Bishop Lamberton, Bishop David of Moray and the frail, blind Bishop Wishert, last of the Scots to be freed from an English dungeon. Lady Elizabeth paused to kiss Wishert's hand and say a quiet word to him before she took her place standing beside the king. James and Elayne were well to the king's right with Edward de Bruce and Lady Marjorie between them and the king.
Elayne curtsied prettily to the princess, and Lady Marjorie pressed a kiss to her cheek. "My lady-in-waiting, Marioun of Ramsey." Marjorie tugged the hand of a wisp of a lass, no more than twelve, with bright eyes and blonde curls tumbling down her back. "I have so looked forward to our all being friends."
They bowed their heads whilst Bishop David made neat, quick work of a blessing.
Robert de Bruce looked around the hall, his expression so happy it made James's chest ache. "Our people are freed once more. Tonight, we'll have naught but joy. To the queen's safe return." The king took a filled goblet from a squire and lifted it. "To the queen!"
"Lady Elizabeth!" James shouted, joining a hundred other voices. "To the queen! To the queen!" James drained his cup and motioned for a page to refill it when he and Elayne were seated.
For once Sir Edward nodded amiably enough at James before he said "Robert should have seated you with young Walter." Sir Walter, now the High Steward of Scotland since his father's death was on the other side of the king and queen past two score nobles.
Lady Marjorie made a face at Sir Edward. "Cannot we talk of something pleasant?"
Her uncle raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. "You dislike him? Why?"
She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to speak past James to Elayne. "I am returned a week, and all they will speak of is finding me a husband. I'd rather make merry at least for a time."
James grinned. "Sir Edward is not the one to press you to wed, my lady."
Marjorie gave him a curious look and a wicked smile. "Is there a story about my uncle that would entertain us?" He would never have thought she had spent eight years locked up in a nunnery for she was sparkling with gaiety. She wore a deep blue samite gown that shimmered in the torchlight, setting off her eyes. Her hair, held back by a slender gold coronet, hung in waves like silk down her back almost to her waist.
"No, there is not," Sir Edward said.
"Not at all." James took a drink of the rich red wine in his cup to wash down a laugh. "Your uncle is a braw knight and beloved of so many, he is hard pressed to choose."
In fact, Sir Edward bedded more women than James could count, and his bastard with Ross's sister was the talk of the realm, but that was a story Sir Edward would not be pleased to have told.
Marjorie laughed and asked Elayne if she was joining the court. The moment passed when Elayne said she was. The pages kept the cups filled all night as James helped Elayne to dishes that came and went, of swan, of rabbit in wine-current sauce, of compost of carrots and pears, of sturgeon in a golden saffron sauce, and spiced honey biscuits. She nibbled as she chattered to Lady Marjorie. They both clapped when a troop of acrobats swarmed it tumbling and jumping on each other's shoulders to form a tower. When her mouth wasn't in a bitter line, Elayne had a delicate beauty, but Marjorie’s laugh made him smile. She'd been a child when they'd fled with the king through the highlands, full of laughter and a child’s tricks. Odd that such a terrible time also had pleasant memories. She’d missed so much locked up by her English captors.
He watched a stilt walker juggling colored balls as a tumbler leapt through a burning hoop and an old man who got a bear to dance clumsily to the tune of a pipe.
"Sir James, do you ignore me?" Marjorie smiled and her eyes sparkled.
"Of course not, my lady. I was remembering those days when we fled through the Highlands. You know I have no sisters. I grew up in a Bishop’s household. You were the nearest I had to a sister, I think." He smiled at her fondly. St. Bride but he hoped she would find happiness now. "You’ve been missed."
It was foolish that seeing Marjorie grown to a woman made him sad, so he looked at Thomas Randolph and his Isabella near the king. She was heavy with child and her round face was plain to his eye though she glowed with happiness. James watched as Randolph cut her a morsel of a sturgeon and fed it to her. He leaned close to whisper something in her ear, his hand resting upon her swollen belly. Randolph had found joy with his sweet, plain-faced bride. But that was fair. Someone in the midst of this benighted war should find joy.
James might have given Elayne a child the nights he had lain with her. He prayed so for both their sakes. He wondered what she would do if he put a hand her belly if she were with child. Shudder, he supposed as she had in their bed. Albeit, she would suffer his touch as her duty, and he'd touch her for his.
"Do you ride, Lady Elayne?" Marjorie asked. When Elayne murmured that she preferred her litter, Marjorie nodded. "Some ladies do. But I'd smell the sweet, free air and feel the wind. Would your lord husband and his men escort me on the morrow, do you think?"
"I must attend the parliament, but in the afternoon if your lord father permits. In the company of your lady-in-waiting, of course." He nodded to Sir Edward and put a hand on Elayne's arm. "You look weary after our long journey. We should retire."
He'd been too long between women, was all. It was making him mawkish. His night with Elayne had been more punishment than pleasure, as much for him as for her. James shouted for a maid when he led Elayne up the stairs to their chamber. He kissed her hand as the maid peered around the door. "Shall I help my lady?" the woman asked.
"We don’t need you." James touched Elayne’s shoulder with his fingertips, soft like velvet.
She jerked away and lifted her chin. "Mayhap I’m with child."
"It’s soon—too soon to know."
"If I am, you needn’t touch me." Strangely calm, she looked into his eyes. "I don’t want you to touch me."
"I’m your husband," James was so angry he forgot to keep his voice down. "You have no right to tell me nae."
"You can force me." Elayne tilted her chin to an imperious angle. "You can find a woman anywhere. If I’m not with child… Then I’ll let you do that to me. I know I must give you an heir." Her eyes narrowed. "I hate when you touch me. The Black Douglas." She spat the words. "They say you’re the devil’s spawn. My father married me to you, but he can’t make me not hate you."
Mayhap I should force her. It is my right. His hands were shaking. With anger? He was not sure. He had the right, but… Holy St. Bride, he could not. What kind of man can kill in battle, but cannot take his own wife? Silent, he turned his back. "I'm of a mind to check on my men and make plans for the foray the king commanded." He took his sword belt from the peg where it hung and buckled it around his waist.
"As it please you."
"Sleep well." Without looking, he closed the door behind him and made his way down the narrow stairway. Outside, he nodded to Richert. "Are the men settled for the night?"
"Aye." Richert gave him a cocky grin. "Will you want an escort?"
Half an hour later, James took the road toward the town with a score of his men in his tail. Stirlin
g Castle was outlined against the moon, misshapen as a rotting tooth, half its walls demolished. The king was wasting no time in slighting it to the ground, but such a strong castle was no small task to destroy. "Richert," James called, "on the day after tomorrow, we'll ride for Douglasdale. See that the men are ready to leave at daybreak. Choose a score of men to remain with my lady wife when we leave."
"I'll see to it, my lord."
"Good." James put his heels to his horse and cantered away, leaving his men to follow as best they could. He had told Elayne that he intended to make plans for the foray, and that was not entirely a lie. The command from his liege could not be delayed, and it was long since he'd forayed with Edward de Bruce. He'd need a strong force and trusted lieutenants. The king's brother would not make it an easy raid. Edward de Bruce had a liking for open battle that would not do them well deep within England.
After dark, the streets of Stirling Town were quiet. The city gates were open and a pair of guards stood on each side leaning on their pikes. They sprang erect and bowed as James passed. James followed the winding street up the hill past a lone farmer standing beside his wagon shouting, "Neeps for sale. Neeps and onions for sale cheap." This year's crops had been poor even before the English invaded, and he'd burned everything before them. He wondered how soon there would be no food in the market or in people's bellies.
"We'll need sumpter horses for returning what we find in the south," he said. "Choose men to send to the Lanarkshire market. It's a good place to buy them."
"How many horses?" Richert asked.
"As many as they find."
A pack of dogs raced past them into an alley, growling and barking after some prey. A blacksmith working at an open forge stopped to watch them pass, and an ironmonger shouted that he had a fine razor that would please my lord. But the shadows had grown deep, and the streets of Stirling Town were grown quiet. James pulled up beneath a sign painted with a mug of ale, weathered and peeling that creaked in the sea wind. A torch flickered beside the doorway. James swung from the saddle. He handed his reins to Richert. "Return with my horse at daybreak. I'll spend the night here."
