by J. R. Tomlin
Richert gave him a questioning look. "Without a guard?"
James grinned. "I have enough guard on my hip." He shoved the door open and sucked in the rich smell of ale. Next to the fire three men-at-arms croaked out a bawdy song whilst a giggling woman put a pitcher of ale on the table in front of them. A few torches on the walls smoked as much as they threw out light. The room was crowded, men-at-arms and townsfolk squeezed together on benches.
A bony woman with a thin, crooked nose bustled toward him, a rag in her hand. "Welcome, my lord." She shooed away a scarred faced man from a table near the kitchen and pulled out a rickety chair before she swiped it with her rag. "I'll send a lass with a flagon of ale, my lord." She smirked. "She's as tasty as the wine, but the cost for her would be extra."
James snorted. He knew better than to trust the horse piss an inn would pass as wine. "Have her bring me ale instead." He tossed a handful of pence onto the table. "I'll judge for myself on the lass."
The woman scooped up the coins and hurried away, yelling, "Megy, move your arse."
A lass, probably no more than sixteen, scooted out of the kitchen door, a pitcher of ale and a battered pewter cup in her hands. James looked her over as she poured for him. She looked to be clean, her hair was combed until it shined, and her breasts were of a size that would fill a man's hands. When she looked up from pouring to smile at him, she was no beauty, but that would be much to expect in a whore. She had a round face and a pug nose, but her eyes were a pretty blue. They flashed with a look that stirred him.
He took a deep drink of the ale and nodded. "Aye, that's good." He patted his thigh for her to sit. "Your name is Megy?"
She curled gracefully onto his lap. "It is." She gave him a cheeky smile. "And your name is my lord."
"Some call me that. But you may call me Jamie." James picked up the cup and drained it. In the time since Alycie had died, he'd not lain with a woman except the once with his wife—a cold memory. Megy's full breasts pressed against his arm as he reached around her to put down the cup, and he was already hard. He stroked her dark, soft hair and knew needed this. "Show me your room, if you please. We'll take the ale with us." He grasped her waist and lifted her to her feet.
She picked up the pitcher with one hand and clasped his with the other to lead him up the stairs. She smiled over her shoulder as she opened her door. "Your bed at the court must be a cold one to come into town."
"Cold enough." He kicked the door closed.
Megy took the hem of her kirtle and pulled it over her head to toss it aside. She wore no shift beneath it. "You'll find my bed warm, my lord." She smiled up at him, curved and soft and pink, her blue eyes gleaming.
"Show me." He pulled against him to stroke her flank, and her deft fingers moved to the lacings of his breeches.
* * *
James blinked when he stepped into the bright afternoon sun. He stretched his back and groaned. There was nothing more miserable than sitting on a hard bench and listening to men quibble and argue. But at last, it was over. If Lady Marjorie still wanted to breathe the sweet, free air, he would not argue, albeit were he wise, he would ride for Douglasdale.
"Sir James," a high, young voice called to him.
He turned to see Marioun of Ramsey waving to him. She smiled at him, and he smiled, too.
"Why are you alone, lass?" he asked.
"Lady Marjorie sent me to fetch you." She took his hand boldly as a child and pulled him around a corner and toward the stables. "Our horses are saddled."
"We cannot ride without a guard." James pulled his hand loose and turned on his heel to scan for his own men. When he spotted Iain, he shouted for him to gather a score of men and have them mounted. He tucked Marioun's hand into the crook of his elbow. She was a small, willowy mite, and her giggle as they walked made him smile.
"There she is." She pulled her hand free and darted ahead, lifting the hem of her gown. "Lady Marjorie, I found him."
Marjorie stood stroking the neck of a braw palfrey, a gray with a mane that shimmered like sliver. She beamed at him. "A gift from my lord father." And Marioun led her little bay mare beside the princess's mount.
Iain headed the troop of men riding into the yard, leading a black courser that James favored. He knelt and cupped his hands for Marjorie to step into the saddle, but Marioun he grasped by the waist as she giggled. The sound warmed like the sun as he tossed her upon the mount.
Marjorie was off like a falcon freed from its jesses, her happy shout floating behind her. James curst and set his heels to his horse's flanks. If she were thrown… But she bent over the gray's neck and flew toward the cliffs, steady in the saddle. The sea wind whipped her hair as she galloped up the heathery slope. Behind them, Marioun yelled, "Wait for me!"
James pulled beside Marjorie. If he grabbed her reins, she might fall. That she would be furious was no matter. But her horse was blowing from the gallop and slowed to a canter.
She straightened, still laughing. "Blessed mother of God, I needed that." She threw her head back so the sun shone on her face. "They'll never cage me again." A sea tern coasted on the wind, high overhead.
The creak of saddles, clank of bits and the thud of hooves came up behind them. "You rode so fast," Marioun said, her palfrey prancing as she trotted beside them.
"Let's rest a while by the sea before we start back," James said. The green and purple of heather was dotted with patches of yellow-bloomed gorse, but gray outcroppings lined the edge of the cliff. Marjorie nodded amiably, so he led them to a spot with a large flat rock where they could sit.
"I love the sea wind in my face," Marjorie said as James held her bridle, and she let him help her dismount. James breathed deep the moist air, scented with heather and the salt scent of the sea. Sitting on the gray boulder, they looked down the high, stony cliff. It was peaceful with the occasional of a sea gull cry and the faint rustling of tall gorse around. The gray-green sea dashed itself against the bottom of the gray cliff, beating uselessly against an immovable surface. It minded him of his pain over Alycie's death. Like him, it was forever always reaching for safe harbor, but the cliff loomed before him, and no matter how many times he crashed himself against it, he was forced back into deep water, back into the cold hollow his life had become.
When he looked at Marjorie, escaping his own thoughts, her face had tightened into desperation. She tilted her chin to look up at James and said, "They'll never cage me again. I’m free now, and I’ll never give that up." For the first time in the square set of her chin, he saw in her face the look of her father.
James pressed his lips together to keep back the words that life caged them all. Tonight he would try to be gentle with the wife he hadn't wanted, who hated his touch. One day soon Marjorie would wed a man her father chose for her. Mayhap all life was a cage, and none of them escaped. If life was a cage, why had he fought all his years for freedom? For what?
Marioun strolled gathering an armful of heather blossoms to pile in her lap. James sat on the cold stone watching Marjorie and tried to think of some words of comfort. None came until she stood and brushed off her skirt. "You don't believe me, but I swear it."
August, 1314
Durham, England
It was full daylight when James crested a low ridge and the English city of Durham spread before him. Behind them smoke furled into the sky in long streamers from fields and orchards they'd put to the torch. Ahead, from beyond the horizon and past the River Wear, a pillar of smoke twisted and writhed into monstrous shapes as Edward de Bruce burned his way to Richmond. But below, the streets of Durham were silent and empty.
Robbie Boyd pointed toward columns of smoke rising beyond the river where Sir Edward was burning as he advanced on Richmond. "You should have been the one to advance to Richmond," Robbie Boyd said. "As the king commanded."
"No. I only told him that I could, Robbie. He didn't say that it couldn't be Edward." James shrugged. "I'm not going to quarrel with the king's brother in the field with the king not
here to back me. You know what Edward is. What matters is that one of us raid as far south as we may."
Robbie grumbled under his breath before he said, "Ofttimes, he acts as though he is the king."
James shrugged and held up a hand to halt the columns behind him that stretched for a mile in good order. There were shouts as the halt was conveyed back and his two thousand men climbed down from their saddles, stretching weary muscles, checking their girths, scratching and talking. Beside James, Robbie Boyd wiped the sweat from his face and cursed the late summer heat. James grunted in agreement and said the fires made it even worse when they breathed in smoke and ashes.
From the red stone castle, a horn sounded a wavering note.
"They might decide to fight," Robbie said.
James snorted. "Unfurl my banner," he said over his shoulder to Gylmyne who carried it furled. Every castle in the north of England had pulled up its drawbridge and prayed they would pass. They had indeed passed the castles. The towns and the farms—those were a different matter. They'd cut a swath through England with hardly a sword drawn.
James wheeled his horse and motioned for Loccart to join him. "Symon," he called, "Ride back and take a column of men to watch the castle. Stay out of bow range but I want to know if they find the stomach for a sally against us. And I want a pair of men on watch at every street corner."
"Aye, Sir James." Symon turned his horse and rode back along the lines of men the way they had come.
"The whole town looks abandoned," Robbie said as he rubbed the long scar on his cheek. "Mayhap they've all fled."
It wouldn't be the first they had reached where all the people had fled, but Durham had many people and rich merchants and clerics. "Or they're in the cathedral. I'd wager that's where the gentry are." James eyed the square towers of Durham Cathedral, magnificent in the shimmering sunshine. "The bishop won't have abandoned the cathedral or want it burned. But let us ask him and see."
James gave the command to move so the men climbed back in the saddle and the talk died away. They moved as long columns with no wagons, but Johne Duncansone followed in command of two long strings of sumpter horses.
Thousands of hooves clattered on cobblestones like a hailstorm as they passed houses with doors swinging in the summer breeze. The houses were silent. He called an order, and a couple of men jumped from their horses to kick in the doors as they passed. Crouched in an open doorway, a dog snarled at them. A thrust of a sword silenced it. A piece of torn cloth pinwheeled in the wind. Except for the stamp of hoof beats and calls of "Nothing here," the city was silent.
"Company," Robbie said as a of score men seated on horses under a white flag rounded a corner.
Magistrates in fashionable tunics in wine and green and blue and brown along with six black cassocked priests on palfreys surrounded a compact man, spare with gray in his brown hair and eyes like onyx, magnificent in robes of shimmering purple and a heavy gold crucifix hanging onto his chest. "The bishop," James said. Richard Kellaw, the prince-bishop of Durhum. The bishopric of Durham was one of the most ancient and powerful in all of England. From the scowl on the bishop's face, he was mightily unhappy at greeting a Scottish army on his doorstep.
James held up his hand and shouted for a stop. As the command echoed back through his columns, he nudged his horse forward. He motioned Gylmyne, carrying his immense starred banner, and Robbie Boyd to ride beside him. They pulled up to wait, a few steps in front of the columns of men.
There was an uneasy silence broken only by a horse stamping and the creak as men shifted in their saddles.
"Your excellency." James nodded and gave a mild smile. "How kind of you to save me the ride to your cathedral, though I mean to admire it before we leave Durham."
"You serve an excommunicant, a false king.Would you dare to set foot in―" His voice faded in the face of James's raised eyebrow.
"Did you ride out from your cathedral to me of remind of that?" He let his smile broaden. "I hope not, for I have ample torches, and my men and I have acquired a taste for burning."
"You—" The man sputtered for a moment, his hands twitching as he clutched his reins. "You must not, my lord. You would not! On pain of damnation. The cathedral is sacred to St Cuthbert and the Holy Virgin!"
"I am persuadable, your excellency." James looked around. "A magnificent city and a resplendent cathedral. How much will you pay to save them?"
The bishop jerked his head to look first to one side and then the other, eyes darting. "I must save the cathedral, but... Our treasure is very little. I can pay you a thousand gold marks. It will empty our treasuries but to save the cathedral…"
James laughed. "Have you heard that I am a fool? Is that the name the English call me?"
"No." The bishop licked his thin lips. "No."
"You wear gems and gold worth as much as that. Do you want to save your city or no?"
A heavy-jowled magistrate, a thick gold chain of office about his neck, shouted at the bishop, "It's the Black Douglas, man. Give him whatever he wants. We have no choice."
The bishop's Adam's apple bobbed as he nodded. "Two thousand marks, my lord? Surely that will satisfy you."
"Aye. Along with your cattle and grain, that will satisfy me."
The bishop's mouth worked. "The food stores, too?"
James jabbed a finger at the heavy-jowled magistrate. "You. Have you a son?"
The man blinked rapidly. "Yes, my lord."
"Then he'll do for a hostage until payment is received. For that, you will have a truce and my word you are free of further tribute for a year. I shall accept the hospitality of the cathedral whilst my men gather grain stores. Is it agreed?"
"Yes," several of the magistrates shouted. They seemed to think they were escaping easily, and James wondered if he should have held out for more gold. The head magistrate trembled so hard his jowls shook as he nodded and looked at the bishop.
The bishop's lips were pressed to a slit, his face whey-white, but he bowed his head. "It is agreed, my lord."
"Good. Robbie, take half the men. Grain, any food stores, cattle in the fields— Gather all of them outwith the city. Have the sumpter horses loaded and start them for home under a strong guard. I want to be ready to turn north when Sir Edward returns." James flicked his hand at the churchmen and magistrates. "To the cathedral then. And Durham is safe―for the nonce."
The question was if the English king would give a damn if the north of England burned and starved. He feared that Lamberton would prove to be right.
* * *
"Are you certain you agree to such a thing?" James said. "God help Scotland if your uncle ever becomes king."
"The decision is made. Anyway, my uncle won't." Marjorie quickly glanced around the Great Hall of Ayr Castle. Servants were busy preparing for the parliament, arranging benches before the dais and strewing fresh lavender into the rushes that covered the floor, but no one was near, so she put a hand on his arm and leaned close, "The news is not about yet, but Lady Elizabeth is with child."
James leaned back against the wall as he raised his eyebrows. "By holy St. Bride, that is good news."
"Aye. And you can't tell me, Jamie, that anyone wants a woman as heir to the throne. Not in the midst of a never-ending war. The last thing in heaven or earth that I want is to be tasked with that." She shrugged and looked quickly around to be sure no one would hear. "A crown would be little more than a cage. I won’t have it."
He put a hand on hers and squeezed. "When you're married…"
She pulled her hand free and turned away, smoothing her gown. "When I am married to your cousin, I’ll give them an heir to be sure of succession. Then no one will demand more of me. You know my feelings." She gave him a knowing look. "How is your lady wife?"
His face scalded with heat. "The midwives and Lady Elizabeth are with her. They say it the bairn will not be born today. Though she is…" He cleared his throat. "She is having birth pains, but the first is always slow coming the midwife said."
Abbot Bernard walked through the door beyond the dais, parchments in his hands and three monks in black robes at his heels. He nodded absently to James and then unrolled one of the scrolls as he began speaking to the clerics with him. James straightened. "She seems happy―with the court, I mean. Don't you think?"
"So I think."
They watched Abbot Bernard for a moment. Her wedding to young Walter would be well timed with so much of the nobility gathered for parliament. It would be a feast such as Scotland had not seen in many a year. Walter would be a good husband for Marjorie. He was a good man, and if she was no more than passing fond of him…
"I don't mind, Jamie. I know my duty and Walter―he suits me well enough. He knows I won't sit in a solar, embroidering all the day."
He frowned at her. "Of course, you will not."
She gave a fierce little nod and motioned to the narrow wooden stairs to the minstrel's gallery. "Escort me up? I'll wait above. I'm sure Lady Boyd and my aunts will want to watch."
"I suppose your wedding feast will be very grand."
She rolled her eyes. "My dress is the finest I've ever seen. It has enough cloth of gold and velvet to satisfy the most elegant. Lady Elizabeth has seen to that. I think she has made up for several years of her confinement with the planning. It will be a grand feast indeed."
"Wait." He spotted Walter standing in the doorway of the Great Hall and motioned to him. As Walter strode toward them, James took Lady Marjorie's hand. The bones were as fine as a bird's wing and as fragile. But there was nothing weak in her spirit. She was her father’s child. "God keep you, my lady. I'll be at your wedding feast."
"I'll thank you not to court my betrothed, cousin," Walter said, but he smiled and Marjorie offered him her hand.
"Merely showing you how it's done, Walter." He grinned at Walter as bumped him in passing.
