by J. R. Tomlin
Walter snorted and tucked Marjorie's hand into his arm as they started up the narrow wooden stairs to the minstrel's gallery. James rubbed his forehead. It was aching a bit. He hated when he was helpless, and childbed had no place for a man. All he could do was wait for news of his wife, whilst he dressed in his finery like a damned peacock. Sometimes he did long for the days when the only demand was for his sword. He flicked his hands down his fine wool tunic. He refused to wear a color other than his own blue or the black that the English had named him with. He snorted. The toes on his shoes were fashionably curled and his hose tight as they should be. He brushed a piece of lint from one of his full sleeves. In a few days, he'd be back in his armor and thanks be to the merciful God for it.
One of the pages bowed to him. "Sir James, the Privy Council has a place next to the king."
James nodded and followed the lad through the stream of courtiers who had begun filing in to their places. James sank onto the middle of a bench to the right of the throne.
Robbie Boyd, Lord of Noddesdale, joined him and gave him an unusually serious look, the deep scar on his cheek deepening with his frown. "You think the king will agree to it?"
"To what?"
"Letting Edward take an army to Ireland."
James looked over his shoulder. Men were moving about, talking in low voices, but none other of the Privy Council had come in yet. "I think two Bruces in Scotland is one too many as far as Edward is concerned. And the king knows it."
Boyd opened his mouth to answer, but Thomas Randolph strutted through the crush and dropped onto the bench beside Robbie. He said, "My lady wife promises that later in the year she'll present me with an heir to join our daughter."
Robbie grinned. "Not bad, my lord. Keep trying and one day you'll be man enough to catch up with me."
"This whole birthing thing―" James wipedthe sweat from his forehead. The idea made him sweat. "God in heaven, let's keep out talk about war."
Both men just laughed at him. The vast room was rapidly filling as noblemen were shown to their place according to their rank. His good-father Robert de Keith, Marischal of Scotland sat beside him and nodded. "My lady wife and Lady Elizabeth are with her. They'll send any news." James nodded.
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, wended their way through the crowd and took their Council. The room was like a field of bees, buzzing with murmurs behind them when Sir Edward strutted in, resplendent in green velvet embroidered with gold thread, and took his place nearest the king.
Bishop Wishert leaned heavily on a page who helped him to the bishops' benches on the other side of the throne, followed closely by Bishop Lamberton, frowning with worry as he watched the man so frail since his return from English imprisonment. Master David, Bishop of Moray had already taken his place, and he gave James a friendly nod as Bishop Dalbyle of Dunblane joined them.
Abbot Bernard laid a parchment with a pile of others on a table as he stood behind the throne. There was a flurry of movement in the doorway, trumpeters blew a flurry and a herald shouted, "Be upstanding for Lord Robert, King of the Scots."
Robert de Bruce, splendid in a crimson tunic with a lion rampant picked out in jewels, strode to the throne, nodding to their bows, and waved them to sit as he took his place. He motioned to Abbot Bernard.
The abbot bowed. "I hereby declare The Act of Succession to the Throne to be open to discussion by the parliament. Should such an unhappy event as Lord Robert's death take place before he has a trueborn heir, it is his wish that the parliament make provisions for the governance of the realm." He paused.
There was a murmur of whispers, but no one stood until James rose and said, "Lady Marjorie surely is the king's trueborn heir until there is, with God's blessing, a son." He sat down, his face burning. Sir Edward darted a glare his way.
The king leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his throne. "I will not put such a burden on my daughter. I cannot bequeath what would be an affliction to a female and one who has already paid so much for our struggle—to lead battles and rule a contentious realm. I won't place my enemies on her shoulders." He looked at Walter. "If she were queen, she would still have a regent, and that would perforce be my brother. I'd name him heir in such a case and be done with it." He motioned to Abbot Bernard.
"It is proposed that in the event of the death of Lord Robert, king of the Scots, without a son of his body in wedlock, that his heir be his noble and beloved brother, Lord Edward, earl of Carrick, but should Lord Edward die without a son born in wedlock…" there were a few whispers since the earl's child by the sister of the earl of Ross was still the talk of the court, but Bernard raised his voice and the muttering died away."…born in wedlock, the succession shall revert to his grace's daughter, Lady Marjorie or heirs of her body, and he proposes that the parliament name Lord Thomas, earl of Moray as Guardian of the Realm in case of a minority. Does the parliament agree?"
James grunted his "Aye" along with the rest of the assembly. They had little choice and a few voices were raised to happy shouts. Edward was a bold knight after all, but James thought of Marjorie's news that Lady Elizabeth was expecting and prayed for it would be a son.
Once the clamor of assent had died down, the chancellor continued, "On the matter of recent raids into England and the English military dispositions, Sir James, Lord of Douglas will be heard."
James rose with an unaccustomed flutter in his stomach. He was well used to battles, but speaking before hundreds, he had never done this before in his life. His throat felt tight, and he cleared it. "My lord Chancellor." He realized his hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists against his thighs. "At the king's command, I raided into England as far as Dunbar, burning as we went and seizing cattle and stores to return to Scotland. At Dunbar, we spared the city when they paid two thousand marks in tribute for a year's peace. Sir Edward reached as far as Richmond, and then at the king's command we returned by Swaledale and Stainmoor where we carried off a large number of cattle." He worked spit into his ashen mouth and wet his lips. "However, we see no sign that it has persuaded the English to come to the bargaining table. My friends in England…" He paused at a ripple of chuckles that went through the room. He smiled at his feet for a moment before he went on. Everyone knew he paid well for "friends" who brought him news. "Friends in England tell me that Aymer du Valence, earl of Pembroke, has been named to govern the north of England and drive off incursions." This time the laughter was louder. "So far the men of the North of England are more eager to fight each other than to fight us."
James sat down and wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs.
Bishop Lamberton stood. "We feared as much. Every approach for negotiating peace on my part has been spurned."
"The English stubbornness in admitting our independence and my sovereignty does not surprise us." The king looked at his brother. "Edward, I want the parliament to hear the contents of your letters from the Irish."
James sent Robbie a wry look. It wouldn't be a terrible thing to send the hot-headed man out of Scotland and at the same time divert the attention of the English. Edward de Bruce was a good man in battle, but one day his hot temper and stubborn pride would cost them. And James wondered what that cost would be as he watched Sir Edward stand.
"The kings of Ireland are ready to rise and push the English into the sea. Donald O'Neill of Tyrone has pledged to support me. The O'Connor and Brian Ban O’Brien are ready to rise with their clans, as well. They and their allies can bring twenty thousand men to our banner. With the earl of Ulster still in England, it leaves the English ripe for defeat."
"Is O'Neill committed then?" The king frowned. "Fully? And agreed to swear fealty to you as high king?"
"He is." The king's brother hesitated. "He has sworn he can bring others to it. But not all have yet agreed."
"And you have committed to go." The king was still frowning, tapping a hand on the arm o
f his throne.
"I have. O'Neill expects me to join him in May with all the men I can raise from Galloway and Carrick. We'll be two thousand. And those you promised me." He gave his brother an uneasy look and sat down.
After a pause Robert de Bruce nodded. "I said if they agreed to crown you that I'd give you an army. This falls short of that. Well short of it. But I will send an army—four thousand chivalry, under the command of Thomas Randolph."
Edward jumped up. "Under my command! You promised the army to me. Not to send your―your lapdog nephew to command it."
"How dare you!" Thomas leapt to his feet, and slapped his hand to his hip, but like the rest of them, he carried no sword. "You'll not speak so, uncle or no."
James was on his feet and shoving his chest against Thomas, grabbing his arms. Thomas tried to jerk free, but James held on.
"Try! Just try," Edward yelled. He spun back to face his brother. "An army. You gave me your word."
The king uncoiled from his throne. "Silence. Both of you. Lord Edward, I shall remind you the lapdog, as you name him, is our nephew. Yours as well as mine. And if you want an army from me, you'll take one under his command."
Thomas shook with fury, and James tightened his hands on Thomas's arms.
The king scowled at the two men. "Another word or a blow between you and you'll both have time in a dungeon to consider the meaning of lèse majesté. I expect your excuses for this behavior. And you shall give each other the kiss of peace." After a short, silent pause, the king shouted, "Now!"
James leaned close to Thomas and whispered, "You heard him. Do it." He eased his hands away from Thomas's arms.
Thomas lifted his chin and said clearly, "I should not have cursed you, uncle. I beg your pardon. And yours, Your Grace. It was badly done."
The king's brother muttered a grudging apology and the two men pressed their cheeks together in what might pass for a kiss of peace. But James saw Thomas's fists working. In a ringing silence, they both resumed their places.
"We'll need ships to take the army to Ireland," Edward said.
"That we will discuss later." He gave his brother a pointed glare. "My lord chancellor, does that conclude the business of the parliament?"
"There are certain forfeitures and appointments to be approved, Your Grace."
At the king's nod, the chancellor hurried through the rest of the day's business. James kept looking at Thomas out of the corner of his eye. Robbie was squirming in his place. The sooner this was over, and they could discuss what Edward leaving for Ireland would mean the better.
After the king's retiral, everyone hurried out, exchanging wary glances. This was a matter of fierce factions.
"I need a drink," Robbie Boyd said as they stood watching the crush at the doorway.
Sir Edward shot Thomas a murderous glance before he bulled his way through the crowd, the lords dodging aside. No one looked eager to argue his right to knock them aside.
"We all do," James replied darting a glance at his good-father, being carried along by the crowd. "You know more about this kind of thing. Should I send my page for news? Or…"
Robbie shook his head. "It's best to leave them alone. They'll send word when they want you."
"I suppose."
Thomas offered his hand. "I owe you thanks. I almost struck him, and that would have been..."
James clasped his hand. "Disaster." Thomas was generally not a hothead, but he didn't take his dignity lightly. "I need no thanks, and I don't envy you leading an army with him when he's angry."
Since most of the lords had filed out except for a couple of knots of men with their heads together whispering in the corners, the three started for the door. "My uncle usually cools his temper after a while though, by the Rood, he is hot tempered enough. I'd best see to it. I have uncles to make peace with." Thomas twitched a wry smile and followed after Sir Edward.
"I have a good flagon of uisge beatha in my chambers that is in need of drinking." Robbie gave his shoulder a hard buffet. "Tell your squire where to find you, Jamie. We'll empty it whilst you wait for news."
"Sir James," a voice called, and he turned to see * running toward him, beaming. "My lord, you must come. They said it's a son!"
"So soon?" James took off at a run past the lad, through the passage and up the winding stairs, two steps at a time. "Are they all right?"
He ran at James's heels, panting. "Lady Elizabeth said to fetch you. And that it is a lad. They must be well. Mustn't they?"
James reached the landing on the parapet level. There was the sound of a bairn crying, and he threw open the door. Lady Barbara bent over the bed, and beyond her he could see spread Elayne's honey-colored hair. For a moment, his breath caught, but Lady Barbara smiled. "She did well. It's a braw lad." The hawk-faced midwife held a bundle of bloody cloths in her arms.
The queen sat in a chair next to a cradle he'd had made where there was a fussing sound. James strode to it. He knelt and looked at the red, wrinkled mite, its head covered with a tuft of black hair. With a single finger, James brushed the dark fuzz. He stroked the palm of a hand, no larger than a sparrow's claw that waved in the air. The tiny hand closed around his finger. "William," he said keeping his gaze on the bairn. If he looked up, someone might see tears that were burning his eyes. "He is William. For my father."
"A good name," the queen said softly.
After he blinked his eyes clear, he stood and went to look down at Elayne as her mother brushed her sweat-damp hair back from her brow. Elayne watched him warily, so he just stroked his fingers over her hand where it was clenched on the coverlet. "You are well?"
She nodded.
"Thank God. And I thank you – for my son." He frowned down at her. "Elayne, I've hired a master mason. He's to begin a manor house on a hill in Lintalee overlooking the Jed Water. It is a beautiful spot."
"I…" She licked her chapped and dried lips. "I don’t want to go there."
"Jamie," Lady Elizabeth said. "There will be children with the court now. Your son would be most welcome if you'd let your lady wife remain with me."
Elayne sent the queen a look of wide-eyed gratitude. He bent and kissed her forehead. "Of course, I'll allow her stay, Your Grace." Tosee his son, he would be nearly as often at court as at his new home at Lintalee―or at war.
Late July, 1315
Carlisle, England
James kneed his horse to dodge a stone the size of a man's head thrown from the top of the tall barbican. He hated the city of Carlisle. Where in Hell did they find so many stones? Was the town made of them?
His men slammed their ram into the gate, wide enough for two wagons to pass, and boards groaned. Shouts of defiance came from above. A line of his men hacked at the boards four hands thick with their axes. Archers on the walls loosed their bows, arrows glittering as the arrows rained down. James lifted his shield as they thudded around him. His horse snorted and danced, but one of the men at the ram shrieked as he fell. A moment later more rocks came like a hailstorm. His own bowmen were shooting at the English, but they were well hidden behind the battlement of the walls. His men's arrows bounced off or sped harmlessly past.
King Robert was at one of the other gates. They'd hoped that a simultaneous attack would spread the defenders too thin. A futile hope. It was now clear that Carlisle had too many for such a trick to work, and the governor of Carlisle, one Sir Andreas de Harcla, obviously knew his business. James wheeled his horse, his jaw clenched in frustration. He couldn't order a retiral until he had a sign from the king. An arrow hit James’s shoulder, caught in the mail, and he grunted at the blow. He jerked the arrow free from where it had hung in the mesh of his armor.
Sir David de Brechin trotted up. Tall and thin with silver-gray hair, his long, elegant face was twisted in a frown. "We’re losing men too fast. We won’t breech the gate."
If James retired before the king’s signal, the defenders might rush the king, so he must keep some of them busy here. Even if it cost him men. "I know. But
we must hold the attack longer."
The ram hit the gate again. But his men were faltering under the onslaught. James saw Iain at the head of the ram catch an arrow in his shoulder and go to his knees. Some of his men's shields bristled with arrows like hedgehogs.
On the wall, Englishmen jeered, and one shoved his bare arse through a crenel and wriggled. Another flight of arrows slashed into his men.
The sound of the king's trumpeters, two long low blasts that rolled across the hill, gave the order for retreat. "Back to camp," James shouted. "Blow the retiral." His trumpeter blew the command. They'd been at this for nine days, nine miserable days. He hated Carlisle. Damn the English to hell, but as much as he hated them, the English, he hated sieges more.
"Keep order. Don't give them a chance to rush us." Another arrow stuck in his raised shield. He yelled for his chivalry to move up to cover the retiring men who were backing away, shields raised to protect themselves from the constant rain of arrows. The men on the walls were hooting and shouting taunts. But once his men were out of bow range, he commanded them to move faster for camp. This night was over, and they couldn't have much longer to take the city.
Past the long lines of campfires and rough tents, on a hill overlooking Carlisle and the River Dee, the king's tent and his own had been erected. By the time James threw himself from his saddle and tossed his reins to a groom, it was midafternoon, and the sun blazed down. Sweat dripped from his face and down the back of his neck. Storming into his pavilion, he wrenched off his helm and threw it across the tent. He strode fast back and forth across the small space and kicked the sole camp chair, so it thudded into the side of his narrow cot. Gylmyne peered doubtfully into the pavilion. "Sir James…"
"What?"
Outside there was the tread of horses, the rattle of swords and armor, and the king's voice calling for his squire.
"The outriders brought in two youths. The lads claim they're your brothers."
James strode to push past Gylmyne and stared at the lad standing there, his wide shoulders heavy with muscle as he shifted nervously. Thick hair, black as ink like James's own. The shadow of a new beard darkened his jaw. Not tall though. Dear God, James thought, he is so like our lord father. "Is it Hugh?" James said.
