by J. R. Tomlin
March 1320
Newbattle Abbey, Near Edinburgh, Scotland
The king’s chair scraped as he rose, his face knotted with anger. James leapt to his feet as the others around the long refectory table stood. The king furiously paced past Bishop Lamberton, Bishop Sinclair, Bishop Moray and Bishop Cheyne, as well as his chancellor and a half score of noblemen. He strode back, threw himself into the chair, and slammed a fist down upon the table. "This is beyond enduring. Demanding the presence of our bishops in Avignon and threatening interdict on the entire kingdom. Now they address the papal letter to ‘Robert de Bruce, governing the kingdom of Scotland’! At least in the letters of two years ago, the Pope admitted I was acting as king. That is…" He sputtered to a halt, shaking his head. "It is not to be borne."
"And yet, we do bear it," Thomas Randolph put in to receive a glare from his uncle.
"We must respond, Your Grace." Abbot Bernard laid his knitted hands atop several parchments covered with writing. "He must be made to see that he is hearing only lies and calumnies from the English."
"Sire," Lamberton said softly. "You’ve borne this burden, and it weighs on you. We all see that. But now with this truce is the time to act. We shall have our voices heard in Avignon." Lamberton tugged on the crucifix that hung on a chain about his neck as he often did when he was thoughtful. "Winning messages past the English will be a challenge in itself. And they must be carried by someone we could trust and who would be well received by the Pope. I await word from France. If the French king agrees to it, if any man can reach Avignon with letters and be well received, it is Odard de Maubisson. But whether the French king will agree? I have hopes that he will. Sir Odard was eager for the commission."
"Wait," James held up a hand. "Before we talk of sending letters, should we not have such letters? Or have a plan for them?"
Abbot Bernard breathed a soft laugh through his nose. "Lord Douglas, such letters have been written. Three: one to be sent by King Robert, one from the bishops, and one from all the community of the realm of Scotland to be signed by the nobility and leading freeholders of the land."
James raised an eyebrow as Abbot Bernard shuffled briefly through his documents and slid a parchment toward him, covered with writing in a cleric’s script. He looked at it and twitched a wry smile. "My Latin is not so good as all that."
Lamberton reached across James for the letter. "I’ll translate the main portions for you. We’ve discussed it much in the writing, so parts I can abridge. The letter begins with the history of the Picts and Scots and how Lord Robert came to be king. It then lists the perfidies of Edward Longshanks in betraying our trust and his sworn word and the suffering, bloodshed, and degradation our poor nation has endured at English hands."
The bishop rose and went to the window, tilting the letter to catch the sunlight. "From there, it comes to the main part:
But from these countless evils we have been set free, by the help of him who though he afflicts yet heals and restores, by our most tireless prince, king and lord Robert. He, that his people and heritage might be delivered out of the hands of our enemies, met toil and fatigue, hunger and peril, like another Maccabaeus or Joshua, and bore them cheerfully. Him too, divine providence, his right of succession according to our laws and customs, and assent of us all have made our prince and king. To him, as to the man by whom salvation has been wrought unto our people, we are bound both by law and by his merits that our freedom may be maintained, and by him, come what may, we mean to stand.
Yet if he should give up what he has begun, and agree to make us and our kingdom subject to the king of England or the English, we should exert ourselves at once to drive him out as our enemy and a subverter of his own rights and ours and make some other man who was well able to defend us our king, for, as long as but one hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule.
The bishop paused for a long look at the listening men before he continued reading.
It is in truth not for glory, not riches, nor honors that we fight, but for freedom―for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself."
The room was silent. James swallowed and blinked back an odd sting behind his eyes.
Mowbray eyed Lamberton with a smile that seemed almost insolent. "Moving words, your excellency. Such a letter might be most timely to the Holy Father."
Strangely put, James thought. He cleared his throat. "It would be an honor beyond words to put my seal to it."
"Some of those words indeed will be well-timed in Avignon." From across the table, William de Soules offered his hand to James who had to repress a shudder at the cool, moist grasp. "I will join in signing it most gladly."
"And for me," Randolph said.
Robbie Boyd was nodding vigorously. "And I."
"I will." "And I." The agreement echoed around the table.
"All the earls are needed to put their name and seal to it, and as many barons as we can gather. I have sent for certain leading freeholders so that the Pope will know it is all of Scotland that speaks." Abbot Bernard leaned back, smiling with satisfaction. "We’ll need Scots to travel with Sir Odard to Avignon. Master Alexander Kinninmonth had much influence in drafting the letters and…"
James sighed. It was never as simple as merely agreeing to a thing. The clerics always insisted it must bediscussed―at length. His mind wandered to the king’s agreement that both William and young Robert should begin their service as pages in the summer. There was yet to be made the decision of whom they should serve. In the court, he wondered if they would be doted upon too much by the ladies. He would rather the lads served him, but did he truly have time to begin a household of pages when they’d soon be once more be at war? If there were some way…
He blinked when Abbot Bernard said, "Do you agree, Sir James?"
With a bland smile, James replied, "Of course." He wondered what he’d agreed to. No doubt it was something the bishops and abbot had planned. But the meeting was over. The king walked away, talking with Abbot Bernard. James nodded to the others and made for the door. At least this Privy Council had been less tedious than most. Words echoed in his mind like a clarion: for, as long as but one hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule…
July 1320
Dunfermline Palace, Fife, Scotland
It was full night outside the tall, arched windows. Torches gleamed against the polished metal of the sconces, filling the Great Hall with light. James sat on the raised platform at the high table beside Andrew de Moray a few places to the right of the king and queen. Squires in livery were filling the wine cups. Thomas Randolph and his wife and Maol of Lennox were next to the king. The Great Hall of the palace was rich with the smell of venison stewed with red wine, rich spices, and fresh baked bread.
"Where is the music? Let it begin," the king called to the gallery filled with pipers and harpists and drummers. A piper took up a tune.
To James’s side, William was looking a little doubtful as he offered a basin, his third day serving as a page. James gave him an encouraging nod and held out his hands. One of the squires, Lochloinn, poured warmed water from a silver ewer, a job a page wouldn’t be trusted with. But his son held the basin steady below to catch the spill. "Well done," James whispered, and William smiled as another page dried James’s hands.
Marioun smiled at James when he extended his cup to her. Across the long room, Elayne tilted her chin and gave them a frosty look. James just smiled. What point was there in incensing her further? Since she did not want him in her bed, why should she be wroth when he went to another, he wondered. She turned her head to smile fondly at the squire who served her, and James shook his head.
The chamberlain stepped past the screen and announced, "Your Grace, Sir Muireadhach of Menteith begs to be allowed to approach." Menteith’s appearance was planned, of course. He’d been in England since long before his father’s death in a dungeon there. If he was to make his peace with the k
ing, he was expected to make a show of it and rightfully so. Young as he was, perhaps he might be forgiven his tardy return, though James would want to see proof of his loyalty first.
James watched closely as Menteith strode through the tables. He was the picture of a bluff knight: a square, plain face, dark hair, a heavy build good for wielding weapons, but James would not make any bets that he was good with wielding his wits. It was over quickly, the knight kneeling and begging to be taken into the king’s peace and grace and the king accepting him. More had done the same act than James could count.
Once the knight took his place at a lower table, an old man brought in his dancing bear. After, a minstrel in the gallery sang some outrageous ditty and the king, in high good humor, called him down. He tossed the handsome, lanky youth a coin.
"God’s blessings upon you, Your Grace." The minstrel gave a deep bow, but he looked at the guests with a bold look.
"Give us the blessings of more music, lad." The king chuckled. "I like your songs. Amuse my guests with them."
The lad grinned. "I’ll sing something to do you honor. Shall I sing a lay of a brave knight?" When the king waved permission, he drew a plaintive note from his harp.
As I was walking all alone,
I heard twa corbies makin’ a moan;
The one unto the other say, oh,
"Where shall we go and dine the-day? Oh,
Where shall we dine the-day?"
In beyond yon old turf dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And none do ken that he lies there, oh,
But his hawk, his hound and his lady fair, oh,
His hawk, his hound and his lady fair.
His hound is to the hunting gone,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl home,
His lady's taken another mate, oh,
So we may make our dinner sweet, oh,
The king threw his head back and roared with laughter. James made a face. Across the hall, Mowbray gave a sardonic smile and bowed. James lifted his goblet to the man and wondered what the smile might mean.
Ye'll sit on his white neck-bone,
And I'll pick out his bonny blue eye;
Wi' one lock o' his golden hair
We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare, oh,
Many a one for him makes moan,
But none shall ken where he is gone;
O'er his white bones, when they are bare, oh,
The wind shall blow for evermair.
The wind shall blow for evermair.
James shuddered. The man was singing something that resembled too much his own likely death. There was a silent pause, but when the king tossed the minstrel another coin, shouting his approval, the hall joined in, laughing and applauding.
"I like me a bold minstrel with the grit to sing more than pap. I’d take you into my court, but I have no need for another. Now my good Sir James has no minstrel in his household, I’m told. He’ll take you on." The Bruce bared his teeth in a wolfish grin and raised his cup to James. "Will you not, Sir James."
And it was clearly no question, so James bowed to the inevitable. He dug a coin from his purse without looking to see what it was and tossed it to the smirking youth who caught it mid-air. "My household has more use for swords than harps, Your Grace, but he is welcome in it." To his chagrin, the sour tone was met with waves of laughter, except for Elayne who looked through him as though he were not even there. James frowned at his new minstrel. "Though I suggest never singing that particular lay for me."
The king laughed at him again as the chamberlain waved in two stilt-walkers each juggling a half dozen colored balls. James shook his head, watching after the new member of his household as he slipped from the hall.
There was no news from the ship carrying their letters to the Pope at Avignon. That was of more interest than adding a damned minstrel to his household. It was too soon, he knew. Would they hear while the truce yet held?
James drained his cup as the server put before him a pastry wafting a scent of partridge and onions. Where was Lochloinn with his wine? He toyed for a moment with the pastry, plunging his knife into its center and letting out a gust of fragrant steam. He offered Marioun a bit of the tender meat from the point of his knife, and she took it delicately between her fingers to nibble.
The pipers and drummers had taken up a loud piece, and the guests raised their voices to a shout to be heard. And James needed more wine. The noise was crashing like a wave in the crowded hall; his head was beginning to throb in time with it.
He held up his empty cup and turned. A squire at the king’s table did not leave a guest’s cup empty. As he looked over his shoulder, there was a sound of retching and gagging. James shoved back his chair. Lochloinn clutched a silver flagon to his chest, slopping wine down his chest like blood and gasping.
Marioun stood up. "What’s wrong with him? Help him."
James grabbed the flagon from his arms and pounded his back. "He’s choking." Lochloinn tried to say something, but only a gabbling sound came out. James thrust the flagon into Marioun’s hands and grabbed the lad as his legs collapsed under him. His body was cold as a snowdrift in the warm hall.
The king stood as well. "Master Ingrim!" He shouted for his physician at one of the lower tables.
James jerked loose the neck of the lad’s tunic and lowered him to the floor. What should he do for him? He’d never seen anything like this. Lochloinn’s bowels loosened, and a brown puddle spread beneath him. Marioun made a choking sound as the stench spread.
He had never seen such a sickness. He looked up as Master Ingram shuffled toward them and pushed him aside. He knelt by the lad who lay limp, his eyes darting frantically. Drool rolled from the side of his mouth. Sweat beaded and rolled down his face as he made a horrible sucking sound. His body arched off the floor.
"God in heaven…" The physician looked up. "Touch no more of the food or drink!" He grabbed James’s arm. "See that no one touches the food."
He has been poisoned, James realized. He jumped to his feet. "Take the king out of here!" He spun to find Gilbert de la Haye. "Gilbert! OUT!" Against all courtesy, Gilbert grabbed the king’s arm and shoved him toward the doorway behind the dais. For a moment, the king stood stubborn, but then he looked at Lady Elizabeth and hoisted her before him to safety. Marioun was still holding the flagon as she backed away. James snatched it from her hands. "Go," James told her. "There’s nothing you can do here. Go!" She whirled and fled.
Chaos raged through the room as most rushed for the door, but a few shoved their way forward to see what was happening. Muireadhach of Menteith pushed his way through, and stood staring. The man’s mouth opened and closed as the color drained from his face. James watched Menteith for a moment until the knight turned and elbowed his way into the press.
James spotted the Keith and shouted for him. "Have the guards clear the hall."
The Keith bellowed for the guards and shoved guests for the doors, not seeming to care whom he was pushing. People were fleeing, gagging, white-faced. At last, the doors slammed closed.
Lochloinn was making wet, choking sounds, his eyes wide and rolling with terror. His body jerked and trembled and his feet hammered upon the floor. Master Ingram pressed a spoon down the lad’s throat, but after a time he went still.
Master Ingram held fingers to the lad’s neck for a moment, shook his head, and stood, grim-faced. They stared at each other. "Merciful St. Bride," James whispered.
"What did he eat? Drink?"
"He shouldn’t have done either. He was at his duties, but squires…" James looked down at the flagon he’d taken from the squire. "Most likely he sneaked a taste of some dish or a cup of wine. He was serving this." He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. "If it was poisoned, surely it wouldn’t have been only him."
"If the poison was slipped into only one flagon..." The slender, gray-haired physician raised his eyebrows. "He was serving this to you, my lord?"
James nodded, f
eeling as though the flagon of wine in his hands had turned into a viper. He looked at the poor dead lad still on the floor. What a horrible death—in the king’s own household.
Master Ingram took the flagon and sniffed it. "The way he died, it was much like he was dosed with monkshood. A large dose kills fast." He dipped just the tip of his finger into the wine and then rubbed his fingers together. He touched the tip of his tongue to the dampness. Then he nodded. "The numbness of monkshood is there. It is strongly dosed. I’ll test it on an animal… But, yes. I fear he was poisoned."
James slowly sank into his chair, pressing his hand to his mouth. Muireadhach of Menteith had a strange look on his face, but surely they all did. Such a thing would leave anyone shocked, even a more seasoned knight than Muireadhach. It had to have been someone who could get at the flagons, yet that might be anyone’s servant—even the newcomer? The two men looked for a long moment at the pitiful body stretched out on the floor.
James stood. "His body must be tended. And we must speak with the king."
* * *
James felt a bit green when he looked at the goblet of wine and thrust it away.
The Bruce thrust his hand through his hair. "My taster sampled it, Jamie."
James felt chilled though he thought it was more the idea of poison than the cool of the night. The Privy Chamber was round and formed the first floor of the East Tower, a thick structure built into the wall of the palace where it overlooked the ravine of Pittendreich. Banners covered the walls, and there was a round shield and crossed axes above the hearth. He went to hold his hands out to the small fire. "Why would someone try to poison me? It makes no sense. If I were gone, another lord would just take my place."
"Mayhap it was meant for the king," Thomas Randolph said thoughtfully.
"I questioned the squires." Abbot Bernard leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled. "They all agreed that the lad had asked to serve you, Sir James, and had bribed the others to leave you to him. But he wouldn’t have poisoned himself."
