by J. R. Tomlin
"Does Muireadhach have a squire?" James asked.
The king raised his eyebrows. "You suspect him?"
"It’s a small thing, but he looked—strange. He approached the lad as he was dying. Was white to the lips and had a look about his eyes…"
Thomas made a noise in his throat that was almost a laugh. "I may have had a strange look as well."
James nodded slowly. "As I may have, but the look on his face nags at me. His look was almost… knowing? Aye, I thought I saw knowing in his face. And fear."
"But if he has a squire, he was not serving at the table," Abbot Bernard said. "I spoke with them all. There was so much bustle and to-do that no one noticed if someone touched the ewers, but I believe they would have noticed a stranger moving about."
"How could they have known if I would be served from that one ewer? I served too many meals as a squire to think that a good scheme. That would be a mad way to try to kill someone. It could too easily go wrong."
"As it did," Thomas put in. "Unless we think it was meant for poor Lochloinn."
The Bruce leaned back in his chair and the firelight gleamed on his gold hair that was well streaked with gray. The firelight showed the deep lines about his eyes and his mouth. "So it is someone who didn’t care if it went wrong. Or it was too important for them to try even if it might not work."
James strode fast around the room and back again, rubbing his neck. "I swear to you that Muireadhach knows something about the affair. If he is not guilty, he knows something." He turned and stood spread-legged as though for battle. "Bring him here. I want to see his face when I press him with it."
The king stared into his face for a moment and nodded. "Very well. I agree that it is suspicious that he returns the very day of such a foul murder." He looked at the chancellor. "Have him brought before us."
James breathed a soft laugh as he picked up his wine cup. He gave it a faintly suspicious look and made himself drink. It went down warm and helped to calm the riot of horror and anger in his belly. Thomas was grinning at him. James shook his head. "You’d not be eager to drink either, my lord, if there’d been such a devil’s brew in your wine."
"No." Thomas’s face sobered and when he shook his head it was accompanied by a shudder. "I will never forget the look… I’ve killed many a man in battle, but I pray I never again see such a death. And of a young squire."
James downed the wine and stared into the fire. As Abbot Bernard went out the door to have the guards seize Sir Muireadhach, James watched the leaping flames, wondering. What would have been gained by his death? For whom?
The Abbot took his time about it or perhaps Muireadhach was hard to find. An hour had passed by the time a guard knocked and threw open the door for the robe-clad abbot and the scowling knight.
"Your Grace," the guard said, "you wish to see Sir Muireadhach?"
"I do." The king waved the man away. "You’re dismissed."
Muireadhach bowed. "Your Grace, guards were not needed if you wished my presence."
"And yet you were not easy to find," Abbot Bernard said as he took a seat. "In fact, I found you returning from the bailey yard."
"I wished to speak to—to a member of the court. I went seeking him." Menteith flicked his open hands to the side. "I am here. I was not in hiding."
James walked to look straight into the man’s face. His eyes met James’s gaze for a moment but flickered to the side. He shifted his weight. James nodded slowly. "You killed him. Or you had him killed."
"No!" Menteith took a step back. "He was poisoned? That’s it. It must have been. I thought…" He looked at the king. "I swear by the Blessed Virgin and all the saints. No. I wouldn’t even know how to do such a thing."
James refilled his wine goblet and took a sip. The others watched him, but Menteith still had his eyes fixed on the king. "It could be that you only know who did." James tilted his head and looked the man up and down. He could believe that he wouldn’t know what poison to use though even James had heard of monkshood. And Menteith’s squire would not have found it easy to slip something into an ewer. So… "Who was it whom you were seeking tonight? And why—so late at night and after such a dreadful event?"
"Dear God," Menteith muttered. He closed his eyes for a moment, his sunburnt face pale. "Your Grace, it may be I should have told you when I first came to your peace—that he had written to me whilst I was in England. He said that Scots were ready for a new king, one with a better claim to the throne."
Robert the Bruce tilted his chin at a haughty angle. "A new king… So with this treachery in your mind you took your oath and accepted my peace."
James clamped his hand into a fist as Gilbert de la Haye stepped to the king’s side. Only Haye as Lord High Constable carried a sword and the hand on it was white with its tight grip.
"No! I meant my oath. I’d had enough and more than enough of the English since my father died in one of their dungeons. I replied to his letter. Told him…"
"Who!" James exclaimed. "If the plot wasn’t yours, whose was it? We’ll have a name."
"Roger de Mowbray. He then seemed to withdraw what he had written and claimed he was merely testing my loyalty." Menteith turned to face James. "I don’t know that he was the murderer, but when I saw that tonight—I was afraid of what I might know. Of what I was thinking. I went to find him, and he and his squires were gone."
James growled deep in his throat. "Damn you, man. You take your time to tell such a tale when we should already be seeking him."
The king nodded to Gilbert who ran for the door, shouting for the guards to search for Mowbray. The door slammed behind him and in the corridors was the sound of thudding feet of running guards as they scattered for the hunt.
James frowned. "Then the poison must have been meant for the king, though…" He shook his head. "I don’t see how."
"I don’t think so, Douglas," Thomas Randolph said. He looked at the goblet in his hand and shuddered. He sat it down. "Think on it. If they mean to kill the king, they must kill you first. Me, as well. The Stewart. We would all die before we accepted a usurper. He’d have to go through us to reach the king, and Mowbray knows it. He would not meet us in battle, but poison or a dirk in the night may kill the hardiest knight. Easier to kill the king once we were out of the way—or at least some of us."
James crossed his arms and examined Menteith. "What else did Mowbray say in these letters? Who else did he name? I can’t believe he acted alone. And how was the king to be changed? Who did they mean to crown?"
"Soules. He named Soules. But they gave me no details. They certainly did not mention murder." He looked from one to the other. "I swear it, my lords. I assumed they were thinking of Balliol. Who else could it be? But it seemed only talk when he said that it was merely pretense."
The king slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. "Soules is in Berwick, governor there, holding the castle. My lord warden, how many men do you have with you?"
"Only twenty, sire," James said. The king was right. Guarding Berwick and putting this down was his duty as Lord Warden of the Marches—and his craving, as well. The betrayal was like acid in his belly.
"You’ll need more so take two hundred of my men. At first light, you’ll ride. You seize him and anyone with him."
The door was flung open with a crash and a thrashing woman, her silk gown awry, was held by the arms by a panting Gilbert de la Haye. James let his mouth drop open at the sight of the struggling Johanna, Countess of Stathearn. Gilbert pushed her ahead of him into the room. "I caught her in the bailey yard, ready to flee."
The king raised his eyebrows. "Riding so late at night, Johanna? Why so?"
She shook her long, gray-streaked hair out of her face and glared over her shoulder at Gilbert. At the king’s nod, he released her. Her eyes widened when she saw Menteith. She darted looks all about the room. Her hands started shaking, and she clasped them before her. "It was nothing to do with me," she said, her voice thin with fear. "Mowbray and Soules came up with the plot with th
e English. They’d crown Edward de Balliol, and he’d give them wide lands. I only listened. I had nothing to do with…" She gave James a wild glance. "I had nothing to do with it, only listened. It was the two of them began it."
"Began it? There were others then," James said.
She shrugged. "David de Brechin, John de Logie, Gilbert de Malherbe, Walter de Barclay, and Patrick Graham were part of it. I was there when they talked. But I had no part in it."
"Merciful Jesu God! Brechin? I thought him an honorable man. A crusader." The Bruce jumped to his feet and strode furiously to stare into the fire. He turned. "If you had no part, why did you not reveal the plot? How long has this gone on?"
"Since… since before Mowbray returned from Ireland. I know there were letters and payments from the English." She threw herself down on her knees in front of the king. "Sire, mercy. I did you no harm. I never lifted a hand to harm anyone."
"Which is why you were fleeing," James said. He felt hollow at the extent of the treachery. "I say throw her in a dungeon where she belongs."
As she gaped up at James, the Bruce shook his head. "No, it’s not fitting to put a woman in a dungeon. Gilbert, have her locked in a tower room with ample guards. Send a message to her son that I expect his attendance. I pray to God he had no part in this. I cannot believe it of him."
Gilbert grabbed her arm to pull her from the room. She dragged her feet and writhed. "I beg you…" But Gilbert wrestled her out the door, and it slammed behind him.
"Thomas, take your men and hunt down Mowbray," the king said. "He can’t have gone far. James, have them in Scone in two weeks hence. Hold them incommunicado until then. They’ll be tried before parliament, so it must be called."
James was clasping and unclasping his hand. He wanted his sword in it and his men at his back. "Keep Gilbert by your side, sire. And taste nothing that another has not tried for you."
Randolph gave a sharp nod.
"I’ll ride at dawn." After a quick bow, James dashed to gather the men he would need. By the light of dawn, he would be on the road for Berwick.
Two Days Later
His banner whipped in the wind. It was near noon under a bright summer sun as he galloped through the Cowgate into Berwick-upon-Tweed. "Welcome, my lord," a guardsman called out to him, but James slashed his courser to a faster pace.
"Make way for Lord Douglas!" Richert shouted. "Make way! Make way for the Douglas!"
A woman jerked a barefoot girl in a ragged skirt out of their path. One of the horses barreled into a cart. It tipped its load of hay onto the cobbles. The man-at-arms cursed as his horse reared, but James kept going, his men thundering after. Barefoot, a throng of boys in an alley shouted and hooted as they galloped passed. A burgess in gaudy silk pressed his back against a wall, and a brindle dog ran after their horses, barking furiously. Then up the sloping road to the castle, speeding up, his horse’s hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones.
He bent over his horse’s neck and slashed it. They had to be within the castle before Soules knew he was in the city. Sweat dripped down his face, and his ribs as the courser surged its way up the long sloping road.
"It’s the Douglas," a guardsman called as he reached the barbican. "Find Soules."
They were through the tunnel-entrance like thunder. "Archie," James shouted. "Take the gate." Archie ran with a dozen men up the parapet stairs, swords drawn. A score of his men threw themselves from their horses and spread across the bailey yard. Richert and David ran for the keep door and three guards with their pikes in their hands. "No one has permission to enter," one said.
James leapt from his horse. He cut down the first guard as he turned to jab at Richert. His men hacked into the others. "Get the door before they can bar it," James yelled at Richert. Another guard ran from across the yard shouting. James ducked under the guard’s spear and cut his leg out from under him, felt his sword cut through the bone. Richert was struggling with the door as men inside tried to hold it.
James grabbed his horse’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. He spurred it at the door. Richert jumped back as it reared, hooves lashing. The edge of the door splintered as it flew open. He was through the keep door, and Soules lay on the floor, crab crawling upon his back. A guard ran at James. With a backslash, James cut him across the face, and he went down in a welter of blood. A squire died under Lowrens’s sword whilst one huddled whimpering in a corner. James’s men dashed through the door after him, knocking over the tables and flinging benches out of their way.
James pointed his sword at Soules. "Bind him," James ordered Richert. Sir David Brechin ran into the middle of the chaos. James knew him slightly from the days since he’d returned from France. A tall, thin man with silver-gray hair, James knew he was a braw knight. No one would have thought him a traitor. "Yield or die," James said and pointed his bloody sword. For a moment, James thought Brechin would fight, but his shoulders slumped. He held out his hands whilst Iain wrested his sword from its sheath.
"Search the castle for the traitors. Find me Logie, Malherbe, and Patrick Graham if they are here."
August, 1320
Scone, Scotland
The refectory of Scone Abbey was silent except for Soules’s words and the indrawn breath of hundreds of knights and lords as they listened to him recount his treachery. Seven men, Soules in the middle, stood dressed in plush velvet suitable to their rank but heavy chains clanked when they moved. At the side of the room, a screen hid the Countess from view as was fitting. To the other side was a black draped bier where the body of Roger de Mowbray lay, dead from a fall from his horse down a crevasse whilst fleeing Thomas Randolph.
On the dais, Gilbert de la Haye stood close by the king’s side and guards armed with pikes stood, pikes in hand, at every door. Abbot Bernard de Linton, the king’s Chancellor, stood behind the throne. On the other side of the dais sat the bishops of Scotland, led by Bishop Lamberton.
James sat on the long bench reserved for the Privy Council between Thomas Randolph and Walter Stewart, both set-faced and grim. "I would I could have brought the traitor here alive," Thomas muttered before he clamped his mouth shut in a thin line.
"There are lines more royal than yours," William de Soules said. "The Balliol line should govern. Edward de Balliol has returned to England. The reward for helping restore him to the thrown would be great." A rumble of protest went through the room but was silenced when the king demanded to hear Soules’s words. "His father was crowned, and he should be king. You are excommunicated and have no right to rule in any kingdom. He is not. It is Balliol who is the rightful king." He gave the Bruce a scathing look.
Robbie Boyd jumped to his feet. "And how much English gold did you receive for this loyalty to Toom Tabard’s son?"
Gilbert de la Haye pointed at Robbie. "My lord, did I hear you ask for leave to speak?"
James saw Robbie’s chest heave, but he shook his head and sat down.
Maxwell, thin and balding and grim-faced, stepped forward, chains on his hands and his feet clanking. "I would speak." When the king nodded, he glanced at Soules. "All that I would confess is that Mowbray was my friend. I swear that I took no part in conspiracy. I’m no traitor. Yes, he said that he opposed young Robert as heir, and some other should be sought. I told him I had no complaint. I’m a knight, not a cleric to worry on such matters." Maxwell looked toward James. "Sir James will testify that I was not with Soules and his men in Berwick. I was in my own lands. So I am told were Barclay and Graham."
Sir Patrick Graham who had been staring at his feet, lifted his eyes and said, "That’s the truth, Your Grace. They may have named me, but I had no part in this plot of theirs. Soules sent me a letter carried by that squire, Richard de Broun." He tilted his head toward a black-haired squire James had captured at Berwick. "And Logie was close to him and with him ever. Him and Mowbray."
"What did this letter of theirs say?" Abbot Bernard asked.
"That they wanted to meet to discuss changes in the realm. It sa
id that Brechin would be there, but I was busy with my own lands. This truce has meant that I had time for rebuilding. I had no use for such talks and told Broun so. On my honor, I tell you they said nothing about a plot against the king."
There was a tense silence when Graham finished speaking.
"I confess that I knew," Brechin said in a booming voice. "I will not dishonor myself with lies. Mowbray told me their plans. Mowbray was a friend, a valued friend. I would not, could not, act against him. I told him I would take no part, but I swore to him that I would not betray him."
Robert de Bruce leaned forward. "So instead you betrayed your liege lord."
"But I swore…" Brechin broke off in the face of the king’s glare.
James gripped his fists. This needed to be over, though mayhap Graham was not guilty. But Brechin? No, he was as guilty as Soules. James knew what must be done, but having seen it done before formed a stone in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried not to hear William Wallace’s scream as he had died those years before. Yet these men had earned such a death. He rubbed his fist on his thigh. They would do what must be done but no more.
Gilbert de la Haye said, "Are there any others who would speak?"
"Would it matter what we said? You’ve decided our fate. Get on with it!" Malherbe shouted.
James rose to his feet. "My lords?" The king waved his permission, and James said, "Graham and Maxwell spoke the truth when they said they weren’t taken captive with the traitor, Soules. Nor was Barclay. They were in their own lands and made no flight. It is no crime to be friends, even with a traitor." He frowned and worried at his lip for a moment. He didn’t like speaking for these men, but only those he was certain were guilty should be sent to an unspeakable death. "I propose that we vote that these two are not proven guilty."
There was a slow and obviously reluctant assent through the room.
William de Lamberton rose. "My lords, God is merciful, but I fear that we cannot be. We are at war with an implacable foe. They would defeat us with treachery if they cannot defeat us with steel." He met James’s eyes, and James knew this cost the bishop much. "It is a terrible death we speak of, but this evil of treachery must be stamped out."
