A King Uncaged Page 13

"All the more reason to hear."

  "I think that he has gone over to the Pope, even acts as his spy."

  James nodded slowly and crossed to the table to pour himself another goblet of wine. "I fear you may be right. Which means that we must see to our own support. We must not be at war with the Holy See, so how best to achieve that?"

  "Without giving up the laws limiting the Pope's power, you mean. I think we must give up something, but he also wants you to give aid to the French. If you do that, it will lessen the price."

  James sank into his chair and motioned Cameron to assume Wardlaw's place. "I mean to do that any road, though I shall nae send them an army. Since the Duke of Burgundy has abandoned the English and gone over to Charles, it is safe for Margaret to marry the Dauphin, though I shall not rush her departure."

  "It will be late for this year's sailing season, certes it will be by the time a French fleet arrives. An easy excuse for more delay, but we must persuade the Pope to send a nuncio, one who can be convinced that you are in the right. Or persuade the cardinals who will persuade the Pope, and what will persuade them is a bag of gold."

  "So when I send you to Rome, it must be with a great deal of ready coin," James said, smiling wryly. "Who will you induce them to send as a nuncio?"

  "Anthony Altani, Bishop of Urbino, seemed to me a most reasonable man when I was last in Rome. He is, shall we say, less the Pope's man than the Pope believes him to be, but I fear Wardlaw's reports of me will have been unfavorable. Do not expect His Holiness will allow me to return soon."

  "Ah, well," James said, "I would there were another way. You must travel well prepared for a long stay."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  February 1436

  In her piping, nine-year-old's voice, Margaret read:

  "For he would rather have at his beddes head

  Twenty bookes, clothed in black or red,

  Of Aristotle, and his…" She made an uncertain hum. "And his…"

  Margaret leaned an elbow on the table, covered by a silk carpet, and bit her lip as she puzzled over the next word. James waited whilst she worked it out, tempted to touch the tumble of golden curls down her back, so like her mother's. But when she looked up at him and frowned, he saw a great deal of himself in her long, narrow Stewart nose and large eyes. She was the most like him of all their brood in looks and in her love of books and poetry, and he loved her fiercely for it.

  The fire on the hearth crackled pleasantly into the chamber's silence.

  "It's a very big word. I dinnae know it, Papa."

  "And his philosophie." James smiled at the slight roll of her eyes at the unfamiliar word. The thought of sending her away gave him tightness in his chest.

  "We should join our guests, Your Grace," Joan said from the doorway. James looked over his shoulder to give a puzzled look and realized she was dressed for the evening's feast with a heart-shaped, veiled headdress and belted, fur-lined blue velvet gown open at the front to display the silk chemise beneath.

  Behind her, the nurse led four-year-old James by the hand. Joan was rarely so formal en famille. But she was right for an ambassador from the French king was with them for the aguillanneuf festivities to see in the New Year. He checked his new doublet, crimson silk with the sleeves slashed to show the green satin lining. He took Joan's arm and escorted her to the great hall, followed by Margaret who muttered under her breath at having to walk with her brother.

  The heralds blew their trumpets to signal their entrance into the hall, hung with evergreens that scented the air. It was a blaze of light from colored lanterns and set for feasting. All was ease and laughter amongst eddies of nobles in silk, satin, and velvet. Minstrels played from the gallery as all in the crowded room swept the four of them deep bows and curtsies. James led Joan around to receive the expected courtesies.

  He watched Margaret tell the Earl of Douglas that she was pleased to see him once more at court, compliment Eupheme Graham on her gown although it clashed badly with her pale complexion, and question the French ambassador, Regnault Girard, whether the Dauphin was as gallant as rumor stated. She will do well at the French court, he thought. The Earl of Mar kissed her hand, but James was shocked at his appearance. His face was drawn beneath hair gone gray, and he had lost all the flesh from his frame. He stumbled slightly as he bowed over Joan's hand. Yet when Margaret praised all she had heard of his valor in battle, he beamed. She will make a good queen for the French, but Sweet Mary let them learn to love her as we do. Rumor said the Dauphin quarreled often with his father, but the boy had his duty as they all did. James’ duty was giving up his daughter.

  Girard's spotty son, Sir Joachim, swaggered up to them in a cloth-of-gold doublet with black satin sleeves and said, "You have never seen anything so fine as our ship that will take you to France. The plates are all of gold and it carries only the finest wine." He shrugged. "It is called the Marie of Scotland though there is nothing of Scotland about it."

  "What a kindness to provide such a fine ship," said Margaret, "but it is nae my place to discuss my departure until His Grace permits it."

  The severe-looking Regnault Girard moved in quickly and cut off his son's sneering reply. "I am desolate." He raised an eyebrow at Joachim. "My son meant no disrespect, I assure you, Your Grace."

  Prince James had scrunched up his face and was sticking his tongue out as far as it would go at his sister. She tilted her head towards her father and rolled her eyes. Joan grasped the prince's hand with a shake of her head.

  "The saints forfend that I take offence." James smiled amiably. If the young knight's bad manners put his father at a disadvantage in the negotiations tomorrow, he wouldn't complain too harshly. Under no circumstances would he allow Margaret to travel by sea in such in the winter, and he would expect a larger convoy of ships for her protection than they had so far offered.

  "If you will excuse us, Sir Regnault, it is time for The Lady Margaret to see her brother to his nurse."

  Prince James glowered up at his mother. "I want a sweetie." He blinked hard obviously trying to manage a tear. "You said."

  "Ah, it is true, all sons can be difficult, I daresay, Your Grace," the ambassador said with a sympathetic look.

  James gave his son a forbidding stare. "Enough. You may have your sweetie with your nurse, but only if you mend your manners. Tell your lady sister you are sorry."

  The prince kicked the rug but muttered he was sorry as Joan signaled to a page to begin the seating. Margaret swept a very mature curtsey to the ambassador and his son before she led her brother, dragging his feet, toward the door. The guests milled as pages sorted them out and showed them to their proper places on the benches.

  James held out his arm for Joan's hand, and they strolled to their places on the dais in the seats of honor beneath a great lion rampant banner, draped for the occasion in swaths of evergreen and mistletoe. "To the ambassador of our good friends the French!" James proclaimed when the Bishop of Moray had finished the blessing. The page filled his goblet with the rich red Burgundy wine that had been one of the ambassador's gifts to the queen.

  If the cries of "To the ambassador!" were less than enthusiastic, James knew it was because too many Scots had died fighting in France. Now the French wanted him for the first time in his reign to send more troops, but even so, hundreds of goblets were lifted and the New Year's feast began. James lifted his cup to the ambassador who sat two places from the queen, higher than his rank normally would have allowed, but the ambassador could hardly be slighted. Beside her the Earl of Mar shakily rose to salute the ambassador as well.

  The first dish was frumenty of barley and venison, served in silver bowls. James patted his stomach. Some people said he was getting fat, but his stomach was only a bit fuller than when he returned home. He had eaten lightly as was right during the Nativity fasting, so he quickly finished the dish.

  As the pages set out plates of salmon poached in ale, Mar began coughing. He sucked down a gasp of breath with a harsh rasp, and Reg
nault Girard pounded him on the back. Joan was asking the earl if he was well. James signaled for the page to refill the earl's wine cup.

  "I cannae…" Mar clutched his chest. "I canne breath…" he wheezed. Grasping his cup in a shaking hand, he took a swallow and hacked again. He shoved his chair back, his face a milky white.

  Joan looked at him worriedly. "My lord?"

  "Something…something is squeezing…" He grasped the edge of the table, slid to his knees, and then sank onto the floor.

  "Call my physician!" James commanded. The Earl of Douglas rushed up, pushing Regnault Girard aside, to rip open the collar of Mar's doublet.

  "Hurts…" Mar whispered.

  Douglas lifted him and put a wine cup to his lips, but the wine dribbled out of the man's slack mouth. He is dying, James realized. James’ physician bustled in, ordering everyone back as men shouted useless advice. All the guests were on their feet, pushing each other for a better view of what was happening. Mar's eyes met James’. He had never before seen the man look afraid, and he knew he was losing his best ally. Then he colored with shame and whispered, "Réquiem ætérnam dona ei, Dómine."

  The bishop lifted his crucifix from around his neck and held it before the eyes of the stricken earl.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  June 1436

  James paced his council chamber of Linlithgow Palace, a letter crushed in his hand. Parting with Margaret had been one of the most painful things James had ever had to do. The French fleet that came for her was large and richly provisioned. He sent a goodly household of Scots of good family under the care of the Earl of Orkney with her and many of her beloved books. He had escorted her onto the ship himself and kissed her farewell. But none of it was a salve for the grief of his losing his oldest child. At eleven, she looked so much like her mother, but she was like him. He felt closer to her than to any of his other children, as much as he loved them all.

  An English fleet had been sent to intercept her. How dare they? The damned English had attacked her squadron. Only luck had allowed them to escape a sea battle. And there was yet a year left in the truce at land and sea. To try to capture her, endanger her life, it was beyond words. He slammed his fists down on the council table, wishing it were an English face. Any English face.

  There was a soft, hesitant knock on the door before John Cameron opened it. "Your Grace, I'm sorry, but there is news from the Border."

  James flung himself down in a chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. From the look on his chancellor's face, this could not be good news. "Tell me."

  "The English crossed Tweed near Wark in force. The Warden sent word that he does not have the men to fight them. They're crossing the Merse, burning and pillaging as they go."

  James narrowed his gaze at Cameron. "The Earl of Angus is the nearest of the Douglases. Send word to him by the fastest courier. He must raise the largest force he can within three days and march south. Put a stop to the English raid." Cameron started to bow but James said, "Wait. It is time that the English learn that truce breaking is not to be tolerated. Once that is done, return; we shall raise me an army. I'll lead it to take back Roxburgh."

  Raising an army was a matter of weeks, but by the end of July, a large army was camped before the towering spires of Kelso Abbey hard by Roxburgh Castle. There was good reason Roxburgh had remained in English hands when every other castle had been taken back. It was on an isthmus approachable by only a narrow strip, had walls as high and thick as any castle in Scotland, was near the border so it was easily reinforced, and its burgh was immediately under its walls, which meant bombardment would cause a huge loss of Scottish lives. So James knew they were in for a long siege, which he had had enough experience in whilst in France. So he sent a portion of his force down Tweed to besiege Berwick to prevent reinforcement from there, and the rest he used to cut off Roxburgh Castle.

  The castle was out of cannon range from the far riverbanks, and a direct assault up the narrow isthmus—which was ditched and moated under a line of flanking towers—would be a death trap. That left only mining or a prolonged siege to starve out the defenders. After long thought, James decided to try both.

  Access to the isthmus was cut off by barriers and patrols sent out to be sure supplies did not reach them by boat. By night he sent miners and sappers to undermine the towers. Thus the pattern of the siege developed. By day, James allowed anything to keep his troops occupied. But it would be a matter of months, perhaps as many as six. He renewed his love of wrestling with matches, though he'd broadened with age so decided he was more fit to supervise. He held tourneys and archery contests and had jugglers and minstrels sent—anything to keep his troops out of trouble, because if they were bored, they'd be as like to kill each other as the English.

  He was in the abbot's office going over the progress of the sappers with one of the engineers when there was a commotion outwith the doors and shouting that riders were arriving. James hurried out to see a train of fifty men-at-arms led by the queen. He lifted her from her horse, but before he could question her, she said, "Important news, Sire, that I must give you privily."

  She ran her hands up and down her arms as though she was chilled in the heat of the summer's day. With the door closed behind them, she whirled and said, "Thomas Myrton brought me…such frightening word, love. I came to you myself because I have no way of knowing who to trust. He has word of a plot. A plot to kill you and seize the throne. He was brought letters intercepted that say some of your army will turn on you when you are attacked. They are to time it with an attack of galleys from the Clyde."

  "Thomas Myrton said this?" James looked away, blinking and trying to make sense of what she was saying. "I'd trust him with my life, but it makes no sense. Never has my reign been more secure. I have an army raised to my banner. The Albanys are dead or fled from the realm. My other enemies put to flight."

  "But not all, James. Not all. What of Sir Robert Graham? He is not loyal, and you know he is not the only one who resists your new laws. Who feels you've seized more than you should."

  "Our Lady forfend!" James rubbed his mouth. "Who could seize the throne? John the Fat is dead. Young James is healthy and my heir even if they managed to kill me."

  "Thomas Myrton thinks it has to be your uncle. The Earl of Atholl. Only you and James are between him and the throne."

  James gaped at her, shaking his head.

  "The plot as Myrton heard it is that they will pronounce you wrongfully crowned…claim that you and your father are of a bastard line."

  "That's an old tale that no one takes seriously." James began to pace anxiously around the room. "Aye, my grandfather was married twice and some claimed the marriage to my grandmother was invalid. But it was solved by a Papal dispensation. It is…nonsense."

  "Not if you were dead. Then Atholl could claim the throne as the rightful heir!" Joan wrung her hands. "Who would support a child king against such a claim? Any more than they fought for you when Albany was regent. And a child—and, James, a child is easy to kill."

  "By the Rood, this is madness."

  "Myrton thinks that the true power behind the plot are Atholl's grandson, who will be his heir, and that foul Robert Graham. And others he thinks support them. Crawford, for one, and some churchmen. Those you could handle, but James, you are in great danger here if an English force attacks. They could send ships up the Clyde whilst an army from Cumberland came up by the West March. Then you would be cut off from all aid."

  "I must see strong evidence before I believe it is Atholl. He has supported me well…has been loyal. But Graham. Aye, his hatred is poisonous. Crawford. Aye, he as well hates me. There are others who have reason to want to see an end to my laws. To see a weak crown that they can rule."

  She put her hand softly on his arm. "Myrton confessed he had no evidence of who was behind the plot, but the plot is clear, that some in your army plan to betray you."

  James sat on the edge of the table gripping it with his fingers so hard they went
numb. Panting with rage, he said every curse word he knew. Joan flinched but stood silent until he had worked through his fury. Finally he said, "Forgive me, love." He shook his head. "They leave me no choice. If I'm to deal with an insurrection, I cannae do so here. I must break off the siege. God damn them! They'll say I lifted it from fear, but I can't allow myself to be cut off. And I must put an investigation in motion to find the truth of these accusations. But Atholl part of such a plot? I cannae believe that. Am I cursed? Only enemies all around?"

  Joan slipped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "Don't say that. You are well loved."

  He sighed. "We must return to Edinburgh forthwith."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  December 1436

  Dark clouds ran before the wind, and fine snowflakes stung James’ cheeks. The water of the Forth stirred. Waves sent plumes to wash over the rocky bank. The damp edges of his wool cloak clung to his thighs as he sat ahorse. He glanced at Joan at his side. She gave him a wry smile and shrugged, tugging her fur cloak tighter around her neck.

  The guards shifted miserably in the saddle, and Sir David Dunbar gave an audible sigh. Although it was only a little after Terce, Queensbury was silent in the December chill. Even the village dogs didn't bother to bark at them. Houses had their shutters fastened against the wind, which carried away streams of smoke that leaked from chimneys and thatched roofs. The wind rattled the branches of the trees and made the reeds along the bank of the River Forth bend low.

  Suddenly hands latched onto his foot in the stirrup; James flinched and his horse sidled, snorting. He looked down at what had grabbed hold of him: little more than a bundle of rags with a baked face.

  "Hoi! Loose His Grace!" one of the guards shouted. Another waved his hands about shouting, "Away with you."