A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Stirling, Scotland:
July 1304

Bishop William de Lamberton grasped his
squire by a shoulder, pushing him towards the open doors at the end of the long,
high-arched hall. James twisted out of Lamberton's grasp and whirled to face
him. A youth of sixteen, dark-eyed and slender as a knife, James flushed with
anger.

"I won’t swear fealty to him."

Lamberton sighed. James was being unusually
difficult. "Do you want your lands back? Your father's title?"

James drew himself up. "You know I do.
I must have them." He shoved shaking fingers through the black tumble of
his hair. "My people need me, and it's where I belong. I've sworn to get
back what was stolen from my father--a sacred oath."

"Then you must bend a knee to King
Edward."

The lad stared past him to a hole that
gaped in the far wall of Stirling Castle, captured only two days ago by the
English king. The air reeked of smoke. Overhead, beams were blackened from fire.

"They tried to surrender, and the king
wouldn’t let them. He kept bombarding the castle with his siege engines, on and
on." James's voice was ragged with anger. "I was in
Berwick-upon-Tweed when the town was butchered, my father's page. I saw... My lord,
from the walls of the castle, I saw what the English king did in the town. The
thousands he put to the sword. The screams--all the night and all the next day
until there was no one left to scream. They starved him to death in a dungeon. How
can I swear fealty to him?"

Lamberton grabbed the lad's shoulders and
gave him a shake. "You can because you must."

James' dark cheeks flamed red. "I can't.
I want what they stole, but I can't." He tried to jerk free but Lamberton clamped
his hands on James's shoulders with a jerk.

Never since returning from France where his
father had hidden him had James defied Lamberton. But always underneath his obedience,
James had a flame that burned, barely tamped down.

Lamberton gave James another shake. "You’re
going to obey me." By the cross, he understood the lad's anger, but against
the stakes of freeing Scotland, he couldn't let that sway him. James having the
power of his father's barony would be too useful not to try for.

His whole body stiff and his wide mouth
pressed into a grim line, James stared into the shadows before he bowed his
head. "I'll do it, my lord, but only because you command me." But his
voice was stiff with protest.

"Then let us get this finished and
behind us."

Lamberton released him, trusting him to
follow through the wide double-doors of the great hall. The noise of men's
voices and the color of their fine robes filled the room. Liveried servants
hurried to place platters of food on the table that stretched the length of the
hall. Under the stench of smoke, a scent of roast venison and onions drifted on
the air. Around the table clustered men cutting dripping slices from a haunch
of meat.

At one end of the room, dressed in a rich
velvet tunic with a leopard sewn in rubies on the front, King Edward Longshanks
sat in a massive, high-backed chair. Nearby, Sir Robert de Clifford stood,
still in dark armor, talking to the sharp-featured young Aymer Valence, Earl of
Pembroke. A page poured wine into a goblet the king held. Even seated, Edward
Longshanks towered over him. He was Longshanks indeed, even taller than William
Wallace. Past his sixtieth year, Edward of England was as lean as a man twenty
years younger, even handsome in a regal way. A short gray beard covered his
cheeks and chin, framing a hawk nose, a stern mouth and piercing blue eyes. They
stabbed Lamberton with a suspicious look as he bowed deeply.

The king motioned him forward. "Bishop
Lamberton," he said in a voice that could carry across a battlefield, "what
have you? I did not call you to my presence."

Again, Lamberton bowed. At the best, he had
to work to keep the king sweet. He was sure King Edward never forgot that the
hated Wallace had raised him to the bishopric of St. Andrews. "I bring you
my squire who would swear fealty to you, Sire. He'll serve your grace well as
he has me."

Lamberton stepped aside with another half
bow to the king, since James had lagged behind him. The lad had his eyes cast
stubbornly down, but that might be as well. Best the king didn't see that wild look
and it made him appear humble enough even for Edward.

"Your squire, eh?"

Lamberton motioned James closer. "I
ask you to grant him his inheritance as his father is dead, Sire."

"What's this inheritance he claims?"

"The lands of Douglasdale, Your Grace."

"Douglas." The king jumped up
from his seat. "You dare bring me the son of that traitor?" Edward Longshanks
hurled the goblet at Lamberton. It hit his chest, wine soaking his robe and
splashing across his face.

In the sudden silence, Lamberton heard
James gasp.

Wine dripped down Lamberton's cheeks but he
dared not wipe them. "Sire, surely the sins of the father. . ."

"Silence! Douglas died in my dungeon
and I am his heir." The king thrust his jaw towards Lord Robert Clifford. "I
gifted the lands to one who has served me well. No traitor shall have them."

"Surely, Sire, the son is no traitor."

The king's face empurpled with rage. "His
father was always my enemy--always. A friend of the outlaw, William Wallace. I'll
not have the boy. Get out. Out! Before he takes Wallace's place on the
scaffold."

Lamberton bowed deep before he turned. Blaming
James for his father was harsh even for King Edward. He'd forgiven men who'd
been in open rebellion, but now the only choice was to get the lad out of the
king's sight. Another plan ruined, but a small one.

With a hand on James's shoulder, Lamberton
urged him towards the door, the lad with a ramrod spine of indignation. No one
spoke. No one else moved. Lamberton barely breathed until they reached the
shattered stone rubble of the gatehouse. He took a deep breath. They'd live yet
another day.

James untied Lamberton's gray palfrey. His
hands shook and his lips were white, they were so tightly clenched. For a
moment, Lamberton got James's full stare, black, wide-eyed, and fuming. After a
moment, he removed his gaze to scatter it over the shadowy reach of the valley.

Lamberton took the reins from his hand. "Don't
take it so hard, lad. I'll find a solution." He swung into the saddle.

James gave a jerky nod. "I know you
mean to, my lord." James jumped into his saddle, settled his feet in the
stirrups and gathered the reins. "But I fear this I must solve for myself."

Lamberton sighed and then nodded down the
rutted road towards town, its watchtowers and church spires dark against the
gathering dusk. Stirling town had surrendered with no fight. Now it was full of
English soldiery, but there were yet places a bishop could be secret. "I
have someone to meet. After dark."

The city gate was open when they reached
the bottom of the hill. Lamberton raised his hand in blessing as he rode past
four drays lined up, loaded with barrels and bales of hay. A driver slipped a
coin to one of the king's guards and was waved through the gate.

The guard looked Lamberton over, raking him
with a narrow-eyed stare.

"Bishop Lamberton returning from the
king," Lamberton said.

The man waved them past and turned back to
the wagons.

Lamberton kept to the edge of the street,
nodding as James dropped his hand onto the hilt of his sword. Down the street,
a Gray Friar was praying loudly for the health of the English king, but
passersby paid him no more mind than a howling dog. The town milled with the
usual crowd even in the growing murk: mostly soldiery in their mail with swords
rattling, but also baker's boys hawking their hot pies and breads and whores
leaning out of windows with their breasts half-bared. He passed two men
dragging a dead ass out of an alley by its rear legs and an acrobat standing on
his hands to the cheers of drunken English soldiers. But no one gave Lamberton
and James a second look.

Next to the high spire of the Church of the
Holy Rood, Lamberton turned into an alley. In the deepening dusk, the way was dark.
He dismounted and looped his reins to the rail of a walkway that ran along the
building. At his nod, James swung off his mount.

Lamberton motioned towards the street. "Check
to be sure no one is in sight."

James gave him a puzzled look but tied his
reins and walked towards the street, keeping in the dense shadow of the
church's walkway. He paused and looked back over his shoulder, then went on. Near
the street, James stopped, watching for a moment and then returned the way he
had come.

"There's no one near, my lord."

"Come." Lamberton shoved open the
side door of the Church. Their footfalls rang softly on the marble floor as he
entered, James at his heels. The rich scent of incense hung in the air. He
stopped and blinked, letting his eyes adjust.

A man knelt alone at a side altar. Light
from a row of candles reflected in his golden hair.
Deo gratia. He is here.

Robert de Bruce, Earl of Carrick, looked
over his shoulder. He rose, tall with a broad forehead and strong features,
dressed in black silk and a black cloak. His blue eyes caught a gleam in the
faint light. He took a step and grasped Lamberton's shoulders in a hard grip
for a moment, then shook his head.

Lamberton nodded towards the high altar and
led the way past it and through a wooden door on the far side. He entered a
square room with plain wooden walls, one wall covered with hooks where priestly
vestments of white, purple and red hung. Gold censors stood on a small table in
the corner next to a stack of blank parchment and a stand of lit candles. He
let out a small sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure that you'd come."

"I told you I would. We must be
ready..." He paused to frown at James.

Lamberton smiled slightly. "William le
Hardi's lad and my squire." He nodded to James. "Keep watch outwith
the door. See that we're not disturbed. Or overheard."

James bowed quickly to both men and closed
the door behind him.

"He'll serve us well one day, Robert. Now..."
He motioned to the table. "I didn't care to have these prepared
beforehand. I'll write the agreement now. But hear you, this will be treason
that the leopard would never forgive. So put your mind to it. Yea or nay. There
will be no turning back."

"Wallace agreed to give me his
support. In spite of everything?"

"He was wroth when you bent a knee to
King Edward. But after Comyn betrayed him at Falkirk, withdrawing his chivalry
from the battle, Wallace would do anything to keep that man from the throne. Yes.
He gave me his oath."

Bruce stared at a fist he clenched tight,
seeming to study it. "What was I to do?" His voice was low and hoarse
with emotion. "How could I lead a fight for a crown while my father lived,
and I knew him too weak to hold it? When Edward had harried and pillaged my own
lands to a smoking ruin? I had to buy time. That meant swearing to him."

Lamberton sighed. "I told Wallace as
much. Now that he's returned from France, he can see you had little choice. He's
a fighter. You know strategy was never his weapon."

"So be it." Bruce raised hot eyes
to Lamberton's. "Write the words of our pact, and I'll put my seal to them."

Lamberton dipped a quill in ink.
...mutual help at all times and against all
persons without exception... by solemn oath before God.

Bruce took the quill and scrawled his name.

Beside it, Lamberton neatly penned his own.
It was done. If ever King Edward saw this before they were ready to make their
move, Lamberton knew nothing would save him from a dungeon or Robert de Bruce
from a scaffold.

Bruce frowned. "There's still John
Comyn's claim to be dealt with. I doubt that he will agree to our bargain. Can
you convince him, think you? With the enmity between the two of us?"

Lamberton allowed himself a smile. "A
prize as rich as that? Your earldom of Carrick... Annandale... To be the
richest noble in Scotland for giving up a crown he would have to wrest from
Edward Longshanks. That's temptation indeed."

"If you hadn't stepped between us the
day the he dared to strike me..." Bruce shook his head doubtfully.

"I know the man's greed. I'll pick the
right time and put it to him. He'll agree."

As Robert de Bruce used a candle to drip
hot wax onto the document and pressed his into seal it, Lamberton laid his hand
on the man's shoulder. "The day will come, my friend. You will be the king
who leads us to freedom."

CHAPTER TWO

London,
England: August 1305

Sweat trickled down James Douglas's face as
he moved along with the jostling crowd. Pressing and pushing, the packed throng
made its way towards London's Elms at Smithfield on the eastern bank of the
River Fleet. Everyone was moving in the same direction, eager to see William
Wallace executed, everyone in London it seemed.

A gull screamed
overhead, circling. James looked up at the bright morning sun. How could the
sun shine on such a day?

Two half-grown boys only a few years
younger than he was dashed by, ducking amongst the crowd and laughing when they
ran through a puddle of muck. They splashed a woman in a fine apron. She yelled
after them, but they kept going.

"Make way! Make way for the Lord Mayor."
Four men-at-arms on huge destriers rode, surrounding a man in purple velvet on
a high-stepping horse. They pounded towards James. People scattered.

He scrambled to get out of the way, but a
cart full of barrels blocked the edge of the road. His feet tangled with a squalling
toddler. A woman screamed, but everyone was busy dashing in all directions. James
grabbed the brat up by the scruff of his neck. A blow caught James in the
middle of his back. He threw his arm in front of the child and landed hard
against the side of the cart with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him. A
barrel bounced to crush his fingers. His shin smashed into the wheel.

The child's wail rose to a scream. "The
devil take it." James managed to deposit him behind the wagon in safety as
a young woman pushed and shoved her way through the crowd. She grabbed the baby
up and scowled at James before squeezing her way past.

He pushed himself erect and brushed off his
tunic. Gods blood, had the woman wanted the brat trampled? Blood dripped down
his finger. He sucked it clean to see that he'd ripped off his nail. He felt
blood dripping down his leg where he'd banged against the wheel. The bishop
would surely question what he'd been doing away from his duties against a
specific command when he showed up banged and bloody.

Bells began to chime, clanging, clamoring. James
let the stream of people carry him, crushed in its press. His hand throbbed. He
gritted his teeth as he limped along, listening to the excited chatter around
him.

"Can't wait to hear him scream when
they gut him."

Someone spat. "It's when they carve
off his balls he'll be yelling for mercy."

"Only thing to do to an oath-breaker."

James whirled to face them. "He didn't
break..." He bit back his words. People were glaring. If he started a
fight, they'd arrest him and blame the bishop. He bent his head in shame.

"Here, I got me a pence says Wallace'll
be screaming before they even take the knife to him."

A woman hooted. "It'll be good to hear--all
the fine men he murdered up there. Good king's men. They say he raped every
woman he could lay hands on, too. Only fair he loses his balls."

By the time they reached the Elms, they
were packed shoulder to shoulder so tight that James could barely breathe. He
let the crush push him into the middle of the square. All struggling to get
closer to the great scaffold towering ahead of them, people talked and yelled
over each other. From the middle of the crowd, all he could see were heads, and
shoulders and a mounted knight and to one side the gray walls of St. Bartholomew's
Hospital.

James squirmed and elbowed his way through
the press. A man cursed at him, but James gave him a glare. He grunted in
satisfaction when the man ducked his head. James would have felt even better if
he could have hit him. Clinching his fists, James shoved his way through.

Finally, near the front of the crowd, with
his shoulder he rammed a workman who was laughing as he munched on an apple. The
man yelled, stumbling back, and swung around, fists raised, but he backed off
muttering about noble bullyboys. Over the noise, the bells of the city tolled. They
rang from every direction.

Then James saw Sir William Wallace on the
scaffold.

Blood ran down Wallace's face and into his
red beard. His nude body dripped with sweat and splatters of dung, his legs
running with gore from being dragged behind horses on the way here. The rope to
hang him draped from his neck over the upright in the middle of the scaffold. One
each side of him was a man-at-arms in glittering mail with the red and gold of
the Plantagenet kings. Each gripped an arm. Wallace's hands were lashed behind
his back. Clustered nearby were knights and high lords in their silken peacock
colors.

One man in a black tunic and breeches stood
alone, thick arms crossed over his heavy chest. Next to him, a brazier held
dancing flames that sent up a finger of smoke.

A long line of pikesmen in mail jacks held
back the crowd, commanded by a tall knight mounted on a snorting charger. On
his shield was the leopard of King Edward.

When the bells finally ceased, the man in
purple velvet stepped forward to the edge of the scaffold and read the sentence
of the traitor, William Wallace, to die, hanged, drawn, his heart to be cut out
whilst he yet lived and burned, and then his body quartered and beheaded. His
head to be placed over the gate of London Tower.

"No," James whispered. Around him,
the crowd began to scream and shout. Obscenities and taunts filled the air.

A stone sailed out of the crowd over the
heads of the pikesmen. James groaned when it smashed into Wallace's stomach. He
stumbled but the men-at-arms kept him erect and dragged him to the center of
the platform. The man in black checked the noose, adjusting the knot slightly
to the side. He walked to the gibbet and grabbed the end of the rope. He walked
slowing, nodding to the crowd. He began to pull, hand over hand, until the rope
was taut. The noose around Wallace's neck stretched, and he went onto his
tiptoes. The executioner strained and struggled to raise him. Wallace was a big
man. A man-at-arms joined to help, leaning backwards as he pulled.

Wallace's feet lifted from the ground,
swinging. Heart pounding, James clinched his fists. Please, by all the saints,
let him die fast.

Screams and shouts of "Give it to 'em"
deafened him. The executioner looped the rope to a stanchion and walked around Wallace
slowly, nodding. When he got back, he loosened the rope. Wallace thumped onto
to the boards of the scaffold. A man-at-arms picked up a bucket of water and
dashed it into Wallace's face. He rolled over, groaning, loud in the momentary
silence; the crowd cheered wildly. Whistles and catcalls went up.

The executioner pointed to the rope, and
the man-at-arms began to pull it. Wallace's feet scrabbled for purchase against
the wet boards as he was hauled upright. The executioner picked up a knife from
a table.

Once more, the men-at-arms grabbed
Wallace's arms, bracing themselves. The executioner reached for Wallace's
crotch and grabbed him.

James' chest heaved with a gasp.
Máter Déi... Máter Déi... Máter Déi...
His eyes throat
burned and scalding bile filled his mouth. He swallowed, his stomach lurching,
and he whirled. Desperate, he
shoved
between a man and a woman behind him.

The man laughed. "Too weak-kneed to
watch?"

James' elbow slammed hard into the man's
belly. He shoved his way further into the crowd. Another cheer went up around
him. Shouts of glee echoed across the city.

Merciful God,
get me out of here before I kill someone
. He couldn't bring that down on the bishop. Even more
desperately, he pushed and shoved, not caring whom he elbowed to get through. Finally,
he stumbled out of the crowd.

A scream echoed off the walls, soon drowned
in shouts and howls of joy.

James' stomach heaved again. Bracing his
hand on a wall, he hunched as he spewed vomit onto the cobbles.

His face burned, but he knew it was the
fever of despair.

He drew his arm across his mouth and then
leaned his back against the wall.
The
devil take them. The devil take them all.

He took a deep breath and straightened. He
had to get to the manse where Bishop Lamberton and their party were lodged. The
bishop would be furious at his having gone missing. Being yelled at by the man
who'd been a second father to him seemed like a drink of cool water. He lifted
his chin and started back up the slope. Thanks be to St. Bride, King Edward had
refused his own homage when the bishop had presented him. He had no tie to this
horrible place, except for the people they'd killed.

He wanted to go home. All he really wanted
was to go home. Or to kill the men who had stolen it. He'd get back what they'd
stolen somehow. He shuddered. There was no getting back the lives they had
stolen.

James wound his way through the busy
streets. Apparently, some hadn't bothered with the execution. Traffic bunched
around carts in the narrow intersections; green mold climbed up the brick
walls. Garbage squashed underfoot, the stink rising as the day warmed with the
climbing sun. Beggars lurked in the alleys crying for alms. James dropped his
hand on his dirk, sorry he'd left his sword in his room. But if he’d had it, he
might have used it back there.

He turned into a side street where the
houses were finer, tall and freshly whitewashed. Upper windows were open and
the sound of people enjoying the day drifted down. Women wearing bright dresses
passed him, each one accompanied by a maid and man-at-arms as they bargained
with peddlers, gossiped or ordered their servants about. James went through a
gate set in a dressed-stone wall.

Inside, he closed the polished front door behind
him. Leaning back, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. He
would bear it. Let them say William, Lord of Douglas begat a son who could bear
what he must.

"Squire James," a voice piped. The
only page the bishop had brought to London with them bounced down the stairs,
full of energy as always. He came to a stop, staring.

"What, Giles?"

"His Excellency has been asking for
you."

James gnawed his lip. He could make an
excuse and clean himself up, but he wasn't going to lie to the bishop. He never
had and wouldn't start. He nodded. "Where is he?"

"In his chamber." The lad frowned.
"He looks in a stew."

"How else would he be this day?"

Giles looked like he might cry so James
patted his shoulder in passing. Giles wasn't so much younger than he'd been in
Paris, but seemed so much more of a child than he'd ever been. At the end of
the long hall, he knocked and awaited permission to enter the bishop's
precisely arranged chamber.

The bishop, thin, dark hair lightly streaked
at the sides with gray, sat at a table, a calfskin folder open in front of him.
He closed it with a snap. "So."

James bowed. "You sought me, my lord?"

Lamberton rose to his considerable height,
though James was taller since he'd gotten his full growth. He racked James with
a look. Chewing a lip with a guilty pang, James held Lamberton's glance. The
bishop, even at so great an age as forty, was handsome in a hawk-faced way and
dressed in his usual blackish purple and fine lace, suiting a bishop.

The bishop inclined his head and said in a
smooth tone, "Did I not order that you stay within the manse? Do my
commands carry no weight now?"

James winced but forced himself to meet the
bishop's deep-set gray eyes. "You did, my lord."

"You disobeyed me. I expect obedience
in my own house."

James couldn't help ducking his head. The
bishop had the right to be obeyed, especially by someone he'd rescued and taken
in. The saints only knew what would have happened to him if the bishop hadn't
taken him as a squire out of regard for his father. "I know." He
wanted to say he was sorry, but choked on it. As direful as the day had been,
he would do it again if it came to that.

Lamberton sighed. "It did no good for
you to see that. Nothing could stop it."

"He knew I was there," James said.
"He knew."

"It's done, and mayhap it gave him
some comfort. God knows..." Lamberton shook his head. "You're
bloodied. What happened?"

"A small accident. No one recognized
me. I did nothing that would bring harm to you. I swear it."

"It's not me I'm worried about, Jamie.
As a bishop, they can do little to me. But I couldn't protect you, I fear, if
you crossed King Edward's people. Not after he refused your fealty. There's no
forgiveness in him for your father's offenses."

Heat flooded James's face. "Offenses?"
His father's offense had been that he was a loyal Scot and had sent James to
France so the English could not hold him as hostage.

Lamberton shrugged. "So he sees it. And
the power of how to see it is his. Never forget that, James. Do not forget it
for even a moment." Lamberton turned and walked to the window to look out
over the garden where roses climbed the outer wall.

"I never forget. But," James
frowned at Lamberton's back. "I have never understood. You wanted me to
swear fealty to King Edward. I would have been Wallace's enemy."