The Honor Due a King (38 page)

Hugh!

In the core of my soul, I was as hollow as a coffin without its corpse. My arms and chest went numb. I stopped breathing, swooned. The blanket dropped from my slumping shoulders. My knees buckled. The floor vanished from beneath me.

I felt myself falling ... But hands were holding me up. I looked up and to my left and saw the sympathetic face of the Bishop of Winchester, with his muted brown eyes and weathered face. He pulled me gently to my feet.

“Take strength in Our Lord, sire,” he said.

“When?” I clung to his sleeve. “When did they do this?”

“Some time ago. If it heartens my lord – he would take nothing but bread and water since he was parted from you.”

Oh, Hugh. You did indeed suffer to be without me. And I you, Hugh. A hundredfold so, now that you are gone. But no, no, it cannot be. If they have already killed you Hugh, what is to be of me?

So, this is to be the day. God, hear me, I am not ready. What have I, your devoted servant, your worldly implement, done wrong but love those who gave me loyalty?

Adam of Orleton’s bland voice went on: “Sir Edward of Caernarvon, son of Edward Plantagenet, King of England, you are hereby charged with –”

Why, why did they not address my properly? I was crowned in Westminster, anointed with Holy Water, wielded the Royal Seal ... I am more than a mere knight. I am king!

I looked around the room at the rigid faces of these men who had come to denigrate my name. Some averted their eyes from my gaze. Others leered at me haughtily.

“ – devoid of honor and wisdom, have unjustly administered to your kingdom and –”

Although I heard the words, their sound, their meaning, they all passed over me as if in some fading dream. Not until Adam of Orleton’s venomous censure ceased did I notice that Sir Thomas Blount, my royal steward, stood before me, awaiting my attention. He held the white staff that symbolized his office in my household. Stiffly, he held it out before him and then with one swift jerk brought it down across his upraised knee. It splintered lengthwise. He struck it again three times on the floor. Finally, it broke in two and clattered to the ground.

“Thus are you, Edward of Caernarvon,” Blount said, “removed from the throne of our kingdom, in light of your incapacity to rule wisely. From this day forward, those who have heretofore sworn an oath of fealty or allegiance to you are no longer held in accord of such oaths, for you are king no more.”

I stood dumbfounded. What way was there out of this? My army would not come when I called for them. The people of England welcomed traitors to their breasts and turned me out without succor. My own servants had turned on me. Even the clerics had fallen victim to Isabella’s lies.

Tell them what they want to hear. Get it over with. There’s no other way, for now.

“My lords,” – I folded my hands together and sank to the floor, willing the false words to march across my tongue to their wicked pleasure – “compassion, I beg. I have sinned, yes. What man has not? In this, I have invited your wrath upon me. But how,
how
can I possibly amend this?”

The Bishop of Winchester stooped forward and clasped his chilled hands over mine. “Make a public confession of your wrongs. Yield to your son, my lord. End this strife. Step aside in his favor. Do that and you shall return peace to the land.”

Was a king ever more alone, ever more hated than I? Even doe-eyed Winchester is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am surrounded by devils and so is my son. That is the only certainty in my wretched life.

I shook violently, as one with the falling sickness would. “Your grace, I accept my punishment, and give up my crown. Tell my son ... tell him I am glad for him. Tell him that.”

Silent, they stepped aside. On the table lay a parchment, its ends weighted down by river-smoothed stones, a stream of words already written there. What it said I neither knew nor cared. Bishop Orleton dipped a quill into the inkhorn, blotted its tip on a scrap of cloth and extended it toward me.

Shall we meet in heaven soon then, my false friends? Oh, I think not. I will be there on the other side, as all of you beg and argue with Saint Peter himself over your admittance. May grace visit upon you all, that you may come to embrace your sins before your own deaths.

What rare days that are left to me, I shall live in peace. God alone will have my trust and confidence. I have had enough of this world ... and the likes of all of you.

James Douglas – Berwick, 1328

W
hen word came north that King Edward II of England had been removed from the throne, it was no awful shock to anyone. It was, in fact, a small cause for celebration, as none in Scotland had any pity for him. Within the year, he was dead.

Even as England crowned a new king in young Edward III, Queen Isabella and her undisguised lover, Sir Roger Mortimer, ruled absolutely. For now though, Isabella was eager for peace. She had much to atone for, it seemed.

They agreed to Robert’s terms: that Scotland remain free without homage to England, that the new king, Edward III, would employ his best persuasion upon the pope to have the interdict lifted from Robert and the Scottish Church, and that Robert’s son David was to wed the King of England’s own sister, Joanna of the Tower.

The betrotheds were both children, unaware of their significance in the matter of international relations. But Robert was impatient and Edward III ... who is to say how he felt on the matter? He had already been married to the Count of Hainault’s daughter in order to secure an alliance that was to the distinct advantage of his own mother’s agenda. Edward III sent word that various matters prevented his attendance, but his mother, the queen dowager, would escort her daughter north. Robert claimed illness and retired to Cardross. I was sent in his stead, to attend and guide the young heir of Scotland on his wedding day.

The boy had no idea what was going on. David did as told and acted predictably like a lad who would rather have been elsewhere. He fidgeted. He squirmed. Pulled up the bottom hem of his gold-embroidered tunic and tugged at the seat of his leggings.

In the front row of the grandest church in Berwick, Sir Roger Mortimer gazed on haughtily. I knew him the moment I saw him. Women swooned when he glanced their way. Men seethed with abhorrence. He possessed a cool, commanding confidence, which wisely used might have served him well, but behind his dark eyes was also the hint of smoldering anger that warned of resolute danger.

Young Robert Stewart slumped with drooping eyelids against the arm of Gil de la Haye. Gil poked him sharply in the ribs and Robbie awakened with a jolt. Beside me, David wriggled. A tiny squeak escaped his throat. I touched him lightly on the shoulder, leaned over and whispered to him, “My lord, you must be still until the end.”

“I can’t.” His tiny mouth twisted. “I have to ... have to ...” His eyes began to water.

The Bishop of Berwick, sensing an urgency in David’s chagrined countenance, began to speed through the ceremony, the Latin words blending unintelligibly, his gestures blurring.

To his right, little golden-haired Joanna pouted at her husband-to-be. David shuddered and pulled his hands up inside his sleeves. At the back of his throat, he made the faintest grunt.

This time I pinched his shoulder, “David, listen ... it’s nearly over. I beg you – wait. Your father will be proud of what a big man you are.”

He stiffened his back, clenched his teeth, but the strain made tears spring forth. He whimpered and clutched at my hand. Next to Joanna, Isabella of France scowled.

David pulled at my little finger. “Please?”

“Your grace?” I interrupted the bishop, seeing no need to cause David this humiliation. He was but a boy of four. Asking him to stand like a statue for a ceremony several hours long was preposterous. “The important part, if you will. My young lord is not feeling well.”

The bishop curled an offended eyebrow at me and sniffed. I looked down at David, whose face was momentarily frozen. He bent his knees ever so slightly. Then the odor drifted my way. I rolled my eyes and bit my lip.

Ah, dear heaven. The lad had soiled his pants on his wedding day.

***

T
he moment the bishop uttered the closing words, I snatched David up and exited through a side door. His nurse was standing close by and as fast as could be done, he was stripped of his fine wedding clothes, wiped clean and redressed. I ushered him back out the door and into the nave to rejoin his bride. The English sneered at him, turned their faces away, and shook their heads. The Scots frowned forlornly at their future king.

Beyond Berwick’s gate, Queen Isabella clutched tearfully at her daughter. Little Joanna clung to her mother’s neck and had to be pried away. I pitied the children most of all. Why this rush to carve their future in stone and yoke Scotland to England? Robert was well intentioned, but his thoughts were more on Scotland and less so on his own son.

In the past two years, I had not seen Robert more than twice: once after Walter had died and the next time following Elizabeth’s death. Each time Robert’s head had been grayer, his eyes more deeply sunken, his skin sallower, his shoulders more stooped. The once stubbornly brave dreamer had given way to a prematurely old man, frequently ill and quietly resigned to his own death. To see him lately, slouching in his chair, each line in his face dark and exaggerated ... it dulled hope for the future and gave me little to cling to but memories.

At a time in my own life when thoughts of settling down with Rosalind and a family were becoming more and more appealing, it looked as though my duties would only grow bigger. If Robert ... I could not bear to think on it. In truth, I had never thought much beyond the next battle. Life, for me, was lived in each moment. Whatever transpired, Randolph would be there to oversee the statecraft of the kingdom and I alongside him to keep it from harm. It seemed I would never escape that fate. But I preferred being the perennial soldier to playing nursemaid.

David began to whine over an ache in his belly, the result of too little food. My temper dangerously short, I left him in the care of others and rode on ahead.

We were halfway to Edinburgh and just west of Dunbar when I realized that Robbie was riding beside me. I ignored him for well into an hour, certain that he, too, only wished to part himself from the two younger children in the party. At twelve years of age, he was on that awkward cusp between boy and man. I felt his curious stare boring into me and shot him a look of perturbation, at which he merely blinked unfazed and looked back ahead. A minute later, he was staring again.

I said, “I amuse you?”

“Hmm, no ...” He thought it over and shrugged. “Well, aye, in a way. My grandfather has told me stories about you, Sir James. I want to be just like you someday.”

“In the name of heaven – why?”

“I don’t know, really. Maybe because you always win.”

“Do I? The truth is I win at some things, I lose at others. I’m simply more persistent than most – or as Lady Rosalind would say: stubborn.”

“I want to be a soldier, like you. Didn’t you ever want to be like someone?”

I nodded. “Aye, my father.” I remembered how he had defied Longshanks there in the hall at Berwick, his chin upraised, his voice clear and strong, even with his wrists bound behind his back and Longshanks himself holding a blade to his throat.

Robbie fell silent, taking in the sights around us. The road ahead wound and dipped about the outlying Lammermuir Hills. The wind blew gentle from the south, carrying on it the smell of promised rain.

“I once mentioned to my father,” he said, “that Grandfather had told me the story about how you took Berwick from the English. Father became suddenly very angry with me. Nearly struck me. He said Berwick was mostly his doing – said that he saved you when he took an arrow for you.”

“He did now?” I could not help but raise an eyebrow at that. The arrow had been intended for Walter and it was his own thoughtlessness that had put him in its path. But who was I to tamper with the embellishments of a father’s stories to his son? “Aye, he did. Your father was a good man, Robbie. Brave and kind. And he loved your mother dearly. Remember that ... always.”

Robbie grew pensive for a while. He had spent so much time with Robert that he acted more like an old man sometimes, than a lad of twelve.

“You’ll come with us to Cardross,” he asked, his chin held aloft as if he were Alexander the Great leading his troops across Persia, “to see my grandfather?”

“Alas, I can only go as far as Edinburgh for now. I must go home first.” Perhaps in time, I could train him to take my place, to be a soldier, to look his foe in the eyes and cheat death. If I could not publicly admit to him as my own, at least I could be his mentor, teach him something useful. Aye, I would write to Robert about it. First though, I would need to speak to Rosalind. Tell her the truth. It was much to bear alone and I had never told anyone, not in all this time.

Robbie blew a burst of air from his nostrils, as if disappointed. “You’re going back to Lintalee for good reason, I assume?”

Again, such old words from such a fresh mouth. He was old enough to know. “Good reason, aye. My lady is with child. If I’m not home before the blessed event, Rosalind will give me a tongue-lashing that will send me to my grave.”

His lips tilted in a smirk of amusement. He giggled. Ah, there was the boy again.

The rain began suddenly, cool and fresh. The riders around us pulled their cloaks over their heads, but Robbie and I raised our faces to the rain and laughed.

***

Lintalee, 1328

“Y
ou can’t force a woman to marry you against her will, Sir James,” Father Simon said.

“It’s done all the time, Father.” I led him along the path toward the stream that ran in the valley below Lintalee. My steward had directed me there, saying Rosalind often walked the footpath to sit by the cool water. It was high summer and as grand a day as I had ever seen, although blisteringly warm. “Nonetheless, who said I was going to force anything upon her? A little gentle persuasion should do the trick.”