A Young King and His Enemies

As he bent over the book on his table, James lay down his quill and ran a finger across a bright illustration that filled half the page. A wheel held a woman in finery at its height but had flung a king in ermine and a ragged peasant onto the ground. Kings, princes and beautiful ladies awaited their turn on the wheel. He was chewing his lip and frowning over it when a sharp thud on the table made him jump.

The black-robed monk, Brother Odo, rapped the thin birch cane on the table again and James looked up into his piercing stare. The monk was a small man, no taller than James, slender and quick, with sharp features and threads of gray in his dark hair. The tonsure atop his head shone as though he polished it. James bit the inside of his cheek to stop his grin, which hurt less than that rod would have had it smacked his hand.

“You were not given Boethius to daydream over.”

“Aye, Brother. I only wondered wha’ the wheel meant.

”

“The wheel means a wheel. Consolatio Philosophiae is but a story that that Boethius wrote whilst imprisoned, as are you. Now you are to use your time more productively than staring at pretty pictures.” He pointed a narrow finger at a word. “Tell me what those four lines mean—in English.”

A word of his own Scots often earned James a stinging rap on the knuckles or sometimes a caning, so James sighed and examined the line the brother was pointing to. His Latin was mainly that of the church prayers and Boethius’s book made him struggle. He took a deep breath, and licked his lips. He could grow to hate this foul tome, though the illustration made him think--perhaps too much.

“Who formed my studious numbers,” he translated aloud from the Latin,

“Smoothly once in… happier days,

Now helpless in tears and sadness

Learn a mournful tune to.… to…” He sighed, bracing himself. “attollo… I don’t remember.”

“Raise!” The birch whistled when the rod slashed across James’s shoulders. “Learn a mournful tune to raise.”

It was only the sound that made James wince. The cane stung but was nothing to a blow from Gruffudd’s practice blade. His knuckles were skinned from sword practice the day before and his shoulders were bruised from being knocked from his horse riding at the quatrain. Besides, even Bishop Wardlaw said that the sting of a cane was a fine aid to memory.

Brother Odo made a disgusted sound in his throat and motioned to the parchment, much marred where James had sanded out errors. “Write it out. Cleanly, boy.” He thumped the cane down on the table. “I expect the next ten lines written out when I return in the morning.”

“Aye, Brother Odo,” James said, meekly keeping his eyes on the parchment until the door thumped closed behind his tutor.

Smoothly once in happier days…

But there was no point in thinking of happier days. Those days were done, though later he would give more thought to that wheel. James thought Brother Odo might be mistaken about it having no meaning when it cast men from the heights to the depths. The tutor always wanted to talk about the translation of the words and never what the story meant. He suspected the monk had no imagination at all. Shaking his head, James closed the book. He would write out all the lines even if it meant burning down his last candle, but for now in the practice yard, he would find Gruffudd and William and perhaps some of the other prisoners and something fun to do. He jumped up, checked both in the corridor ways to be sure Brother Odo was out of sight and hurried down the narrow stairs, out into the sunlight.

He gaped at a line of riders streaming through the open gates, two dozen in polished steel. And there rode the earl of Albany in the middle with Master John Lyon who had brought word of King Robert’s death. James did not know the big man beside them, red-faced under his dark, wiry beard and belly straining against his embroidered doublet.

Orkney vaulted from his horse and tossed his reins to a sergeant who was muttering a protest which the earl ignored as he strode toward James. “Your Grace. I have news I would give you privily.”

The stranger was climbing heavily from the saddle. “He’s no more ‘grace’ than I am. Less than my lord father,” the man rumbled.

James looked past Orkney who was slowly shaking his head and took a slow deep breath. 

“Murdoch?” James asked Orkney in a carefully controlled tone. If he had ever seen his cousin before, James could not recall it.

Orkney jerked a nod.

Murdoch Stewart, earl of Fife, eldest son of the Duke of Albany, swaggered across the bailey yard. “If it isn’t my little cousin, James.”

Thrusting his trembling hands into his armpits, James narrowed his eyes at the man. “Aye. As was my brother, Robert.” His face felt scalded with heat. “Were you at Falkirk Castle when he was murdered? Cousin.”

Murdoch threw back his head and laughed, exposing trembling jowls under his beard. “Aye. And I was there when parliament voted that we had no fault in his death.” His laugh broke off like a snapping branch and he scowled. “Before the Battle of Homildon Hill when I was taken prisoner.”

James drew in a slow, steady breath and then another. He swallowed down the tears of fury at Murdoch’s laughter. He had no doubt that his brother’s murder was at least partially Murdoch’s doing, but screaming at him or weeping like a lass would gain nothing. “Well, my lord…” he forced the words out. “We are both prisoners now. Whether you think I am entitled to be ‘graced’ or nae. Our differences must wait until we regain our freedom.” A pulsing pain began to throb behind one eye at having to speak to the man he must acknowledge as cousin.

“My father will ransom me. You may be sure.” Murdoch glowered at James and then at Orkney and back to James from eyes that were bloodshot. “But do not expect him to agree to any ransom for you to be freed. Whelp.”

“Your father is not the only noble in Scotland,” Orkney said.

“But he is the regent.” Murdoch shoved past Orkney. “Bring my supplies. I am thirsty,” he called over his shoulder. A servant, who James realized had a badge of the Albany Stewart’s on his shoulder, hefted a tun of wine onto his shoulder and plodded after Murdoch. Orkney squeezed the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath.

“His being moved here from Nottingham Castle was part of my news for you. From wha’ I have heard he spends much of his time drinking so, I doubt his presence will be something you are forced often to suffer.”

“I suppose I knew I would see him one day.” James looked at Orkney’s thin lipped face. “Part though? You said that was part of your news?”

The bailey yard was raucous with noise, men-at-arms talking and leading away their horses to the stables and a couple of sumpter horses being unloaded whilst William and Gruffudd stood near the armory watching. Orkey took James by the arm and led him into a corner where a wall met the tower.

“My ransom has arrived. I was allowed to return only to bid you farewell.”

James felt his stomach lurch. Once Orkney left, he would be truly alone.

“Don’t look so, lad. William will remain with you and I convinced King Henry to allow you a chaplain, so Master Lyon will remain. He can arrange messages between us. Once in Scotland, I’ll do everything for you that I can. There is nothing I can accomplish here.”

“But my ransom…?”

“Albany has--” Orkney took a pained sounding breath. “He has stolen your lands. All your regality. You have nae funds for ransom, if King Henry would agree to it.”

“If?”

“Henry has sworn you’ll be released is if you swear fealty to him. Fealty as King of the Scots.” 

Orkney scrubbed at his face with one hand. “If you agreed to it, I have no doubt he would give you an army to take Scotland. The damned English have done such before. The Balliols, Toom Tabard and his son, both of them, were put on the throne by English armies.”

“But—wha’ would that mean? If he put me on the throne? Would he throw down the Albanys?”

James’s heart gave a lurch at the thought of destroying his enemies. If they would kill him, why should he not use the English against them?

“It would mean that you owed King Henry obedience, and how much power true power he would allow you, I cannot say. All Scotland would be under his heel. And never—never would our parliament accept such an agreement. Nor would I.”

“So… I would be king at his pleasure and Scotland defeated. And make enemies of my few friends.” James tried to wrap his mind around the idea. “And if he didn’t like wha’ I did, wha’ then? If I did the best for Scotland and not for him?”

“If we already weren’t under their heel, we soon would be because there is no way we would win against him or even more against Monmouth. You would--” Orkney shrugged. “Probably you would lose your throne although he might let you keep it if you knelt at his feet.”

“He has put no such proposal to me,” James said. “Did he to you?”

Orkney nodded. “Though he says that you are yet too young to lead an army. But others might in your name in a year or two—especially once they have put down the rebellion in Wales. I told him no. Eventually, the demand will be put to you directly.” Orkney grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. “And you must tell him no.”

James swallowed. “Though it will mean they keep me locked up.”

“It will cost you dear, lad. But saying yes would cost us all more—including you.”

“But… How do I regain my freedom?” Too many thoughts were spinning through his head. 

“In Scotland, I can work toward freeing you along with Bishop Wardlaw and the Lauders. You have other friends there as well. But you must take my oath.” Smiling a little, Orkney knelt on the ground and held up his clasped hands. “Take my hands between yours.”

He clasped his ink-stained hands around Orkney’s larger ones.  

“I do liege homage to you, my lord, James, king of Scots, and I will keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead, and I will defend you and all your successors against all malefactors and invaders, as God help me and his saints.”

Blinking, James knew he should say something. He was sure he had seen his father do this, though it was long ago. James licked his lips and said, “I—I take you as my man and will keep faith with you and defend you and your heirs as is my duty as--as your liege lord.”

James raised his eyebrows for Orkney’s approval and the earl gave him a brisk nod of approval. He stood, and for a moment, he grasped James’s arm. “Do not lose heart, Your Grace. However long it takes, we will free you.”

A King: Caged

More of my current work-in-progress:

The courtyard rang with steel upon steel. Under his mail and helm, sweat trickled down James’s face and his back as Gruffudd pressed his attack. Their blades met in a harsh clash and slid down until the guards locked. He looked up into Gruffudd’s narrowed eyes. James heaved as hard as he could, throwing his opponent back.

His sword up, ready for the next swing, the tip of James’s sword hovered a hand’s breadth from Gruffudd’s. Stronger and older, if James didn’t defeat him quickly, he wouldn’t, so in a sudden fury of movement he slammed an overhand blow that would have rung Gruffydd’s helm like a bell—if it had landed. But it didn’t. Gruffudd slipped to the left, out of danger, and brought his own sword across and into James’s face. James yelped as jumped back, spun to the side and slashed up and around to hack at his opponent. But supple as a snake, Gruffudd dodged. Another hack almost slashed across James’s stomach but he made a fierce downward blow to knock it away.

Their blades locked again. James’s breath was coming in great heaves. He gulped desperately for air.  Leaning with all the strength he had left into the blades, his muscles strained. Gruffudd smiled and threw him back. James circled him, panting but sword low and ready. Looking into Gruffudd’s eyes he saw a flicker of amusement. James brought his sword up. Gruffudd moved in, twisted behind him, and brought a wide cut from behind to slap his blade on James’s neck hard. A bead of sweat dripped from his chin onto the sword.

“Yield you?”

“Aye.” Gruffudd pushed him away with a slap to the shoulder, and James rubbed a stinging welt across his neck. “That hurt.”

Gruffudd ripped his helm from his head and tossed his head to get his dripping hair from his face. “Better, Lord James. You lack strength yet, but for your years,”—Gruffudd nodded—“you do not fight badly. You might stay alive against me when you are fully a man.”

James took off his helm and leaned his head back. The May breeze felt good on his sweaty face. He leaned on his sword, caught his breath with a shudder, and took a moment to enjoy even faint praise from Gruffudd. Cheerful companion he was but a skilled fighter, and the challenge was exciting.

“Let me see your neck,” Will said, glaring at Gruffudd. “You shouldn’t hit him so hard.”

“Princes die in battle like any man.” Gruffudd looked with an unfocused stare toward the top of the castle gate where his uncle’s head rotted and then jerked his gaze back. “He’ll only learn if he knows what hurt truly means.”

The earl of Orkney, his face flushed red, came out the Tower door and hurried across the yard. “Lord James!” he called. A gray-haired priest in a soiled black robe and a gaoler in livery trailed after him.

James tried to sheath his blunted blade but his hands were bruised and clumsy. He got it in the battered sheath on the second try. “My lord?”  

Orkney paused a few steps away to tug at his doublet. He shook his head, not quite looking at James.  James had never seen Orkney look so—odd. James’s guard nearby shifted, his armor creaking, and a raven croaked whilst Orkney looked everywhere except at James. He finally sank onto one knee and looked into James’s face. “Your Grace…” he said in a voice that shook and James froze at the title. “Your Grace, I am…” James could hear him swallow. “Dire news, sire. I must tell you… Your father--the king is dead.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.  William dropped to a knee.

“Your Grace,” Orkney said. “You understand…”

James nodded wordlessly as the priest stepped forward. The man bowed deeply and said, “At Bute Castle, sire. When—when word was brought to him of your capture, he turned his face to the wall. Would nae speak nor eat nor drink. And he died the third day.”

“Dead…” Cold rushed through James and there was a sound in his ears like a rushing tide. “He… He did not even try then. To save me.” James’s voice was a whisper. He swallowed down a burn behind his eyes and looked up at the sky where a muddy coin of the sun shone through the drifting layer of smoke.

His father. The king. Who had been no true king--not in his deeds. His chest caught and he could not breathe. He struggled—jerked in a gulp of air. The world spun. Closing his eyes, he just breathed until his head cleared. Then he opened them and looked at the men around him who watched him, waiting.

He was the king now. He must act as a king should. That is what they were waiting for, but he didn’t know how. Again his mouth worked. “My lords…,” he choked out. He unbuckled his sword belt and shoved it into William’s hands. Slowly he walked toward the White Tower. “Let me be. I—I must think.”

A Captive Prince

More of my current Work-in-Progress: 

A week later:

Through the high, narrow window of James’s Tower room, morning light spilled across the floor, bars laying dark stripes on the threadbare carpet. His straw-stuffed bed was hard and uncomfortable. James thrashed and kicked off the light coverlet. In his bare feet, he ran to the little garderobe and pissed into the hole as William, on his pallet on the floor, muttered complaints before he rose.  

On the little table next to the door, a slab of dark oak with iron bands, William filled their basin from the flagon of water. James washed his face and hands, donned clean hose, shirt and doublet from the chest that had been brought from the ship the week before and pulled on his boots. Then he climbed to stand on his bed to look out the window past its iron bars. He took a deep breath and leaned his forehead against the rough stone. Sunrise was a wash of red across cloud of smoke that never seemed to clear from above London. He absently rubbed at the strange pressure in his chest as he wondered when he would ever see a blue sky again.

“That bed will nae be fit to sleep in,” William said. “With you standing on it like that in your boots.”

In the yard below, James spotted a man-at-arms, following a dark haired man who sauntered across the patch of ground within view. It was certainly not Sir Thomas. Possibly another prisoner of this foul place?  A roar nearby made him flinch and was answered with another.  He turned to look around the bare chamber, with its narrow bed, small table and two stools, a thin carpet on the floor. But a fire burned on the hearth, they had been brought food by a gaoler every day, and the lions in the menagerie were only a sound in the distance. William said he had never heard of prisoners being given over to the beasts, but he looked nervous every time they split the air with their roars.

William looked up from pulling on his own clothes. “The English will allow you to buy more comforts when you receive moneys from Scotland. Your lands will…” William’s comment died off at an echo of voices from down the corridor. He kicked at the edge of the carpet with a sneer. “We will use it to send for thick carpet and hangings to stop the draft and decent plate for your table.” Even in the summer’s heat, behind thick stone walls the air was chill.

James propped up the wall with his back. “I don’t care about that. I just want out of this room. I want to see the earl and to know if there is news.”

“The king said you were to have tutors. I’m sure they don’t mean to keep us locked up forever.”

James flopped down onto his bed. There was nothing to do here. He threw his arm over his eyes and bethought of sitting high on the tower of Rothesay Castle whilst his mother still lived, the land green all around until it slanted down to the rolling sea. Masts bobbed on the horizon, men in the fields scythed oats, a little goosegirl poured out grain for her flock. He tasted capercaillie stuffed with apple and pine nuts and thyme with sweetened caudle to wash it down. He could still hear the sound of the chapel bell, his brother’s laughter as he rode out the gate, his mother’s lilting voice. She wore the green that she loved, and it set off the red gleam of her hair and the gold of her coronet. He saw his sire’s drawn, pallid face when they put her in her tomb. And he felt gooseflesh as the cold sea splashed over his feet as he waited that dark night for the ship Maryenknyght. The memories made his throat ache so he sat up with a sigh.

“It’s near time to break our fast,” William said.

James didn’t answer but he supposed William was right and the clatter of feet in the corridor made him slide to the edge of the bed. His belly rumbled, ready for the bread that would stave off their hunger until dinner. There was a noise of the bar being lifted and the locks rattled and the door creaked open.

James stood up in surprise when Sir Thomas Rempston stepped through the door. “Lord James,” he said with a neutral sort of nod. “I have found a tutor for you, a monk from Eastminster Abbey well recommended by the abbot. He has both French and Latin I am told. And the king has provided some coins for your upkeep so if there is aught that you require for your wellbeing…”

“My freedom!” James exclaimed. At Sir Thomas’s raised eyebrows, James lowered his voice. “Surely, Sir Thomas, I need not be constantly confined so.”

“It is not my intent. Once I am assured that you understand your position here, I will give you the freedom of the keep. But if you abuse that in any way, I shall confine you as is my duty.” He crossed his arms and held James’s gaze. “Do you understand?”

James knew his eyes widened but he tried to keep his face blank. “Aye, sir, I do. I mean no abuse. I shan’t challenge your authority.”

“Good. There are others in the Tower who will be company for you.” He snorted. “I have no doubt you’ll soon make the acquaintance of Gruffydd Glendwr. He’s the nearest in the Tower to your age.”

“Then I may leave this room? Go outside?” James couldn’t help the eagerness of the questions. Why should he be grateful for being let out of a cage he should never have been locked in?

“Except for the walls, the deeper dungeon and chambers that are barred, I grant you and your squire freedom of the keep.” Sir Thomas scowled at him. “In time long past, one of the Glendwrs tried to escape by jumping from the wall and fell to his death. Stupid! Since then prisoners are forbidden there. You’ll be escorted by a guard, but he’ll not impede you unless you try to escape. But do not doubt --if you cause any problems I shall be told.”

James fiddled for a moment with a loose thread on his doublet, looked at the floor, and then nodded. “I understand you, Sir Thomas. I have no desire for durance more than I must suffer.”

“Good.”

“The earl of Orkney? Will I be able to see him? I must need speak wi’ him.”

Sir Thomas let out a breath. “He displeased the king with his impudence, but. . . I suppose there is no harm whilst he awaits his ransom.” He gave James a somewhat kinder look than before. “The menagerie will entertain you, I believe. We have five lions and a leopard for the nonce. Your confinement need not be so terrible.”

James knew very well how terrible a confinement could be. He still dreamt of Robert in an oubliette, desperately gnawing his fingers as he starved to death in the dark. But this was better and James tightened his mouth into a line to hold back a smile of relief to be outside if only for a few hours. “I ken it could be worse, Sir Thomas.”

“Sensible boy.” Sir Thomas nodded and turned on this heel to leave.

Behind him, a gaoler carried in a tray with a loaf of hot bread and a flagon of fresh water.  James muttered a word of thanks as it suddenly occurred to him that it was a good idea to keep the gaolers sweet. He decided to mend his manners though the gaolers were rough men and his inferiors. The man grunted and tromped out.

Grinning, James broke off half the loaf and tilted his head to William who grabbed up the rest. 

“Let’s go!” He strode fast, not allowing himself to run, out the door and down the corridor.   Flickering torchlight touched the granite slabs underfoot and shifting shadows danced across the rough walls. The winding steps down were narrow and slick with wear and damp, but James barely slowed his tumultuous rush.

He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the most precious sunlight he had ever seen. That it was dimmed by the ever-present London smoke mattered not. He was in the light and the air. He gaped at the high gray walls and the bailey yard. A guard in glittering steel paced atop whilst another with halberd in hand stood at a corner.  

The door crashed closed and he looked over his shoulder to see that they were indeed shadowed by one of the gaolers in the livery of the Tower rather than armor, but he had a sword at his waist. His heavy shoulders and thick neck below a blunt face made James assume he could use the weapon. James decided that he should give him no reason.

A laugh came from around the bend of the tower and a lithe figure wearing a battered helm and armor sauntered into view. When the man saw James, he pulled his helm off and held an arm wide in welcome. He examined James through large, dark eyes under arched brows.  

“Well met, my lord,” the man said in a strong singsong accent. “I heard we had new companions in this charming abode.” His black curling hair was dripping with sweat.

James blinked at him and after a moment nodded in greeting. Obviously not a guard, the man was mayhap twenty with a sarcastic twist to his narrow lips.

“Forgive me. I am Gruffydd ab Owen Glendwr, eldest son of Prince Owen Glendwr.” He snorted a wry laugh. “And fellow ‘guest’ in this fine English Tower.”

James was reminded a bit of Robert Lauder. At least there might be fine company in this dour place. “I’m James.” He shrugged. “Earl of Carrick and son of King Robert of Scotland, if any of that matters here.”

Gruffydd threw a casual arm around James’s shoulder. “Aye, it does, lad. You’d not want to be a villain in this place, stuck in the lower dungeons. Though my lack of coin makes my stay less pleasant than some.” He looked past James to William and nodded a greeting.

“William Giffart, my lord,” Will said. “Lord James’s squire.”

But James was moving back from Gruffyd. He reached for the blunted practice blade in his new friend’s hand. Bouncing on his toes and turning the blade in his hand, he said, “They let us practice in the yard?”

“With blunted blades, certes, but we may practice at sword and even tilt at the quatrain when Sir Thomas feels kindly.”

James’s face split in a grin, but then his face fell a little. “My sword work isn’t as good as I would like, Gruffydd.”

“Then the three of us shall practice together.” The Welshman winked. “They call me a fair hand with a blade, so I’ll teach you what I know. It will keep us from dying of boredom.”

A King Uncaged -- To the Tower with You!

From my WIP following young James's capture by the English pirate Hugh-atte-Fen:

The bile-green Thames flowed in ripples around the ship. They sailed past a square, gray keep that rose like a growth above a dreary marsh. Was that the Tower of London where so many ended their lives, James wondered? Orkney made a strangled sound in his throat. When James looked at him from the corner of his eye, the earl just shook his head and glanced toward scar-face. The man had his arms, thick as tree trunks, crossed but his sword was on his hip. His pig eyes never left them and three other pirates had hands on their hilts as they stood guard. Beyond the grim keep was a jumble of buildings that stretched out of sight on a reed choked shore. The wind smelled of horse shit and sweat and smoke and rotting fish. All cities smelled, but none other so strong that it closed his throat.

Dozens of wharves thrust into the water and masts rose around them as thick as trees in a forest. Hugh-atte-Fen called out a command and lines were thrown to the nearest. There were shouts and the ship was hauled in and lashed to the quay.

James craned his neck from one side to the other. On the shore, he made out nothing but a muddle of buildings with reeking chimneys, alleys, spires, and belfries hunched under a canopy of dark smoke that covered the sky. But the quays were all noise and confusion. Crates were being carried off ships. Wagons were being loaded and men shouted, cursed, laughed. Everyone was in an uproar to be somewhere other than where they were.

“My lords.” Hugh-atte-Fen swaggered in their direction and gave another of his taunting bows. “I must go ashore to arrange a greeting suitable to such lofty and honored guests. I shan’t be long.”

Orkney’s lips were pressed together so hard they were white. James wanted to ask him what to expect. But the earl had cut him off with narrow eyed looks at their captors whenever he tried to ask. He looked back at that grim tower and his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest. James gripped his fists so hard that his nails cut into his palms. It hurt but helped him to be quiet. His heart raced. He couldn’t return to Scotland, not until he was a man grown and able to fight his murderous uncle. But he couldn’t stay in England.  To be locked in a dungeon. He couldn’t!

The sun was near its zenith and sweat dripping down James’s back in the wet heat when Hugh-etta-Fen strutted down the quay and up the gangplank, a score of men-at-arms, halberds over their shoulders, at his back. The man patted a fat purse hanging from his belt, his teeth flashing in a taunting grin. “You have been profitable guests, my lords, so I wish you good luck with your new host.”

“Enough chatter.” The sergeant jerked his thumb toward the gangplank. “We’ve orders to move you lot and better things to do.”

“Move us where?” Orkney demanded and Sir Archibald crossed his arms, glowering.

The sergeant motioned to his men and the long weapons were lowered so that they bristled toward the two men. 

Orkney rubbed his dark-circled eyes before he stepped forward. “Keep Lord James between the two of you,” he said over his shoulder as he paced down the gangplank. With William on one side and Sir Archibald on the other, James followed close behind. The men-at-arms formed in a square around them.

The guards shoved their way between two wagons where men were piling casks and crates.  A broad shouldered man didn’t get out of the way and a blow from the staff of a halberd knocked him to his knees. He shouted curses behind them as they marched past and into the warren of narrow streets.

The cacophony assaulted James like hammer blows. From everywhere seemed to come shouts, laughs, screams, bells tolling, distant hammering, horses whinnied and it all mixed with the clanking of armor of their guards. The street squelched with filth under his feet. The upper stories of the buildings jutted out, almost meeting overhead letting through dim shafts of murky light. “Miserére mei, Deus…” James muttered under his breath.

The streets milled with crowds: a legless man yelled for alms, drunken soldiers staggered out the door of a public house, hawkers shouted their wares, whores lounged in doorways making offers to their guards as they passed. Everywhere he looked, anywhere he looked, there were people. Vast seas of people and no one he knew. Fiercely, he jammed his hands into his armpits and kept trudging along. When a man carrying a barrel on his shoulder got in the way, two of the guards grabbed him to shove head first into a wall. The barrel leaked ale in a puddle as the man knelt and moaned.

On a street corner a Grey Friar in a soiled robe was praying loudly for Prince Henry, but the crowds paid him no more mind than if he were a yapping dog. They passed four men struggling to work a pushcart free, its wheels stuck in the muck. An acrobat in ragged motley tottered on stilts to the delighted shouts of a drunken throng.

Walking through the streets of the huge, strange city surrounded by armed guards, James gaped at everything, yet he hardly drew a glance. He was glad, but what kind of city was it where prisoners were so common? The Tower of London was out of sight now and they were going in the wrong direction to go there. “Where do you think they’re taking us?” he asked William in an undertone.

William shook his head and from the glazed look he gave James, he was no less confused.  The bells of the Angelus began to chime and James looked up to see the gray stone of a minster rising before them. He nudged William with his elbow.

It wasn’t a great castle. In fact, it was no castle at all but an old abbey, though the entrance porch was new polished stone with elaborately carved faces and splendid flying buttresses on the sides supported the building. 

Men-at-arms threw open the carved, arched doors.

As they were escorted through chamber after chamber, nobles in fine dress, servants in livery and clerics turned to stare, nothing James hadn’t seen before. But the rooms were a jumble of multicolored carpets, statues, tapestries, carved benches, and burnished armorials beneath crossed swords.  James had never seen rooms so awash in colors and  furnishings. When he realized he was gaping, he snapped his mouth closed.

At last they came to the open doors of the audience chamber. The sergeant whispered to a page who gave Orkney a grudging bow and escorted them into the great vaulted chamber. It was flooded with noonday light from immense, arched windows.  James blinked in the sudden light, trying to make sense of the sudden chaos in the vast chamber.  Overhead, the beams soared to an unbelievable height, and around James and his little retinue, men bellowed laughter and shouted to be heard. They churned in a sea of colorful silks and James could see no more than a few feet into the hall awash with courtiers. He chewed his lip and slid his gaze to look from the corners at the earl. Orkney was white to the lips, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

James took a single step forward and squared his shoulders. One of the Englishman, fine as a peacock in blue satin, nudged his neighbor with and elbow and sneered in their direction. James dug his nails into his palms as he forced himself to look through the beautifully dressed rabble as though they weren’t there.

Trumpets blew at the far end of the hall and the babble quieted to a murmur.  “Our most dread lord, Henry, King of England,” a strong voice shouted.

Orkney laid a hand on James’s shoulder and squeezed so hard James it hurt, but James gave a little nod. He kept his eyes straight ahead.

The men around them were bowing low and at last James caught a glimpse of a throne on a far dais. The chamber was huge, he thought, bigger than any he’d ever seen. But then his breath caught. A burly man with a plain gold coronet encircling his dark hair and a neatly trimmed short beard paused half way to the dais. He bent his head as a prelate in a crimson robe dusted with jewels put a hand on his shoulder and said something into his ear. In his rich black tunic and cloth of gold cloak, he threw his head back and hooted a laugh.  James’s stomach twisted in his gut.

Henry Bolingbroke, king of England, laughed hard for a few more moments before he strode to the gilded throne and threw himself down in an inelegant sprawl. His squinting blue eyes fastened on James and he called out, “Come. Bring my new guests before me.”

An usher stepped forward. He motioned to the four of them. Orkney nodded and side by side with him, James approached the throne. Sir Archibald and William followed on their heels.

A few strides from the throne, Orkney halted and Orkney’s hand halted James. They bowed deeply to his captor. The king grinned as he looked James up and down, paying no heed at all to the others.

“A whelp of Scotland.” He snorted.  “James they call you?”

“Aye, your grace. James, earl of Carrick and prince of Scotland and this is my household.” He motioned to the grim-faced earl of Orkney. “Sir Henry Sinclair, earl of Orkney, Sir Archibald Edmonstone, and my squire, William Gifford.”

“You were fleeing to France, I am told, to be educated and properly schooled in French.” King Henry leaned forward with his elbows on the arms of his throne and pondered James for a moment and grinned.  “Your father should have sent you to me straight away. I am after all the rightful king of France and well able to teach you the language.”

James gritted his teeth as his face flooded with heat. "Son Altesse Royale, vous me feriez trop d'honneur."

King Henry looked at him. There was silence as though the men around them held their breaths.  When the king snorted back laughter, chuckles rippled through the chamber.  “C'est vrai, mon enfant. I have no time for schooling a child, but we shall see that you have a tutor who is suitable to your rank.” His glance slid over William. “And you have a squire. That is seemly, but you have no need for a larger household in the Tower.”

“Your grace!” Orkney’s hand tightened on James’s shoulder. “You can’t mean to send the lad to such terrible…”

“Silence,” the king said, rising from his seat, his voice heavy with annoyance. “We did not give you leave to speak. You will be allowed ransom, sir earl, you and the knight with you. Until then I shall hear nothing further from you.” Silence fell and he glowered at around the great chamber. “Now where is Thomas Rempston?”

James glanced back and saw a slight, middle-aged man, dressed in rich blue, with a bald head and a beak of a nose threading his way through the press. When he reached the dais, he bowed deeply. “Your grace?”

The king took his seat on the throne and nodded amiably.  “Sir Thomas, as you see we have more guests to join the other Scots in the Tower. Young James here must have tutors and be kept in reasonable comfort.” He eyed James and his companions with a smile on his lips. “Allow the earl messengers to arrange ransom for himself and the knight—as quickly as possible. I don’t intend to support a large household for the boy.”

Orkney’s fingers were digging into his shoulder so hard, James was sure they would leave bruises. The man made a strangled noise in his throat and words seemed to burst from him, “Your grace. Surely a boy of such tender years--you cannot mean to send to…”

“By the mass, I bade you be silent!” The king pointed a finger at Orkney. Orkney clamped his lips in a thin line under the king's glare and then King Henry turned to Thomas Rempston with a narrow-eyed look. “As my Constable of the Tower, you will see to them.” He flourished a dismissive hand.

It was a stiff and shallow bow that Orkney offered the English king. James gave the earl a doubtful glance from the corner of his eye and followed suit. Sir Thomas Rempston motioned for them to follow him, and outside the chamber, they were once again surrounded by guards.  

“It will take much time for arranging ransom’s, lad,” Orkney said through gritted teeth. “Much time…” Nothing else was said through the chaos of the London streets with its high overhanging houses and milling crowds. At last they came to a long, open marketplace of tents and stalls of every color. On one side, cattle were lowing and bawling in an enclosure. Poultry honked and cackled inside pens, adding to the cacophony of farmers shouting their vegetables, women bargaining, and bakers’ boys calling out, “Bread. Fresh bread.”

Their guards yelled, “Make way!” People grumbled and cursed as they were shoved aside so the guards could march them through to the other side. James sucked in a deep breath when he saw a moat. A bloated body of a dog and brown bits that James refused to consider floated in the stinking water.  James reluctantly raised his eyes to the high, crenellated, gray wall where armored guards paced. Their footsteps reverberated like drumbeats on the wooden drawbridge as they paced across. The heavy gate screeched open and James shuddered. Within the outer walls, on a rise, soared the stern, implacable face of the keep.

He went cold and his vision swam. The next step was the hardest he had ever taken. James forced his legs to move. He walked through. The gates of the Tower of London crashed closed behind him.