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A King Ensnared

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Book 2 in The Stewart Chronicles

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Cover Art for my upcoming novel: A King Uncaged

By artist Mark Churms

Snippet from my upcoming sequel to A King Ensnared

Totally unedited at this point so be kind. :)

Joan smoothed the skirt of her gown, the comeliest she had ever owned. Everything she wore was new. Her smock was of fine linen, the under-gown of the finest wool to protect against February's chill. Of a deep sapphire blue as her mother had insisted, it was snug to her hips and then flared to the ground. The outer surcoat, a paler blue, was samite with shimmering gold thread running through; its deep V-neck showed the darker gown beneath.

Queen Catherine was officially helping her to dress, but seemed to look through them as though they weren't there. She turned and wandered to the window. Joan's mother pulled a comb through her hair one last time more and smoothed it down her back to her waist. She made a little smacking sound with her lips and said, "Soon I may never see you again, daughter."

Joan turned and pressed a quick kiss to her mother's cheek, but she had no idea what to say.

"I have no right to be sad." Her mother shook her head and smiled although it looked a bit false. "How many mothers have their daughters with them so long?"

"They tried to convince me to marry enough times. Now I think my uncle may now be glad of my being such the stubborn girl he always called me."

Her mother shook out her veil, silk so fine it seemed no more than a wisp. "Henry was too fond to force you." Her marriage had been fiercely argued since she was fourteen and her betrothed died.  Then Joan swore they'd have to drag her screaming to the altar. She'd thought a few times that Henry might do so, but he'd given way to her entreaties. Joan lowered her head so the veil could be settled over her hair and a narrow gold circlet put on her brow to hold it in place. Her mother kissed her forehead. "Beautiful daughter. They'll love you, but--" her voice broke. "Sending to live with the wild Scots. It is a hard thing."

Leaving behind the civilized ways of the English was frightening enough that when she allowed herself to consider it, her heart beat like mad, but James would be with her. All would be well. She was sure of it.  She held her mother's hand and turned to look into the mirror that her little sister, Margaret, was holding up for her, eyes wide. "You look so elegant, Joan. I hope I look so when I wed."

"You will, Meg." In the mirror, her mouth curved into a smile. Meg was right that she looked elegant. She squeezed her mother's hand. "All will be well. I promise."

She hardly felt the stairs under her feet as she hurried down to the bailey yard. Her father should have been the one to lead her mount to the church but he was long dead and her two elder brothers prisoners in France, so it was her youngest brother Edmund, a rangy boy of eighteen still with a few spots on his sullen face, who lifted her by the waist and seated her in the saddle. The cream-colored mare was a wedding gift from her uncle. It was a beauty and she touched its mane that was braided with sprigs of lily, bishop's lace, and roses

"Ready?" Edmund scowled up at her.

She touched his shoulder. "Don't be so angry." She couldn't help that it had been the Scots who had captured their brothers in France. It seemed unfair for him to blame James, and they had little time left to make peace. "Can't you be happy for me?"

"Are you? Happy?" he said as he took the bridle and led the way through the gate and onto the street.

"I am." She smiled up at the watery February sunlight. The throng that lined the London Bridge was cheering as the mare pranced daintily across. Banners flapped overhead, held up by the men-at-arms, marching in a line on each side of the party; the Queen, her mother and other guests followed. The veil gave made the world look hazy and dream-like.

Beneath the massive square bell tower, the grounds of the Church of St. Mary Overie was bustling with the people of London, happy to cheer for a royal wedding, even that of a Scot.  James stood before the arched doors, shining like a Roman god in his cloth-of-gold doublet beneath a cloak of crimson velvet blazoned with the Lion Rampant of Scotland. Beside him stood her uncle, Henry Beaumont, the bishop. A rushing strange sound in her ears pulsed in a strange counterpoint to the shouts.

His face solemn, James strode forward to meet her as Edmund lifted her down from the saddle. He took her hand to lead her to lead her to the doors where they would be wed, in the open as was custom so the crowd could witness their joining. Everything seemed even hazier and time heaved oddly along while her stomach fluttered as though filled with riotous butterflies. The buzz in her head confused the words of the ceremony. 

She could barely follow what James said in a response to her uncle but then it was her turn. She took a deep, calming breath. She swallowed hard and managed to keep her voice even to say, "I, Joan de Beaufort, take thee, James Stewart, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart: according to Gods holy ordinance: And thereto I pledge thee my troth."

The bishop took the ring and said a quick prayer over the gold band with its square emerald.  James retrieved it from him and lifted her left hand. Her head spun and she sucked in a breath. She would not faint at her wedding and have her new husband think her a weak goose.

"With this ring I thee wed: This gold and silver I thee give: with my body I thee worship: and withal my worldly goods I thee endow." He slipped the ring in turn a little way onto each finger saying in turn, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." With the last phrase, he slid it onto her ring finger.

Cheers and whistles nearly drowned out her uncles closing blessing.  People surged forward and a fresh-faced acolyte held up an alms bowl. James slipped his arm around her waist and she welcomed the support as she scooped up a handful of silver pennies. She suddenly felt giddy and a laugh bubbled up. She flung the coins to scatter them into the crowd. They shouted her name and scrambled for the coins. James flung a handful high over the heads of the mob. She grabbed more and tossed them until the bowl was empty. She smiled up at James and through the mist of her veil she saw him look down at her, his large, piercing blue eyes shining.

She couldn't help softly laughing when James led her into the church.

As quickly as the wedding had passed, the Mass dragged as though time had slowed to a crawl. In the cool darkness of the church, she breathed in the pleasant scent of beeswax candles and frankincense as she tried not to twitch with impatience. Her uncle droned on through the service but her mind wandered to the banquet that awaited them. Was the food sufficiently elegant? Her mother had assured her it was. Had they planned enough minstrels and tumblers? Later, for the first time since France, she and James would at last be alone and the thought made her heart race like a galloping steed. The bedding revels were less to her taste. Poor Queen Catherine had been near tears at the shouts and rude instructions when Henry's companions tossed him into bed with her. Still, it must be borne for what came after.

At one point, her uncle read from the scripture of Ruth: "Do not be against me, as if I would abandon you and go away; for wherever you will go, I will go, and where you will stay, I will stay. Your people are my people…" It jerked Joan's mind back to the present. Ruth had gone to an alien land. Joan was no Bible scholar but that she remembered that much. Ruth had taken strangers as her people.

Suddenly, she felt cold at the thought of a life amongst people she didn't know who might hate her. James must have felt her tremble for he pressed her fingers. She took a deep breath. James's people would be hers. They wouldn't hate her because she was English. James wouldn't let them.

A King Ensnared Now Available

On the dangerous stage of medieval Scotland, one man--in an English dungeon--stands between the Scots and anarchy.

Robert III, King of the Scots, is dead, and Scotland in 1406 is balanced on a knife’s edge. As he eyes the throne, King Robert’s ruthless half-brother, the Duke of Albany, has already murdered one prince and readies to kill young James Stewart, prince and heir to the crown. 

James flees Scotland and his murderous uncle. Captured and imprisoned by the English, he grows to be a man of contradictions, a poet yet a knight, a dreamer yet fiercely driven. Hardened by his years in the Tower of London and haunted by his brother’s brutal murder, James is determined to recover his crown and end his uncle's misrule. But the only way may be to betray Scotland and everything he believes in. 

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Through Nov. 30
Also Available in Paperback

'A King Ensnared' Cover Reveal

Out November 21

King Henry V Gives an Ultimatum

A chapter much further along in the same Work in Progress:

All the gaolers had been whispering that Henry would soon leave England for Calais to plot with Emperor Sigismund and John of Burgundy to finish the defeat of the French. Charles could not hear the duke’s name without cursing him for his treachery. The talk of it only frustrated James, locked as they were in the Tower although James had come to prefer it to Windsor. The men-at-arms were always glad to give him a round with the sword. Wrestling was now his favorite though. And when Charles wasn’t cursing the treachery of the Burgundians, he was good company. James had promised him a new verse since it occupied the time to go over each other’s work. He frowned over what he had written:

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone,         

Despaired of all joy and remedy,       

For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone…           

James tossed down his quill and ink splattered across the page. Where could he go with the verse except more of bewailing his estate? He had had enough of it. Perhaps in the bailey yard he could find someone who would work him until he was too tired to think, too tired to moan that he was a prisoner still—after ten years that had stretched out like a long black tunnel—dark days without end.

He jumped to his feet, took a deep breath and released it. Very well. To the bailey yard. The man-at-arms flinched when James banged open the door. James gave him a curt nod, knowing he would follow. Taking the steps two at a time, James plunged down the winding stairs and out into the smoky sunshine, through the bailey and into the practice yard. He slapped his hands on his hips. “I can beat any man here in a wrestling match” he shouted “Will any of you try to prove me wrong?”

“I can prove you wrong any day, Lord James.” The sergeant, one James had seen wrestling Berolt some time back, sneered. He worked his heavy shoulders as he strode toward James. James unfastened his doublet and tossed it aside. A murmur of anticipation was spreading through the grounds. He swung his arms to get the blood flowing.

The man stopped in the center of the practice yard in a half-crouch, arms cocked, a grin lifting a corner of his mouth. Moving around him in a slow circle, careful to stay beyond his reach, James said, “You ken my name. Wha’ is yours?”

“Adam,” he said, wheeling to keep James in sight. “Not that it matters when I have you pinned. I plan on making you eat dirt, Scot.”

Darting forward, James grabbed for an arm lock. Adam slapped his hands away and went for James’s shoulders. James let him close and Adam had him by the arm, using his hip to throw him to the ground. James grabbed him around the chest and took Adam down with him. They rolled as James used his powerful shoulders to throw Adam off. They jumped to their feet and backed away. “Make me eat dirt?” James jeered. “I’ll feed you horse shite first.”

Adam rushed in and seized James in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet. He squeezed and James thought his ribs would shatter. The man had more strength than any James had ever fought before. Desperately, he put both his hands to the man’s chin and pushed, forcing his head back. Adam grunted, squeezing harder but James straightened his arms, locked his elbows, and broke the hold.

James took a step back and Adam kept coming. He was burly and fiercely strong, but he wasn’t fast. They circled and James considered how to take advantage of the man’s slowness.

James feinted and Adam answered with a dodge. That gave James an instant of opportunity. He stepped in close, grabbed him around the waist, wheeled to behind him, and threw him over his own shoulder to the ground. He spun and jumped down on him to pin him. Then James grinned. “Shall I make you eat shite, Sassenach?” The man was growling and heaving his body but James had him pinned. The ring of guards who had gathered to watch were whistling and calling out for Adam to get up. “Throw him off, Adam. Have at him,” one shouted.

James had to force Adam’s shoulders down to win. Sweat dripped off his head and shoulders. James had his knees on the heavier man’s hips, a hand on each shoulder. Grunting, he put his full weight on his opponent’s pitching shoulders.  Adam slapped a hand on the ground in surrender.

“What is to do here?” a voice bellowed.

James looked up to find King Henry glaring at them, his mouth in a hard line. “Up from there both of you. Now!”

The watching guards had scattered like a flock of geese. James cuffed Adam’s shoulder and rose to his feet. He looked around and found his doublet. As he donned it, the king barked, “You. If you have nothing better to do than fighting our prisoners, I’ll see that your commander mends matters.” At his elbow, Beaufort looked on silently, dressed in flowing red robes of silk and reeking of some flowery perfume while the king’s guard’s looked on open-mouthed.

Adam was backing away, stuttering apologies and excuses as he went. Henry’s scowl at James would have flayed the hide from a boar, had one been there. As it was James laced his doublet and then bowed with a half-smile. “Were you seeking me, Your Grace?”

“God damn you, James. Playing at fighting with guards? You have more important things to think on.” He looked around the practice yard as though expecting some help to appear. “After all these years, have you gained no sense? You forced to hold you under harsh durance from your obstinacy and learn nothing.” 

Beaufort gave the king an unctuous smile and laid a pudgy hand on his sleeve. “I understand your disappointment in Lord James. It gives me no joy to see a nobleman play the ruffian. Yet you must remember your own dignity and the matter you came to discuss with him is serious. It is best discussed privily, do you not think, Your Grace?”

King Henry’s face flooded with color and he shook off his uncle’s hand. He turned on a heel and stormed into the White Tower, down the narrow corridor, and into the chapel, never once bothering to glance if the others followed. He stood for a few minutes seeming to stare at the watery light which filtered through the stained glass windows. When he turned, his expression was mild. “When my father allowed you at his court, I always said you were a fine hand with a harp.”

“His Grace does me too much honor. I dally with both harp and with sword.” James crossed his arms and grinned. “I am trying to convince your Constable of the Tower that we need a tennis court. I believe I would enjoy that as well as I do wrestling.”

“So you are happy enough to remain my prisoner. You will not seek your freedom? Are you truly so craven?”

“No, Your Grace.” James fought to keep the anger out of his voice and failed. “It is you who denies me freedom whether I would seek it or not. Have you forgotten?”

“Denied it?” Henry had the gall to look incensed. He pointed at James. “I deny you nothing. You deny it to yourself. Swear your fealty to me, and you have your freedom. I require nothing more. And count yourself blessed, because I am defeating the French even with Douglas and his followers from Scotland taking their side. Albany is too craven to do so himself, but thousands of the Douglas followers are in France.” Henry stepped closer to glower into James’s face. “I shall defeat them with or without your fealty.”

“The king is all kindness,” Beaufort said. “I have advised his grace against freeing you, but his conscience pricks him that he promised the late king.”

James slowly shook his head. “I cannot. You know I cannot.”

“I do not know that.” King Henry stepped even closer to him and spoke slowly, softly as though to a child. “Think, James. Soon I shall have France in my hands; after I shall not long leave an enemy at my northern border. But I would not lead my armies against a sworn liegeman. It is the only way you can save Scotland. The only way you will free yourself. I weary of waiting for you to see sense.”

To his amazement, James was sure Henry believed what he was saying. “You truly believe that my people would accept an English overlord? That they would nae throw me off if I did such a thing? Because I assure, you they would.”

“The French are coming to accept me, however much they have fought the idea of being ruled by an English king.”

“Have you terrorized them enough that they will in truth? Burning all the way to Agincourt… The slaughter of prisoners…”

A deep red climbed up from Henry’s velvet color until the deep scar on his cheek stood out bone white against his flaming face. “There was no slaughter!” When James just raised an eyebrow, Henry visibly took a deep breath. “You know naught of battle. I could not risk the prisoners rising in the midst of my men.”

James opened his mouth to ask if Henry had forgotten to have his prisoners disarmed that they would be such a danger, for James knew they had been disarmed, but from the look on the king’s face, decided that there was wisdom in silence. He snapped his mouth closed. After a pungent pause, James motioned around them. “Aye, it is true I know more of imprisonment than of battle. But I will not give away my kingdom. Not to any man on this earth.”

“God damn you!” King Henry shouted, the words roaring out of him as though he could no longer contain his ire.  “I am out of patience. Enjoy your imprisonment if you can.”

“So be it, if I must, but I will not kneel to you to give you my fealty.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed and he jabbed a finger at James. “Get out of my sight. Out! Run back to your cell like a craven.”

James turned on his heel. As he marched from the chapel, he could feel Henry’s stare stab his back. As he reached the doors he heard Beaufort say in his sleekit tone, “The Scots will be nothing for you to defeat, Your Grace. Now we must prepare for your departure to Calais.”

A Son Mourns

The room was blessedly silent. James leaned his head against the cool, damp stone and hammered his fist into it as hard as he could. It hurt when the skin split and blood dripped down his wrist—a welcome pain. It made the pain in his chest seem less.

How could he? To give up.  Their father had let Robbie die. Now he had abandoned James—alone—imprisoned.

James turned and propped his back against the wall, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest and blinking back the burning in his eyes. He wouldn’t weep. He wouldn’t! Not for a father and king who cared so little for him.

The door creaked half-open and Gruffudd stood in the opening, a flagon in his hand. “Sir Thomas sent this for you. He’s not so bad once you’re in his good graces, and I think you need it.” He closed the door behind him and poured some wine into a cup.

James nodded but he looked away, swallowing. He felt as though there was a stone in his throat. Perhaps the wine would help, so he took it with his left hand, his right still dribbling blood.

“Have anything to wrap that?” Gruffudd asked.

James took a deep drink of the wine—sweet and not much watered. With a sigh he hooked a stool with his foot and sank down on it. He turned his hand to examine the split. “It’s nae so bad. It will stop soon.”

When Gruffudd had helped himself to a cup of wine, he flung himself on James’s bed, propping up a knee with an arm flung over it. “Your bed is softer than mine.” He gave a wry twitch of his mouth.

“Is it?” James poked at the shallow split on the side of his palm for a minute, but the bleeding had already almost stopped. He looked up at Gruffudd and the words tumbled out. “Your father. Do you—honor him?”

He gave James a rather apologetic look. “My father is a strong man, you see.” He shrugged and took a sip of the wine. “Too strong mayhap. He could not abide the English ruling over us. Grey de Ruthyn seized out lands and because we are Welsh the English shrugged at it.” He swirled the wine in his cup and looked pensive. “That doesn’t matter. But… Aye, I honor him--failed him though I did.”

“I—I did not—honor mine.” James looked sadly at his cup of wine and swallowed down the rest in a gulp. “He was a poor king. I kent that when I was still but a lad.”

“I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t stand the hot anger burning through him, and he jumped to his feet. The stool toppled. He hurled the cup against the wall. “Damn him!” It clattered onto the floor, a smear of wine marring the wall.

Gruffudd shook his head. “It may be that he could not help it. He was as he was.”

James’s shoulders slumped. He righted the stool, eyes burning with tears he would not let fall. He walked slowly back and forth across the room before he sat back down. Propping his elbows on his knees, he sank his hands into his hair and gripped. “He let them kill Robbie. Did nothing. He never did anything. If he was so grieved at my capture, why did he nae do something? Only my mother did—when she lived. Wha’ kind of king is that?”

“You will be different.”  

“Why do I feel so—so lost though?” His voice choked. “I should nae care.”

“He was your father. He would not have grieved so if he hadn’t cared for you, lad.”

James rocked where he sat and tears began to run down his face. “That makes it worse. Don’t you see?”