A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (8 page)

James strode to them and bent over her
hand, his face burning. "I'm honored to serve my lord however I can. Even
if it's only finding dinner."

The king laughed but it was harsh. "I
never said it was his only skill. He shielded me whilst I lay on the field. I
would have died that day but for my good Jamie. And but for my dear
good-brother, Christopher." The king cleared his throat, his face twisting.
"We won't grieve tonight. I swear it. It's a night for joy that you're
with us."

"I said that day on the road that you'd
serve us well, did I not?" She squeezed James's fingers. "I was right.
We owe you a great debt."

"No debt--only my duty."

He pretended Isabella wasn't watching as he
backed away.

Every day, word had filtered to them of
another execution. They'd had much of grief and nothing of joy. James paced,
muttering under his breath. The food really wasn't enough. It had never been
enough since they'd been routed at Methven. He stood by the fire where the
venison was spitted and a man turned it. Grease sputtered as it dripped and
sent up a savory smell.

He spotted Boyd directing his men with the
newly arrived horses. "Robbie," James called. "That man of
yours--there's one who sings. He knows some fine ballads. He was singing just a
night or two ago."

"Yes, Cailean has a mellow voice. He'll
entertain the ladies. I'll be hard put to wait on that venison though. I swear
my belly thinks I've given up food for lent."

James laughed. "It's not lent."

"Don't tell my belly that."

James joined in kicking out some fires so
they'd have room for tables. Shadows grew long from the pine trees around the
camp, and the wind cooled from the heat of the day. Their men pulled rough hewed
boards together and set up tables, a high table for the king and long side ones
for the men.

The salmon lay ready for the ladies on a
wooden trencher. A keg of wine sat at the end of the table. On the
purple-carpeted hill, Bruce sat, daughter in his lap, his four brothers, his
two sisters, his wife and her lady-in-waiting, Isabel, seated on the ground around
him. The ladies had changed from their traveling clothes into gay colors.
Isabella wore the blue that matched her eyes. James pretended he didn't watch
her and kept pacing, checking that all was ready for the feast.

There was no seat of honor for the king,
and they'd all share crude benches. James propped his foot on one and pressed,
testing its steadiness. Only a small wobble on the uneven ground. It would have
to do.

In the distance, a nightingale began its
trilling, chirping evening song. The king led them down from the hill, and they
passed no more than a foot from where James stood next to the tables. First,
the king with the queen on his arm. A golden coronet gleamed amidst the piles
of the queen's long hair. The king kept her close as he led her to the head of
the table, and she never took her eyes from his face.

Next came Sir Edward, even after weeks in
the field his blond head gleaming, younger and gayer than the king, with
Isabella on his arm. James narrowed his eyes, gauging him. He held Isabella much
too close to his side. This is what a man looked like when he seduced a woman,
James brooded. She didn't even glance his way but kept her eyes on Sir Edward's
face, laughing up at him.

After them came the others, the other
brothers with their sisters between them, putting on happy faces at the king's
command. And some of the laughter even rang true. Alexander, the slenderest and
least warlike of the brothers, had his arm around his sister's shoulder,
talking as they went. She was a wisp of a woman, her hair a tumble of auburn
curls. Sir Niall was talking to his wife.

One of their men played a pipe whilst Cailean
sang in a sweet voice:

A knight's
young, when he thinks money's for burning;

When ruined, he
smiles without a trace of ruth.

He's young when
he throws stakes all on a bluff,

And feels that
no fine armor is good enough.

He's young, if
he's skilled in all lovers' passion,

And he's young, if
he knows war is what life is for.

James looked once more towards Isabella laughing
up at Sir Edward. He found he had a thirst so he pulled a flagon of wine over. He
poured himself a cup. Swallowing it down and refilling it, he stared into the
bonfire that crackled, flames leaping into the air, lighting the table as the
late summer light failed. Then he poured another and drank it.

There wasn't any reason she should be with
him, not when she could sit with Edward Bruce. What was he but a lowly knight,
ruined by their invaders?

"You making a dinner of that wine?"
a voice said at his shoulder.

Boyd stood over him and gave James a light
cuff. One of the knights paused in the midst of the bawdy story he'd been
telling to scoot down and make room. Boyd straddled the bench. He reached for
the wine flagon and poured himself a cup. "I told you she'd lead you a
dance."

James knifed a hunk of venison from the
middle of the table and let it slide onto the trencher in front of him. "No
woman leads me a dance." He cut a slice of meat and stuffed it in his
mouth, indignantly.

Boyd laughed. He was sharp featured with a
scarred cheek from a fall in at Falkirk Battle, but there was always a hint of
a jest in his blue eyes. "All women lead us a dance. It's what the good
God made them for. Nothing to be ashamed of, lad."

One of the men got to his feet and began to
sing a ballad about star-crossed lovers. James washed the meat down with his
wine and sighed. "I suppose," James said in a flat voice. "But
they don't lead Sir Edward in a dance."

"No, I suppose they don't. They like
that he laughs. And that he's bold. In everything he does, few are bolder."

"Other men are bold."

"James, no one would question your
courage. But you don't plunge in without thinking, and that's no bad thing. There
are days when a knight needs more than boldness." Boyd put a hand on his
shoulder.

James' hands shook. "Do you say I'm
faint-hearted? I've never been accused of such a thing. Never." He spat
the word out.

James realized that all talk at the table
had ceased. They were staring at him. God a'mercy, he was picking a fight with
Robbie Boyd. He pushed himself to his feet.

"I must be excused," James said
with the last of his pride. He turned to leave before he could mortify himself
further. He must have drunk more wine than he'd realized and on an empty
stomach at that. His feet tangled with the bench and he lurched sideways,
sending his cup, still half-full of wine, splashing across his chest. Someone
laughed. James felt his face flood with heat. Boyd grabbed his shoulder to
steady him, but James jerked away. He whirled and strode towards the trees.

In the shadow of the pines out of sight of
the camp was dark and lonely. James spotted a sole sentry staring towards the
mountains as he guarded against their enemies, his cloak blowing around him. From
the clearing, the words of a song spilled through the trees. Singing was the
last thing James wanted to hear. The stars did a fuzzy dance in the sky. He
crossed his arms and leaned against the rough trunk of a tree, furious with
himself for being a fool. She'd looked at another man. But why did it have to
be Edward Bruce? He sank down onto the ground and held his head in his hands.

James awoke with a foul taste like goat
piss in his mouth. It was early and the sun was still behind the mountain
lending a golden cast to the eastern sky. He unfolded his long legs and stood
up where he'd fallen asleep on the bank of the river, keeping a careful hand on
a tree trunk. From the way his head pounded, it would be all too easy to tumble
himself into the water. He leaned his head on his hand until he was steady.

Each pounding pulse of his head reminded
him of his performance last eve. A man might be in his cups. But acting a fool
had no excuse. His father would have cuffed him until his ears rang.

Kneeling by the fast flowing water, he
splashed his face and tried to wash the taste out of his mouth. Every muscle
ached, as it always did from sleeping in mail. Often they had to, but nothing
would make it comfortable. He groaned. The camp would need food. He had to go
out and see what he could shoot. Soon they'd have to move. It was too dangerous
to stay in one place long, and they were quickly depleting the game.

He swiped the water off his face and out of
his short black beard with a hand. Time to get back to the camp. He could
hardly skulk in the woods all day.

When he walked into the clearing, one of
the tables was still set up with flat round loaves of oat bannock on it. Breaking
off half of one, he took a tentative bite, not any too sure that his stomach
would keep food. Instead of making him feel sicker, it settle the grumbling so
he poured himself a cup of wine and washed the bread down.

"Jamie, I didn't expect you'd be about
so early." Boyd was looking him over, arms crossed and grinning.

"I'm not usually such a fool in my
cups," James said sheepishly. "But my head feeling like it was kicked
by a horse or not, I have to get us some food. You others mostly just chase the
game away."

"I don't know what you mean. I caught
a nice scrawny squirrel yesterday."

They'd set up a small pavilion for the
ladies and a second for the king and queen. No one expected them to sleep in
the open as the men did, but it had James chewing his lip when he looked at it.
This matter of having the women with them could be a disaster, not that the
king had been left much choice. Isabella stepped into the opening and smiled in
their direction. James felt his heart turn over and shook his head. Fool.

She walked towards them and motioned to the
food on the table. "I'm going to take something for the queen and the
others to break their fast. They're tending to Christina." Isabella turned
her face away. "She's taking it hard and who can blame her."

"No one, my lady," Boyd said. "The
English king is crazed to do such things. To refuse ransom and execute such a
man."

"You'll want some wine." James
drew a flagon from the tapped cask that sat at the end of the table. She seemed
so vulnerable today. Not at all how she had been last night.

She gave him a grateful smile as he carried
it to the pavilion for her. Taking it from his hands, she said, "They
don't need me for a while. Could we walk by the river?" Her cheeks colored.
"I know I can't walk alone, and sitting inside, I think and I think."

"For a certainty, I will." Hunting
could wait. When she stepped inside to give the other women their food, Boyd
slapped James on the back of the head. He strolled off with a knowing smile
that had James's face flaming.

At least, James had left the fish trap in
the river yesterday. He couldn't forget there wouldn't be enough food if he
didn't hunt. The way nobles usually hunted, with hunting dogs and beaters,
hadn't prepared them for shooting and trapping food, as they had to do now.

Isabella stepped back into the opening of
the pavilion. He found himself staring at the sweet, slender curve of her neck.
Even seeing her made his body throb. James's heart hammered as he reached for
her hand. Within his weapon-calloused fingers, hers felt as slender and fragile
as the wing of a thrush.

"Come." He led her towards the
trees that edged the river. For a while, they walked hand in hand along the
rocky bank, the course gurgling beside them. Bees buzzed in the golden gorse.

Finally, she tugged his hand and stopped in
the shade of a hoary old pine. "You were angry last night," she said
and a smile curved her lips.

James snorted. "I was a fool, my lady.
Yes, I was angry."

She reached up to run a finger along his
cheek above the edge of his beard. "I meant you to be, you know. Oh,
James, if we were home, how I would torment you." She still smiled but
tears glistened in her eyes. "It's what a lady is supposed to do to a
young knight who loves her."

"Perhaps I deserve it. I lost your
favor--in the battle. I was never sure how. Will you forgive me?"

She laughed and shook her head. "There's
nothing to forgive. I wish we had time--that things were not as they are. How
you'd work to earn my heart even though you already have it."

He planted a hand against the pine and
leaned over her so that she was pressed against the trunk of the tree. "Do
I? Do I have your heart?"

She shuddered as she slid her fingers into
his hair. He drew her against him before he pressed his mouth down hard on hers.
He felt her lips soften, part for him. Then his tongue was probing, pushing,
and, in some odd way, drinking up whatever it was that was inside her that
drove him insane. He braced his hand on the pine behind her to keep from
crushing her with his weight and pressed his body close. She was small, soft,
and warm against him. He heard a faint, helpless moan and knew it came from her.

The taste of her mouth was honey but not
nearly as sweet as its softness or the dart of her tongue against his or the painful
surge of heat that spread through him. A few moments ago, he had been calm. Now
he burned.