A Kingdom's Cost, a Historical Novel of Scotland (18 page)

They'd have a cold camp. James sliced up
the last of the sausage. There was still oats for bannocks but they'd need more.
Mayhap he should risk stopping at a croft. Thinking on it, he wrapped himself
in his cloak and pressed against the stone. Sheltered from the fine rain, he
told Wat to wake him to keep the late watch.

He lay there for a minute or two, a side
tooth the king had knocked loose aching. He poked at it with his tongue. It was
loose but not so bad he would lose it. Then Wat nudged him and he sat up the
rest of the night, the moonlight making flickering shadows from the broken
walls.

He didn't remember this keep. Mayhap he'd
never been this far with his father. An owl hooted and its shadow passed over
the moon.

* * *

There was no straw on the floor, only bare
stone, cold enough to soak through Lamberton's body. The one slit window was
high in the wall, far higher than he could hope to reach. It let in a beam of dim
light at least so he supposed it might have been worse, although a cold wind
whistled through most nights. In the corner, the slop bucket that went days
between being emptied sent up a stench he was sure. He was past smelling it.

He examined for the thousandth time the
walls of pale gray festooned with patches of green mold and an age-blackened
door three inches thick and studded with iron.

He feared he had lost track of the days he
had been here. There was no way to mark them so he tried to count. Two hundred
and eighty-nine days he thought. But had he counted a number twice? Or missed
counting? Some days he'd been confused.

No one spoke to him. He'd heard no human
voice but his own in all these months, except when he was told of an execution.
Sir Christopher Seton, Nigel Bruce, the next eldest and fairest of those
brothers, the Earl of Atholl, Sir Simon Fraser and his brother. Like the days,
he'd lost count of the executions. All he could do now was pray for the friends
who'd gone to the scaffold and a torturous death.

Not knowing what was happening gnawed at
him so that at times he had to force down the gray food he was given. Of a
certainty, if they'd captured Robert de Bruce they would have told him. King
Edward wouldn't have passed up the chance to gloat over it before he had Robert
tortured to death or even had he been killed in battle. The worse hadn't yet
happened. Mayhap he had fled to Norway where his sister was dowager queen. Yet,
even that, Lamberton suspected would be used to torment him. Not knowing--King
Edward did indeed know how to torment.

Lamberton made plans in order to keep
himself sane. Robert de Bruce would raise a new army. Lamberton would be
rescued and together they would heal Scotland. Muttering to himself to hear a
voice, he planned the laws he would write as the king's chancellor, the
additions he would make to St. Andrew's Cathedral.

The nights were the worst. In the darkness,
unable to sleep, his memories became nightmares. He remembered before King
Alexander died. He was twenty, at the great tournament with his mentor, Bishop
Wishart. There was peace in the land. No one thought of war, not in Scotland. They'd
been at peace for a hundred years. The grass was lush, scattered with the
purple of heather. The wind carried the scent of spring flowers. The wine
tasted sweet and Wishart frowned when Lamberton got muzzy headed, but it was as
much happiness withal. He remembered Robert de Bruce in his golden armor, still
a squire. It must have been his first tourney, so young. He fought like a
madman, laughing as he unhorsed opponents left and right. Lamberton had smiled
as Bruce circled the field after defeating Campbell to win the champion's crown
from King Alexander. A cloud had covered the sun. In his memory, the king faded
away--as he had only weeks later, falling to his death. Leaving Scotland with
no heir--no king--no champion--to Edward of England's certain conquest.

The hours stretched into days into years,
it seemed although he kept count. He prayed for hours every day, almost as much
to keep from raving as for the victims he prayed for, yet he ached for the
friends who died.

The low flap at the bottom of the door opened
and a wooden tray slid through. He sighed. The usual flagon of water and a bowl
of some watery gruel, a piece of bread, enough to keep him alive.

He ran a thumb down the back of his hand,
thin except for the knuckles. From the damp, they had swollen, paining him
constantly. The worst was the dirt, embedded deep in his skin, under his nails that
were blackened with it. He'd been a fastidious man. If he lived to see the
freedom again, would this cure him of the fault or make him worse, he wondered.
Sometimes he used his water to wash instead of drink and endured the thirst. Without
soap that did little good, yet it made him feel more human.

He got the tray from the floor and poked with
a spoon at the thin liquid in the bowl. He picked the bowl up and drank some of
the greasy stuff down. It had no real taste but it more or less filled his
belly--less than more. Twice a day, he was fed. Now there was another day to
get through.

Lamberton was on his knees with his prayers
for the soul of-- Who? He'd drifted off into memories again. From outwith the
door came the rattle of chains. He put a hand on the damp wall and pushed
himself to his feet. The door creaked open.

Two gaolers stood in the opening, one
holding shackles.

"What's happened?" Lamberton asked,
forcing down terror, his racing heart.

The one with the shackles, short and stout,
smirked as he came in and grabbed Lamberton's hand.

"Behind his back, my lord said,"
the other told him. He was frowning though, not enjoying himself.

Mayhap he had an ounce of mercy.

"What's happened?" Lamberton
asked again trying to keep the panic from his voice, but the man shook his
head. His fellow jerked Lamberton's hands into chained shackles behind his back.

At least, they left his feet free. He
walked steadily between them down the worn stone steps. Shoved through the
narrow doorway, he blinked, blinded by daylight, eyes tearing.

One of the gaolers put a hand on his
shoulder to halt him. Over the castle’s eastern wall, the sun's harsh light
cast shadows of the tall merlons across the stony ground, a maw of lion's
teeth. The cold, wet air was filled with the half-forgotten smells of horses
and rain.

Squinting, he saw a knot of knights around
the entry of the keep. King Edward stood a few feet ahead of them, his clothing
all crimson and gold, patterned with a leopard on his chest and a gold crown on
his head. Then Lamberton saw why they'd brought him down. He took a stumbling
step.

Thomas Bruce knelt dripping blood into the
dirt. Beside him lay a man Lamberton didn't recognize until Alexander Bruce turned
his head. Purple bruises covered his face, his eyes, swollen shut. Beyond them,
the scaffold stood ready, a fire sending up a thread of smoke from a brazier.

An executioner in black leather held his
terrible knives.

"No," Lamberton whispered.

"Bishop," Thomas croaked to him, raising
his hands, "forgive-"

A man-at-arms ran at Thomas and kicked him
sprawling into the dirt.

Men were shouting and laughing but
Lamberton never heard them.

"Ego te--" Fingers thrust through
his hair, jerking Lamberton's head back. The gaoler had a cloth in his hand. Lamberton
threw himself sideways, wrenching his head to the away. "--te--" His
scalp ripped and blood trickled down his neck. The gag cut off his words.

One man-at-arms pulled Alexander with each
arm; his feet thudded on the edge of the steps as they dragged him onto the
scaffold. Supported between two more, Thomas stumbled his way up.

King Edward strode to the middle of the
bailey. "My son begged my mercy on his dear friend, Alexander Bruce."
He looked into Lamberton's face and smiled. "But treason shall not go
unpunished." He motioned to the executioner. "When you are done with
them, bring me their heads."

Behind him, the gaoler twisted Lamberton's
arm. The joint tore. "Be still," the man snarled in Lamberton's ear. Sour
wine scented his breath. "If you fight me, I'll make you sorry."

The executioner hauled on the rope and
Alexander's limp body swung, twisting. The body thumped onto the ground and the
executioner bent over it. He straightened. "My lord, this one is dead
already."

King Edward stared deep into Lamberton's
eyes, though his smile wavered. "His head will grace the castle gate. Now
the other."

The executioner repeated the process and
quickly lowered Thomas back onto the platform. Thomas groaned when a
man-at-arms dashed a bucket of water over his head to revive him.

De profundis
clamavi ad te domine
. Tears
ran down Lamberton's face. They soaked into the gag, and he tasted their salt. He
threw himself forward. The gaoler wrenched Lamberton's arm up behind him. He
screamed into the cloth. Only the force of the hold, hard as steel, digging
into his arm kept him on his feet.

Men-at-arms lifted Thomas onto a table and
held him. The executioner lifted a blade. He slashed down at Thomas'sgroin. Blood
gushed and splattered across the tormenter's hands.

Dimly, as if from far away, Thomas
screamed, "Robert!"

The blood-soaked execution threw flesh into
the fire. Again, the man bent to his task, blood puddling around Thomas as his
belly was ripped open. A shriek. Then all was silence.

The executioner walked to the edge of the
scaffold and dropped to a knee. "I'm sorry, your Grace."

"A poor job that he died so fast,"
King Edward barked. "Do better next time or you'll join them."

The gaoler spat. "They're done.

The knot of nobles parted and the king passed
through them. Numb, Lamberton let the gaoler drag him into the darkness. He
didn't remember the man unfastening the shackles, but they were gone. A shove
landed him into the corner of his dungeon. The door crashed closed.

He lay in a shuddering heap where he'd
landed, sucking in gulps of air. At last, he rolled onto his back. He moaned at
the pain that shot through he torn shoulder, but it must be born. Inching his
hands up the slimy wall, he crawled onto his knees. He leaned his head against
one of the rough stones and shuddered. God in heaven, how could even Edward be
so cruel?

"Ave
Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum--"

He never knew how long he had prayed or
even all that he had said, but at last, calmness washed over him. Holding his throbbing
arm to his chest, he climbed to his feet.

He stumbled to the cot and sat down. The
bowl of gruel still sat where he'd left it. Sticking the spoon into it, he gave
the cold mess a stir and then put some in his mouth. He choked it down. For a
moment, his stomach rebelled. He leaned forward, hand over his mouth. It burned,
surging back into his throat. He forced it down and waited until he could
manage another bite. Then another.

Edward Longshanks would not destroy him.

* * *

The next day was another long walk. James
and Wat passed nothing that looked likely for getting more food. They made do
at noonday with another bannock cooked beside the road. As they started to
leave, James heard the clank of harness. He held up a hand. A horse whinnied. They
might have hidden, but they were just two men-at-arms being sent for
reinforcements. Hiding would look suspicious.

Six riders crested the rise in the road,
jingling towards them. Six all in chainmail. One was a knight in a shining
breastplate with a blue lion rampant on a shield that hung from his saddle. Percy
men this far east? James's face closed.

"Ho." The knight called as he
reined in, his big charger stamping and snorting as they drew up. "Just
who are you two?"

Horses long away from their stable in need
of grooming. That shield had a splatter of blood on it. James bowed and kept
his eyes down. The bishop had always said his eyes showed too much. "Sir,
I'm Jim. My lord ordered us to Castle Douglas."

"Scruffy looking pair. Two men-at-arms
the best Lord Clifford can do?"

Douglas scratched his beard. "Been on
the road awhile, sir. Don't know about my lord. Just do what I'm told like."

The knight nudged the horse closer to them.
James examined the animal's hair fetlocks. Keep still, he told himself, and
don't reach for your sword. "I'll let you go then. Don't want to interfere
with his lordship. We've cleared the Scots from the area. Orders to make sure
they don't try rising for King Hob." A couple of the men laughed.

"Ah. King Hob. Yes." James chewed
that over but there was too much wrong with it to think on whilst the knight
was sneering down at him.

The man spat at his feet. "Dumb as
dirt. Bloody Scots." He jammed his heels into the horse's flanks and
cantered away, the others following after.

James waited until they were out of sight
beyond a bend in the road. "Let's go. I'd as soon not meet up with them
again. There wasn't a word of that I liked the sound of."

"Mayhap we should leave the
road--James."