Noble Traitor, page 3
At one point, everyone stood aside to shout and clap as a cart with a sword swallower and some jugglers trundled past toward a clearing where acrobats and jugglers were attracting a crowd. As Thomas watched, the crowd cheered, and a few threw coins onto the cart. When it had passed, he followed some urchins and dogs that ran behind it until it reached the edge of the fairground where a miracle play was being put on.
A priest was shouting the story of John the Baptist. A man with a copious black beard was standing in the River Jordon formed by two horse troughs laid end to end, dumping pitchers of water over three shivering young apprentices who were no doubt not acting in the sharp wind. Pacing up and down behind them was another apprentice in a woman’s kirtle with a generously padded bosom and a black wig. She held a tray aloft on which rested a realistic severed head in a puddle of ‘blood.’
Thomas watched, fascinated. He’d never seen the like before, but after a few minutes, he let out a sigh, realizing he needed to hurry if he was to be on time at the jousting field.
He loped to an acre where a rope marked a rectangle a hundred yards long all spread with straw. At one side were crude wooden stands, three levels of planks nailed to stout posts, where fifty or so onlookers sat, brightly clad, many of them women. At each end were two small tents to serve as a shelter for the contestants. Flags flying from poles and multicolored pennants rippling in the wind above the tents brightened the whole affair.
He shoved his way into one of the arming tents hoping he would find the armor there that Robert had said he would send. He understood that Bishop de Lamberton had done the same for James Douglas. Robert had forbidden forfeiting armor, saying they would need it for battle and had put up purses as prizes instead.
Kirkpatrick grinned as he ducked his head on his way in. Thomas beamed. As Kirkpatrick sorted the armor, they could hear the increasing hubbub of the crowd.
“Sounds as though your meeting with the Douglas will be almost as popular as when the knights joust this afternoon,” Kirkpatrick said as he helped Thomas pull his gambeson over his head.
Thomas snorted through his nose. “Neither of us is well-kent, so I doubt it. But I am looking forward to the match. There is something about him…”
“He has the build of a good jouster though light still.”
Frowning, Thomas paused with his hauberk in his hand. “You dinnae think I am wrong to joust someone younger?”
Kirkpatrick took the heavy hauberk. “You are nae that much older, and you’re both well fit for a match.” He helped Thomas to put on the awkward armor with its hundreds of chain-links woven into the canvas and long arms down to the wrist. “Do you want to wear your greaves?”
Thomas shook his head. “My mount will do better without the extra weight. And I have a feeling that Douglas is too proud to target my legs.” He pulled on his mail coif, and Kirkpatrick helped him into the pixane that added protection to his neck and upper chest. He grimaced as he added his great helm that narrowed his vision with its slit to a sliver of what was in front of him.
“And this.” Kirkpatrick held up a linen surcoat with the red three cushion-shaped symbols of the Randolphs.
Thomas ran his hand over the familiar symbols he’d seen his father wear so often. “Where did that come from?” He slid it over his head.
“They had stored it at Lochmaben and planned to surprise you with it for when the King dubs you a knight. But I said you should have it for jousting.” Kirkpatrick helped him on with spurred leather boots and his gauntlets. He stood back and looked Thomas up and down. “Done except for your sword.” He belted the leather belt around his hips.
Thomas shifted his body. Everything felt right.
He nodded to Kirkpatrick and strode out of the tent where his charger was watching people with interest and flicking its ears as they strolled past. The talk and shouts and laughter combined into a hum of noise as Thomas gripped the saddle and flung himself into it. The charger had only leather armor to protect its head and neck and leather croupier to protect its hindquarters from flying shards or accidental strikes.
Christopher Seton, acting as judge, came up and asked, “All set, Thomas?”
When Thomas nodded, he vanished around the corner. Kirkpatrick handed up the blunted lance and shield. Thomas walked his horse to follow to the front of the benches. He scanned the audience, and his eyebrows went up at the number of spectators. There was no more room left. On the second row of planks in bright finery sat Robert Boyd, Edward de Bruce, and Alex between them. Simon Fraser and Mary de Bruce and Mary’s husband Sir Niall Campbell laughed about something. Several priests were yon in spite of the church taking a dim view of jousting. Burgesses and their wives in simpler garb filled the rest of the benches. Standing along the ropes setting off the jousting area were more spectators, gamblers accepting wagers.
Thomas’s heart pounded. He had never expected so many to be watching.
Christopher Seton gave a signal, and the trumpeter blared with his horn.
James Douglas cantered out of the recet on the opposite side. To shouts and some cheers, Thomas met him at the center where Seton was standing. Seton nodded amiably to them both and called to the herald, “Announce that Squire Thomas Randolph and Squire James of Douglas will contest the first trial.”
In a resounding voice, the herald announced them to the crowd. The crowd cheered. Alex shouted, “You can do it, Thomas!”
Seton waved them away. Thomas wheeled about and trotted to the far end of the field. He eyed Douglas, erect, hauberk glinting in the sun, as they waited at opposite ends of the field. Seton raised his hand again, the trumpet sounded. There was a flutter of white, and Seton dropped the flag.
The crowd grew quiet.
Thomas dropped his lance into position and kicked his horse hard. It lunged, straining to reach a gallop. He pulled his shield hard against his chest as he focused his sight on that shield with its three stars on a blue band. He must hit it there. In the center.
The shield got larger. And larger. At the last second, Douglas shifted to the left, angling his shield. With an ear-splitting crash, Douglas’s lance hit his shield. Chips of wood flew as Douglas’s lance shattered. Thomas rocked from a blow like being hit by a boulder. His back whacked painfully against the high cantle of his saddle. Thomas muttered a curse that his lance had only scraped a deep gouge in his opponent’s.
A cheer went up from the stands
Already Thomas had thundered past his opponent. At the end of the field, he wheeled his horse in a tight circle. Someone had already handed Douglas a fresh lance.
Again, they galloped toward each other. Douglas shifted in the saddle again. This time Thomas followed. He realized his mistake. It was a feint. He fought to straighten his lance. Too late. His lance missed. Douglas’s smashed into his shield with a force that tore him out of the saddle. His lance sailed out of his hand.
He slammed onto the ground, his body giving a painful bounce. Sparks danced before his eyes. His horse galloped on.
Thomas lay prostrate for a moment, the breath knocked out of him, ears ringing. He pushed himself up on one knee in the dirt. Douglas was slid from his horse. As the crowd cheered, Douglas offered a hand. Face hot, Thomas accepted it and let Douglas pull him to his feet. He swayed a bit, but then gave Douglas a bow.
As they turned and walked back to opposite recets, the trumpet sounded, and the herald called out, “Squire James of Douglas wins the match!”
Kirkpatrick met Thomas at the edge of the field and helped him off with his helm. “That Douglas lad is braw. There is no shame to lose to someone who fights well.”
Thomas stripped off his gauntlets and wiped the sweat from his face. “Aye. You’re right. He is.” He turned to look toward the other recet. “But I will ride against him again. And I will defeat him next time.”
Chapter 4
March 25, 1306 Scone, Scotland
Thomas emerged from his small tent dressed in borrowed finery suitable for this sunny, dry, March morning. He joined the crowd of knights, lords, ladies, and burgesses in every color of silk and wool, as he made his way across the trampled grass toward Scone Abbey past the high bell towers until Moot Hill rose above them. Bells tolled a joyous clamor. Today he would become a knight, and everything around him was so bright it made his eyes burn.
Men-at-arms in polished brigandines topped with surcoats embroidered with the lion rampant formed a crescent halfway up the grassy hill as a barrier, pikes held erect. A massive gilt throne topped the hill’s green crest. When Thomas neared the men-at-arms, he pushed through the vast crowd. Alex de Bruce nodded to Thomas through the press of bodies. Kirkpatrick was at the front watching intently next to Christopher Seton and Mary de Bruce. Robert Boyd poked Thomas and pointed to a good place to watch next to Simon Fraser. They elbowed their way through, gaining quite a few glares. The crowd gave a steady buzz of excited comment.
Fraser gave them a nod. “I have fought long for this day.”
From beyond the hilltop, a trumpet fanfare resounded. It rang out again. Men-at-arms cleared a pathway through the midst of the crowd. Robert de Bruce strode up the hill to stand before the throne. Behind him, a double row of boys in white robes followed singing Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
A deep hush fell over the onlookers. Thomas sucked in his breath, and his heart sped up.
The trumpets called out again. Stern-faced, the Earl of Atholl carried the two-handed sword of state, knelt, and the Bruce touched it. To Thomas’s surprise, he recognized the man who strode up carrying the royal lion rampant banner, Alexander Scrymgeour, Lord Gordon’s goodbrother who had frequently visited them at Inverkip. He stood behind the King, holding the banner aloft.
Three bishops strode up from the side, crimson vestments glittering with gold thread and jewels. The one in the lead must be Bishop de Lamberton, thought Thomas. Primate of Scotland, dark-haired, carrying the small crown Thomas had seen at Glasgow. Bishop Wishart carried the royal mantle draped over his arms. The third, burly, Bishop David de Moray, held a massive, leather-bound Bible.
Wishart draped the crimson mantle about the new King’s shoulders and fastened it with a gold pin.
The trumpets blasted again, and Robert de Bruce seated himself on the throne.
Bishop de Lamberton stopped before the throne and intoned, “Sir, are you willing to take the oath?”
Robert the Bruce said, “I am willing.”
“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the People of Scotland according to their ancient laws and customs?”
“I swear I will do so.”
“Will you use your power to execute Law and Justice, in Mercy, in all of your judgments?”
“I will.”
“Will you defend your realm and its people against all foreign enemies and invaders?”
“I swear by Almighty God, I will.”
The King rose from the throne and knelt. Bishop de Moray carried the Bible and held it out for the King.
The Bruce laid his hand on it and said in a booming voice, “The things which I have here before promised, I will perform and keep. So help me God.” He kissed the Bible, rose, and once more sat on the throne.
The trumpets cried out.
Bishop de Lamberton went to stand behind the King. The bells of the abbey rang out, and the choir intoned Te Deum Laudamus. He raised the simple gold crown high and solemnly lowered it onto the King’s head.
“God save the King!” burst out all around Thomas. Robert Boyd bellowed it out. Thomas joined in the shouting. “God save the King! God save the King!”
“Go on. It’s time for the oath-taking.” Robert Boyd nudged Thomas with an elbow. “And for you to be dubbed a knight.”
He could not seem to catch his breath, and his heart was pounding. This day had been his whole lifetime coming.
The Queen was kneeling before the King her hands between his, giving her oath. Behind her, forming a ragged line, were the Earl of Atholl, the Earl of Lennox and the Earl of Monteith, and after them the King’s four brothers. With Boyd urging him on, Thomas took a place in the queue that soon snaked all the way down the hill.
“Are you all right, lad?” Boyd asked, frowning.
“Aye. I am fine.” He faked a smile and tried to take a few breaths. His head was spinning. His heart hammered so hard his blood pounded in his ears.
Suddenly, he was at the head of the line with the Bruce looking at him. The surprise made him forget about whether he could breathe. He dropped to his knees. His throat was closing up, so he burst out with his oath of fealty as fast as he could. "By the Lord God and all the holy saints, I become your liege man from this day forward of life and limb and truth and earthly honors, bearing to you and your heirs against all men that live, move or die, in good faith and without deceit, on condition that you will hold to me as I shall deserve it, so help me God and the Blessed Mother." He gasped, out of breath.
With an understanding look, the King said, “I accept you as my man and swear before God and all here who witness that I will hold you against harm from all men.” He rose, accepted the sword of state from Atholl, and clouted Thomas on first one shoulder and then the other. “Arise, Sir Knight, in the Name of God. Be you ever loyal, brave, and bold.”
Thomas felt someone fastening on his spurs. Roger Kirkpatrick knelt behind him. Those were not his father’s spurs. That made his heart hurt. He stood, and Scrymgeour buckled a sword around his waist. The crowd cheered.
Kirkpatrick slapped his arm. “Congratulations, Sir Thomas.”
A laugh surged up from his chest. That was the first time anyone had called him a knight. No. That was not true. The first had been King Robert de Bruce.
Thomas patted the neck of the courser that the Bruce had gifted him with. It tossed its head and stamped. He laughed. He shared its impatience to leave.
Roger Kirkpatrick, preparing to mount his own bay, said, “It is a pity that Isabela MacDuff didnae arrive sooner, but it was a braw ride. A brave lass she is. We should go watch.”
“Aye.” Thomas mounted. It was the right of the MacDuffs to crown the King of Scots, but Thomas had to wonder if a second coronation would matter. He thought she must not much like her husband, for she was married to a Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, cousin of the man that the King and Kirkpatrick had killed.
The stables and courtyard of Scone Abbey were all noise and motion. Loaded wagons were rattling onto the road. Men were mounting their horses. Serjeants were shouting at men-at-arms. A brisk wind scuttled thin clouds across a pale morning sky, and everyone was anxious to be off. Thomas followed Kirkpatrick, wending their way through the confusion, and rode the short distance to the foot of Moot Hill.
But at the crest, standing behind the King were the three bishops. Before him, with a face of alabaster and back as straight as a spear, stood Isabela MacDuff. She held his crown in her hands. He dropped to one knee before her. She held it aloft and then placed it on his head.
Trumpets blared and blared again. There was a cheer and shouts of God save the King from onlookers, then preparations to leave resumed.
“She is a brave woman,” said Kirkpatrick, “to defy the Comyn and all his Ilk.”
“Mmm…” Thomas had no doubt in his mind that she was a brave woman, but word had arrived at the same time that she did that, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, was already leading an army toward Scotland. He chewed his nether lip, wondering, fearing that Lord Gordon would join Pembroke. He felt a chill at the idea of meeting him in battle.
Thomas dismounted to wait, for it might be some time before the Bruce led his troops away. All around him, the bustle grew into chaos. Wishart and de Lamberton led men-at-arms to the south, Bishop de Moray to the north where he would raise more men, Edward and Alex back the King’s own lands in Carrick and Annandale to rouse the country. The royal company rode to the north.
At each town and abbey, the King called a halt to accept fealty and let his people see him and the Queen, bestowing such largesse as he could. It would have been days of boredom if at every moment they hadn’t been watching for an attack by allies of the Comyns and waiting for news of where Pembroke’s army was. Thomas grew more irritable by the day, snapping at Robert Boyd’s frequent jests. The older knight shrugged and gave him a knowing look.
They had reached the enormous northern fortress of Kildrummy Castle when the King called for a halt to give their horses a few days’ rest. The castle fascinated Thomas with its shape like a shield, the wide part overlooking a high cliff. He spent the day exploring it until the late summer nightfall sent him inside, his stomach grumbling for food.
He walked into the great hall to a buzz of excitement from the hundreds of men sitting at the long trestle tables. The Bruce, his brothers, Christopher Seton, and Robert Boyd were nowhere in sight. Thomas took a seat next to Roger Kirkpatrick. “What’s the to-do?”
Kirkpatrick picked up his cup of ale, swished it around for a moment, and said, “A messenger arrived from Bishop de Lamberton. Pembroke is moving faster than expected and will soon cross the border.”
“So soon? How is that possible?”
“He’s marching with a smaller force than usual. Only three thousand men they say, so they are wasting little time with foraging.” Kirkpatrick drained his cup. “And they have raised the dragon banner.”
“But…” A chill went through Thomas. “That means no quarter given.”
Kirkpatrick’s mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. “Any captured will be executed.” He shrugged. “Except priests, of course.”
Thomas stared past the wall and shuddered. “Robert… I mean the King, he willnae do that though, will he? In retaliation?”
