Chain of Destiny

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Following the murder of his father at Bannockburn in 1488, fifteen-year-old James Stewart was crowned James IV of Scotland. From those inauspicious beginnings, the inexperienced boy-king was to become one of the finest and most popular kings in Scotland's history, leading his people bravely through some of the nation's most dramatic and colourful years. Bold, vigorous, headstrong and romantic, he inspired great loyalty from men, and passionate love from women. So great was his people's affection that the bravest and best of Scotland's young men finally laid down their lives for him - at the tragic Field of Flodden. Accomplished lover, able king, complex personality, James IV of Scotland is brought to memorable life in Nigel Tranter's compelling tale of drama, intrigue and treachery.

Release date: January 31, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 445

Sample

THE young man cut short the woman’s gabbled incoherences with a strangely authoritative gesture. Unspeaking, he pointed to the rough plank door, but there was almost as much pleading as command in his glance.

The miller’s wife, still spilling a disconnected flood of words, backed away from the youngster, reaching a hand to draw her silent and apprehensive husband with her. The two men at the door opened it wider, to let her out, and the jostling crowd outside, mill-hands, men-at-arms and passers-by, pressed closer to peer in. Angrily the richly dressed gentleman in half-armour waved them back.

“. . . he said that he was a priest, lord,” the woman insisted. “By the Rude, I swear it! A dark man, wi’ piercing eyes. In black mail. A lion on his briest. A red lion . . .” She turned on her husband. “A red lion, was it no’, Beaton? Speak up, man – speak up. You saw him . . .”

The miller of Bannockburn at the same time both nodded and shook his head, mumbling. His watery eyes were drawn and held by something that lay on the floor at the other side of the small, dusty, cobweb-hung room. He found no words.

“A bishop, it might ha’ been. An abbot, lord. A great one, to be sure. Och, I was crying for a priest, like he said. Him.” She faltered a little, and her glance slid across the room. “He said to fetch a priest. And this one told me he was a priest. The dark one. Wi’ the lion on him. Wi’ yon on him, belike he was of the King’s company. Save us, I didna ken, lord. Hoo could I ken? He went and kneeled there. On his knees, just. He bent close. Then – ah, God in Heaven – out with his whinger, a great black dagger! ‘I’ll shrive you!’ he says . . .” The shrill gasping voice rose higher, and broke.

Tensely controlled, but vibrant with emotion, the youth spoke. “Sir,” he said to the gentleman at the door, “have her out, in God’s name!”

Nodding, the older man gripped the woman’s elbow and roughly propelled her through the doorway, the miller stumbling after. He made to close the door in all the staring faces.

“You also, sir,” the young man jerked. To add, low-toned, “I pray you.”

The other, a man of middle years, the sternness of his features in the scholarly mould rather than the military, despite his half-armour, raised heavy eyebrows. But something in the other’s beseeching expression, at odds with those tight lips, moved him. He inclined his bared head briefly, signed to the armed servant who stood expressionless at the other side of the door, to accompany him, and strode out.

The rickety plank door closed behind them. The young man was alone at last.

With the need to keep up appearances for the moment removed, he was of a sudden no longer a young man. Shoulders drooping a little, tight lips slackening, he was abruptly the merest youth, little more than a boy. He was, in fact, only fifteen years old – although young folk admittedly matured fast in the forcing days at the close of the fifteenth century.

The youth moved across the uneven stone floor, caked with old flour dust, oats crunching beneath his tall spurred riding-boots. Of medium height, slenderly but well built, he had a pleasant open face distinguished by large eloquent eyes under a wide brow, a long, straight, strong nose, and a firm, even obstinate chin, countered by a wide and generous mouth which had been only transiently tightened. Under auburn hair which fell to his shoulders, it was a countenance that held the promise of very masculine good looks to come, of strength and weakness both, of a strong will yet a questioning doubting mind, an impatient impetuous spirit and a warm and compassionate heart.

At the far side of the little room, he knelt on the hard dusty floor, to stare down blindly, lips working. It was only after a while that he got it out.

“Mary, Mother of God – speak for me. Sweet Jesu, Kind Jesu – have mercy on my soul!” he whispered.

He reached out a hesitant hand to draw back fully the rough woollen cloak which part-covered the features and upper half of the body that lay outstretched there. The face he revealed was both notably like his own, and notably different. The wide brow was there, the great dark eyes – glassy now – the straight nose and long upper lip. All the same. But the chin was different, even rigid as it now was, more rigid than it was in life, pointed instead of squared. And the mouth was small, not wide, and the lips though blue now were almost womanly in their shapeliness. It looked a strangely young face, almost immature, in its set alabaster whiteness – the boy had never seen it look so young as this, so that the man who lay there did not display his thirty-seven years.

Long the youth stared, from swimming eyes, biting his lip. He sought to close those great glazed eyes, but could not, and blamed his fumbling reluctant fingers.

“Sire,” he whispered. “Father.” How seldom had he used that second word, in life. “Father, I willed you no hurt. No harm. I swear it, by Saint Ninian. I but rode with them. They said that I must. For the weal of the realm. They said that no hurt would touch you . . .”

The graven lifeless face, the pinched nostrils, the empty eyes, seemed to cast his whispers back at him with even worse than disbelief – with utter indifference.

“It is the truth,” he insisted thickly. “I thought you safe. Fled from the field. Gone to the port of Airth, where the Yellow Carvel lies. I did not know . . .”

A mouse scuttled from a hole and peered at him from a corner, and even those little black beady eyes were a relief to meet, after the glassy stare of the others. Sighing, the boy rose to his feet, auburn head sunk, and crossed himself. The gesture reminded him. Stooping again, he picked up the golden cross of Saint Andrew which lay on the dead man’s chest, a handsome trinket of saltire backed by the saint’s figure, the only item of richness and distinction about the body – for the youth himself was more notably dressed than he who lay on the floor. Gently, diffidently, he sought to detach the ornament, having difficulty in getting the gold chain over the stiff neck and head. He was about to place it about his own neck when of a sudden he choked, as his glance fell on the back of his hand. It was smeared with dark and sticky blood.

Horrified, urgently he wiped and rubbed it on the crimson velvet of the short cloak which hung from one shoulder, over his belted doublet. A stain remained on his skin, and he eyed it askance. Then he examined the body, lower down than heretofore, and moved aside gingerly the woollen cloak still part-covering the trunk and legs.

The darkly sober stuff of the doublet was horribly soaked and clotted with blood, now almost black; but this could not wholly cover and hide the gaping holes and rents in the clothing—many of them, slashed all about the lower chest and abdomen, through which the blood had oozed and congealed, witness to the savage and prolonged fury of the close-range attack.

At the sight, the youth all but spewed. Swaying a little, momentarily dizzy, he lurched the pace or two over to the bare stone wall, there to lean head on arm, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

For a while he stood thus, until the nausea ebbed. His eyes open again, stare at the rough masonry as he would, he still saw only the ghastly pattern of those stab-wounds, and groaned.

“Shame! Shame!” he cried. “I did not know! I did not know! To do this . . .! God’s everlasting curse on he who did it! Aye, and God’s curse on me, also – for I . . . for I . . .” He banged his fist on the harsh stone. “I raised this hand against you – Mary-Mother plead for me! But . . . not this! Not this!”

As the paroxysm faded, the speaker, staring upwards, saw now other redder blood through the evil haze, the grazed knuckles of his own right hand. Only semi-aware, he perceived that he was clutching a chain that hung there, a rusty length of chain hanging from a great nail on the wall. This room had evidently been the harness-room of the mill, and pieces of old and broken saddlery and leather strapping hung from hooks. Releasing his grip on the chain, with a strange satisfaction the youth saw the round marks of its links imprinted on his skin, red and sore where he had clenched it against the masonry. Rubbing those marks almost abstractedly, he stooped once more and drew up the miller’s tattered and now blood-stained cloak over the body, over the face with those indifferent staring eyes.

“God rest you,” he muttered. Then, raising his head, “God save . . . the King!” And as he said it, the face wore no child’s expression, no boy’s, but a man’s, grim, determined, but with a quality almost of bitter irony. He reached up, and took down that rusty length of chain, and deliberately tied it like a girdle around his waist, one short trailing end hanging down over trunks and hose, the other and longer end he wound round and round his hand and bare wrist. He moved to the door.

Free hand on the latch he paused, glancing back, to take his last look at the father whom he had little known, had been taught not to respect, and had never understood. He raised the hand to his brow, in some involuntary form of salutation – for, after all, the corpse was James Stewart, third of his name to be King of Scots. And by the same token, he himself, James Stewart likewise, was now James the Fourth. God save the King, indeed.

Squaring those shoulders again, and lifting his chin deliberately, markedly, he turned, opened the door, and strode out.

The little crowd was still there, clustered in the cobbled yard of the mill beside the brawling Burn of Bannock, though standing back a respectful distance from the pacing dignified figure of the gentleman in half-armour and good broadcloth. The armed attendant stood nearby, watchful, hand on sword-hilt, and by the water side, where they might drink, the groom held the four horses which still steamed with hard riding, that warm June day of 1488 – and he was watchful, tense, also. For this Scotland was a land where life itself might hang on a man’s keen eye, ready sword-hand and swift heels, any day of the week, especially in this company, and nowhere more notably than here within a couple of miles of the King’s town of Stirling.

Seeing the youth emerge, very much the young man again, his Tutor, James Shaw of Sauchie, halted his impatient pacing. “Let us be off, James,” he jerked. “This is folly. There is nothing that we may do here. It is dangerous. If my Lord Lyle discovers that you are missing . . .”

“Reward the man who brought us the word, sir,” the other interrupted. “Reward him well, for he has earned it. Give him a silver merk.”

“A merk! Nonsense, James! It is too much. A shilling will serve – not fourteen . . .”

“Is fourteen shillings too much for risking a life? Give it, sir. And, if you please . . . not James.”

“Eh?” The man frowned, tutting. “My lord Duke of Rothesay, if it please you . . .!” he began.

“Nor my lord Duke, sir. I am King, now – and I must remember it. As must you, and all men.” That was said simply, soberly, without vaunting or any sort of boyish triumph, a quiet statement of fact.

Sauchie blinked a little, coughed, shuffled his feet, and then bowed jerkily. Recollecting, he took off his bonnet. “Your Grace,” he got out, thickly.

James took a few quick paces forward, to lay an impulsive hand on his Tutor’s arm. “Your pardon, sir,” he said. “Do not take me amiss. Here is no cause for pride, God knows! But . . . my state is changed. Of a sudden. You must see it. The man who . . . who struck those, those . . .” He swallowed, but with a visible effort recovered himself, tensely gripping the chain and raising his head. “The dastard who struck those craven blows, who slew his liege lord helpless, has changed all. All. Changed more, I swear, than he knows! I shall find him, I vow, and all the saints of Heaven are my witness! And he shall pay the price.”

“Aye. No doubt. To be sure.” Sauchie was staring at that chain, round the young man’s waist and wrist. “What a God’s name is this? This . . . this ironware? Fetters.” He actually pointed. “What means this?”

“A memento. A prompter,” his former charge answered briefly. “You have taught me to use prompters, sir, for many a lesson. This will serve to remind me of . . .” He jerked his auburn head towards the harness-room that he had left. “. . . of yonder. Of this day. Of my duty. I found it hanging there. Above him. To my hand. A memento, lest I forget.” James twitched the chain with a jolt that must have hurt his bare wrist. “Aye, lest I ever forget.” He turned away, to scan the crowd. “The woman – where is she? I must question her.”

“James . . .! Your Grace! There is no time. Not now. There is danger here. We must back to Stirling. At once. Before you are missed . . .”

His urgings were ignored. “Reward the man, as I said, sir. Yonder he is, by the tree. Have his name. He has served me well, and may serve again.” James had picked out the miller’s wife in the throng, and beckoned her. “Mistress – here. To me.”

She came doubtfully, still dragging her shambling husband with her. The crowd pressed closer.

Before she reached him, James was speaking, eager, impatient. “This man?” he demanded. “This assassin? You said he was a priest? A bishop or abbot, maybe? Bearing the King’s device – a lion rampant . . .?”

“I do not know, lord. He said he was a priest. But, to do such evil . . . to slay the King . . .! Och, it could not be. No true priest of God . . .”

“Priests have done evil before this!” he interrupted. “There were priests on the field, on both sides. But none, I think, would wear the Lion of Scotland. You are sure of the lion, Mistress?”

“Aye, sir – aye. A red lion, as I mind it. You saw it, Beaton man. Tell the lord. Guidsakes – can you no’ speak?”

Moistening slack lips, the miller found words. “Aye. A lion. But no’ red. White. White on red, it was. An ill, black-a-vised man. A devil, sir – nae priest! A black beard to him . . .”

“White, you said? A white lion. On red, not gold? You are sure, man? White on red? Not red on gold?”

“Aye, lord. White it was. On red. On his briest, just . . .”

“Woman – was it red or white, the lion? Which?”

“I . . . I canna mind, sir.” She shook her unkempt head. “I wasna heeding to the likes o’ yon. But . . . but white, belike. Aye, now I think o’ it – a red coat over his black mail. Wi’ the lion front and back. White . . .”

The young King’s eyes narrowed as he gazed over her head, out across the green slanting braes that rolled down to the level floodlands of the Carse of Stirling, to the blue narrowing Firth of Forth sparkling in the June sunlight, and beyond to the steep shadow-slashed ramparts of the Ochils. “My Lord of Gray bears gules, a lion rampant argent!” he said slowly. “White on red. And his beard is black as sin itself! My noble Lord of Gray, who ate at my table last night!”

Shaw of Sauchie frowned. “Unwise talk,” he urged warningly, “Have a care, a mercy’s sake, how you speak!” His glance slid round the listening gaping crowd. “Gray is a great and powerful lord. He would never stoop to . . . this. You cannot heed the babble of these numskulls on such great matter as this. Moreover, there are others who bear lions on their arms – Angus himself, March. Glamis. Home. Bickerton, I think. Aye, and Mowbray. You cannot take the word of a chattering hen-wife. And she knows not her own mind . . .”

“See you to yonder man and his reward, sir – and leave the woman to me,” the young man directed. Never before had James Stewart spoken to his Tutor thus. “Mistress – tell me the way of it. From the beginning. Think back. How went it with my father, two days ago? Tell me all, and fear nothing.”

The miller’s wife rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, as though to school her lips to eloquence. “I tell’t you, lord. It was just past noon. Two days back. The day o’ the battle. I was at the dam. To draw water, wi’ my pitcher. I heard the horse coming hard down the hill yonder. Frae the moor. A great grey beast it was. Hard-ridden, or bolting – I ken not which.”

“Just the one? He was alone?”

“Aye, sir – alone. This one man only. I think he couldna hold the beast in. Down he came. Och, I was fear’t he was coming right at me. I dropped my pitcher, and broke it. The brute was near on to me . . .”

“Yes, yes. But the King?”

“Och, it was the dam, lord – the water. The beast wouldna jump the dam. It shied and reared, nigh atop o’ me. It threw him. The rider. He fell. Near into the water, he fell. We carried him in yonder, Beaton and me. He was sair hurt. When his wits came back to him, he called for a priest. For to confess, he said. I askit him who he might be, and he said ‘I was your King this day, at morn.’ Aye, is that no’ what he said, Beaton? Och, I ran out then, sir, fair vexed. I cried for a priest for the King. This one was there, with others. He said he was priest enough for the King, and where was he . . .?”

“He had followed him, then – this man? From the battle?”

“I’d no’ ken that. I think no’. It was a whilie after. This blackavised man wi’ the lion – he was looking at the King’s great grey horse. At the waterside. Others wi’ him, but he was chiefest. I didna see where they came frae. When he said he was priest, I brought him to the King. Alone, he came. Wi’ just Beaton and me . . .”

“Aye. And then?”

“He hunkered down beside the King. Close. He askit him if he was like to recover o’ his hurt. The King said he didna ken, but belike he would. But if he was priest would he shrive him? ‘Aye, that shall I do right heartily!’ the black man cries. And, sweet Jesu – out wi’ his whinger . . .! Ah, Guidsakes! Guidsakes . . .!”

James moistened his lips, but said nothing.

“What could we do, lord? What could we do? We are but puir folk . . .”

“Aye. And after? What of this devil? This dastard slayer of his helpless prince?”

“He laughed, sir. Aye, he laughed. Near knockit us ower, he did, as he went, laughing. He took horse wi’ the others, and rode off. Yonder. The Stirling road.”

The youth looked, without seeing, where she pointed, northwards. There, against the towering blue background of the Highland hills, the rock of Stirling, flanked by its climbing grey streets and crowned by its proud royal castle, soared abruptly above the green plain two miles away. But after only a moment or two his eyes focussed keenly enough on a rolling cloud of dust rising from the same road, from the dull pall of which occasional gleams shone metallically in the June sun. He frowned, but did not speak.

His Tutor was as sharp-eyed and more eloquent. Hurrying back from giving reluctant largesse to the young man who had sought them out whilst hawking amongst the Torbrex knowes, and brought them here, he pointed also, and shouted.

“Look there! They come! A plague on it – they come. We are too late. Did I not tell you! We should never have come here. It was folly. I said so. You would not heed me . . .” Shaw of Sauchie had changed his direction, and was hastening to the waiting horses. “Come, you. Perhaps there is yet time. Down the burn-side, to the low ground. Under the hill there, in the marshlands, we could be hidden. Win back to Stirling unseen . . .”

“No,” James declared, with quiet decision. “That we shall not. I am the King now, and shall run from no subject of mine.”

“But . . . keep your wits, in God’s name, James! King you may be, now – but in name only. These lords are great and powerful men. And fierce. Well you know it. They ordered that you were not to ride out of the Stirling demesne. Lyle, Home, Hepburn – they are hard and wrathful men . . .”

“They are my subjects,” the youth said, setting his jaw stubbornly – and looking the younger for it.

“You say that! When he lies in there? They were his subjects also, I’d mind you!”

James flinched a little. He looked down at the hand gripping his chain, and then up again. His eyes met those of the young man who had brought them here, only two or three years older than himself, and who had now moved across to his own horse which still stood steaming beside the four beasts from the royal stables. He saw, or sensed, encouragement, sympathy, loyalty, in those friendly grey eyes set in the long hatchet-like countenance, and nodded his head.

“We wait, sir, for whosoever these may be,” he said flatly.

The older man tugged at his small pointed beard. “My head may pay for this . . .” he muttered.

“Not while mine remains on my shoulders. Never fear.” To halt further efforts at persuasion, James looked across at the young man again, who stood beside his sorrel mare but evidenced no intention of mounting and riding off. It was a good horse, and though the rider’s clothes were plain and well worn, they had been of fair quality. “Your name, sir?” he asked.

“Bruce, Sire. Rob, they call me. Youngest son to Robert Bruce of Airth, yonder. And . . . your leal servant. Your Grace’s true man.”

James flushed slightly at the obvious warmth of sincerity in the other’s voice, at the infectious enthusiasm – and at this, the first bestowal of his monarch’s style of Sire. “I thank you,” he said thickly. “My first. Aye, my first. You have served me truly already. I think that I shall require more service yet, Rob Bruce! By Saint Ninian, I do!”

“Always, Sire. It is yours to command. As am I. For aye.”

Head lifting, brow clearing, with the sudden impulsive decision that was so typical of him, James actually smiled. He swung on the armed servant in the royal livery who stood watching. “Your sword, man.” And, as his glance rose beyond the man, towards what was now clearly a large and hard-riding cavalcade approaching fast along the dusty highway, he added impatiently, “Quickly.”

“Eh . . .?” The other stared at him, doubtfully, and then looked at Sauchie. “My sword?”

“Aye. And quickly, I said.” James took a pace or two forward, free hand outstretched. “Hurry, man.”

Drawing the heavy weapon, the man-at-arms seemed unsure what to do with it. James took it from him eagerly, turning back to Bruce.

“Come,” he ordered. “Here. To me. You bear a proud name, Rob Bruce. Here on this ground – Bannockburn. I shall make it prouder!” And as the other came up, “Kneel, Rob man.”

Bruce looked wonderingly from the young King to those around him, and over towards the advancing horsemen. But he knelt as he was commanded.

“What folly is this, James?” Sauchie exclaimed. “Here is no time for mummery. For play-acting. I’ faith, ’tis we who will be kneeling ere long . . .!”

“My first act as King, it is,” James asserted, his voice breaking a little with excitement. “As well that these should see it,” and he gestured to the oncoming company. The sword was too heavy for easy gestures, however, and he had to release his other wrist from the coils of chain, to use both hands on the long hilt. “An augury, is it not? This name, to pledge me his leal service and life, in this place? Bannockburn. At this moment.” James raised the sword, to bring the flat of it down a little harder than intended perhaps on the young man’s broad shoulder. He raised his voice likewise. “Arise, Sir Robert!” he cried.

Colouring in turn, confused, stammering, Bruce got to his feet, as James held out his left hand to him, still marked with the rust and impressions of the chain. He reached to return that boyish grip, recollected, and stooping jerkily, awkwardly, kissed the far from clean fingers instead. He mumbled incoherent words.

What he said was lost, as were Shaw of Sauchie’s further strictures, in the thunder of hooves and the clank of steel, as the newcomers pounded up. There were at least fifty heavily armed men in the party, mainly savage-looking and unkempt Border moss-troopers on shaggy mounts, led by two richly dressed men in chased and engraved breastplates, but wearing velvet caps instead of morions or helmets. Two Standard-Bearers rode directly behind them, before the soldiery, carrying fluttering banners showing colourful devices. Scotland was a notable place for streaming banners.

The country-folk and bystanders scattered like chaff and ran incontinent before the onslaught of rearing, pawing, violently drawn-up horseflesh and shouting men. No consideration was shown for man, woman or child. Even James and those close to him had to draw back hastily to avoid being ridden down. No respects, no greetings, were offered to any. The two leaders reined their caracoling steeds almost on top of the shrinking Laird of Sauchie, with scarcely a glance for his young charge.

“Fiend take you – what means this, Sauchie?” the elder bellowed. He was a big, florid, dark-haired, handsome man, not yet middle-aged but seeming to be overfull of blood; Patrick, second Lord Hailes, he was head of the powerful Lothian house of Hepburn, and one of the principal rebels against the late King. “You had your orders. The boy was not to leave Stirling bounds. God’s death, man – how dare you bring him here!”

“It was not my wish, my lord – I swear it. I advised turning back. From Torbrex. To the castle. We were hawking. But the tidings were . . . were . . .”

“You advised! Advised, fool? Since when were you told to advise? You were to govern. Control. If you cannot do that . . .”

“He did not bring me here. I came of my own will, despite him.” That was James Stewart.

“Quiet!” Hailes did not so much as look at the speaker. “Why came you here, Sauchie? Out with it. What a pox is your game?”

“No game, my lord. In truth. This man brought us tidings. This Bruce, here . . .”

“My Lord of Hailes.” High and clear the King’s young voice rose, even though there was a tremor in it. “Hear me, I . . . I command you! I came here because I must. Because I could do no other . . .”

“My Lord Duke commands us, hark you!” That was the other nobleman, a younger man in his late twenties, lean, angular, sandy-haired, with a hawklike face and keen darting eyes, on whom the rich clothing sat but awkwardly. He grinned, and still in the saddle, swept off his jewelled velvet cap mockingly. “Your Highness finds us all ears, I swear!”

The boy bit his lip, but maintained his head high. “I hope so, Master of Home,” he said. “For there is a deal to hear. Much demands attention here. Yours, and mine.”

The grandson and heir of old Lord Home grimaced, clapped on his bonnet again, and turned away. Hailes it was who answered.

“Quiet, boy,” he ordered. “Your time will come, no doubt. But not yet. Sauchie – I have little love for men who fail me . . .”

“My lord!” The knuckles of the hand which still held the drawn sword gleamed white, as James called still further upon his store of courage and hardihood. “The Master of Home had the civility to uncover to me. I’ll thank you to do the same!” That came out with a rush.

The Hepburn turned to stare from the youth to Home and back again, clearly astonished. “Uncover, did you say?”

“Aye. Is not the custom? To uncover before your King?”

“King, hey!” Hailes hooted rudely. “God’s Body – you go too fast, cockerel! Because we set you up under the banner of Scotland on yonder field two days ago, it doesna make a king of you. When our hands place the crown on that head o’ yours, it will be time enough to uncover, boy. Mind you that.”

“Another hand has done that for you, my lord.”

“Eh . . .?”

“My father . . . the King . . . lies yonder.” James gestured to the harness-room behind him. “Cruelly slain.” His lips trembled, and no more words came.

The noblemen stared from the boy to each other, and then to Sauchie. At that man’s agitated nod, they flung themselves down from their horses, and went stamping to the building, armour clanking. Home, in the lead, flung open the door.

James stood where he was, set-faced, eyes fixed on the distant line of the hills beyond the Firth. Sauchie fidgeted and shuffled, tugging at his wispy beard. Young Bruce moved closer, to stand directly behind the King, but said nothing. The company of moss-troopers talked, laughed and jeered, caring for none.

Presently Hailes and Home emerged from the hovel, their expressions markedly changed. Not that there was shock or sorrow or awe reflected therein, for they had hated and despised the man who lay there, and death however violent was commonplace indeed; but preoccupation and calculation showed on their frowning features. The Master of Home now carried in both hands a huge and long-handled sword of antique design.

“Here’s a pickle!” Hailes jerked, to no one in particular. “God’s Body – this changes all!”

“He is stiff. Cold. He has been dead for long,” the other said. “Who did it, think you?”

“That remains to be seen. Whoever it was has kept it quiet. Why?” Lord Hailes tapped at his prominent teeth thoughtfully. “Who would gain? That we should not yet know that the King is dead?”

“All thought him escaped with Wood in the ship – the Yellow Carvel. To Fife. Or to the North. Tha