Joanna decided that she had no worry about leaving our wee bairn with his wet nurse while we attended James’ and Agnes’ wedding. He had reached a year and was thriving well. The nurse had looked askance at being left with three-year-old Archie who invariably found the most dangerous place to climb or ventured into the stables and was likely to be trampled. I ordered one of the men-at-arms to watch him closely.
We left early, skirting Glasgow, and crossed the River Clyde at Dalmarnock, where James and his men joined us. Paisley came into view in midafternoon, to all our relief, ready for the cool of the abbey gardens and guesthouse. We found Agnes already installed there.
King Robert had been more than happy to approve the marriage because it gave him an excuse for not paying the very considerable sum that King David had left her. In order to be included in King Robert’s affinity, James thought it quite worth the cost. He made it up to her with the large dower lands he gave her. When Robert suggested they marry at Paisley Abbey, where his mother and father were buried, which the Stewarts favored, Agnes had sniffed at King Robert’s miserliness and said she did not care that it was a long ride as long as it was done. The last year had been a trying one for her and she was very ready for a return to a settled home life.
In the abbey guesthouse, there was a gathering of Douglases and the Dunbar relatives. Many of the Stewarts and much of Lowland Scotland were guests at the nearby home of the High Steward of Scotland, Blackhall Manor. This was agreeable to all since it eased the crowding in the guest hall and prevented any argument with Alexander Stewart, whom you could count on for being difficult. He was the King’s favorite son and had always been given anything he wanted by his sire, so even his brothers did not like him.
At the monastery we took supper at the abbot’s house, the abbot, John de Lithgow, making us very welcome. Although there was teasing and laughter, the presence of the abbot moderated even James’ obvious glee. Willie served wine at the table as page, to my delight. I had not seen him for some time and was taken aback that he had grown so that the top of his head was up to my shoulder. Soon, he would be a squire and then a man. He cast me sidelong looks that made me smile, but I shook my head at him. He needed to concentrate on his duties, but I had promised myself to take him for a ride and let him tell me everything on his boy’s mind.
At bedtime and sharing a guest room with James as we undressed I gave him some expert and detailed advice for his wedding knight that had him laughing and throwing his boot at my head.
I ducked and cried, “Fie! Fie upon you, I say, abusing an old man.”
“Old man?” He threw himself down on the bed, chortling. “Where is your cane then?”
“See this gray in my hair?” I pointed at the streaks in my once black head that I usually did my best to ignore. Where had the years gone that I had reached my forty-second year? “They make me an old man, say I.”
“Aye, that will be the day when you cannae swing that claymore of yours.” He was still laughing when I fell asleep.
We rose early so the wedding could be completed before the ringing of sext at noontime. There was much to do about dressing, James fretting that Willie did not have his elegant red silk doublet smooth and that his cloak would be too hot for the weather before he sent the lad to prepare for his own part. From the women’s guesthouse there were squeals of laughter.
We were greeted at the door of the monastery kirk by Abbot de Lithgow, in his finest silk habit and wearing his mitre, a privilege granted to the abbots of this monastery. James took his place, fidgeting on the steps. I stood beside him with my sword by my side, the traditional protection for the wedding party.
Above our heads, a swift soared into the sky, calling out a fast chip chip chip and then was out of sight.
James smoothed the front of his doublet and adjusted the yellow cloak draped over his shoulders, shifting from one foot to the other. When I jokingly suggested that Agnes had fled, he glared but joined me when I laughed.
The music of a bagpipe, viols, flutes, drums, and trumpets drifted to us from around the corner of the kirk. Leading the way when they appeared, Willie carried a large silver goblet overflowing with thyme. George of Dunbar, his sleeves twined with flowers, led Agnes’s white palfrey.
She was lovely, in a blue silk houppelande, the high waistline just underneath her breasts, wide angel sleeves fluttering loosely around her hands. A circlet of roses about her brow crowned her fair hair confined in a gold snood at the back of her neck. Beaming, her good-sister, George’s wife, Christiana Seton, walked beside her. The musicians strolled after her palfrey and then came a brightly dressed crowd, John Stewart, his wife, Thomas Fleming, and guests from every house of Lowland nobility as well as most of the people of Paisley, their laughter and chatter blending with the music.
James stared at Agnes, open-mouthed, and was rewarded with a warm smile, her brother bowing elaborately to him and reaching up to aid her from the palfrey. He offered his arm and led her to the doorway to stand on the groom’s left.
Abbot de Lithgow raised his hands in a blessing, and the musicians fell silent.
The wedding service followed the usual course, the questions as to their ages, whether the banns had been proclaimed, and whether they entered the marriage freely of their own will. James cleared his throat and vowed to have and to hold Agnes for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death they departed.
I handed over the broad gold ring for James to place on her finger with the necessary words.
The abbot motioned for them to kneel to be declared man and wife, nearly drowned out by a burst of music, cheers, and whistles. People surged forward, and Willie held up an alms bowl. James slipped his arm around her waist, a stunned look of happiness on his face. She scooped up a handful of silver pennies to toss to the crowd. I joined in the cheers.
The abbot opened the doors of the kirk and ushered in the newlyweds. I followed, my hand on Willie’s shoulder whispering that he had done a braw job, followed by George of Dunbar and his wife, John Stewart and his wife, and many of the crowd of onlookers. The bride and groom knelt before the priest at the altar. Young acolytes held a canopy above their heads while the abbot said a brief nuptial mass. Upon the conclusion of mass, the acolytes removed the canopy. As the beaming couple walked out of the church, the choir intoned Angus Dei.
I met them at the door. “You are the loveliest bride I have seen since my own wedding day.” I gave Agnes a kiss of peace on the cheek, and I gave James a push. “Now lead the way to the feast.”
Agnes’ good-sister put an arm around her waist. “Aye, she is lovely.” Smiling at James, she added, “And the Lord of Dalkeith is lucky to have so lovely a bride.”
James gave his assent and pulled Agnes’s hand closer. He kept her at his side as the music pulled us through the abbey gardens to the refectory, where the wedding feast awaited as the bells of the abbey rang out for prayers.
A guard in the Stewart's livery opened the door for us. The musicians gathered in a corner as there was no gallery. The shutters were thrown back so that sunlight flooded in. Rushes sweetened with lavender covered the floor, perfuming the air. Long trestle tables the length of the room draped in white cloths were set with gleaming pewter goblets that servants scurried to fill from flagons of wine. There was no dais, but a table across the head of the room was prepared.
When a blessing was said and everyone’s cup was filled, John Stewart, Earl of Carrick, stood and raised his wine cup. “To the bride and groom!” Everyone leapt to their feet, shouting and cheering before we drained our cups.
The trumpets blasted to announce servers carrying in large platters of roast lamb in pepper sauce, others filled with venison in frumenty, fritters, and cardamon cakes. There were more toasts and much jesting about the bedding of the couple, usually a raucous affair since it could not be done at the monastery. Instead, tonight, the newlyweds would be guests of John Stewart at his manor house.
There were only two courses, though each had at least a dozen dishes. When there was little more left on the tables than crumbs and bread trenchers to be gathered for the poor, the tables were moved aside for dancing, but Thomas Fleming pushed his way through the crush.
“I want to finish this business of Wigtown,” he said, grasping my arm. “I have many plans to get underway.”
“Aye, we may as well.” We had already agreed on the price, so I drew him aside into a corner. “My banker is the goldsmith in Glasgow. Take him my script, and he will transfer the money to you.”
He quickly examined the folded document and sighed with relief. “I suppose you ken what you are taking on. The Agnews of Lochnaw are the worst of the lot. They can hold up in that island castle, which they did when I tried to bring them to account.” He smiled and gave a little wave of the parchment. “But they are your problem now.”
I motioned for a servant carrying a tray of wine goblets. “I enjoy a challenge or else life is boring.” Once we had our wine in our hands, we toasted a deal satisfactorily concluded. And I was now at least officially an earl.