I walked through a long tunnel of blackthorn. The dark green bushes, taller than my head, let through a faint light. My footsteps swished through the leaf litter. At the end of the tunnel, a cluster of women sat around a table set with a lantern that gleamed on their faces and gave them a ghostly glow. “I kent I should find you here,” said a voice beside me, and I was wrapped in the spicy scent of gorse flowers. It was Joneta. Her gaze was soft and pitying in the dim light. Around her forehead was the blue ribbon I had given her, and her hair flowed freely over her shoulders. My happiness at seeing her almost choked me, yet I felt I had expected her. “They told me,” I said to her, “that you went to a nunnery. So you cannot be here.” She stared at the women spinning. flick… flick… flick… “I am here,” she said. “I am always here.”
The sense of it was so sharp that I came awake, gasping. Every time I had it, it left me so. Naked, I threw back the coverlet, rose, and padded to the table, ducking to keep from bumping my head against the rafter. The chamber was at the back on the third floor of the inn, so the ceiling was low and slanted. I could not complain, though. Dundee was filled to the rafters, every room taken, and I had been lucky to find one at all. I often stayed at the White Hart Inn, so they had rented me the last room that no one wanted.
It seemed half of Scotland had come to Dundee to see King David’s return. Nobles and wealthy burghers, men-at-arms, peddlers hawking their goods, and townspeople swarmed the street. The crowds had attracted jugglers, tumblers, and harpists performing for coin on the street corners. Though, if he could stay had yet to be decided. The lords of parliament had been summoned to meet at Greyfriars’s Abbey. King David’s freedom depended on parliament agreeing to the proposed offer of ransom he brought from the English King Edward. And no one knew what that proposal was.
The water in the bowl on the table was cold, but it would do. After scrubbing myself from head to toe, I dunked my head in the bowl to give my hair a good rinse. I would have liked a good soak at the bathhouse when I arrived yesterday, but the bathhouse had been filled up too.
I pushed open the shutter on the window. A light wind had risen overnight and pushed puffy, red-tinted clouds across the azure sky. I leaned out the window ledge, enjoying the chill of the chill as the breeze ruffled my damp hair. I looked across the rooftops of the burgh. Smoke streamed from one of the chimneys, and the breeze carried it north. A flock of house sparrows burst from under the eaves, twittering as they descended on the stable yard to squabble over whatever they could find there. A clatter of pans rose from the inn’s kitchen. High above the street, the air was fresh, and I sucked in a deep breath. A door banged, and a woman scurried across the rear yard toward the privy. I ducked inside so she would not see me.
I sat on the edge of my bed and tugged on my knitted yellow wool chausses. They were the new style, with the legs joined into one garment. When I finally pulled them into place, I flapped into my shirt and donned my new rust-colored doublet. It barely came past my hips, and I tugged it down, thankful that the chausses hid what God did not intend to be exposed.
I fastened my belt below my hips with my dagger hanging in front. Finally dressed, I checked below to make sure I did not pour the water on anyone and dumped it out. The stable gate opened, and Will led his horse through.
“Hoi! Will,” I shouted.
“There you are, Archie,” he called back. “Hie you down.”
“Bide there.”
Before I went down to join him, I paused at the door. My claymore, battle axe, bow, and bag of arrows rested on the floor beside it. I picked up the sword and unsheathed it. Since he hoped to reach the king or at least get near him, I would not need it, but it felt strange going without, as though I were missing a limb. I made a slash, and it whistled through the air. I slipped into the fool’s guard with the blade pointing down and moved into the plow, the point aimed at where my opponent’s chest would have been. I sheathed it, wondering if the king’s return might mean peace with the English. Would Sir William be freed as well? Would he want me in his following again? But if the king wanted me in his household, I could not refuse. Nor would I want to.
The year of the tourney, Scotland had been ravaged by the great plague even worse than before. Since then, it had been two years with no more plague deaths. But would it return? No one spoke of it because we did not dare. We could only pray. Fighting was at a standstill as both sides of the border struggled to recover. And neither my king nor my foster father, Sir William, were free yet. What these past few years had taught me was that the priests were right about one thing. “For man proposes, but God disposes; neither is the way of man in his own hands.”
I huffed a chuckle. Will would make a jape of me if he knew I was turning philosopher, so I thudded down the stairs in search of him.
People were noisily moving around below with the crowd here to see the king and learn if he would be able to stay. With hostages for his return to English hands and his oath to abide by the agreement, that was by no means certain. I started down, and the stairway was bustling with guests leaving their rooms, mostly men but also a few accompanied by well-dressed women.
The stairway ended at the main chamber filled with tables, stools, benches, and back and front doorways. A half-grown lad, one of the proprietor’s sons, was banking the glowing embers in the wide stone fireplace so it would not go out while they were gone. His mother, a tall, stout woman, was nearby, firmly telling several guests that food and ale would be served after the procession of the king’s arrival.
A lad of about six raced through the back door leading to the pantry and the kitchen, letting it bang behind him. He weaved between the stools heading for his kneeling brother, but his mother whirled around and grabbed him by the arm. “Behave! Unless you wants a thrashing.” She let him go, and he sidled to poke at his kneeling brother, who bashed him back with an elbow.
I crept quietly toward the door, through the crowd, as she turned to her husband, who clumped down the stairs and into view. She looked him from head to foot like a horse trader with a suspect mount. She was obviously a prosperous merchant in her spotless, pleated coif, embroidered blue kirtle, and yellow underdress. After a moment, she nodded approval to his green knee-length tunic, yellow mangle, and black and white chausses.
She called to her two sons to join them and said, “Now, everyone out. The inn will reopen after King Davey passes by.”
I slipped through the door ahead of them and gave Will a smack on the arm before he could give me his usual greeting. We both laughed and strolled out through the gate to the street. When we turned the corner at High Street, throngs of people were headed to the abbey. That was where the king’s party, including two score English guards, would bide, and parliament would be held. There were as many angry faces at the insult of the English sending English guards into Scotland as happy visages at the king’s return. Some were muttering, and I saw a few pick up stones and clods of dirt.
“Make way!” a voice bellowed. Men-at-arms wearing the badge of the house of Stewart waded in, shoving to clear the road. “Make Way for the King of Scots!” the man bellowed again. The men-at-arms used the staves of their pikes to push the crowd and took up places a few steps apart. The short stood on tiptoe to see, and children crawled through onlookers’ legs. A woman screeched angrily when someone trod on her skirts. I used my elbows to push through to the front of the onlookers. A woman kicked my leg, complaining that I was cutting off everyone’s view. I had to laugh. Perhaps she thought I would cut my head off.
“Look!” A childish voice shouted. “It’s hundreds of horses and trumpets and drums. It’s the king!”
The trumpeters blew out a loud fanfare. They marched into sight, a group of ten trumpeters and some drummers beating time. Alongside them, dogs raced back and forth, frantically barking. Children jumped up and down, screaming with excitement. From up the street, above the din, I heard shouts of “God save King David! God save the king!”
The trumpeters blew a loud fanfare. Behind them was a standard bearer, the royal Lion Rampant streaming overhead as his horse pranced as though the cheers were for him.
Will watched open-mouthed. “It is him. I didnae really believe they would allow it.”
And indeed, it was Davie in a scarlet cotte embroidered with gold that shimmered in the sunlight, a deep scar on his cheek, but eyes shining and his auburn hair waving down to his broad shoulders. My heart hammered, and every nerve in my body sparked with life. “Look!” I pointed. Sir William, Lord of Liddesdale, on the king’s right.
The glittering cavalcade was so long that it stretched out of sight. Silks shimmered in the morning sunlight and glinted on gems on hats and necks and fingers. The horses were draped in every color of leather in the dyer’s art. But on each side rode grim-faced men-at-arms, the badge of the English king on their chests. A thrown rock hit one of their horses, and it jibbed. The man took his mount in hand as a pikeman turned and beat down whoever had thrown it.
Curses at the English and angry snarls mixed freely with cheers for the king.
Will nudged me. “There is Malcolm Fleming with him!” Fleming had somehow managed to escape his English captors, and now he was beaming as he rode beside the king, his former foster son.
Neither Stewart nor Dunbar rode with them, but Douglas was grinning as he rode a strutting courser. “And there is William de Landallis.” Will pointed to the bishop in his jewel-bedecked episcopal finery.
“And the Abbot of Arbroath Abbey.” There were too many for me to point them all out, although I knew most of the faces. I had fought beside several of them. I doffed my chaperon and made a deep obeisance as the king passed, but Will was throwing his in the air and shouting cheers.
Boys dashed alongside the prancing horses. The king waved with a wide smile and occasionally tossed one of the lads a coin. A lass ran up to offer him an apple. One of the English men-at-arms raised a threatening arm, but the king turned and barked a command. He drew up his horse to take it, grinning down at her, and the people cheered their approval.
The cavalcade clattered past. Further up High Street, the trumpeters blew another blast, followed by more cheers and shouts, fainter now. “God save the king’s grace! God save King Davie!” Some people followed along, but most turned to wander back to their homes or reopen shops that had been shuttered. I stared after him. He was waving still beneath the snapping banner, tailed by courtiers, surrounded by hostile guards. Their horses pawed and snorted at the cheers of the crowd.
“Do you think we will have trouble getting into the abbey?” Will asked.
Lord Douglas stayed there when in Dundee, so the monks at the gates knew me well. They knew I served him. I could use that to gain entrance. “It should be no problem, but let us wait until the crowd disperses. That will have them nervous with all the curses at those bull’s-pizzle English guards.”
Will’s face brightened. “Good! And the tavern should be serving ale by now.” He gave me a shove in that direction.
We wended our way through the dispersing crowd and reached the White Hart as the bells rang for midmorning terce prayers. A few tradesmen stood outside at the counters waiting for ale and gossiping about the king. One young journeyman exclaimed how impressive the king’s scar was and that he must be a tremendous warrior, but an older man was worried about a ransom increasing taxes.
The interior of the tavern was long and narrow. Travelers filled the ranks of trestle tables. It was too early in the day for a meal, but the gossip was too good not to share. The nobles and the rich burghers who had the right to vote in parliament had nothing to do until the afternoon session.
We threaded our way through the tables toward a less crowded spot at the back of the hall. Sir Duncan Ramsay beckoned us over. “We were just talking anent you.” He waved a hand to Colban. “What have you heard anent Barclay?”
I slid onto the bench beside him as a pot boy sat a cup of ale in front of me. “Nothing since he murdered Sir John. And he would do well to continue to stay out of my sight.”
Sir Duncan raised his eyebrows. “So it wasnae you who sent assassins after him?”
“Me?” I gawped at him. “If I kill a man, I do it to his face, nae with an assassin.”
Will asked, “When? Where?”
“Three days hence in Aberdeen. I heard it from Ross today. He was in his own lands and came down for the parliament.”
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. I was surprised. And yet I was not. “He was sure it was assassins?”
“Aye. A blade in the back. He was attacked on the street. If anyone saw it, they are keeping noticeably quiet about it.”
I tightened my grip on my mug. “He has been imprisoned in England. How could Sir William…?”
Colban snorted. “There are men who still will do whatever he bids. You should ken that.”
I shrugged. Colban was right, and I could not fault Sir William for revenging his brother’s murder. Though the method of it did not sit right with me. But he had been in the Tower of London, and perhaps it was my fault for not hunting Barclay down and challenging him to a fight to the death.
I drained my ale and slammed it down. “Will, I want to see if I still have a friend at the abbey gate who will admit us.”