A gnarled grandfather oak shaded the dirt road. James paused beneath it to wipe the sweat from his brow. It had been a long walk from where he'd left his horse with two of his men. Above the serrated tips of the spars of docked ships, a cloud slid past the noonday sun. He scanned the high yellow walls of the town of Chester. Just as when he'd passed through the town in Bishop Lamberton's service, guards armed with crossbows marched atop the wide walls, and pikemen stood in the shadows of the gate at the end of the wide stone bridge. A wain piled with barrels rattled past him waved through by the guards.
He squared his shoulders, blanked his face and strode toward them. His footsteps thudded on the stone, and below the waves swished against the riverbank.
One of the guards lowered his pike to bar the way. “Your name and business,” he said in a bored tone.
“Iain of Lanark. I'm in the service of Sir Robert Keith. He's expecting me.”
The man's mouth twisted in a sneer, but he lifted his weapon and jerked his head to motion toward the way into the town. “The Scots lords are lodged in the castle.”
James nodded and stepped around the man. The sun gilded the castle atop a hill beyond the slate roofs of the town. Oaks and beeches dotted the way, and a church bell rang peacefully, calling the midday Angelus. Down the street, a crowd hooted and jeered at a scarecrow of man in rags, hair in tangles down to his shoulders, shouting curses and shaking his fists at the sky. James wended his way past two soldiers in mail, holding each other up as they staggered into an open door. A crude sign hung over the door, and the smell of stale ale gusted out. A baker's boy, laden arms around a heavy basket, shouted, “Hot eel pies!” and a merchant in a leather apron swept a doorstep. A gang of urchins dashed past into an alley chasing a dog, blood dripping down its sides. No one gave James a second look.
A trickle of sweat ran down his back. He sucked spit into his mouth to moisten his tongue and trudged up to a guard in the deep shadows of the tunnel that led into the castle. “I'm looking for Sir Robert Keith.”
“Keith. One of the damned Scots. He rooms at the top of the Half-Moon Tower.” The guard turned on his heel and marched into the bailey yard. He pointed.
“My thanks.”
The man grunted and strode back to his post. Across the bailey, a farrier clanged away as he bent over a horse's hoof. A group of boys huffed and puffed and hit at each other in their heavy padding under the watchful eye of a gray-haired master-at-arms. A wain piled high with barrels was being unloaded, the men grunting and grumbling as they worked in the heat. It was a short walk to the arched entrance to the tower, and James took the narrow stairs up to an age-darkened door.
He rapped and a lad opened the door. “Sir Robert sent me a message. Tell him his cousin is here.”
“Let him enter, Amery,” a deep voice said from across the chamber.
Amery stepped back with a courteous half-bow and held the door open for James. Robert Keith was sharp-featured with rust-colored hair, simply dressed in a brown tunic and high leather boots. “Welcome, cousin.” But his glance was wary.
A woman sat at a table with a lass who peered at him with a look of alarm.
“Robert.” James smiled. “It's been a very long time.”
“Amery, go to the kitchens and bring bread, some of that white cheese and apples, and some good dark ale to wash it down.” The lad bowed and left. “My lady wife, Barbara, and our daughter, Elayne.” The two looked the part, both dressed in a blue that matched their eyes and blonde hair neatly tamed into braids.
“Well met,” James said as he seated himself. Interesting that Keith carefully omitted mention of his name. Perhaps he had little trust in his wife, but which side did she fall on? “England agrees with you well, I'm glad to see.”
James wondered what it would be like to have a wife and daughter and decided he would rather not find out. There was too much suffering if you lost them.
Elayne spoke up. “It does. London was so exciting. The Queen is beautiful. And the gowns she wears—”
“London isn't our home,” Keith snapped. “There is no point in pining for it. When things are more settled, we'll return home to Scotland.”
“I hardly even remember Scotland,” the lass said, her lips trembling. She was a pretty lass, who sounded thoroughly spoiled. “London is warmer, and there are fine lords and no fighting and—”
“Quiet. You don't know what you are blathering about.” Robert de Keith snorted. “No fighting...”
The woman arose. “Sirs, my daughter and I will leave you to your business. Come.” She smiled faintly at her daughter. “We'll gather thyme from the herb garden to sweeten the air.”
Amery bowed past her as he came in with the tray. Once the lad had poured them ale, his master sent him away again to polish their horses' tack in the stable. Keith went to the door and stood in it for a moment. After closing it firmly, he turned and said, “They say you burned Douglas Castle.”
James shrugged. “And Clifford rebuilt it.”
“You'd really make your peace with Edward? You're serious?”
“I'm here, aren't I? But it's not that simple. When Lamberton tried to convince old Longshanks to accept my fealty, he nearly got thrown in a dungeon. So, the question is, will his son be of a different mind?”
“He is. Hard to think of two men more different in their ways. He's released Bishop Lamberton, you know.”
James's heart thudded. “You jest.”
“Not at all. He's still under guard and pledged not to leave England.” Keith's smile twisted with wry amusement. “The old king hated him, and that's enough for the son.”
James blanked his expression, although his heart raced. News indeed well worth the trip and the risk. “Old Longshanks hated me even as a lad. So, you think that would mean something?”
Keith nodded thoughtfully. “It might. Lamberton is in Durham, and I've heard he's well enough. Edward is fond of him, it would seem.”
“So, the English King would take me into his peace...” James smiled into his cup as he took a drink of the ale. “In spite of everything.”
“It would pull a sharp thorn from their side. And that would please him. With what he is and what his nobles think of him.” Keith pulled a grimace. “They wouldn't mind so much who he rutted with if he didn't rub their faces in it. He's the King and they'd ignore it. Stupid. Stupid man. If he'd rid himself of Gaveston and be quiet in what he does... men would abide it. But if he's to keep that peacock at his side, he'll be forced to invade to take their mind off the other.”
James thought over the 'their' but let the phrase go. The Keith didn't seem all that attached to his friends in England, but he wasn't here to bring Keith into his own King's peace. He studied the man's bland face. Traitors made his hand itch for a sword, but how could you kill every man who'd sold their soul for a day's safety? “So, you think he'll lead an invasion himself?”
Keith grunted. “He'll have to. They're calling him a coward and worse. Not that he is. Or I think not. Just strange.”
James thought he'd better renew his pretense. Something more worthwhile might slip. “How are matters between him and Clifford? If I make my peace with him, I'll want my lands back.”
“He needs Clifford, but perhaps other lands. Something seized from Boyd or one of the others.”
“I'd rather have Douglasdale returned to me, but if it's a good offer...” James shrugged. “Have you heard of any of the others in English hands? Bishop Wishert? Lady Elizabeth?”
“All close confined. They'll never see freedom although... I've heard that his orders are that they are to be held less harshly in their confinement. Lady Christina has been released at last from that...” The Keith's lips thinned. “...that cage where they kept her.”
James ripped off a piece of bread. Curse them. At least old Longshanks had gone to the torments of Hell that he deserved. “Perhaps that means he hates us less than his father did. That would be good news for me.” He took a drink of his ale.
“You'll need to offer them something. They don't love us Scots and you least of all. Could you give them the Bruce, do you think? That would put you high in the English regard.”
James picked up an apple. It crunched when he bit into it, and he chewed thoughtfully. “I could try, but I'll make no promises on that score. He's too wily to be easily trapped, and he's never without Gilbert de Hay and the Campbell and their men. But Sir Edward Bruce or some lesser game... If the English make it worth my while. That I could promise.”
“Sir Edward,” Keith repeated. “He'd be a prize, but is it likely you could lure him without his brother?”
“I think that I could.” James chewed some more bread. “He's often in the south and away from the King. He's impatient, hot-headed. Loves taking risks.”
Keith snorted. “You're a fine one to talk of taking risks, cousin. But I've heard he's hot-headed. Dangerous. He's the type to fall into a trap. If I can promise, you'll lure him within reach...”
“I've no fondness of Edward de Bruce.” James shrugged. “And perhaps I could lure Boyd as well.”
“I could propose it to Aymer de Valence. He has the King's ear.”
James started on the cheese. “Are you staying in Chester long?”
“Staying longer than I'd like,” Keith said grimly. “The English want me in their sight and under their thumb. And I can't say it's safe for my family at home as long as Robert de Bruce is a free man. What about you? You're not staying until you have word, are you?”
James's mouth was full of bread and cheese, and he took a drink of the strong, dark ale to wash it down. He grinned wolfishly at Keith. “A bit close under their noses for me. No, I'll be away for the border before nightfall.” And he'd find some way to send a message to Lamberton, as well. “I'll send my man for an answer in a month's time.” James wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and nodded to his cousin as he rose. The door banged closed behind him. Alone the news that Lamberton was freed from his dungeon had been worth the trip, but he might as well poke about a mite whilst he was here.
The guards glowered at him as he passed. “Bring news of King Hob?” one of them yelled.
James shrugged and kept going. An insult to his King wasn't going to draw him out. Those soldiers stumbling into a tavern might be in a mood to talk. If not them, then another. It looked like the kind of place that would draw the right clients for news.
James kept close to the edge of the street as he made his way back. The old madman had left or been dragged away. The body of the dog lay halfway out of the alley. From above a goodwife shouted before she emptied a chamber pot, and he jumped back to avoid the stinking splash. His lip curled. He'd forgotten the stink of a city.
The smell of ale, even stale, was a welcome relief when he pushed open the door. The room was long and draughty. A row of kegs stood at one end and a heart with a sputtering fire at the other. A pimple-faced serving boy ran back and forth with mugs that a grubby tavern keeper drew from the kegs.
Men crowded the benches. A fat merchant bent close to whisper in a priest's ear. A heavy muscled smith in a leather apron sat on a far corner, staring into his cup. But most of the places were filled with hard-faced soldiers. Three by the fire wore the yellow with starlings of Lord Clifford. Five, laughing drunkenly, wore polished mail topped with the red and gold of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke.
James stepped over the bench and sat near them, waving to the boy to bring him ale. When the lad held out a hand, James slipped him a single silver groat piece.
The oldest of Valence's men, lean-faced with a deep scar from eye to chin, narrowed his eyes at James. “What lord you serve?”
James shook his head and gave the man a bland smile. “Je ne comprends pas.” When the lad slapped a mug down in front of him, James buried his face in it, slurping as he drank, keeping his eyes on the thick, dark brew.
“Good idea to wear your lord's colors hereabouts,” the man muttered.
A younger one at his side said, “Ah, why don't you leave it, Adam? Probably some God-damned mercenary Clifford brought over from France too dumb to understand a word of honest English.”
Adam upended his cup and drained it. He hammered on the rough boards of the table for the servant's attention. “Might be worth beating his head in after we have some more ale.”
James slurped up some more of his ale, hiding his smile. They'd probably pass out first. If not, they were in for a surprise.
“We fight Clifford's men again. Mess him up, and his lordship will give us a lashing for sure. Anyway, we have a few days to stay drunk. I don't want to spend it locked up.”
One of Clifford's men stood up, glaring. “You lot want a fight, you'll have it. Lucky buggers, you don't have to guard horse trains—nothing but rain and bogs and looking over your shoulder for King Hob.” He snorted. “Soft duty you have, escorting the earl's get here and there.”
Adam jumped to his feet, rocking the bench. James waved to the servant boy and raised his cup. He motioned to the cups of the other men and pantomimed filling them and threw down some coins. Grinning, he said, “Buvez, mes amis.” He raised his cup in a toast to them. “Pourquoi se battre?”
The serving boy came back, his arms full of cups of ale. He thumped them hurriedly down, eyes cutting from side to side at the soldiers.
Adam grunted. “Won't beat his head in after all.” He took a deep drink of the ale.
The man of Clifford's straddled the bench. “The youngster's right. A week until we're off for Buittle with a supply train. Rather do this than have my back flayed.”
James threw a few groats on the table. It would be a good idea to have them rolling under the table before he slipped away.