‘Why don’t you kill him? It is treason to plot against you, the King.’
The King rubbed his hand together. ‘I’d love to,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I’d love to see that arrogant red head on the end of a pike but not here, not now. If I kill the Douglas his clan would be swarming through Edinburgh. They’d burn the abbey and the palace to the ground and I would disappear into some dark pit.’ He smiled again. ‘If ye hadn’t told me the truth, I would have let you eat that poison. But come on, have some more wine. Tell me about Oxford!’
So began Matthias’ bizarre life at the Scottish court. Sometimes the King would forget him and Matthias would wander the dusty galleries or go into the great abbey. He’d sit at the base of a pillar and listen to the rhythmic chant of the monks in their stalls or stare up at the stained-glass windows, where angels blew golden trumpets to raise the dead and demons danced on an ocean of fire. The abbey walls, too, were decorated with gorgeous multi-coloured scenes from the Bible. Matthias got to know each and every one of them, and the memories of those paintings at Tewkesbury flooded back: the golden summer day, the hermit staring at a painting, tears streaming down his face.
Matthias did try to escape. One morning he slipped out of a small postern gate and crossed the great meadow which ran down to one of the curtain walls round the abbey. He thought no one would notice. He was halfway across when he heard the whirr of arrows and two long shafts smacked into the soft earth on either side of him. Matthias turned round. Kennedy stood at the top of the hill: the master bowman beside him was notching another arrow to his string. Matthias shrugged and walked slowly back.
On other occasions he was closeted with the King; James was a madcap, seething with rage at the humiliation foisted upon him by his great barons. He was superstitious and, at other times, deeply religious. Matthias would sometimes sleep in the same chamber or sit at his right at banquets in the great refectory. He would taste every morsel of food and cup of wine placed before the King.
Matthias was also invited into the royal chapel where Cochrane, the King’s long-dead favourite, lay embalmed in an open casket. James had a special chair placed at the head of this. He would sit for hours stroking his dead favourite’s face, playing with the tendrils of the hair, cooing softly or talking about affairs of state. James would then quietly listen, as he put it, ‘for Cochrane’s good counsel’.
Douglas had left the court. When he returned, he never approached Matthias but just stared angry-eyed, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger. Matthias would shrug and glance away. He felt safe enough and, after his walk through the long meadow, never again attempted to escape. He didn’t pray or put his trust in God. He simply reached a decision that, if an opportunity to escape presented itself, he would seize it.
The months passed, a wet winter turned into a glorious spring. James spent more hours closeted in the royal chapel crooning and murmuring over Cochrane’s corpse. When he returned to his private chambers, he became immersed in letters, all written in a secret hand, to his ‘friends and trusted counsellors throughout Scotland’.
One day, at the beginning of May, Matthias found the King beside himself with excitement.
‘It’s war!’ he whispered across the table. ‘It’s now or never, Englishman! Cochrane has given me his advice! I am to take the field. Do you agree?’
‘Your Grace knows best,’ Matthias replied.
‘I have got to look for a cause,’ the King replied.
A few days later he was given this. A group of Douglas’ allies, the Humes, wild, border bonnet lairds, arrived in a clatter of hooves and clash of armour at the palace demanding an immediate audience with the King. James, dressed in his finest regal robes, met them in the throne room, his royal guards all about him, Matthias being relegated to a shadowy corner. At first Matthias couldn’t understand what was happening. The Humes, dressed in half-armour, their long, red hair falling down to their waists, stood arrogantly before the King and shouted for their rights.
‘The revenues of Coldingham Priory,’ their leader insisted, ‘belong to the Humes. They are ours by right and ancient privilege!’
‘Nothing is yours by right or privilege,’ James tartly retorted.
The Humes repeated their demands. James, bored, rose to his feet, clapped his hands as a sign that the audience was over and swept out of the throne room.
Within a week the Humes and their confederates the Douglases were up in arms. James became frenetic with excitement. His allies, the Huntleys and Crawfords, brought their retinues to Edinburgh. More royal troops arrived and the King began to move: his napery, his salt cellars, tapestries and curtained beds, spinning wheels, towels, combs, mirrors, chests and coffers were piled on to carts. The King, now the warrior, constantly marched about in half-armour, brought specially from Milanese craftsmen. James saw himself as a new Robert Bruce, full of military oaths and what he would do after his great victory. Matthias was given a coat of chain mail, a conical helmet, a war belt and a rounded shield.
‘You’ll be my squire, Englishman,’ James smiled at him. ‘You’ll stand by me in the fray. If you don’t, my good man Kennedy has orders to slash your throat from ear to ear.’ He grasped Matthias’ arm. ‘That’s the advice Cochrane gave me.’
Matthias glanced at the captain of the royal guard. Kennedy winked back.
‘God knows how this will end,’ he whispered later to Matthias, ‘but Cochrane has also told him how to fight this war.’
At the end of May James, astride a snow-white palfrey, the saddle and harness of burnished leather edged with silver, led his royal army out of the grounds of Holyrood, down through the stinking wynds of Edinburgh. They paused at the great open space before St Giles’ Cathedral where the priests blessed them. The royal army then continued. James had a body of archers and men-at-arms who wore coats of mail. These soldiers were well armed with bows and arrows, broadswords and daggers, but the rest were bare-footed clans-men, dressed in loose plaids and saffron-dyed shirts, and they carried little except a stout dagger in their belts, a spear and shield. Nevertheless, what they lacked in armour they made up in courage and determination. They did not care a whit about the King but were eager for war, to burn, pillage and, above all, wreak vengeance on their deadly enemies the Humes and the Douglases.
The King moved to Blackness on the Firth of Forth. His army caught sight of the enemy mustering in the distance. They, too, carried the royal banner of Scotland, having amongst their ranks the King’s eldest son. James’s courage now cooled. He refused to give battle but marched his troops further west. Kennedy told Matthias that he thought they were going for Stirling to seek protection behind its fortified walls. The King’s enemies moved faster and, when the royal army tried to cross Sauchieburn, a river which snaked its way across Stirling Plain, they found their way blocked by the Humes and Douglases and a greatly swollen rebel army.
James, Matthias in tow, rode up and down the lines of his troops, exhorting them to stand and fight, interfering in the commands and orders of his captains. The royal forces were not fully deployed when the rebel army moved with incredible speed. Matthias stared unbelievingly at the great line of horse and foot which raced towards them. This was no Tewkesbury or East Stoke but a wild rush of men. Most of James’s soldiers simply turned and fled: the levies from Edinburgh and other towns were the first to leave the field. The King, watching the flight of his troops from a nearby hill, panicked, took his helmet off and, turning his horse, left the field. Most of his bodyguard had been deployed in the line of battle and, as the King began his wild ride, Matthias realised only he and Kennedy were left to guard him. Behind them the roars of battle, the cries and shrieks of dying men faded as the King rode away.
They crossed a small stream, driving their horses up the wet slippery bank, and were about to pass a mill when James’s palfrey, unused to such mad gallops, slipped and rolled, tossing the king. He managed to extricate himself but, in doing so, hurt his legs. He lay gasping, screaming for Cochrane and beating his gauntleted hand on the ground like a spoilt child who has been deprived of a toy. Then he groaned and, clutching his side, fell back on the ground.
‘Englishman,’ Kennedy dismounted, ‘see if there is any pursuit.’
Whilst he crouched beside his king, Matthias turned his horse’s head and rode back to the top of the bank. He took his helmet off, allowing the breeze to cool the sweat on his face. He pulled back the mailed coif and drank from the waterskin slung over his saddle. He didn’t give a fig about James or the pursuers and, for some time, his attention was caught by a small white cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. He stared at it, lost in a reverie: the sky, the cloud, the warm sun reminded him of that day at the wall when he had told Rosamund about his past.
‘Englishman, are you asleep?’
