pestilence at home to warrant such an outlay. Let those quarrelsome Irish chieftains undo the Scots. You, Sir Roger, will go with the Earl of Hereford to defend the Welsh Marches and tame matters there. The townspeople of Bristol are proving difficult, as well. For now, you are needed more at home than elsewhere.”
“But, sire,” he hammered a fist against his chest, “why not let Hereford –”
“Denied!” I shoved my chair back and stood, pointing a finger at him. “I warn you – do not argue with me on this. Do as I have commanded and there may yet be reward for you. Since you are the only one who seems eager to trample that patch of nettles, I daresay it is yours for the asking.” I leaned forward, my hands spread flat on the table for support. “But first, you need prove yourself worthy by ridding us of the rats nibbling at our fingers.”
Hereford thrust his chest out, triumphant in the moment.
Tight-lipped, Mortimer bowed and swept a hand across his torso. “As you bid, my lord.”
In the months following, Mortimer indeed proved himself more than loyal and beyond capable of quelling the Welsh. He not only subdued them, but delivered Llewellyn Bren straight into my hands in London. Then, he laid siege to riotous Bristol and broke the wills of the townsfolk. While Mortimer was putting down insurrection in the west, Lancaster quarreled openly with me at the following parliament. He abandoned the session and flew back north because, he said, the Scots were menacing his lands. My one true hope was that Lancaster would meet his cruel, mortal end on the blunt edge of a Scottish blade.
One man, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had salvaged half my kingdom. One man. I made him Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in reward – if it could be called a ‘reward’. Any other man would have declared it a burden and a curse.
But Roger Mortimer was unlike other men. He was the king’s man. Mine.
I would have traded every small victory he brought me, however, to hear of the death of Robert the Bruce. But if Fortune was to mock me, I would take my triumph wherever I could.
Ch. 8
James Douglas – Lintalee, 1316
I nto the north counties of England, I rode and laid torch to thatch while women with suckling babes clutched to their breasts ran from their homes barefoot and shrieking. I passed with but a glance as wailing bairns stood in the road with their hands outstretched, begging for food. I gave them none.
Edward, King of England, still too twisted in his own troubles with the Earl of Lancaster, had left the northerners to fend for themselves and thus at my fickle mercy. From Lancaster to Hartlepool, I collected great sums of money from the lords and burghers, so that we might grant a reprieve to their people and their towns. This I did at the behest of my king and I reveled in it for both requital and diversion.
Even though I allowed myself little rest, I thought of Marjorie daily. I welcomed the pain, for it was better than being hollow. Not far from Jedburgh, I sought out a place in the deep of the forest at a place called Lintalee – hard to find, remote and utterly beautiful – and decided that there I would build myself a timber lodge to be my home. I wanted no castle walls stacked with stone, nor a court overfull with servants buzzing about like bees. The number of private chambers would be sparingly few and the kitchen and storerooms small, to discourage any visitors who desired comforts beyond a pallet in the hall and a bland meal.
My brothers, Hugh and Archibald, had been indispensable in clearing trees at a good rate. Both had accompanied me on numerous raids, the benefits of which meant nothing to a simpleton like Hugh, who desired naught beyond a full belly. He did what I told him to and little more. Archibald, on the other hand, needed guidance. He had shrived himself of his prior sins by sending money to the kirk back in Bute. His bastard son there died before he ever knew of him, but neither that mistake
“But, sire,” he hammered a fist against his chest, “why not let Hereford –”
“Denied!” I shoved my chair back and stood, pointing a finger at him. “I warn you – do not argue with me on this. Do as I have commanded and there may yet be reward for you. Since you are the only one who seems eager to trample that patch of nettles, I daresay it is yours for the asking.” I leaned forward, my hands spread flat on the table for support. “But first, you need prove yourself worthy by ridding us of the rats nibbling at our fingers.”
Hereford thrust his chest out, triumphant in the moment.
Tight-lipped, Mortimer bowed and swept a hand across his torso. “As you bid, my lord.”
In the months following, Mortimer indeed proved himself more than loyal and beyond capable of quelling the Welsh. He not only subdued them, but delivered Llewellyn Bren straight into my hands in London. Then, he laid siege to riotous Bristol and broke the wills of the townsfolk. While Mortimer was putting down insurrection in the west, Lancaster quarreled openly with me at the following parliament. He abandoned the session and flew back north because, he said, the Scots were menacing his lands. My one true hope was that Lancaster would meet his cruel, mortal end on the blunt edge of a Scottish blade.
One man, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had salvaged half my kingdom. One man. I made him Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in reward – if it could be called a ‘reward’. Any other man would have declared it a burden and a curse.
But Roger Mortimer was unlike other men. He was the king’s man. Mine.
I would have traded every small victory he brought me, however, to hear of the death of Robert the Bruce. But if Fortune was to mock me, I would take my triumph wherever I could.
Ch. 8
James Douglas – Lintalee, 1316
I nto the north counties of England, I rode and laid torch to thatch while women with suckling babes clutched to their breasts ran from their homes barefoot and shrieking. I passed with but a glance as wailing bairns stood in the road with their hands outstretched, begging for food. I gave them none.
Edward, King of England, still too twisted in his own troubles with the Earl of Lancaster, had left the northerners to fend for themselves and thus at my fickle mercy. From Lancaster to Hartlepool, I collected great sums of money from the lords and burghers, so that we might grant a reprieve to their people and their towns. This I did at the behest of my king and I reveled in it for both requital and diversion.
Even though I allowed myself little rest, I thought of Marjorie daily. I welcomed the pain, for it was better than being hollow. Not far from Jedburgh, I sought out a place in the deep of the forest at a place called Lintalee – hard to find, remote and utterly beautiful – and decided that there I would build myself a timber lodge to be my home. I wanted no castle walls stacked with stone, nor a court overfull with servants buzzing about like bees. The number of private chambers would be sparingly few and the kitchen and storerooms small, to discourage any visitors who desired comforts beyond a pallet in the hall and a bland meal.
My brothers, Hugh and Archibald, had been indispensable in clearing trees at a good rate. Both had accompanied me on numerous raids, the benefits of which meant nothing to a simpleton like Hugh, who desired naught beyond a full belly. He did what I told him to and little more. Archibald, on the other hand, needed guidance. He had shrived himself of his prior sins by sending money to the kirk back in Bute. His bastard son there died before he ever knew of him, but neither that mistake
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