May-Jun 1500

James looked pensively over the River Tweed, the border between his lands and those of the English. He had come to dedicate a site that would become a kirk. Years ago, he had fled the advancing English armies across the Tweed at this spot, and nearly drown due to the flooding. It was the intercession of the Blessed Mother that had saved his life, and now that peace had come to Scotland, it was time to show his gratitude.

In truth, he felt as though penance had brought him here as much as gratitude. He owed a greater debt to the almighty than his own life. He carried the weight of the murder that had put him into power, both in his mind and on his body. The iron chain he wore across his waist was a weight he felt at all times, one whose weight he added to each Lent as penance for his father's death.

Across the Tweed, the banner of England fluttered over Norham Castle. For a fortnight his guns had besieged the keep, yet the squat tower showed little sign of it now, having undergone repairs funded by the Bishop of Durham. It put the king in a pensive mood, as he mindlessly ran his fingers over the chain through his clothes. War with England had never been far from any Scottish king, and Henry VII had proven himself a capable monarch. Would peace be his legacy, or would he become embroiled in English conflicts as his forefathers had?