by Lee Arthur
The king was delighted. Here at last was a companion after his own heart. One who would provide sport and amusement and even a touch of competition. "Welcome to my court, cousin," he called over the heads of the Lady Islean, his mother and his hostess. Catching sight of the raw hungry looks on the faces of the latter two, he wondered which would bed him first.
James had no illusions about his court. Henry VIII's court might be known for its drunkenness, and Francis I's for its lavishness, but the court of James V was already known for the licentiousness and looseness of character of its women. The thought did not displease him. Poor he might be, but he had won a reputation of sorts among his fellow monarchs. Of course, he put a better face on it man did some of the gossips. They might call his court the royal brothel; he preferred to dunk of it as descending directly from the famed Courts of Love of olden days.
He wondered what the Lady Islean's reaction might be to the avaricious looks of the amorous females about him, but her face was most carefully schooled. He decided to do some probing on his own. "You have a most famous son there, lady."
"Famous, sire?" she replied quietly. "Infamous is more like it."
James laughed. Mothers were all alike. "You don't approve then, lady?" Islean wasn't sure of James's intent. She searched quickly for the proper answer, it would not do to answer the king ill-consideredly. "My approval was not sought, sire."
"And if it had been, would it have been given?"
"Alas, sire, I know not. Guide me in thi The king of France's queen evidently approved. Should I question her royal judgment?"
"Nay, dear lady. But I might." He came to a decision, one he knew would please his mother and his court. "You and your son shall have to bide awhile at court so that I may see for myself if my sister's judgment was correct."
This was not what Islean wanted. "Sire, I am sure nothing would please my son or me more. But we came unprepared for such an honor, having ridden over from Alva just for this great banquet." She nodded her congratulations to her host and hostess. "We had hoped to have words with you privately and then take our leave."
James could not believe his ears. She was refusing him. Not since he had been made king had anyone refused him anything, except those abbotts of course... and the Pope in the matter of his mother's divorce. But a mere subject, unthinkable! It made him more determined than ever. However, he didn't show his displeasure openly; he would exact payment from her or her son at some later moment.
"But, madam, I shall have no time for such a private conversation.! am going hunting. And now, madam—" Abruptly, he got to his feet, giving his chair a shove that sent it flying. The whole court rushed to rise. Taking his mother's hand in his, he left the dais while the others made-hurried obeisances. Looking down on Islean's dark head before him, and at her son's white one just beyond, he spoke once more, and there was no doubt this was no request but a royal command: "Send for your clothes, madam. I would see how fit you and your son are to be in line to the throne."
With that, he and his mother swept from the hall. As the royal couple passed through the huge doors, the court quickly dispersed, elbowing one another if need be to clear the way to get to their chambers and change into hunting garb.
Islean and her son watched them go. "It would seem, dear mother, that the king is impervious to your charms."
"Ill-bred jackanapes," she snapped.
De Wynter laughed. "I take it you refer to the king. One fears you have too long been queen in your own court, Mother. You forget, one doesn't refuse a king." "Or a Dowager Queen?" she replied, stung by his comment. "Or a Dowager Queen," he agreed. "I suggest you send some of the men for our clothes. In the meantime, your grand entrance has failed to get us fed. Let me see if I can wrest some food from the staff in the kitchen before they devour it all. Will you join me?"
For a moment, she wondered if her son had lost his senses. Then her own sense of humor asserted itself. Bowing mockingly to her son she took his arm. "Better than that, I'll show you the way."
While the Lady Islean and her son commandeered food and drink from a startled kitchen staff, James and his court prepared for the hunt. At the last moment, a handful of ladies, including the Lady Ann and Lady Margaret, begged to be excused. The former claimed household duties to be done; the latter professed a headache brought on by overindulgence in her cups. The king accepted both excuses at face value; however, at the last moment he sent for his secretary and dictated a note:
Cousin: That both our afternoons be not fruitless, it pleases me to offer you a sporting challenge, the meaning of which, to such an educated man as you, must be readily apparent At the end of today's hunt, whatever I win in the woods
shall be yours. Whatever you chance to gain this day, you will share with me.
James Rex
The secretary was then instructed, after writing it out, to give it to a footman who was in turn to deliver it to Seaforth. "Who is he, sire?"
"De Wynter," replied the exasperated king. "As you wish, sire."
Stalking to his horse, held tightly by an anxious groom, the king swung up into the saddle without assistance, signaled the groom to let go, and after letting his mount curvet a bit to settle down, spurred it forward, joining nearly a hundred huntsmen, both men and women. At least a dozen had bugles strung from straps around their necks to signal the hounds and hunters with their single-note short and long blasts. Both two- and four-legged hunters knew the codes that stood for a sighting, at bay, a change of direction, or a lost scent.
Many had taken the opportunity, while the king spoke so earnestly to his scribe, to check bowstrings and feathered shafts. Well they knew the king would permit no excuse for a missed shot when the fleet hart was driven back by the beaters directly into range of advancing hunters.
At this season, the hunting was carefree. There were no restrictions on the catch. Prom mid-September to early May was the closed season, and only does could be taken. But now, in mid-June, the bucks with their branched heads were as fair game as the sleeker and more succulent does. This condition removed some of the risk, for the bowman who brought down an antlered specimen during the closed season was disgraced in the eyes of his fellow hunters. And novices who tended to draw the bow at the first flash of tail need not be reminded of the penalties of overeagerness.
Three bold notes on the bugles signaled the opening of the kennel doors. The hounds, overeager and reckless from their long imprisonment, lunged off in all directions, baying and chasing imaginary spore. More bugle calls and not a few whippings were required to put the baying hounds back in line. When a semblance of order was restored and all were mounted, the buglers sounded the strident notes that threw fear into the hearts of the four-legged creatures within their hearing. Deer darted down to the dales or up to the high ground where the beaters waited to turn them back. The baying hounds took off in a direction set by the fleetest, and the mounted archers and buglers followed in close pursuit. To the less experienced hunter it might seem utter confusion, but the old hands knew it mattered little at this stage of the hunt what direction was taken. So carefully had the beaters been stationed that no matter where the court galloped, there would be plentiful game fleeing the sound of bugle and hound.
Within minutes shafts were flying from quickly strung bows. Down went the stags that Englishmen called the red deer. And the pale-colored fallow deer, just turning to their spotted white hues for the summer. And the little roebucks, agile and graceful, who held mostly to the high ground until flushed by the worrying hounds or the blasts of buglers. Bucks and does alike, harried by the hounds at their heels, plunged to the sward, blood spurting from the shaft wounds that crippled their legs or stilled their hearts. They were left where they fell. The cutters who trailed sought out the grassy deathbeds and slit the throats while the bodies-were still warm.
By the setting of the sun, so many deer had been slain that, when piled together, they reached higher than two men and farther across than the widest brook in the forest
. All had had their necks slit, some after death and some dying as blood poured from severed jugulars. The blood purged, the carcasses could stand for several hours before putrefication set in.
The ritual of the cutting was performed by attendants summoned to the clearing where the deer were piled. Wielding sharp knives, they attacked one carcass after another in the same manner. A- slit to open the slot in the neck. The second stomach seized, cut loose, and cleared of flesh. Off went the legs, hacked at joints. The hide was stripped from the body. The belly was laid open with one stab followed by a quick pull. Deftly the bowels were removed, and only the clumsy spilled any of the foul contents.
Moving to the other end, the gullet was gripped, and the wezand disengaged from the windpipe. Now the guts were yanked and the meaty portions neatly carved. The shoulder bones came out first.
Then the chest was halved. The shoulder filleted with practiced skill. After clearing the spine, the haunch was lifted high by one while another hewed it off. The thigh bones were stripped of their meaty muscles and set aside. Then, the head and neck came swiftly off in two pieces.
Now it was the hounds' turn. The lights, liver and tripe were flung into the bushes and quickly set upon by the howling pack. While the slavering beasts feasted and fought among themselves for the prizes, pieces of gristle-covered thigh bones were hung from nearby tree branches for the ravens and crows, which long since had learned tb expect their fee at the end of the hunt.
There was much blowing of bugles and general merriment and the passing of flasks; then, swords flashed, skev g flanks and haunches for the trip back to Castle Dolour. Great and many were the compliments extended to their host, the surly, corpulent Lord Campbell. He for his part passed the presence of so much game off as commonplace. Secretly, he wondered by what miracle the copse that rarely yielded up a pair of carcasses when the Campbells hunted could yield up scores for the king. He also thanked the Campbells' patron saint for taking pity on his thin pocketbook; all this venison would easily feed the whole court the next day as Lady Ann would be relieved to hear.
Warmed by the wine and basking under the compliments of court and king, Campbell in an expansive mood found room for a kind thought for his young bride. Grudgingly he admitted she'd brought off the banquet earlier that day in fine style. Cheaply, too, judging from the accounting his controller gave him. Privately, Campbell thought all those tartan-clad servers were ostentatious. However, the king was impressed, and that was the thing these days if one were to make one's mark at court.
Perhaps he would give Lady Ann some trinket or two to show his appreciation. No, on second thought he decided that that might spoil the wench. A word of thanks should be sufficient. After all, he'd already done her favor enough by marrying her. In the meantime, his stomach reminded him that the effects of the feast had been transitory. He wondered what succulent foodstuffs she was preparing for the court right now.
Actually, the Lady Ann had her mind on something else besides food. But first, she must deal with her fellow stay-at-homes, including the Queen Dowager. Her four problems, however, solved themselves. Once the women had waved good-bye to the hunting party from the castle steps, then watched it pass through the barbican and cross over the moat, they spoke all at once, pleading exhaustion, headache, eye strain, then scattered like frightened quail, each going to rest in her room.
Once mere, their indispositions vanished, and out came the traveling glasses; paint pots and jars. Hair must be smoothed and combs readjusted. Some even went so far as to change, mostly to -gowns more low-cut than before, and be refreshed with perfume. Dame Sybil, first lady-in-waiting to Lady Margaret, was so carried away as to dab perfume between her breasts and then untie her, sleeves and splash more in her armpits. She could afford to be so profligate; she had access to the royal perfumes.
Then, quietly, each stole from her room to seek out de Wynter. One searcher, the lord butler was later to relate, actually made her way up to the dormitory assigned to the men-at-arms. Another was found within the falconry. Still a third explored the depths of the stables. But de Wynter was not to be found—not in the now-deserted kennel, nor on the lookout's turret, nor in the library where the household's single book was kept, nor in the castle's pale excuse for a music room with its one unstrung lute and badly tuned harpsichord. What they did find, in one place after another, were their fellow searchers, who professed concern for horse, dog or falcon, the need for book, music, or a bit of fresh air. Whatever the excuse, it was quickly accepted as each searcher hastened to be on her way in pursuit of her quarry.
Lady Ann was first to find the elusive Lord de Wynter, having taken the simple expedient of asking her chamberlain his whereabouts. She could not believe his reply. "The kitchen?"
"Yes, my lady," he assured her. "He and his lady mother have -been there the best part of the afternoon."
There he and the Lady Islean sat, the remains of their meal before them, the chaos of the banquet surrounding them. "Come, join us, my dear," called the Lady Islean merrily. "I'm keeping watch on my silver while my son is trying his hand at organizing the clean-up by your kitchen staff. A great general he may be, but he's no majordomo. Look, he has the baker preparing the cold meats for tomorrow's pastries—and the carver cutting the lard into flour for the pastry."
"Seemed very logical to me," de Wynter said as he watched the carver stirring up great clouds of flour and the baker futilely hacking away at a haunch.
Lady Ann was at first taken aback, but seeing that the Lady Islean found the scene amusing, she relaxed and permitted herself a smile. After all, both carver and baker had given her all kinds of trouble, obeying her orders grudgingly if at all.
"Well, then if you don't like my domestic abilities, Mother dear, I shall have to show my expertise elsewhere," de Wynter said. Raising his voice, he called to the three bagpipers sitting at a table in one corner. "Come, give us a tune. We shall have a ceilidh, if Lady Ann is agreeable," he said, smiling down on his hostess. Pushing tables aside, he cleared a space for them to dance. The bagpipers, with much wheezing and many false starts, launched into the Caber Feidh, the pipe music of the Mackenzies. Grinning with comradeship, de Wynter led the Lady Ann out onto their improvised dance floor. It was a fast pace he set, and at first Lady Ann had trouble keeping up, but then as she relaxed and gave herself up to the music and the man, she found the steps came back to her feet.
The music swirled about them, and she had eyes for no one but this man who never seemed to take his off her. When the bagpipes warbled their last and the Lady Ann sank into a low courtly curtsey, returned with an equally gallant bow from her partner, her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, and she looked pretty for once. Then, about her came applause from the staff, the Lady Islean, and the woman standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the pantry outside the Great Hall.
"So here you are," was about the best the Lady Margaret could muster. Of all the places she might have looked, this would have been the last. Margaret Tudor had never set foot in a kitchen before. Certainly she knew what went on there, for many were the provisionings she'd approved.
Before she could get more than a fast glance at pots hanging from pegs, shelves laden with bowls, rough-hewn tables and benches, and a vast fireplace large enough to roast an ox, de Wynter had come forward to greet her.
"Welcome, lady, to our ceilidh. Will you give us. the honor of a dance?" he asked, taking her hand in his and leading her out into the open space. On command, the bagpipers launched into "Campbells Are Coming." The staff, who had been blinking more than the dregs of the goblets they'd cleared, reacted like the Campbells they were, and began keeping time with hands and feet Looking up into those pools of blue black that seemed to drink in her soul, Margaret promised herself that before the night was over, de Wynter would be dancing her tune. Then, with pointed toe and hand held high, she and her partner swept into the jig.
Lady Margaret truly excelled in dancing. She moved within the measure of th
e music, never following it, never leading it, but accepting it and its spirit as her own. Where the Lady Ann's dancing had been joyous and exuberant, the Lady Margaret's was controlled and polished. She never missed a step or a note. And tonight, she was well partnered. Even the Lady Islean, who fancied the Lady Margaret not at all, had to admit that in this woman, her son had met his match. At least on the dance floor.
The music of the pipes led the others too eventually to the kitchen, in time to catch the last few measures of the dance, and see Margaret bestow an impulsive kiss on her partner. Then, to Margaret's chagrin, nothing would do but that he dance a tune or two with the others. At last be sank down gracefully, chest heaving, on the edge of the table, and, looking at the flushed faces of his females, he called for ale. His thirst slaked, he swirled his mother out onto the , floor. She had hoped to have a word with him, and when the pattern ' of the dance brought them together briefly, she warned, "She'll eat you alive."
Two steps apart and together again. "Who?" Turn away once more, then come together. "You know who!" And when they came together for a lively promenade down the . hall, he laughed down at her, kissed her fleetingly, and said, "We'll see."
Between the dancing and the drinking, the ladies paid little attention to the time. Thus it was that none were waiting to greet the king and his hunting party when they rode proudly and triumphantly into the courtyard. Campbell was furious. He turned to his chief huntsman and signaled him to let loose a blast on his bugle. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard and castle but evoked no response from the castle ahead. Finally, the king urged his horse forward, right up to the castle itself. Motioning one of his men to open the door, he rode through, followed close behind by Campbell and the rest of the party. Into the Great Hall they rode, their horses stirring up clouds of dust from the rushes. A second blast on the horn brought the chamberlain scurrying.
