by Paul Doherty
‘He might not be your king,’ he whispered, ‘but he is Christ’s anointed.’
Matthias went on one knee. The hand he kissed was covered in precious stones; it was also cold and clammy.
‘You are welcome, Englishman.’ The voice was low, devoid of any accent.
Matthias got to his feet. James III of Scotland was of medium height. His red hair was hidden under a black velvet cap that was decorated by a huge gleaming amethyst. The King’s face was covered in freckles, his moustache and beard were straggly. He had watery blue eyes, a loose-lipped mouth, from which his tongue kept flickering out to one side as if to lick an open sore. A weak man, Matthias thought, frightened of Douglas.
‘You are most welcome.’
The King tried to sound courteous and calm but Matthias sensed his tension. James studied Matthias as if he hoped to glimpse something else.
‘So, you are Fitzosbert, an English clerk?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘And do you have secret powers?’ The King was staring open-eyed as if Matthias might sprout wings and fly round the chamber.
‘I think he has, Your Grace,’ Douglas gruffly interrupted. ‘And, knowing Your Grace’s interest in such matters, I thought it best to bring him to you.’
‘Yes, yes, quite.’ James waved his hand. ‘You, my Lord of Douglas, will retire.’
‘Your Grace, I’d best stay with you.’
‘Ach, tush man!’ James’s voice became plaintive. ‘The man’s not armed and I’ve always been told,’ James’s eyes became mean, his mouth twisted into a vicious smile, ‘that it will be a Scot who kills me.’ He pushed his head forward. ‘You are not Scots, are you, Fitzosbert?’
‘I am of English stock, sire.’
Matthias was glad to see Douglas, the author of his present troubles, so summarily dismissed.
‘Come now, come on.’ James clapped his hands like a child, his voice growing high and plaintive. ‘My Lord of Douglas, I am not your prisoner.’
‘I shall stay outside, sire.’ Douglas deliberately turned his back on the King as a gesture of contempt.
The King looked over Matthias’ shoulder, waiting until the door was closed. He then grasped him by the arm and pushed him to sit in front of the fire.
‘Sit there, man.’ The King went to a small table where he poured two goblets of wine. He gave one to Matthias and sat down beside him. ‘I know what you are thinking, Englishman, but, God be my witness, I trust nobody. I pour my own wine. I even cook my own food. I trust none of them, not even my own son.’ The King sipped at his wine. ‘My queen’s dead. My boy hates me. As for those nobles,’ the King started to cry, to Matthias’ astonishment, the tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘I had a great friend, young Cochrane, but they hanged him. Throttled him with a silken cord! Now they want to hang me.’ He wiped the tears from his cheeks. ‘Douglas is a leading wolf of the pack, busy on his raid into England, wasn’t he? Och aye.’ The King nodded. ‘I’ve heard all about that. Went to collect gunpowder, did he? Now he comes trotting into my presence with an Englishman. Do you, Fitzosbert, have magical powers?’
‘No, Your Grace, I do not!’
‘Not a bit?’ The King held up a little finger.
‘No, sire, I am a clerk, a scholar of Oxford. I was at Barnwick-’
‘Tush, man, I don’t want to know your life.’ The King waved a hand. ‘I ask you again.’ He put his cup down on the floor and drew a long Italian stiletto from the sleeve of his gown.
Matthias froze as this madcap king pricked his neck, just beneath his left ear.
‘You are telling me you have no powers? None whatsoever?’ He leant closer. ‘I have a mirror, you know,’ James whispered. ‘And if a Black Mass is offered in the room, and you say the Lord’s Prayer backwards, you can see the future. Can’t you tell me the future, Matthias Fitzosbert?’
‘I know two things, sire,’ Matthias replied, not daring to move his head.
‘About the future?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘So, you do have powers?’
‘I can tell you two things from the future,’ Matthias repeated. ‘You are going to die and so am I.’
The King stared unbelievingly at him, then he giggled like some old maid, fingers over his mouth. He dropped his hand, the dagger disappeared back up the sleeve of his gown. James struck Matthias gently on the shoulder.
‘You answered well, Englishman.’ His smile faded. ‘If you had replied any different, I’d have hanged you.’
Matthias let out a deep sigh.
‘So, you say you are a clerk?’
Matthias answered his questions and realised that, beneath the madness, James was weak and suspicious, with a deep interest in the sciences, particularly the work of bookbinders and parchment-makers.
They sat and chatted for a while. Matthias didn’t really understand if the King was genuinely interested or just wanted to make Douglas kick his heels for as long as possible. An hour passed. James turned the conversation to Barnwick. When Matthias mentioned the haunting of the north tower and Douglas’ destruction of it, the King beat a fist against his spindly thighs.
‘He shouldn’t have done that! He shouldn’t have done that! I would have liked to have visited such a place.’ James leant closer. ‘They say this abbey is haunted,’ he whispered, ‘by a monk who didn’t say his Mass properly. I have spent many a night sitting on my arse in that cold place but I’ve glimpsed nothing but moonbeams and rats. What hour is it?’
‘Sire, I don’t know. It must be late in the afternoon.’
‘Is it now, is it now?’ the King murmured, his fingers to his lips. ‘I must go to the abbey and say my prayers.’ He glanced slyly at Matthias. ‘I’ve still got Cochrane’s body here, you know,’ James declared, referring to his dead favourite. ‘I had him embalmed and laid out in a splendid coffer. I hear Mass, then I talk to Cochrane about all of my troubles. I’ll ask him about you. I know he’ll agree I shouldn’t hang you. You don’t like the Douglas, do you?’ James grasped Matthias’ wrist. ‘So you can stay with me.’
The King got to his feet, tossing the rest of his wine on to the fire. He walked to the door and threw it open.
‘Ah, Douglas, I didn’t think you’d wait, man.’
Lord George came into the room, biting his lip in anger. He was followed by the captain of the guard.
‘Take this Englishman.’ The King pointed to Matthias. ‘No, I don’t want him hanged. Give him a chamber here in the household. He’ll have three marks a month and fresh robes at Easter. He can eat at the royal board. I’ve got to go to church now.’
The King went to leave but paused in the doorway.
‘Oh, Douglas, the plunder from Barnwick: I’m your king so, by law and ancient custom, I’ll have half of it.’
Douglas bowed stiffly from the waist but the King had already left, shouting at his guards to follow.
The royal officer led Matthias and Douglas out of the King’s chambers and up some stairways. Matthias was shown into a small, white-washed room. The captain of the guard gestured round.
‘This is yours, Englishman.’ He grasped Matthias by the shoulder. ‘I’ll get servants to bring sheets and blankets for the bed. I’ll also give you some advice, lad. Never anger the King. Never contradict him. If you do,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘as sure as my name’s Archibald Kennedy, he’ll have you hanged!’
The captain left. Douglas closed the door and leant on it.
‘So, what do you think of our king?’
Matthias sat down on a stool and stretched his legs. He felt weak after such a fraught meeting.
‘A most gracious prince, my lord.’
‘Spare me your sarcasm, Englishman. The man’s as mad as a moonstruck hare. You know he’ll kill you?’
‘My life is in God’s hands, my lord.’
‘He’ll kill you.’ Douglas played with the hilt of his dagger. ‘One day he’ll remember how you were brought into the royal presence by one of the hated
Douglases and you’ll die.’
‘So, why did you bring me here?’
‘Well, Englishman, if the King doesn’t kill you, I will.’
Matthias stared at this wolf amongst men.
‘Or else what, my lord?’
‘Well. .’ Douglas opened the door and glanced down the gallery.
‘Well, my lord? I am sure there must be something else.’
‘You can kill the King!’
The words were softly spoken but Douglas’ face was hard.
‘He might not be my king,’ Matthias replied, ‘but remember, my lord, he is the Lord’s anointed.’
Douglas ignored Matthias’ mimicry of his own words.
‘But the Lord has taken His hand away from him, as He did from Saul and bestowed His favour on David.’
‘And, of course, you have this new David?’ Matthias taunted. ‘The King’s young son?’
‘The boy is a bonny lad. He has great favour, is well liked and respected by the lords spiritual and temporal, not to mention our many bonnet lairds. James III is mad. The Exchequer’s empty, the kingdom’s weak. He pours good gold and silver into one madcap scheme after another. We have tried to teach him the true paths. We hanged six of his favourites but still he hasn’t learnt.’
‘So, you organised a foray into England?’ Matthias replied. ‘To collect arms and munitions as well as an Englishman whom the King might be interested in?’
‘You’ll be given many an opportunity.’
Matthias rubbed his face. Was there no end to this? To be the tool and instrument of power-hungry men?
‘Do it as you wish,’ Douglas continued. ‘The knife, a cup of poison.’
‘And if I do?’ Matthias spat the words out. ‘If I do this for you, Lord George Douglas, who destroyed my life and brought me here, an exile amongst strangers?’
‘You’ll be loaded with honours and returned to the border,’ Douglas replied.
Aye, Matthias thought, pigs will fly and fish will walk on dry land.
‘Think about it.’ Douglas forced a smile. He stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Matthias sat staring at the wall. He didn’t really care about what Douglas had said. He searched his mind. What did he feel? A deep anger at Rosamund’s death? Yes, and a growing hatred for the men who had caused it. He stayed in the chamber until Archibald Kennedy came back.
‘The King’s waiting for ye. He wishes you to sup with him.’
Matthias followed the soldier back to the chamber where he had first met the King. James was more relaxed: one of the shutters had been opened. The King waved him to a stool on the other side of a small table which was covered with trenchers and bowls full of meat, bread and fruit. The King blessed himself and, chattering about how he would like to develop the Abbey of Holyrood, invited Matthias to eat. The King watched Matthias put food on his trencher and begin to eat. He had hardly done so when the King stretched across, knocked his hand away and took the trencher for himself whilst Matthias was given his plate. The same occurred when the wine was poured. Matthias realised that, whether he liked it or not, he was the King’s food-taster. James watched him, narrow-eyed.
‘Why did Douglas bring you here, Englishman?’
‘Oh, it’s quite simple, Your Grace. He wishes me to kill you.’
James threw his head back in a loud neighing laugh, spitting food from his mouth.
‘Englishman, you jest!’
‘Your Grace, I do not.’
‘Och aye!’ The King sighed, wiping his fingers on his gown. ‘I could have you hanged for that.’ He sighed again. ‘But you are telling the truth, aren’t you?’
Matthias stared into those hard, cunning eyes full of madness. He stretched across to take a small manchet loaf but the King knocked his hand away.
‘Don’t eat that!’ he whispered. ‘It’s poisoned!’
Matthias swallowed hard. His appetite abruptly died.
‘I poisoned that myself,’ the King continued. ‘I heard your conversation with the Douglas. The chamber you were given has a false wall. In one of the beams there are two holes. You can look through or put your ear to them.’
‘Archibald Kennedy was there all the time, wasn’t he?’ Matthias asked.
‘Och aye.’ James smiled. ‘Douglas wants me dead.’
‘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.’
