So, mounted pillion behind the only duke in both kingdoms, and quite deserting Mary Gray and the Countess, John Stewart of Methven was carried jolting down the street and into the Grassmarket even faster than the sovereign of the United Kingdom had gone before, scattering all before them and leaving utter chaos behind.
The Duke of Lennox's alarm was not uncalled-for. They caught up with royalty at the far end of the Grassmarket, where the winding street known as the West Bow curled up to the main spine of the city, the mile-long Lawnmarket, High Street and Canongate. Unfortunately, however, here where was erected the temporary but elaborate cloth-of-gold-covered arch with figures, such royalty went unrecognised. Dean of Guild Aitkenhead and others of the city guildry and merchant company, who officiated here, were perhaps scarcely to be blamed. After all, they had looked for a monarchial figure at the head of a great and noble train, and, when only two mounted persons came clattering up, one distinctly odd-looking with a high hat aslant and clothing disarranged, the other a mere youth however pretty, they were barred from further progress and told to go whence they had come. That these good burgesses should not know James Stewart's distinctly memorable features was not so surprising either, for it was now fourteen years since he had departed from his native land, on succeeding to Elizabeth Tudor's throne in 1603, and this was his first return. Hence all the excitement. But it did mean that few there were in any position to recognise him. Moreover, when James got upset, as now, he spluttered and dribbled more profusely than ever, becoming practically unintelligible save to the initiated, and here his hot protestations that he was the King and that they were all shameful and seditious scoundrels went quite uncomprehended. As he continued to gabble and gesticulate, Master Aitkenhead assumed him to be a madman, and, being Moderator of the City Constables as well as Dean of Guild, he ordered the constables there on duty to apprehend this disturber of the King's peace, and his companion, and remove them. So Majesty was hauled down off his horse, struggling and bawling, Treason, Murder! Steenie protested too, that it was the King and that he was George, Earl of Buckingham; but his aristocratic English voice was scarcely more intelligible to his hearers than was his spluttering master's, and went equally disregarded.
This was the situation when Ludovick and John rode up, with the now weeping sovereign and his favourite being hustled away by the constables, and the platform-party seeking to soothe Dame Music and her choir of children and instrumentalists who were naturally agog, the lady all but in hysterics, a spectacle in herself, for she was large and pink in diaphanous robes and they had already been there for almost three hours.
In these circumstances, the arrival of two more hurrying horsemen, but only one horse, was bound to have a less than calming effect. The Duke of Lennox ought to have been recognisable, for he often returned to Scotland and indeed had acted as Viceroy. But the King's cousin would not be expected to be giving a lift to a pillion-passenger, nor to be unaccompanied either. Also Ludovick, as well as being plain-faced, dressed plainly and not in court fashion, and John was likewise. So the newcomers' shouts were ignored also, as the platform prepared to deal with more madmen.
John, who rather prided himself on being fit and agile, indeed something of a mountaineer, leapt nimbly down from the back of his father's saddle, without waiting for representations or explanations, and in three strides launched himself bodily upon the two unfortunate constables who were with difficulty manhandling the shambling, struggling monarch. One he cannoned into with sufficient force to send him reeling, and the other he lashed out at with his fist, spinning him round, whereupon the other fist, to the jawline, felled him to the ground. James, not knowing whether he was being rescued or undergoing further attack, cringed and staggered helplessly.
John, with an instinctive gesture of protection, held open his arms. And Majesty, recognising this at least for what it was, hurled himself into that embrace, gabbling.
The Duke, seeing the King in good hands, dismounted, and, ignoring poor Steenie, stormed up on to this second platform, calling out who he was. Lennox at least was a name all there knew, and it gained him a hearing. At his shouted information, utter consternation dawned and reigned in that company. Dame Music's hysterics developed uncontrolled.
Leaving them to their appalled deliberations, Ludovick ran down to James, who was still clutching John. Although seldom at a loss for words, even eloquence of a sort, however difficult at times to comprehend, now the monarch was completely incoherent, babbling of treason, lese majeste, savagery, skaith, damnation and the like, but also of saviours and angels of God—presumably referring to his deliverers. Declaring that it was all a mistake, that the folk here had not known that it was the King, that it might have been in fact some move against the King that they were seeking to counter, the Duke sought to soothe his cousin. John kept silent, but continued to provide a sturdy pillar to which his sovereign could cling. Steenie released, ruffled but apparently none the worse, complained about the manners of the Scotch.
James was somewhat calmed when Dean of Guild Aitkenhead, supported by two of his colleagues, ventured tentatively down from the platform, dread and reluctance in every line of them. But however humbly, even servilely, they approached, the monarch saw them only as further menace, putting John between himself and them and calling on Vicky to draw his sword and run them through, the scoundrelly miscreants and treasonable dogs, in vain they pleaded, and Ludovick reassured; Majesty once aroused was not easily placated.
Fortunately it was at this difficult juncture that the first of the distinguished train turned up, somewhat puzzled by the scene—and James broke off his fulminations to cry shame on all his earls, lords and court for deserting him in his hour of need, him and Steenie both. The chorused and righteous protest, unanimous but of no avail, was proceeding when there was a diversion. The children's orchestra at the back of the platform suddenly struck up, and after three or four bars, the choir joined in also, youthful voices singing, to the effect that:
King James returns to his own land, and all do bow before him;
He shines his light on every hand and his folk all adore him:
Auld Scotia's Lion brave is he, in wisdom he is peerless.
He glads our eyes his face to see, in all our cause most fearless.
Presumably the youngsters had been instructed to start when the cavalcade drew up, and start then they did with or without Dame Music.
James, distinctly doubtful as to the appropriateness of all this youthful enthusiasm in the circumstances, began to point a minatory, quivering finger at them, when he paused, to stare upwards. They all did.
A loud cranking and clanking and squealing sound penetrated the music, apparently emanating from the top of the cloth-of-gold triumphal arch, which shook somewhat in sympathy. Then from behind the draperies slowly descended a great globe of painted glass, out of which a markedly good-looking Cupid, naked except for the wings, was lowered in turn, standing on a realistic cloud of swansdown and bearing in his hands a silver basin. Any such mechanical device, not to mention the naked youth, could be guaranteed to preoccupy James Stewart, who for the moment forgot his indignation to gaze in expectation. Cupid completed the descent safely, to musical accompaniment, achieved a flap of his wings and came forward with his basin. At the front of the platform he paused, hesitant, clearly uncertain as to who to present it to.
The King was certainly not going up those steps. He still clutched John Stewart indeed. "See what's in it, Vicky," he directed. "Hae the laddie doon." His voice quavered.
Beckoning Cupid down the steps, the Duke looked into the basin. "It's keys," he declared. "More keys."
"Keys, just? Guidsakes, is that a'? We've had their bit keys, already!" That was almost a wail.
"These are the keys of the Guildry Court and Merchants' Hall," the Dean of Guild explained. And, greatly daring, if somewhat doubtfully, "And of all our hearts, Your Grace."
"Ooh, aye," James said, giving him a nasty look and pulling down his hat more
firmly. "Keep your keys, man. Aye, and be thankfu' that you keep your head on your craig, forby! In my mercy—aye, my mercy!" He peered round for his horse. "Where's my beast? Fetch it. You, lad—heist me up." He tweaked John's sleeve. "Up wi' me." Laboriously in the saddle, he looked down. "Who are you, man, that God sent to my aid, eh? Your name?"
"John Stewart, Your Majesty."
"So! Is that a fact? I might ha' kent it would be a Stewart! Though there's a wheen o' them, mind—and no' a' o' the best repute!"
"This is my son, James—John Stewart of Methven, of whom you have heard," the Duke said.
"D'you tell me that! Hech, hech—so this is your bit by-blow by yon quean Mary Gray. I saw her sitting, back yonder. Save us—an' this size already! And as well he was—a right paladin and God-send when I was in sair need. Hoc erat in votis" James was obviously feeling better when he could resort to Latin.
"I did nothing, Sire," John said.
"D'you ca' it nothing to rescue Christ God's Vice-Regent frae malevolent hands—aye, maist malevolent? And your kinsman, John Stewart, in a sort o' a way. You will ride by my side, John Stewart—find yoursel' a horse. Take Steenie's, there. You, Steenie Villiers, were nae guid to me at a', in that stramash. Nane. You did naething. Gie him your horse, for he's got mair spunk than you!" And without further ado and no single gesture towards the platform-party, their sovereign-lord rode off once more.
There was much mounting and reining-round behind him.
So a bewildered John Stewart found himself now riding up Edinburgh's West Bow on the Earl of Buckingham's fine black, on the King's left, whilst his father rode on the right, three Stewart kinsmen whatever the differences in rank and station, the brilliantly clad throng behind wondering what next? There was not a lot of sympathy for poor Steenie, who was less than popular.
They had a reasonably clear run through dense crowds up into the High Street. But there, outside the huge High Kirk of St Giles, was another barrier. The King, glowering, undoubtedly would have crashed his way through this one, decorative and flower-decked as it was, had he not perceived the magnificent figure in archiepiscopal robes and mitre, with tall crozier, standing in the forefront. Since this was Archbishop Spottiswoode of St Andrews, Primate of Scotland, and very much James's own appointment, head of the bishops whom the King had insisted on introducing into the Reformed Kirk, he could hardly ignore him. Also, as it happened, the Mercat Cross which stood nearby had been ingeniously treated to spout red wine from its cannon-like drainage-spouts, and this being instantly turned on, naturally caught the royal eye, especially when suitably disrobed bacchantes trooped forward to offer filled cups of the wine and platters of cakes to the horsemen. James, muttering that this was the first sensible thing that had happened since he reached this town, graciously partook. Meanwhile, an older lady, more comprehensively clad, announced in ringing tones that she was Dame Religion, and invited the King's Grace to step within St Giles Kirk and hear a discourse from the Archbishop. It is to be doubted whether, fond of archbishops and bishops as he was, James would have acceded to such request at this stage had it not been that the lady issued her invitation in Hebrew—and James was probably the only person present, apart from Spottiswoode himself, who understood what was said, and knew that he was so. To everyone's surprise, therefore, he dismounted, nodded familiarly to the Archbishop, and lurched with his peculiar knock-kneed stride into the church, still chewing. Perforce all must follow.
It was as well, perhaps, that the succeeding address was an episcopal one and not a sermon by one of the Kirk's more reformed divines, so that it was mercifully brief. Not that the monarch now seemed concerned, for once in his throne-like seat, with Ludovick and John standing on either side of him, he tipped forward his hat over his nose—he never took his hat off in church, nor in most other places, in case, as he would explain, bats fell from the roof into his royal hair—and promptly went to sleep. It is to be feared that few of the remainder of the entourage crowding into St Giles in loud-voiced protest, got much more out of the Archbishop's excellent Latinity.
It was the subsequent music which waked the sleeper and, unappreciative of such noise as ever, immediately he got to his feet and marched for the door—but not before he had grasped John's arm and propelled him along.
The service broke up in less certainty.
Going back to the Mercat Cross for another cup of wine, James remounted and headed determinedly down the High Street.
As they trotted after, John reminded his father that there was still another hurdle to get over, outside the new Tolbooth, before they entered the burgh of the Canongate. The Duke shook his head, wordless.
They came to this quite quickly, the most elaborate and extensive arch and platform of all—and were surprised to see Provost Nisbet and the magistrates and Council awaiting them again thereon. Presumably they had managed the move from the West Port while the church service proceeded. Sundry hearts sank at the sight and James looked almost ferocious.
"Nae mair keys!" he shouted thickly as he approached.
Whether the Provost heard or not, he prudently interposed a trio of handsome ladies between himself and the oncoming monarch. The first of these held up a hand and declared clearly and in pretty fair Greek, that she was Dame Peace. James could scarcely do other than draw up, however reluctantly, for this was another of his own illegitimate cousins, and another Lady Mary Stewart at that, sister of one of the battlers for the baby back at the West Port and widow of the late famous, or notorious, Master of Gray, Mary Gray's sire. The Scottish aristocracy was like that.
Dame Peace thereupon enunciated a dignified welcome in classical Greek, at which the multilinguist sovereign nodded approval—he claimed to be able to converse in fourteen languages—and thereafter the next lady, Dame Plenty, launched forth into a similar oration in Latin, to suitable comments in the same tongue by the recipient. The third, Dame Justice, rendered her contribution in braid Scots, also much approved, James having been brought up to speak thus by his foster-mother, the old Countess of Mar. He glanced round slyly to observe how most of his train of Englishry were taking all this, well aware that few if any would have the least notion of anything that had been said, his opinion of English education frequently enunciated.
This over, and the King nodding agreeably and preparing to ride on, his face clouded again as the Provost stepped forward once more.
"Majesty," Nisbet called, almost pleadingly, "one last token before Your Highness leaves this our burgh for that of the Canongate." And he waved up two of the satined Guard, who bore between then a large cauldron, apparently of silver.
"Sakes . . . keys . . . !" James began, when the obvious weight of the burden, on two stalwart men, struck him. "Hey—what's in it?" he demanded.
"I advise Your Majesty to go and see," a fruity voice from behind said genially—the Secretary of State again.
"Eh? Eh? Me? Na, na, Tam—you go, Vicky Stewart. You see."
The Duke dismounted, sighing, and climbed up once more. He looked into the cauldron, shrugged, and then lifted out first a small roasted chicken, then a small ham, a loaf of bread and a flagon of wine.
"Houts!" the monarch cried. "What's this? Comestibles, just. Guidsakes—viands and belly-cheer! Are you run clean gyte, Provost man?"
"Go on, my lord Duke—more!" Tam o' the Cowgate urged.
Handing over the provender to the Provost to hold, Ludovick delved in again and brought out a large white napkin. Then he stooped forward, peering. He plunged in his hand and brought it out dribbling gold pieces. In he dived again.
"Lord!" he exclaimed. "There's hundreds, thousands, here!"
"Eh? What's that? Thousands . . . ?" For one so ungainly, James was off his horse and up those steps with remarkable alacrity. Almost running he came to plunge his own two hands into the cauldron.
"Aye—plenteous! Maist beauteous and convenient. Convenient, aye," he approved. "How many? How much, man?"
"Ten thousand, Sire—10,000 merks, in double-a
ngels," the Provost informed, beaming now. "Yon other, the 500, was but a sweetener, as you might say!"
"Ten thousand, eh? Och, now—that's mair like it. That is duteous and right suitable. Whence comes it, man? Och—but non olet pecunial Eh? Aye, well—you, Vicky, you look after this, now. See to it. Wi' the utmaist care, mind. You'll need a bit hand, see. Saddlebags will be best— saddlebags. Stow it a' in saddlebags. They can keep their poultry and that. But first—gie's your sword, Vicky. Sword, aye. Carefu' with it, now—carefu'! Dinna birl it around, that way. Now you, Provost man—on your knees. Doon wi' you." Taking the proffered sword as though it was red-hot, Majesty poked it in the general direction of the alarmed Provost. Then he paused, looking up and over. "Aye—you, lad. You here, too. Here wi' you, Johnnie Stewart. Come, man—dinna just sit there staring like some houlet! You were mair spry, afore! Come and kneel by this Provost chiel."
As in a dream, John dismounted and climbed to the platform, not believing any of it. The Provost, still clutching the chicken and the rest, was already kneeling and eyeing the flickering sword point apprehensively. John was gestured down beside him.
"Put thae comestibles doon, man—you canna be knighted wi' an armfu' o' belly-fodder! And dinna jink your head about that way, or you'll maybe get skewered like your ain chicken! Now—what's your name, again? Aye, Nisbet— William Nisbet. Well—still, noo. I hereby dub thee knight, then. So . . . and so! Arise, Sir William Nisbet—and be you guid knight until your life's end. Aye—now you, Johnnie Stewart."
John was too bemused to take avoiding action and sustained a swipe on the head as the sword came over. Fortunately he had a fine thick crop of hair and took no hurt.
Again the litany. "I dub thee knight, John Stewart. So... and so! You did well, back yonder—when others were less forrit! Arise, Sir John Stewart o'. . . o' Methven, is it? Aye, well—be a guid knight until thy life's end, Sir John man. Up you get ..." James turned, without pause. "Here, Vicky—take your whinger. I've been thinking—you'd be better wi' a bit sack than the saddlebags. You'd need a wheen o' them, and some fell rogue might be off wi' one. Find you a sack, and then come on to Holyrood. I'm awa' there now—and I'll no' be stoppit this time, as God's my witness! I've had enough."
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