Unicorn Rampant

by Nigel Tranter

  "Lies!" Middlemas said shortly.

  "Yet the complaints are many. And detailed. And from some substantial citizens."

  "If you heed such, more fool you! They refuse to pay their rents and dues. Rogues, sorners, knaves!"

  "That is not as I heard it. And what I have seen here today scarce reassures me, sir!"

  "I have been Deputy-Keeper here for long. Before you were weaned, belike! Are you teaching me my business?"

  "If you do not know your business, or abuse it, then I must. And you were my father's deputy, never mine."

  "I hae a paper saying that I am Deputy-Keeper, signed and sealed. That is enough for me."

  "Not if I appoint a new Deputy."

  "You canna do that."

  "I can and probably shall—since you inspire me with no confidence."

  "I'll no' accept it. I'll protest to the Duke. Aye, even to the King himsel'!"

  "Which will serve you nothing. I come from the King, I tell you. And my father. And return to them shortly."

  "1 hae my friends."

  "They would have to be powerful ones, to save you!" "We'll see about that."

  "We shall, yes. You will hear from me, in due course, Middlemas. Meantime, I do not think that I have anything more to say to you. Since we scarcely seem to speak the same language! But I warn you—your days as Deputy here are numbered. So watch how you step, for such time as is left to you!" And, turning on his heel, John strode out.

  Unwilling to put up anywhere in that castle, he found a tavern down near the harbour from which, after a scratch meal, he sallied out to make a few enquiries in the town about the regime at the fortress, not revealing his own identity. There was no question as to the unpopularity of the man Middlemas, with his minions, who, on the strength of his position as Deputy to an absentee Governor, had been behaving like a tyrant, not only as regards the castle, with its dominant influence over the town, and as tax and rent gatherer for the crown, but in affairs of the community in general. There were many instances quoted of misbehaviour, harshness, even savagery and rape, as well as extortion and sheerest fraud. Nobody seemed to be in a position to effectively counter the man. Incidentally, John discovered that the Duke of Lennox, by association, was almost equally unpopular, no one in Dumbarton apparently having heard that he was no longer Governor.

  Clearly drastic action was required here.

  Next morning he rode off eastwards, over the waist of the land, to Edinburgh, and the day following was on his way back to London.

  Having enquired in the area on his way, and learned that the King was still at Theobalds Park, John presented himself there on a chilly, wet November afternoon. Like the weather, he found the atmosphere at court changed for the worse. James was ill, confined to his bed, and proving difficult. He had stopped all hunting, and, there being little else to do at Theobalds, his courtiers found time hanging heavily and wished that they were back at Whitehall—indeed many had already gone, for James did not relish feeding what he called idle mouths. Moreover, Prince Charles had been summoned from Greenwich, and come unwillingly, and the father-and-son relationship not being of the happiest, the atmosphere was not improved.

  Ludovick at least was glad to see his son, although perturbed to hear about the Dumbarton situation.

  As he awaited a call to the royal bedchamber, his father told John about developments. The King's crony, Count Gondomar the Spanish ambassador, had concocted a scheme with James whereby the proposed Spanish alliance could be consolidated by a marriage between the Prince of Wales and the King of Spain's daughter, the Infanta Maria. James had become very keen on this, however unenthusiastic was Charles, mainly because this daughter of the richest prince in Christendom was to bring with her, as well as a fabulous jewellery collection, £600,000 as dowry, which would be paid to her prospective father-in-law not her husband. Presumably Gondomar had arranged this with Philip beforehand. Charles, of course, had really no choice in the matter; but Steenie Villiers, oddly, had been selected for the task of persuading him to accept his fate with a good grace, and ordered, in the process, to attend upon the prince at all times. So these two young men, formerly enemies, were now seen constantly in each others' company, neither most evidently enjoying the situation—which again did not make for joy at court.

  John was also surprised to learn that the Queen had been moved from Somerset House to Oatlands, a royal seat in Surrey, her physicians advising that a change to country air might do her good.

  The call to the royal presence did not come that night, nor yet by noon next day, and John was ruefully wishing that he had taken at least another day at Methven. Then, in late afternoon, the summons arrived.

  He found James in the same bed in which he had last seen him, surrounded by books and papers and still wearing his hat. He looked neither worse nor better than when last seen, but welcomed his young visitor with a powerful fit of coughing, hawking and spitting into a most unsavoury bowl, catarrh apparently being one of the current maladies. Tears in his great lachrymose and soulful eyes, he confided to John that he was a done man, overtaken before his time by the pains and paiks of managing two unruly and ungrateful kingdoms. Did he, Johnnie Stewart, realise that he, James Stewart, was so weak of the legs that he had had to have them tied beneath his horse's belly when hunting or he would have fallen from the saddle? Quantum mutatus ab illo! Having got this off his chest, along with the phlegm, Majesty blew his nose between finger and thumb into the useful bowl and sat up more brightly.

  "Well, man—well?" he demanded.

  "Very well, Sire—as regards the paper. All in order. I have written down the details for Your Majesty, as to qualities and quantities, weights, prices and production." He brought out a paper from his doublet, which James consigned to the litter already decorating his bed. "As to new mills, the principal problem will be the training of people to man them. This will take time, without injuring the production of the two mills already working."

  "Houts, laddie—any fool could jalouse that! What o' monopoly surcharges and the like?"

  "I did not mention that to them, Sire, considering it no concern of mine. And they did not raise the matter. They think to sell the paper to the English at the same rates as they do to the Scots."

  "Aye, i'ph'mm. Maist right and proper. For them. We'll likely can double that, eh? So that's that. We can now proceed wi' thae Merchant Venture rogues. The mannie Alexander's been to see them and they're keen, keen. Aye— but, before you go treat wi' them, I've another ploy for you, Johnnie. It has come to my lugs that there's a bit paper-mill here in England, after a'. At Dartford, in Kent. A right scunner! Yon Elizabeth Tudor, it seems, when she had her wits aboot her mair than latterly, brought a mannie ower frae Gelderland, in the paper-trade, and set him up at Dartford. Name o'John Spielmann. Gave him a monopoly forby. But och, it came to naething much. She lost interest in it. I told you, the woman had nae head for affairs—it was a' glory, glory! Hech—you'll no' butter much bread wi' glory, without siller! So this Dartford mill never came to much. Indeed the man Spielmann became a jeweller, they tell me, court jeweller to Elizabeth, and did better than wi' his paper. But, och, the mill's still there."

  John looked thoughtful. "This could alter things, could it not?"

  "It could, aye—it could. But it mustna, Johnnie Stewart—it mustna! So you're to awa' doon to Dartford and see what's what. We don't want this Spielmann making trouble. Cockayne and the others canna ken about him or they'd hae been on to him lang syne. They mustna learn now."

  "I see that, yes. But what have I to tell the man, Sire?"

  "Tell him naething. Your task is to find out, no' to tell. I’ll decide what's to be done wi' this Hollander. Now— there's another matter. On your way back frae Dartford you're to repair to Oatlands Park. Hae you heard tell that my Annie's gone there? Mair fool her! It's in Surrey, beyond Hampton Court a wee. Near to Chertsey, on the Thames. Her witless physicians hae sent her there for to get a change o' air! And that's no' the worst o' it. C
an you credit it— they've set her, a near-dying woman, to sawing wood, I'm told! Aye sawing wood! As guid exercise for her. Guidsakes, they'll finish her off in nae time at a', wi' yon! But afore she ends up, there's some information I'm needing, see you. And you're to seek it out for me. You're still one o' her household, mind."

  John swallowed. "I thought... I had hoped, Sire, that you would have arranged it otherwise ..."

  "Och, she kens you were awa' on a mission for me. Time enough for the other. Fegs—belike there'll no' be a Queen's household for much longer, wi' this traipsing the country and sawing o' wood, for a sick woman! So—I want to ken whether my Annie's made a will and testament, or no. And, if she has, what's intilt."

  "But. . .!" John stared. "But. ..!"

  "Wheesht—you're aye butting, Johnnie Stewart! You've got sound enough wits, or I wouldna be employing you. So use them and spare us the buts. See now—Annie has been buying jewellery a' her days—aye, and costing me a bonny penny! She scatters diamond-rings as though they were poultry-meal! Forby, she owns much property in her ain name. This Oatlands itsel'. And the housie at Greenwich. Aye, plenty other lands. And her movables amount to over £400,000, they tell me. Now, it would be maist unfortunate, aye and improper, if she in her half-wit state was to leave it a' to other than her lawful husband and lord. You canna but perceive that, Johnnie man? It wouldna do. But she's head-strang and has taken a mislike to me, for some reason. Och, you ken women! So I need to ken whether she's made a will, or hasna. And if she has, who gets what."

  John bit back his buts. "I do not see how I can discover such a matter, Sire," he declared, helplessly. "I may be in her service still but I am not close to Her Majesty ..."

  "No—but you're close to yon lassie Hamilton, are you no'? I heard you'd been bedding her! Maist improper!"

  That effectively silenced John Stewart.

  "Aye, well—are you thinking o' wedding the quean?"

  "No . . . no, Sire." he got out.

  "No? You could dae worse, man. She's nae siller, mind. But she's the niece to the Earl o' Abercorn. And the Hamiltons are a right canny lot. And clannish. They mak guid friends and bad enemies!"

  When that produced no comment, the King went on,

  "The lassie could be useful in this pass, see you. She has quick wits, I'm told—as well as other parts! And a right loving nature, heh? Forby, she's in and oot o' the Queen's chamber a' the time. Close to a' Annie's ladies. If there's a will, it will hae been witnessed. Some o' thae auld bitches will hae witnessed it. Maybe the lassie hersel'. So you find out, Johnnie man—next time you're bedding her!" John bit his lip.

  "Aye, well. But a word in your lug, lad. Watch out for yon Anna, the other one. The Danish maid, who's been wi' the Queen ever since I brought her frae Denmark. She's a right dragon, that one. She helps hersel' to my Annie's jewels, I ken fine. The Queen fair dotes on her. I wouldna put it past her, mind, to leave the crittur a right whack o' her gear and siller! Shamefu' as that would be! Her and the Frenchie she ca's Pierrot. Maist o' the jewellery could go that way. Aye, and I'd no' be surprised if she thought to leave her lands and properties to Charles. She's aye been soft on Charlie. So—you're to find out, for me. But discreetly, mind. She's no' to find out what you're at, or she'll likely do worse, just to spite me! You have it?"

  Dumbly John nodded.

  "Aye—then begone, boy. You tire me—for I'm a sick man, mind. Wi' ower much on my mind. Off wi' you ..."

  John backed out from the presence of a remarkably spry-looking invalid, thoughts in a whirl—an effect James Stewart was apt to have on folk.

  Ludovick Stewart, long past being surprised at anything, was much amused.

  Dartford lay some seventeen miles down-river from London, and to reach there most expeditiously from Theobalds, without traversing the city and obtaining a barge, it was necessary to make for the nearest crossing of Thames, at Chiswick Bridge, and then to proceed eastwards by Mortlake and Lewisham and Bexley. John's own beast being tired and a little lame after its long journey from Scotland, he borrowed one of his father's horses.

  The weather was still grey, chill and misty, so that the thirty-mile and five-hour ride was scarcely enjoyable, although John was interested in all he saw, particularly the Kent farming scene with its oast-houses, apple-orchards, brewhouses and cider-presses, so different from anything in Scotland—although the cattle, he noted, were no better than his own at Methven.

  Dartford proved to be much different from his anticipation, after the flat country he had passed through. Although scarcely hilly by Scottish standards, the land hereabouts became folded into a sort of downland, through which the River Darent, swift-flowing compared with the other sluggish streams he had seen, ran in a narrow and shallow valley. And some couple of miles from the river's confluence with the now estuarine Thames, the thriving little market-town clustered around an ancient church and former monastic buildings, the Chantry of St Edmonds.

  John had no difficulty in finding the paper-mill, some way upstream, where the water was comparatively uncontaminated. There were other mills, the Darent's flow making this the best water-power for a large area, but the paper-mill was larger than those for meal and flour. But obviously it was not working, the premises shut up although clearly not abandoned. He made enquiries at cottages nearby, and learned that the mill worked only intermittently. But, if he wanted to speak with the miller, he would find Master Vandervyk's house in the High Street—or more likely at this time of day he would be in the Bull's Head tavern. When John mentioned that he thought that the name was Spielmann, he was eyed somewhat askance and informed that Sir John Spielmann had died years before—although Lady Spielmann still lived in Park House up the valley. Master Vandervyk had run the mill for long, even before Spielmann died.

  So John went back to the town centre and found the Bull's Head inn prominent in the market-place. Within, the innkeeper directed him to a heavily-built, middle-aged man drinking ale in company with two or three other substantial-seeming citizens in a corner of the premises. Ale and trade, in England, appeared to be inseparable.

  He introduced himself as John Methven, from Scotland, interested in paper. The big Dutchman made room for him at his side, ordering more ale, his companions decently moving off to another table.

  John explained his quest thus: he had links with the paper-trade in Scotland, but had come to London where he had kin. He was interested to know whether there was any opening for further paper-making here in the south, and had been told that Spielmann's was the only paper-mill in all England. Could Master Vandervyk give him any useful advice and guidance?

  The other appeared only too ready to do so. Forget it, John was told, in a thick foreign accent but eloquently enough. Paper and England just did not go together. There was not enough trade to keep his mill going six months in the year, without any other starting up. Anyway, it would not be permitted. All the paper used in this country came from the Germanic states, with the Hansa merchants holding a tight grip on all the trade. His own sales were confined to certain private buyers who required a special quality linen paper, mainly in the West Country, such as the Germans did not make in any quantity. Indeed, he had thought of transferring his mill to Devon, but doubted whether it was worth it, the trade being so small and even declining. Probably he would be wiser just to close down altogether, or change over to milling grain. Certainly there was no opening for another mill, here or elsewhere.

  John sought to sound suitably disappointed. Why should this be, he demanded? Surely much paper was used here in England? Why not produce it here?

  The other shrugged great shoulders. It was all a matter of monopolies, he said, making something of a mouthful of the word. The Hansa papermakers had a close monopoly, and appointed their own distributors in each country. No one else could break in. Even the Dutch and Flemish millers —who had trained him—had to export their paper through the Hansa merchants. The only reason why his mill was able to survive was that old Spielmann had himself b
een granted a monopoly by the late Queen Elizabeth, to collect linen and make linen-paper, and this charter he still held, even though Spielmann himself had given up paper-making for more profitable jewelling and money-lending in London—being a wiser man than he, who had taken over the management of the mill! So this mill could not be closed down by the Hansa traders nor their distributors in London. But it was scarcely worth running.

  And did Master Vandervyk know who were the London distributors—who presumably themselves knew about this mill?

  The Dutchman made no bones about that. Mansell held the distribution of paper in his fist—Robert Mansell. And a tight fist it was.

  So, John saw it all. Why Cockayne and his associates were so eager. This was all to be part of their war with Mansell. Presumably they did not know of this Dartford mill; but even if they did, they probably would not consider it of any significance. It was an alternative import monopoly they were concerned with, which would avoid the Hanseatic strangle-grip and Mansell's share in it. The issue was clear enough now.

  Feigning grave disappointment, John bought the Dutchman some more ale, and took his departure.

  The King ought to find all this to his taste and relief.

  It was much too far to consider making for Oatlands that day. John rode back to Bexley and put up for the night at an inn there.

  Margaret Hamilton welcomed him at Oatlands Park next afternoon, clearly delighted to have some young male company again. This Oatlands, a vast sprawling mansion in extensive parkland, was not her idea of paradise, cut off from all the excitements of London life and with no other associates than the Queen's ageing attendants. Country life, she asserted, was not for her. And she had missed John, she averred, all but purring, and rubbing against him like a cat.

  The Queen's condition was not good, she reported, this place by no means helping her, despite her physicians. Could he believe it, they had had her up and outside and sawing wood, logs for the fire! That had all but killed her, and for days after each attempt she was prostrate—so that at least had been discontinued. But she was still being wheeled out, in a day-bed, to partake of the country air, chill November as it was, and she was often blue and rigid with cold.