Unicorn Rampant

by Nigel Tranter

  So John gave his account of activities and progress on the Water of Leith and the River North Esk, the which appeared to find approximate royal favour. He was moving on to the more serious matter of Dumbarton Castle, over which James appeared to be supremely uninterested, when they rode out of the woodland into an open area where were three houses, one most evidently an inn. The King led the way to this, dismounted, and tottered inside, leaving John to see to the horses.

  When he followed indoors it was to find the King already drinking from a tankard and eyeing the only other customer, a small, bright-eyed and bewhiskered character, roughly dressed, with a sack and leather tool-bag at his feet, also drinking deep and considering James with equal interest. John was ignored, so ordered ale from the serving-wench for himself.

  Presently the King, noting how the other man smacked his lips after each mouthful with such obvious relish, spoke.

  "See you, honest fellow—you mak a great splutter and splash! What's in yon jug o' yours that's so much better than in mine, eh? This I've got is gey thin stuff. Thinner than last time, I vow."

  The other grinned. "By the Mass, Master, 'tis the house's best brown nappy. Have they given you the less?"

  "I declare they have, a plague on it! You, wench—where is she? John—find her ..."

  Their fellow customer beat him to it, however. He emptied his tankard in a great gulp and then banged it on the table to such effect that it brought the buxom serving-girl from the back premises, all but running, her ample breasts bouncing.

  "Three pints more of the special brown nappy, lass—and make them as full as your paps!" the fellow cried. "These friends will drink with me. See to it. The best brown."

  "Na, na, man," James began. "This shall be my pleasure..."

  "Quiet, you!" he was interrupted. "'Tis mine. Your doublets, friends, may look finer than mine—if not so much cleaner! But I swear my two pence is as good as yours, or any man's!"

  "On my soul, there's truth in that!" The King whinnied a laugh, and went to sit down at the other's table. After a brief hesitation, John did likewise.

  The girl brought them three brimming tankards slopping on a tray, and was rewarded with six pennies and a pinched bottom—for which she delivered a playful slap as change.

  "My, oh my," James said, rolling his great eyes. "You're nane sae blate, man. You ken what's what, I can see that."

  "A tinker learns what's what wi' his mother's milk, or don't survive! Here's to you, friend—Scotchman by your voice or none!"

  James shot a warning glance at John. "And to you, honest man," and raised his tankard in turn. "A tinkler, eh? Yon'll be a rough trade?"

  "None so rough, I'll thank you to allow. There's many rougher, by the Mass. It's honester than some! And yours, my masters?"

  "Ah." Another glance at John. "Ah, paper. Paper, aye. This young friend o' mine is consairned wi' the making and selling o' paper. Isna that so, Johnnie?"

  John nodded, unspeaking.

  "Paper, is it? You will not sell much paper in Enfield town, friend, I think. You'd do better mending pots!"

  "Aye, maybe." The King raised his tankard again. "Here's to the tinkler's trade."

  "And to the paper-trade—though I'd say God help it!"

  They drank to that. Then James looked at John. "Your turn," he said.

  John eyed his ale for a moment, then raised it. "To King James!" he said solemnly.

  The monarch pursed slack lips. But their companion nodded.

  "I'll drink to that. They do say that he's none so far away—a-hunting the deer in Enficld-town Chase this day. He's an odd gudgeon, they tell me, this King. Fonder o' the deer than some o' his lords, they do say. Not that I'd blame him for that. You can have all the lords in this kingdom, for me!

  "The deer are out o' season," James reproved. Then, in a different voice. "So you prefer your King—gudgeon was it?—though he may be, to your English lords?"

  "That I do. I'm told he's a middlin' honest man, wi' some care for the poor folk. Have you heard that?"

  "Precisely! Exactly!" the King exclaimed approvingly. "Or, that is, so it is purported."

  "I wish that I could set eyes on him, the while he's in this Enfield Chase. Think you there is any chance? I've travelled the land, and other lands too, but I've never seen a king in all my born days."

  James cackled. " 'Deed, aye! 'Deed, aye! Can you bestride a horse, my fine tinkler? Then you'll mount behind my Johnnie here, and I'll bring you into the presence o' your sovereign-lord Jamie! I ken where he is. How say you?"

  The other stared. "How can you know? The Chase is big. They could be anywhere ..."

  "Och, I hae a right good notion where they will be. There's no' that many bits o' this wood that's clear enough for hawking—and that's what the King will be at. They'll be down yon Bush Hill way, tak my word for it. Come— drink up, and we'll be on our way."

  Doubtfully as to two-thirds of the party, they moved outside, and John was peremptorily ordered to help the tinker with his clanking sack and leather tool-bag—which the other protested he could manage perfectly well on his own. At the horses, John was further told to mount and take up the sack of pots before him on the saddle, as there would be no room for it when the tinker was up behind.

  If John could not actually protest, however sour he looked, their new friend was under no such compulsion. He declared that he had not really meant that he was all that keen to see the King, that he had no wish to put their young friend out, that he was not used to sitting on horses' rumps, and that it was time that he was on his road to Barnet anyway.

  But James, once launched on a project, was no easy man to counter, king or none. "Up, you!" he commanded, more regally than suited a paper-merchant.

  "But, Master—he'll be surrounded by all his lords. We'll not get near him. Besides, how shall we tell him from them? They'll all be fine as peacocks."

  "You'll see, man," he was told. "The King will have his head covered, the lords will all bare theirs." And, tapping his hat on more firmly, James trotted off.

  John had no option but to help up the tinker, tools on his back, and balancing the pots and pans before him as best he might, rode after his monarch.

  James, as before, seemed to know where he was going, south-by-west through the greenwood, by rides and bridlepaths. It was his own property, of course and he had hunted here for years. Beyond an initial grumble or two, the tinker, jolting about behind, held his peace.

  After some twenty minutes, the land, although still tree-covered, began to rise slightly but steadily, and soon the trees were thinning out to a fairly bare, down-like ridge. It was not much of an eminence by John's standards but apparently this was Bush Hill. Beyond, the land sank again to a level area dotted with small ponds. And down there, sure enough, horsemen could be seen, and dogs.

  They trotted down, and were soon spotted. The King's unmistakable posture in the saddle identified him while they were still some distance off, and hunting-horns started to sound. So there was quite a group of courtiers assembled when the odd little party came up, and promptly all hats were doffed. John had to pull off his own flat velvet cap dutifully.

  The tinker behind him scanned the richly-clad throng looking for a man still wearing a hat, and could see none.

  "He is not here," he said. "The King,"

  "Oh, but he is that," James assured.

  "Then where is he? They are all dressed so fine."

  "That's only their bodies, man. 'Tis their heads that signify. I told you, did I no'—he who's covered."

  "But they are all uncovered."

  "On my soul—so they are! Then . . . then it must be you or me, eh? You, or me. We are the only two wearing our hats."

  The tinker stared, appalled, as it dawned. "Is ... is it true?" he whispered, at John's ear.

  "True, yes. This is the King. I would have told you, but he signed me not to."

  The man groaned and slipped to the ground, tool-bag and all, and made a grab at his sack. Clearly h
e was going to bolt.

  "Na, na, my mannie—wait you!" James said. "Come here, tinkler."

  In a panic now, the other hesitated, and then ran forward to fall down on his knees beside the King's horse. "Mercy, lord . . . !" he gasped.

  "Tush, fellow—what's to do?" the monarch asked, innocently. "Up wi' you. Or.. . na, na, bide there. You'll do fine there, on your knees. Aye. Johnnie—here to me. Gie's yon bit dirk. It's no' a sword, but it'll hae to serve. Forby, he's only a tink, the mannie." The kneeling man let out a wail.

  John handed over his dagger, all that any of them might carry in the royal presence, save Ludovick with his sword. Seeing it, the tinker cowered back, hands up beseechingly.

  "Still, man—still!" James exclaimed. "Or you could get hurt. Bide where you are. What do they ca' you? Your name, man?"

  "John, lord," the other got out. "John o' the Dale, lord. Spare me. I'm an honest man, I swear, lord. But a mender of pots and kettles. Never harmed any . . ."

  "Wheesht, you—wheesht! Come closer, John o' the Dale—I canna reach doon to you, there, can you no' see?" With a sudden swoop down with the dagger, bending low from the saddle, the King made a pass at the kneeling man's shoulder, barely managing to touch it as the other shrank away.

  "Och, you're a right fearty sumph!" Majesty declared. 'But it'll hae to serve. Like the dirk. Guid enough for the likes o' you! Exitus acta probat, eh? Arise, Sir John o' the Dale—and be as guid a knight as you ken how! As guid as any o' these, I'll be bound!" And he scanned the astonished company of courtiers critically. "Guidsakes, yes! On your feet, man—did you no' hear? Tak up your pack. Aye, we a' hae to tak up oor packs and paiks in this life, mysel' as well as you, mind, even though it's a different pack! Go you to my house o' Tibbalds, and tell them that you're Sir John o' the Dale, new-knighted. And they'll gie you royal pots to mend for the rest o' your days! You're the first man ever bought me a pint o' brown nappy!"

  The bewildered new knight rose but stood as though rooted to the spot.

  James thrust the dirk back at John, blade first, and wheeled his horse round. "Enough o' this," he jerked. "Come you, Johnnie Stewart—I'm hungry."

  As they rode back towards the palace, the King beckoned John closer and at the same time waved more illustrious folk back.

  "You'll be wondering why I knighted yon tink, I've nae doubt? If you're like your faither, maist like you'll be judging that it wasna weel done, debasing the honour o' knighthood for a stupid bit whim. Eh?"

  Since that was exactly what John had thought, he could scarcely deny it. "I... ah ... no doubt Your Majesty had your own reasons," was the best that he could do.

  "I had that. Just as I had when I knighted you, Johnnie Stewart! Mind that. See you, there are two-three fine fowl in this company behind us who reckon that they are entitled to honours frae me. No' for anything byordinar they've done, but because o' who they are. Yon Jermyn wants a knighthood for his son—and forby reckons he himsel' should be upped frae baron to. viscount. He's aye at Steenie to persuade me—pays Steenie guid siller for it! And Harry Cooper, him that's Deputy-Wardrober, is another—he would bribe any close to me to get him made Sir Harry. Och, I ken fine what they're at. So I teach them that I honour who I wish, no' them. And that nane can rely on advancement because o' who or what they may be. You tell Vicky that, or he'll be at me again ower this, for certain sure. He's a' right auld wifie, some ways, is Vicky Stewart!"

  "He ... he greatly regards Your Majesty."

  "Aye, weel—maybe. Anyway—keep you an eye on our tinkler-knight, if he bides about Tibbalds. I may hae uses for the likes o' him ..."

  13

  Strangely, it was not at court but on one of his trips to St Paul's, to keep in touch with the Merchant Venturers over the Scots paper-supply situation, that John got his first news about Sir Walter Ralegh. He found the great church buzzing with talk and speculation, most of which was incomprehensible to him. He knew of the great, veteran wit and explorer, of course, one of the few surviving ornaments of the Elizabethan galaxy; knew that he was out of the country; but had not heard him referred to of late. He sought enlightenment from Elias Woolcombe.

  That cheerful character told him, almost with relish, that it looked like disaster for Ralegh this rime. That his ship, from the Americas, had limped into a West Country port, and with a tale of woe. The Orinoco adventure was a failure, it seemed—and heads would fall, Ralegh's own amongst the first, for sure. Not wishing to betray his ignorance, John did not question further. He had heard nothing of this from his father—but presumably these Merchant Venturers had sources of information denied to others.

  Back at Whitehall, he told the Duke—and was surprised at that man's reaction, he who was usually so imperturbable. Ludovick was much upset. If this was true, he said, there would be trouble, serious trouble.

  When his son expressed incomprehension, the other explained. Ralegh was a great man, yes, but not always wise. In 1604 he had got himself involved in the so-called Main Plot, a conspiracy to depose James and put Arabella Stewart, his cousin, daughter of Darnley's brother, on the throne. It was a stupid business, and came to nothing—save for the deaths of the major plotters. Ralegh himself was condemned to death but the sentence was never carried out—mainly because James feared popular anger, for Ralegh was then beloved by the people, a notable figure. So he had been merely confined in the Tower, a long imprisonment, but in not too grievous conditions. John must have heard of that?

  It was James's chronic shortage of money which got Ralegh out of the Tower. He came up with a scheme for an expedition to the Orinoco River, in South America. He had been there in 1595 and had heard about an Indian city, up-river, where the streets were literally paved with gold— Manoa, it was called. AO the natives knew of this place, apparently. If he could sail out there and take his ships up the great river, he could fill them with gold, silver and jewels sufficient to solve all the King's money problems.

  James had been doubtful. George Heriot, his banker, had advised against it as an impractical dream. Also James's friend, the Count Gondomar, the Spanish Ambassador, who saw it as an infringement on the King of Spain's territories. But, as the financial situation got worse, and the Scottish visit was planned—and going to cost a great deal— parliament in its running battle with the monarchy refusing all provision, and Heriot dying, James agreed to allow Ralegh his attempt. At least, he said, he would not have the expense of keeping the man in luxury in the Tower. Ralegh could fit out an expedition—at his own expense. But he was not pardoned. If this proved to be a wild-goose-chase, he would pay for it in more than expenses!

  John still did not see why his father should be so concerned, even if the expedition had turned out a failure and Ralegh had to go back to his Tower. It was scarcely an earth-shattering development?

  Was he overlooking the Spanish situation, the Duke asked? That had developed much in the meantime. James was now eager for Charles, Prince of Wales, to wed the Infanta of Spain, with her dowry of £600,000—which was to come to him, not to Charles! The Spaniards did not like Ralegh, who had plundered their shipping in the past, and disapproved of this entire expedition. They looked on South America as theirs, even though they had done little about it. So long as Ralegh was successful, James was prepared to risk Spanish displeasure—but he did promise Philip that, if Ralegh so much as harmed one single Spaniard on the venture, he would send him in chains to Madrid for Philip to hang! So, failure could mean dire trouble—and not only for Ralegh.

  They debated as to whether John should go to tell the King about what he had heard, since fairly obviously no word of it had yet reached court. But, on the principle that bearers of ill-tidings were seldom popular, they decided to let James find out from his own sources—which no doubt would occur soon enough.

  Meantime, John was despatched on a mission to Hampton Court, where Queen Anne had been taken—Oatlands having proved too 'exposed'. Anne's condition was giving continued cause for anxiety—especially on the financial aspect
, as far as her husband was concerned—and he wanted something positive done about the jewellery. James calculated that she had spent over £300,000 on jewellery with George Heriot alone, and, although she had undoubtedly given much away, much must remain. Somehow this had to be saved before, as the King put it, the rats got at it. John was to go and see Margaret Hamilton again, apparently the only possible weak link in the Queen's household.

  This time he travelled up-river in better style, in one of the King's barges. But he found Hampton Court very different from heretofore. The great house seemed almost dead, with the Queen and her reduced staff roosting in only one corner of it. The air of gloom was tangible.

  Margaret was delighted to see him and made no secret of it. She was distracted with boredom, she announced, tired to death of sickness, crabbed, aged, haughty females, hushed voices and general misery. This vast empty palace was worse than Oatlands. There was no company for her, no young people anywhere, nothing for her to do. Where had he been all this time? Why had he not come before? He had promised that he would speak for her to the King. She had looked for him, for weeks.

  John sympathised with her—and his sympathy was genuine. For he could imagine few fates less tolerable for a lively young woman than to be entombed in this huge echoing house with a dying Queen and her sour and anxious ladies.

  Margaret wanted more than sympathy, however, and almost dragged him off forthwith to a far wing of the palace where, in a chamber with a large bed, already somewhat rumpled he noted, she only paused in flinging off her clothing to help him discard his, entirely single-minded about the business.

  After an active, indeed almost breathless but admittedly pleasurable half-hour, during a lull, he revealed his present mission.

  "I would think that the King would have more to worry about than a few jewels! The state of his own wife's health, for one thing."

  "Yes, it is strange. But—he is a strange man. And desperately in need of moneys, it seems, always. It is one long battle with parliament, over funds. Things are done differently here than in Scotland. Anyway, he needs money. And reckons that the Queen's jewels should be worth as much as £200,000."