Unicorn Rampant

by Nigel Tranter

  "I will take it back, Sire, if I erred in my judgment," John said. "And pay it in to the Treasury. As the last half-year's collection was paid."

  "Eh? Bide a wee, bide a wee. How much was that, man?"

  "Nearly £900 I think, Sire."

  "God-a-mercy! Nine hundred pounds—o' my revenues! Just frae Dumbarton? That's a fell lot o' siller going some place!"

  "So thought I, Highness. Did I misjudge?"

  "I'm no' sure, man—I'm no' right sure. Vicky—when you were keeping Dumbarton, you never thought on this?"

  "I must confess I did not, James. The collection was always dealt with by that rogue Middlemas and sent, after due deductions no doubt, straight to the Treasury. I had little to do with it."

  "Hph'mm. Maybe. But what's the rights o' it? I should get some o' the siller frae my royal lands and customs, should I no'?"

  "I would certainly say so, yes."

  "Frankie Bacon—you're a lawyer and clever, ower clever maybe! What say you?"

  "Sire, I would not presume to submit an opinion," Verulam answered genially. "On a matter concerning Scotland. Your law there is different from ours."

  "Och, be no' sae nice, man! This is no' a court o' law! Gie's your opine."

  "Well, Majesty, it would seem to me that there are two aspects here," he said. "There are royal lands and there are customs and taxation. Without being competent to judge exactly, I would think that they should be separated. Customs and taxation are scarcely a matter for the privy purse, I fear. They are to be used for the needs of the state—through the Treasury, yes. That is as it would be here, in England. But royal lands and the rentals therefore are different. These, it seems to me, might well come to your privy purse, since they are not the state's lands but the crown's. Certain other items, also. I may be wrong, but..."

  "And you, Jamie Hay?"

  "Take it, Sire. Take the lot, I say! And let Johnnie Mar whistle for it!" Carlisle advised, grinning.

  James eyed them all. "Aye, well—we'll see," he said. "You, Johnnie Stewart—bring me this £500 the morn and we'll see what's what. I'm no' saying that you've done just right, mind. But there could be right in it. Now—you can be off, the pair o' you. We hae business to transact here. Awa' to your beds, laddies ..."

  Enviously Ludovick watched the younger men bow themselves out.

  Late as it was, John left Whitehall for Wallingford House, while Will made for St James's.

  At the palatial residence which the Marquis of Buckingham had bought to complement his new state, the servants were used to untimely comings and goings, and a porter on duty admitted John without difficulty. The rooms Margaret had been allotted were in a wing of the great house to the rear, near the servants' quarters. Making his way there by darkened corridors, John entered their outer room, where the remains of a fire still flickered on the hearth. There was just light enough to see that the room was empty but untidy, with platters, flagons and beakers on the table. Lighting a couple of candles from the fire, he cast about for some food, for he had not eaten for long. There were some scraps of cold fowl left on the platters and some broken sweetmeats. He was stepping over to the cupboard to see what might be available there when the sound of movement reached him from beyond the inner door, the bedroom. He went to it, calling, "It is myself, Margaret—John. Just back."

  He raised the latch but found that the door was locked. Distinctly he heard whispering beyond.

  Frowning, he rattled the door. "Margaret!" he called.

  There were further faint sounds from within. Grimly he stepped back, waiting. When the door did not open, he went to pick up one of the candles. There was another door to that bedchamber—most of these apartments were intercommunicating, not having been built as suites—and he could reach that from another room further along the corridor. Moving to their outer door, his candle illumined a chair nearby. Over this was flung a cloak, black, decorated with golden filigree-work. Picking it up, he stared. He knew that cloak.

  His hand was on the outer latch when he heard the inner door open behind him, and he turned. Margaret stood there, a wrap loosely thrown around her. Under it, clearly, she was naked, her hair tousled. They gazed at each other.

  "I disturb you!" he jerked, gratingly.

  "You do, yes," she answered, a little breathlessly. "You, you come at a strange hour!"

  "Who else do I disturb?" he demanded.

  "No one in particular, John," she said, with an attempt at lightness. "It matters nothing. One of the Countess's ladies. You will not know her. It grows lonely, sleeping alone."

  "You lie, Margaret," he declared. "That cloak—it is a man's cloak. George Villiers'. The King gave it to him. He should be more careful with so kenspeckle a cloak!"

  She said nothing.

  Striding forward, he pushed past her roughly, into the bedroom, still with his candle. The great bed was rumpled but empty. The other door, at the far side of the chamber, was ajar. He hurried over to it, and through. The apartment beyond was empty likewise, but its further door was open. He went to peer through that also but saw nobody.

  Back in their own room, he found Margaret sitting on the edge of the bed.

  "She has gone. She must have borrowed Steenie's cloak," she suggested, brazenly. "After all, she is one of his mother's people and this is his house."

  "Spare yourself your inventions!" he told her grimly. "I have a good nose. That was a man sharing your bed—do not try to deny it."

  "No—then I will not deny it, John Stewart," she exclaimed. "Why should I? You are a husband only in name! You leave me for weeks, months, at a time. You care nothing for me..."

  "You are my wife."

  "In name only, I say. You are no true husband to me, nor ever have been. I am a whole woman, no shrinking nun! I need a man . . ."

  "Damn you—my wife's body is not for other men, Steenie Villiers or any, to use. I. . ."

  "You were sufficiently happy to use my body before, when it suited you! I do not recollect you complaining of other men then!"

  "Whore!" he cried, clenching fists. He only restrained himself from striking at her with an effort. At the threat in him she rose, as though to dart away, and the wrap she wore fell off.

  Tensely they looked at each other, she at his fists and his working features, he at her full and very splendid body, large breasts with dark circular aureolas, and rounded belly above rich auburn bush. And, angry as he was, it was that gently rounded belly which, as it were, brought him up short. He actually pointed at it.

  "You . . . you are not . . . with child!" he got out. "Look—you are no different than ever you were. Not pregnant! It would be next month, or the next..."

  "No," she admitted. "It was, shall we say, a mistake. Such can happen."

  "Merciful soul of God—a mistake! A lie, rather—a damnable lie! You never were with child. It was but a trap. To trap me into marrying you! Curse you, Margaret Hamilton—curse you, for a liar, a cheat and a whore!"

  "And you for a sour, stiff prig! And a fool, likewise!"

  "You are right in that, at least!" And, in a different voice, opening those clenched fists to an open-palmed, helpless gesture, he said, "Woman—you have cheated me out of the best thing in my life!" And, turning on his heel, without another word, he left her there beside the bed, to stride off through the outer room and out, slamming the door behind him.

  Hunger and weariness forgotten, he walked the streets for the rest of that night, a man all but bereft of his wits.

  18

  John Stewart was not the man to let matters lie. Out of his wanderings that night and all the turmoil of his mind, two matters were clear to him. His marriage was to all intents at an end; and he had a score to settle with George Villiers. So, in no very composed state of mind, next day he went in search of Steenie. He traced him to Whitehall, indeed to the King's bedchamber. He could not follow him therein, save by royal command; but he could, and did, wait for him in the audience-chamber adjoining, through which the Marquis would have
to pass when he emerged. He was not alone in his vigil, for there were always suppliants and litigants tarrying there in the hope of an audience with the monarch or his advisers.

  He had quite a long wait, as did the others, for although there was considerable passing in and out of officers and secretaries, the King made no appearance. But John was now possessed of a cold, steely patience. He sat on, as others came and went.

  At length Villiers came out, with the Surveyor-General of the royal buildings, one Inigo Jones, whom James was having design him a new banqueting-hall for this palace— although how it was to be paid for went unexplained. Steenie looked as though he was not listening to Jones, who was talking volubly, the company of mere architects being scarcely his choice. John at least relieved him of that burden.

  "My lord," he said, rising and stepping directly in front of the elaborately-dressed favourite, "a word with you."

  At sight of John, and at the curtness of that address, the Marquis hesitated. Then he waved a hand with a perfumed handkerchief—he was on record as saying that one required strong perfume in the close company of the Lord's Anointed—and waved the interrupter away.

  "Another time perhaps, Stewart," he said loftily.

  "No—now!" That was harshly enunciated and with no lowering of voice.

  Steenie glanced swiftly round the chamber, noting the many watchful eyes upon them. A frown darkened his almost beautiful features. "I said another time. Out of my way, sirrah!"

  "You escaped me over quickly last night, Villiers. By a back door! Not today!" John did not move aside, but he did incline his head to the architect. "Your pardon, Master Jones," he said.

  That small, dark man, glancing from one to the other, prudently bowed to both and hurried off.

  "Have you lost your wits, man? How dare you!"

  "I dare much more, I assure you—and trust that you will also! And not in a bedchamber this time!"

  "God's Death! I . . ." Villiers, again glancing round, restrained himself, shrugged and then turning, threw the word "Come!" back at his provoker, and stalked whence he had come.

  John followed him into the ante-room between the audience-chamber and the royal private quarters, where the guard on duty was curtly dismissed and the door closed behind them.

  "You insolent fool!" Steenie jerked. "You shall pay for this, I promise you. What do you want with me?"

  "Some small satisfaction—only that! To tell you to your pretty face that you are a cheat, a mountebank and a whoremonger! And to ensure that you pay for what you have done. If you have the courage . . ."

  "What a God's name are you at, damn you? More of this and I will have that guard back and you off to the Tower, you wretched Scotch ape! I. . ."

  "Did you get your cloak back from my wife's bedchamber this morning?" John had to raise his voice to overbear what was almost a shout.

  The other's open mouth opened wider, and then shut again, wary suddenly.

  "You ran, Villiers—you ran, curse you! From her bed. Like the craven you are. When you heard me at the door. I was just too late to catch you."

  Steenie cleared his throat. "I do not know of what you speak," he declared. "This of your wife. You rave . . .!"

  "You lie, man! So you are a liar as well as the rest. You were in Margaret's bed last night. In your Wallingford House. When I came. Behind a locked door. You bolted— but left your cloak. The cloak the King gave you."

  "You have no proof of that. Save the cloak. And I deny it."

  "My wife did not deny it, hot from your arms!" "Meg does not need to deny it. Since I do!" "So she is Meg to you? What was your cloak doing in her chamber, then?"

  "Some other must have taken it there. If there it was." "Some other?"

  "To be sure, some other. Think you Meg's bed is reserved for you?"

  "Damn you, you dastard! You poltroon! Can you not at least admit your guilt like a man?"

  "I admit nothing, Stewart. Now, go—before I call the guard."

  "Call the guard—and I call others. Many others! Who would be interested to hear this! When you are to marry this Manners heiress in a month's time. I swear it should concern Rutland! And what of the King?"

  "You would not dare, fool! I can silence you, never doubt it. And will. Silence you once and for all. . ."

  "Ha—that is better! Now you talk sense. For that is why I am here. To give you opportunity to silence me—or me you For good. I will meet you. Wherever you will. With swords, dirks or pistols. Name you the day and the place."

  "Dizzard! Do you think that I, Buckingham, would demean myself to cross swords with you? And over Meg Hamilton? You must be crazed, with your cuckolding."

  "Perhaps. But meet we will. Or else we will have this thing the talk of London ..."

  "You'll do nae such thing, neither o' you. And that's that!" They jerked round to find James standing in the further doorway, in night-shirt and hat. "You'll be done wi' this folly, the pair o' you, d'you hear? I'll hae nae mair o' it."

  "But, Sire .. ."

  "I've told you before, Johnnie Stewart—nae buts! This is the end o' it."

  "It is my wife, Sire. I.. ."

  "I ken, I ken—I heard it a'. Yon peep-hole and lug I made can be right convenient—as I told you, yon time. Your wife's no' a' she should be, maybe—but many's the wife's that way. Aye, and husbands. I dinna care whae's been in your Meg's bed—but you're no' going to turn a' here tapsalteerie because o' it, you are no'. Mind you that. And you, Steenie—the same to you. You've been a right fool, I can see that fine. But this is the end o' the folly, d'you hear? I'll no hae my court and plans cowped by any hot-rumpit wench! So—the twa o' you can forget it!"

  "I cannot do that, Sire," John said levelly. "When it is a man's wife and honour ..."

  "Then you will leave my court and royal presence, John Stewart! Aye, leave it. I've been thinking for a whilie that it's about time you went back to Scotland. To bide. There's no' sufficient for you to dae here to keep you frae girning. You can serve me better up yonder. At Dumbarton, aye Dumbarton. I'll no' hae you hang-dog around here, wi' your grouch at my Steenie—fool as he is! So that's settled. You'll be awa', Johnnie—awa'. Forby, your faither aye says that you're never content but you're in Scotland—God kens why! So you'll no' break your heart, eh?"

  John swallowed, scarcely believing his ears. "When . . . when do I go, Sire?"

  "Just sae soon as you like, man. The sooner the better— for I dinna want you around wi' this wedding o' Steenie's coming up. You might forget yoursel' and my royal commands. You might talk. And there'll be nae talk, you hear? Nane. Noo—awa' wi' you, while I gie this Steenie a fleg in his ear! Ooh, aye—he'll get one, never fear. But, see you— come and see me before you go, Johnnie. I want to see you about ae thing or twa."

  John bowed, and left them there.

  He hurried out of Whitehall Palace, his heart singing— even though behind it there was the ache of lacerated pride and frustrated vengeance. He was going home. For good.

  He wished that he could go right away, now, leave everything—in case James might change his mind. But George Villiers would work on the King not to change his mind, that could be relied on. He would want him away.

  He went out into the London streets to walk again, tiredness forgotten, so very different from walking in the night.

  James did not change his mind. He sent for John two evenings later, with the court moving next day to Hampton Court where the wedding was to take place, for rehearsals, decorations and the like. John found him in his bed, alone.

  "Aye, weel, Johnnie—there you are," he greeted amiably. "You'll be off the morn, I've nae doubt—since you'll no' be joining us at Hampton, I'm thinking. Come, sit by me. You'll hae a cup o' wine?"

  Clearing the usual litter of papers on the untidy bed, John sat, but warily.

  "You're a thrawn, difficult crittur, Johnnie—you aye have been. But honest enough I jalouse. I'll miss you, mind."

  'Thank you, Sire."

  "Aye. Noo—as to
your Meg Hamilton. What do you aim to dae about her?"

  John shook his head. "I, I do not know. Yet. I have not had time to fully consider it. But—my marriage to her is finished, that is sure. A divorce will be. . "

  "A divorce will not be!" the King interrupted flatly. "Nae divorce."

  "But, Sire.. ."

  "But naething! Nae divorce. I'll no' permit it. And dinna glower at me that way, Johnnie Stewart—or you'll be glowering at a cell door! Mind it." The monarch wagged a finger at him, but relaxed his severe expression. "Och, man—d'you no' see? You couldna sue for divorce without bringing in my Steenie. And that's no' to be considered. I've great plans for Steenie—for the guid o' this realm."

  "I would not have considered that probable, Sire."

  "You wouldna, would you no'? Which just goes to show how little you ken, my mannie. Steenie is the main rock on which I will wreck the Howards and a' their like. He may not aye be wiselike—but rocks dinna need to be, eh? To wreck ill craft!" James chuckled. "But, mind, he's no' aye foolish—any mair than you are! There's mair than folly behind yon bonnie face—there's the ability to survive, for ae thing! Ooh, aye—and that's a right precious commodity in statecraft, see you. There's no' that many have it. You, now—I wouldna just say that you have it."

  "If I had to become like him to survive, then I do not think that I would wish it!"

  "So—hoity-toity again! There you are, then—you'll never mak a statesman nor yet a courtier even, that's plain. But Steenie will. Given time. Once he's safe wed, I aim to send him to Spain, wi' Charlie, to tie up this Spanish match. Aye and contrive a treaty o' mutual aid wi' the Spanishcrs. That'll keep thae Frenchies looking ower their shoulders, to our greater comfort. The same way we in Scotland used the Auld Alliance wi' France hersel', to keep these English on their taes, eh? The same ploy. And right necessar. So— there's to be nae scandal aboot Steenie, before he's wed, or after. His Maist Catholic Majesty o' Spain doesna like scandal. Nor yet divorce."

  John said nothing.

  "I told you—tak the glower off your face, man. And dinna think that once you're safe back in Scotland you can jouk me ower divorce, behind my back, mind. You were wed in England, by an English bishop, and any divorce would hae to be contrived here. And I'm head o' the Church o' England! There'll be nae scandal." He paused. "What do you aim to do aboot your Meg, then? I dinna want her taken awa to Scotland. No' at this present, anyways."