by Jean Plaidy
“And I must not forget my youngest. Well, how’s my mannie?”
Lady Carey, who was at Charles’s side, took his hand and pressed it reassuringly while James came close to his youngest son and took his chin in his hand. Charles looked into his eyes, unafraid; no one could be afraid of James unless they had offended him deeply, and even then he would be calmly judicious.
“Prince Charles is walking a little now, Your Majesty,” Lady Carey told the King.
“Good news. Good news. And he is talking?”
Lady Carey whispered to the boy: “Say, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’”
Charles opened his mouth and did his best, but the words were strangled. James nodded and patted the boy’s shoulder.
“Well done,” he said. “Well done.”
Then he laid his hand on Henry’s shoulder and pushed him toward the table on which young Charles was sitting. “Talk to your brother, lad,” he said. “And you with him, Elizabeth.”
Then he took the Queen by the arm and walked, away from the group round the table, toward the window, calling over his shoulder to Lady Carey to follow him.
When they had reached the window he said quietly to Lady Carey: “The lad does not improve.”
Lady Carey’s face puckered. “But, Your Majesty, he does, indeed he does. He is much better.”
“He is no longer a baby.”
“But he can speak a little. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but he is overawed by your presence.”
“He’s the only one in this Court who is then,” said James with a laugh.
Lady Carey was afraid, for the Queen was regarding her with the dislike she had for all those who took her children away from her.
“It cannot go on,” mused James.
“Your Majesty, he is improving. I do assure you of that.”
“I’ve been consulting my physicians about him, Lady Carey, and they believe he should be put in iron boots to strengthen his bones, and the string under his tongue be cut.”
“Oh no, Your Majesty. I implore you. Why, do you not see how he has improved since he has been in my care? The boots would be too heavy for him and he would never walk. He has a horror of them. Your Majesty, I beg of you, do not do this.”
Lady Carey’s eyes were full of tears; her lips twitching, her hands trembling. She looked imploringly at the Queen.
“Why should she have the care of my baby?” Anne asked herself. “She behaves as though she were his mother.”
Lady Carey was so overwrought that she laid a hand on the King’s arm. “Your Majesty, he is speaking more clearly than he was a month ago. He needs confidence … and loving care. To cut the string might mean that he would never speak again or at best have an impediment for the rest of his life.” Her eyes were shining with faith. “I know I can make him well. I am certain of it.” She looked from the King to the Queen and seemed suddenly aware of her temerity. “Your gracious pardons,” she murmured, lowering her head; and the King and the Queen saw that she was fighting to control her tears.
James looked at his wife, but she would not meet his gaze. She was thinking: This woman loves my Charles as though she were his mother in truth. And I hate her because she has taken him from me. But it is good for Charles to have one who loves him so.
The maternal instinct was stronger in Anne than any other and she could forget her jealousy in her concern for her son. So she said: “Lady Carey should be given a further opportunity to prove her words. It is true that Charles is better since she took charge of him. It is my wish that there should be no iron boots, nor cutting of the string … as yet.”
“My dears,” replied James, “this is the advice of the doctors.”
But the two women stood firm; there was a bond between them; they were so conscious of their feelings for the child, and they shared the belief that the power of maternal love could exceed the experiments of doctors, however wise.
James regarded them with mild good nature. They loved the boy; there was no doubt of that; and there was also no doubt that young Charles loved his nurse.
James often preferred to thrust aside decisions.
“Then for the time let things be as they are.”
Lady Carey seized his hand and kissed it.
“Why,” he said kindly, “it is the Queen and myself who should be showing gratitude to you, my dear.”
The Queen’s mouth tightened. “I know,” she added, “that Lady Carey has looked after him as though she were his mother. She could not do more than that.”
James turned to Robert Carr who had been standing at some little distance while this conversation took place.
“Come ye here, Robbie,” he said. “Give me your arm.”
“So Your Majesty needs support, even as little Charles?” murmured Anne maliciously.
“Aye,” retorted James. “I like a strong arm to lean on.”
“There might be stronger and more practiced arms,” said the Queen.
And when Robert Carr came to the King she turned her back on him.
James, smiling, went to the children, exchanged a few jocular words with them and then, learning on the arm of Robert Carr, left the apartment.
James went on to his own quarters and when his little party arrived there he dismissed them all, with the exception of Robert, because he sensed that the Queen’s antagonism had upset his favorite.
“Sit down, lad,” he said, when they were alone, and Robert took a stool and placed it by the King’s chair. He sat leaning his head against James’s knee while the grubby royal fingers gently pulled at his golden hair. “Ye mustna let the Queen upset ye, Robbie,” went on James. “She never did take kindly to my lads.”
“I thought she hated me,” Robert said.
“No more than many another. The Queen’s a kind woman in her limits and it grieves me to plague her. Ours has been a good union, though, and we’ve children to prove it. Two boys and a girl left out of seven; and the two eldest as bonny as children could be. Little Charles … well, you heard how the women stood against me, Robbie. But ’tis on account of their fears for the boy. The Queen would have been a good mother if she’d been in another station of life. Queens, poor bodies, are not permitted to care for their own. From the time of Henry’s birth she changed toward me, and all because I’d not dismiss the Marrs and give her charge of the bairn.”
“I fear that she will poison Your Majesty’s mind against me.”
“Nay, laddie. Never. I’ve been a happy man since my Robbie came to cheer up his old Dad. Dinna take much notice of the Queen’s little spites. Bless ye, boy, others have felt it before you.”
“Sire, there is something I must explain to you.”
“Your old Dad is listening, Robbie.”
“Your Majesty has raised me so high in so short a time. But often I feel out of place at Court. Your ministers look down on me—men like the Howards. I’m not one of them. I’m shabby … I’m poor.”
“Give your old gossip time, laddie. I’m going to make ye the most grand gentleman among them. Ye shall have fine clothes and in time an estate of your own. Why, I might find you a rich bride. That would be a fine plan, eh?”
“Your Majesty is so good to me.”
“I like to see my boys happy. Now, dinna fret. All will be well. If fine clothes would help you to be happier, fine clothes you shall have. This very day you shall see some silks and satins, brocades and velvets; and make your choice. Why, mannie, there’ll be no one to hold a candle to you. Though your old Dad thinks that’s the case without fine clothes.”
“How can I thank Your Majesty?”
“Ye do well enough, Robbie. Now bide quiet a wee while and let me chat with you. Conversation is a pleasant pastime; and when ye’ve spent a little more time with your books, there’ll be conversation in plenty for us.”
“I fear I am a simpleton—and Your Majesty so learned.”
“And you such a winsome fellow and me an old scarecrow. Dinna make protest, lad. I was ne’er a beauty. Which is
surprising, for my mother was reckoned the foremost beauty of her day; and my father was a handsome fellow. But ye see, I was never cared for as a babe. There were too many who wanted what I had—a crown. And I had it too young, Robbie, for they took it from my poor mother who was the captive of the Queen of England, and they wanted it … they wanted it badly. And now I’m no longer a boy; and there are still some who’d like to see me out of the way. Look at these padded breeks. I often wonder, when my subjects press too close, whether one of them is not waiting … with a hidden dagger.”
“No one would harm Your Majesty.”
“Oh, laddie, ye’ve not long come to Court. Did ye never hear of the Gunpowder Plot? Did ye never hear how the Catholics planned to blow up the houses of Parliament while I and my ministers were sitting?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Everyone was talking of it at the time and rejoicing in your escape.”
“Aye,” murmured James. “Yet the scoundrels might so easily have succeeded. Do you know, lad, if one of the conspirators had not been anxious to save the life of Lord Monteagle, if he hadn’t warned him to stay away from Parliament, the cellars would never have been searched; we should never have discovered the gunpowder and Guido Fawkes keeping watch. And that would have been the end of the Parliament and your King, Robbie.”
“But Your Majesty had loyal subjects who prevented the treachery.”
“Ay, loyal subjects—and good luck. You can never be sure when they’re going to turn, lad. I’ve had my troubles. You’re too young to remember the Gowrie Plot; but I came as near to death then as a man can without dying, and I’ve no mind to be so close again … if I can help it. Oh, Robbie, ’tis a dangerous life, a King’s. There was a time when I thought even the Queen was with my enemies.”
James enjoyed reminiscing on the past to his handsome young men; he liked to consider how often he had come near to death and escaped. It was the excuse he offered for the padded garments, for what they might consider timidity on his part. He wanted to assure them that it was sound good sense which made him give such thought to the preservation of a life which had almost been snatched from him on more than one occasion.
“Aye,” he went on, “I did suspect the Queen, but I’d say now she’s never taken part in plots against me. She goes her way and I go mine; but she was a good wife to me, and bore my children. I used to think she had an eye for some of the handsome laddies of the Court. And Alex Ruthven was a fine looking boy. It was the Ruthvens, you know, who plotted against me. The Earl of Gowrie and his brother, Alexander Ruthven, never forgave me because their father had met the just reward of his villainy. Beatrice Ruthven, their sister, was one of the Queen’s ladies and it may be that she brought her brother Alexander to her mistress’s notice. I remember a summer’s day—it was before young Charles was born—when I was walking with some of my laddies in the grounds of Falkland Palace and came upon young Alex Ruthven fast asleep under a tree. Round the young man’s neck was a ribbon—a very beautiful silver ribbon—and I knew it well because I had given it to the Queen. I was a jealous husband then, Robbie. I said to myself: ‘Now why should this young man be wearing the Queen’s ribbon?’ And I went with all speed to the Queen’s chamber and I said to her: ‘Show me the silver ribbon I gave to you. I’ve a mind to see it.’ And the Queen opened a drawer and took out the ribbon; and there was no denying that it was the ribbon I gave to her.”
“So there were two silver ribbons,” said Robert.
James shook his head. “Nay,” he continued. “There was but one ribbon, and methinks I was not at heart the jealous husband I wanted my subjects to think me. I had seen Beatrice Ruthven watching me from behind one of the trees; she was wearing a scarlet dress and she wasn’t hidden as well as she thought she was. What did she do? No sooner had I turned and made my way to the Queen’s apartments than she tweaked the ribbon from her brother’s neck, ran by a short cut to the Queen’s Chamber, thrust the ribbon into a drawer and gasped out to the Queen what had happened. Why, when I arrived, there was the crafty young woman sitting with needlework on her lap, thinking I didna see how her chest was heaving as she was trying to get back her breath.”
“So the Queen did give the ribbon to Ruthven?”
“Ay, ’twas so. But there was nothing lecherous in the Queen’s friendship with the young man. She likes young men to admire her; she did not like my having friends. The rift was there between us; so to pretend she cared not that I spent much time with my friends, she allowed young men to express their admiration of her. Murray was one; this Alexander Ruthven was another. Ah, that Alexander Ruthven was an enemy of mine and he met his just reward. Dinna tell me, laddie, that ye’ve forgotten what happened to the Ruthvens after what they tried to do to their King. Oh, but you’re but a boy and this happened before I crossed the Border and took this crown of England.”
James smiled shrewdly as he looked back, and he could not resist telling his young friend the stirring story because he felt he had come out of it well, and he wanted to impress on the lad that in spite of padded garments he was no coward; he wanted to teach his dear Robbie the difference between being afraid and being sensible.
And as he told the story he relived it. He saw himself rising in the early morning of that fateful day in August of the year 1600. He remembered Anne’s watching him sleepily while his attendants dressed him, for they had shared a bed in those days. She was big with child, he remembered; Charles was to be born three months later.
“You are astir early,” she had say. “Why so?”
He had smiled at her, the excitement in him rising so that he, usually calm, found it difficult to control. “That I may kill a prime buck before noon.”
He did not tell her that he was going in search of a Jesuit priest who Alexander Ruthven had told him would be at Gowrie House. This Jesuit, Ruthven had informed him, was in possession of a bag of Spanish gold and was clearly up to no good since, of a certainty, he had been sent from Spain to spread sedition throughout the Protestant land of Scotland.
As he rode out to the hunt James promised himself a pleasant reward of Spanish gold and, what pleased him almost as much, a discussion with the Jesuit. There was little he enjoyed so much as spirited conversation, and theological differences were a delight to him.
Slipping away from the party, and taking with him only a young gentleman of his bedchamber named Ramsay, he made his way to Gowrie House where the Earl of Gowrie and his younger brother Alexander Ruthven were waiting to meet him. Food and wine had been prepared for him and he fell to with enthusiasm, for he was hungry; but he was soon demanding to be taken to the Jesuit. Young Alexander offered to take him and led the way up spiral staircases to a chamber, circular in shape, which James guessed to be the prison-hold of the Gowries; and as the heavy, studded door swung behind him and Alexander, he looked about for the Jesuit. The man was not there; then James noticed a small door in the chamber, but, before he could speak, Alexander had locked the great door and drawn his sword.
James faced the young man and saw murder in his face. His first emotion was anger at his stupidity rather than fear for his life. He had known he was trapped, and that the Gowries had brought him here to murder him.
And they would have murdered him, but for great good fortune. He had been a friend to Ramsay, and Ramsay was ready to risk his life in his service. There had not been many like him; so what good luck that Ramsay had been with him that day! The boy, being anxious because of his disappearance, had prowled about the house searching for him and, hearing his master’s cries, found a way of forcing the turnstile and making his way to the circular chamber by means of a private door. He had arrived just in time, for Ruthven had the advantage, and there would certainly have been murder that day at Gowrie House but for Ramsay.
Several of Ruthven’s servants, who had been warned to keep all away from the chamber, came hurrying through the private door after Ramsay, and joined in the fight. For some minutes James and his servant held off Ruthven and his; and, see
ing how evenly matched they were, one of Ruthven’s servants declined to help his master, declaring that he wanted no part in killing the King.
Marr and Lennox, who had been with the hunt that day, missing the King, came on to Gowrie House and, hearing them galloping up, James managed to reach a window and shout down: “Treason! I am murtherit!”
Lennox found a ladder and climbed it; but it was not until the Earl of Gowrie and Alexander Ruthven had been killed that the King was rescued.
“And that, Robbie,” James ended, “was the Gowrie Plot, and it happened in Scotland; and then when I came to England my enemies took a turn with the gunpowder.”
He could see that Robert’s attention was forced. Poor laddie, he would have to learn to concentrate.
“Concentration, mannie, is the secret of acquiring knowledge; did ye know? Train the mind not to wander, however dull the road, however pleasant the meadows by the wayside may seem. ’Twas a lesson I learned early in life. I shall have to give you lessons in the art.”
“Your Majesty has given me so much.”
“And now your mind is on brocade and velvet, eh? And your old gossip tires you with his talk of bloody murder. Give me your arm, lad. We’ll away and choose the velvet for your jacket and breeks. And we’ll see that there’s no delay in making them.” He rose to his feet and for a moment swayed uncertainly, till he leaned heavily on Robert. “But dinna fret yourself for the Queen. She won’t love you, boy, but she’ll no harm you. The Queen’s a good woman, though between ourselves, boy, I’ve often thought her a frivolous one. Now … velvet and brocade … satins and silks. We’re going to make Robbie Carr a proper man of the Court.”
Prince Henry rode out of the Palace of Whitehall and turned eastward. He was soberly dressed and took with him only one attendant, for he was eager not to be recognized. His visits to the Tower were becoming more and more frequent and he did not want them to be commented on lest his father should forbid them. Had James done so, Henry would still have found some means of visiting his friend; he could be stubborn when he believed himself to be in the right, but he was not one to court trouble.
