The Wisest Fool

by Nigel Tranter

  "Waesucks—enough! Enough, I say! You're cozening me, man. I'll not believe it, Geordie Heriot. It's no' what I've been given to understand."

  "Likely not, Sire. But that is what I have picked up, by keeping my ears open. These fine lords and gentry will talk in front of me, a mere merchandiser, say things they would not mention to Your Grace."

  James groaned, slumped in his saddle, all the brightness suddenly gone out of his day.

  Lennox cocked an eye at Heriot. 'You reckon we should turn and go home, my friend ?"

  "Scare that But it behoves us all, I think, to gang warily. At this stage."

  "Lest the Englishmen spoil us ! I swear you break His Grace's heart!"

  "Be quiet, Vicky Stewart!" James cried loudly—and then glanced quickly, almost furtively behind in case any of the illustrious party riding immediately at his back should have heard. Lowering his voice, he went on, "Man—d'you now see how wrong you were ? About the knightings. He's aye complaining, Geordie— my lord high and righteous Duke o' Lennox, carping at me for making knights o' ower many o' these English bodies. Sakes—he doesna ken the elementals o' it! You tell Irim, Geordie. Why I sent for you. How many knights have I made since I crossed yon brig at Berwick, eh? How many, aye—and how much. You'll ken"

  "How many . . .? Ah . . . thirty-four, Sire. No, thirty-five, counting that Forester at Widdrington, after the hunt."

  "Na, na—forget him. That was just to show yon man Carey that he canna badger me into honouring him. He wants to be a Lord o' Parliament He canna abide his father—most unduteous. The Lord Hunsdon. So Sir Robert wants to be one better—a viscount, no less! Never ceases to deave me for it, the man. A' because he brought me word first o' auld Elizabeth's death I was for showing him that I can raise up who I will, see you. That I'm no' dependant on the likes o' Robert Carey! Thirty-four, say you? How much, then, man—how much?"

  "Well, Sire—I have had to gang warily likewise, mind. Your Grace will not want talk, a comparing of costs, as you might say. And I must judge the fleece before I clip it! Not all you have chosen are rich men..."

  "A pox on you—we ken a' that! Are you failing me, Geordie Heriot ? Making excuses ? How much, this far ? Out with it."

  "Twenty-eight thousand, five hundred pounds, Sire. Leastways, notes of hand therefor."

  "English money ? Sterling ?"

  "Sterling, yes."

  Lennox whistled below his breath.

  James grinned, chuckled. "Aye, well. No' bad, Geordie—no' bad. For two-three days. And how much does my Annie owe you now ? Can you mind?"

  "Seventy-five thousand pounds, Sire, more or less. Pounds Scots, of course."

  "Guidsakes—so much as that I Save us—women are the devil! What does she do with it all? Does she eat jewels, man? I blame you, Geordie—aye tempting her wi' your gewgaws and trinkets. It's no' right Vanity it is. There'll be a judgment on such vanities, mark my words."

  "Her Grace is generous towards others, Sire..."

  "Ooh, aye—generous! Fine, that! But—och, well this will more than pay for it, eh? How much is that in Sterling? Seventy thousand pounds Scots?"

  "Seventy-five thousand pounds, Sire. Say six thousand pounds Sterling—since it is Her Grace. But, h'm, may I remind you, Sire, that Your Grace owes me more than that? One hundred and eighty thousand pounds Scots, indeed."

  "Dear God!"

  A single hoot of laughter erupted from the Duke of Lennox.

  James glared at his cousin. "Here's no laughing matter. One hundred and eighty thousand pounds Scots! Na, na—you exaggerate, Geordie man. It's no' possible."

  "No mistake, Sire. One hundred and eighty-four thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds to be exact. Or, if you prefer it, fifteen thousand, three hundred and thirty-three pounds Sterling."

  The King raised his heavy head with an accession of dignity. 'You have the mind o' a huckster, Master Heriot Pounds, shillings, groats and placks!"

  "Precisely, Your Grace. But then, I am a huckster!"

  "M'mmm. Aye. But, man—it canna be so much as that? But a month past it was little more than half o' that."

  "Your Grace perhaps forgets the chestful of rings which you ordered. And give out to all and sundry, on this your royal journey."

  "Rings? Them? Och, but they're no' real gold, Geordie. Just covered wi' gold."

  "Nevertheless, they cost money, Sire. So many. And engraved with your royal sign."

  "Aweel, if you say so. But, Geordie—there'll still be something left for me, out o' a' these knighthoods, man? You'll no' swallow it a'?"

  "To be sure. Even with due and proper interest, Your Highness is five thousand pounds in credit. Sterling."

  "There! You see, Vicky? And you berate me. Guidsakes—what would you have? Your king a pauper? Indebted? Aye—and how much does the Duke o' Lennox owe you, Geordie Heriot? Eh? How much our righteous Duke?"

  "That, I fear, I am not at liberty to say, Your Grace. You would not have me break the confidence of those who deal with me? But this I can say, that my lord's indebtedness is but a small sum, a mere trifle. Not like many of Your Grace's Court that I could name!"

  "Ha ! You say so? But—more o' this anon. There's some-to-do ahead. Here's a mannie coming..."

  A gallant was riding back from the Captain of the Guard's advance party. He doffed his bonnet low.

  "Your Grace—a deputation from York. Has Sir Andrew your royal permission to present them ?"

  "Ooh, aye. York's a fine rich town, they tell me. Have them up."

  The magnificent towers of the mighty cathedral, with all the lesser spires and massive walls, had been looming before the cavalcade for long, in this flat, green country, and by now they were only some three miles off. A party of richly-robed and bejewelled citizens were brought up to genuflect before the monarch, who considered them assessingly from those knowing gazelle's eyes of his, while the royal trumpeter blew a flourish to halt the mile-long column behind.

  "May I present to the King's Grace three gentlemen of the city of York?" young Sir Andrew Kerr of Ferniehirst, Captain of the Royal Guard, said. "Sheriffs, they say. And those, behind, sergeants or something such."

  "Not so," a tall, thin and stately elderly man declared, his bow as dignified as his voice and carriage. "I am Sir "William Ingleby, High Sheriff of this entire great county and duchy of York. These two are the Sheriffs of the city, George Buck and John Robinson. The Sergeants behind are of, h'm, a different sort We come to pay our proper respects to Your Majesty, seek your gracious goodwill for duchy and city, and your royal confirmation of our ancient charters and privileges."

  James eyed the speaker thoughtfully, plucking at his sagging lower lip. "Is that so ?" he said.

  The other blinked. "Yes, Sire. We ask you to accept the esteem and support of the greatest county and second greatest city of England. In proof whereof the city Sheriffs present to Your Majesty these tokens."

  His Majesty's regard lightened a little at the word tokens—but fell again when the tokens proved to be no more than the Sheriffs' white wands of office held up for him to touch. He tapped their wood distastefully.

  "Ooh, aye," he said. "Esteem and support, is it ? You could scarce offer your sovereign lord less, I jalouse! Your simple duty, man."

  "Yes, to be sure. Your Majesty. Of course." Ingleby looked a little worried. "York will not be found wanting, I assure you. Yes. And these, Sire, are the Sergeants-at-Arms. By name Wood, Damfort and Westrope."

  "And what do they bring me? More esteem, man?"

  "Er, their maces, Sire. Symbols of their authority. To offer you."

  "Hh'mm." James touched the handsome extended jewelled maces, one, two, three, as though they might have burned him. "I will consider the matter o' your privileges and charter hereafter," he added, licking thick lips. "After I have tasted the flavour o' your esteem." He raised his voice. "On our way, Dand." And, as the horses moved forward, he jerked his over-large head in a see-you-to-it gesture to George Heriot

  As the dis
tinctly upset representatives of York were all but brushed aside by the resumed royal progress, Heriot fell back and dismounted, to speak with the High Sheriff.

  "Greetings, Sir William," he said pleasantly. "As representatives of your great county and city, you perhaps find His Grace a little... unappreciative?"

  "I... I did not say so, my lord," Ingleby declared hurriedly, caution in every dignified line of him.

  "No, sir. But perhaps you thought it And I am no lord, but a simple tradesman."

  'Tradesman ? You ? At the King's side!"

  "Even so. His Grace is a man of... simple tastes."

  "His tastes, sir, did not appear to embrace the County and City of York!"

  "It is too early to say that, Sir William. Newcastle is less fine than York. I am sure. Yet His Grace found Newcastle very much to his royal taste." He paused. "Newcastle, of course, did present His Grace with a purse of gold pieces. Four hundred if I mind aright As well as their, h'm, esteem and support"

  "Ah!" The Sheriff stared.

  "Exactly. A pleasing thought, was it not, sir ?" "Yes. Yes, of course."

  "Newcastle, to be sure, is a much poorer place than great York. Probably it is not yet too late to prove it." "You mean... ?"

  "Only that a fast horse could take you, or one of your friends, back to the city, sir, before His Grace reaches it in his somewhat leisurely progress. You can have my mount, indeed. I will find myself another..."

  So, in a little, George Heriot, on another horse, spurred up again to the head of the column. But now a very splendid gentleman, the Earl of Cumberland, had moved into the place he had occupied on the King's left—and, not to be out-manoeuvred, the Earl of Northumberland and his brother Sir Charles Percy had edged forward to flank Lennox. Heriot slipped into a position behind where Lord Henry Howard and the Lord Cobham eyed him with disfavour and urged their mounts a little aside— although the Scots lords and bishops of the train knew better and welcomed him affably enough, most of them owing him money.

  At the sound of the name Heriot, called in hearty greeting by the Lord Home, the King turned in his saddle and caught his goldsmith's eye. That man nodded almost imperceptibly and James faced front again.

  "What's now, Geordie?" Home asked, low-voiced, reining close. "James has something on his mind, I swear."

  "Would he be King if he had not, my lord? He is but concerned for the cost of this ever-lengthening train, I think. As who would not be?"

  "Och, the English will pay!" Home said easily—and did not trouble to lower his voice this time, indeed stared round him with a sort of gleeful arrogance.

  Heriot did not comment.

  Soon, at a mile from the city's Mickle Gate, another deputation awaited the monarch. This consisted of a superior-looking gentleman supporting a tall, thin, mournful-seeming man in richest clothing, who stalked on stick-like legs, resembling a disillusioned heron.

  "My Lord Burleigh, Lord President of the North," Cumberland informed him. "And a damned fool!" The Earl of Cumberland was, of course, a Clifford, of ancient line, and despising of Elizabeth's favourites.

  "Ha—Cecil's son!" The King peered. "His father wrote me a wheen letters. Aye, kept me well informed."

  "No doubt, She. But this William Cecil is a very different man from his father, God knows! Her Majesty made him Lord High Treasurer for a time—and lived to regret it! He well earned banishment to the North."

  "Eh—Treasurer, you say? You mean that he thieved frae the Treasury ? Lined his ain pockets, the man ?"

  "I scarce think he had the wit for that, She! No, he did nothing so understandable—did nothing at all, indeed. Failed to gather in the taxes. Let others spend as they would. Mismanaged all. A master of inactivity."

  The monarch frowned at the earl, for he disapproved of levity on the vital subject of money; but it was as nothing to the darkness of the glare he turned on the second Lord Burleigh, son of Elizabeth's great Secretary of State, who it seemed was responsible for this alleged and most shocking state of the English Treasury, the bright morning-star which had for so long beckoned James Stewart southwards.

  Burleigh's jerky brows and equally jerky assertions of loyalty and privileges were cut short.

  "Aye, man—no doubt No doubt But facta non verba, see you. Deeds speak louder than words. We have heard tell o' you, and will reserve our royal judgment. Aye, reserve it"

  "But, Majesty, I am your most devoted subject," the other declared, astonished. "Anxious ever to serve you in deed as in word. As Lord President of the North, it is my privilege to bring you the greetings of half Your Highness's kingdom ..."

  "Half, man? I am King of Scots, of England, Ireland and France. Dinna forget it"

  "I, ah, meant England, of course, Sire. The greatest, richest, most powerful..."

  "No' so rich as it should be, as I'm told!"

  "Alas, She, fortunes vary, fluctuate, with realms as with mere men..."

  "But it's the mere men that make the realms' fortunes fluctuate, man! Some men. Fortuna favet fortibus—fortuna fortes adjuvat! You ken what that means? Guidsakes—do they no' give the English any education?"

  In the profound silence which followed that, James resumed his march on York, the Lord President falling in unhappily with less illustrious but equally shaken folk behind.

  With the great city walls rearing their barrier before, they came to the Middle Gate where a large company waited on a high wooden platform—the Lord Mayor, twelve aldermen and twenty-four councillors in their robes, all kneeling, with the keys of the city, the sword and other tokens. A trumpeter blew a fanfare and the Mayor launched into a lengthy oration, rather breathlessly, thanks to the difficult kneeling posture for a man with a notably large belly.

  James listened for a little, but fairly quickly lost interest. Because of the height of the platform he would be able to touch the keys and sword without getting off his horse. As the Mayor, Robert Walter by name, gulped and panted on, the King announced that this is what he would do and let them get on into the town, for he was gey hungry. Lord Mayor Walter, preoccupied with memorising his oration, plus maintaining his equilibrium, eyes tight shut, presumably did not hear, and it looked as though there might be some slight dislocation of the proceedings when, from behind, George Heriot gave one of his significant coughs. The King looked round—for he knew that cough of old— and his jeweller jerked his head in a direction slightly left of forward, and raised his eyebrows.

  James turned back, peering short-sightedly. A horseman had come hurrying out from the town, dismounted behind the platform and was now pushing through to the front of the official party, something familiar about him. Carrying something under a cloth, he squeezed in between the still-intoning Mayor and the senior alderman, getting down on his own knees in the process. He whispered in the alderman's ear, at some length.

  Nodding, the alderman took the covered object, obviously very heavy, and leaned over to nudge the Mayor. At the second nudge,

  Master Walter opened his eyes and stared, surprised, his voice faltering. There was more whispering.

  Oddly, James no longer seemed impatient, but indeed highly interested.

  The Mayor got to his feet, smoothed down his robes, and took the covered object, removing the cloth to reveal it as a large silver-gilt chalice.

  'Your royal Majesty," he said, stammering a little. "Before we present to you the sword and keys of the city, it is my duty, my pleasant duty, to give you this loving-cup. Filled with gold pieces. As many as it will hold, see you. As mark and token. Token, yes, of the love that this City of York bears to Your Majesty. In promise of further, er, kindness."

  The King smiled graciously. Indeed he grinned the sort of boyish leer reserved for highly satisfactory occasions. He actually dismounted and moved forward with his knock-kneed gait to climb the steps of the platform—and perforce everybody else must dismount also, since it would by no means do to be higher than the King.

  "Aye, Master Mayor," he said. "This is right kindly." And he he
ld out his beringed hands for the chalice without delay.

  Indeed he all but dropped it, as the Mayor handed it over, for, as has been indicated, his wrists were not the strongest of him and the tiling was exceedingly heavy.

  "Hech, hech—weighty! Aye, right weighty," he observed, juggling with his handful—but in no complaining fashion. He peered in at the contents assessingly, as though to assure himself that they could not have squeezed in another coin or two. "Good, good," he commented. "Angels, eh? Gold angels. They're better than nobles, are they no' ?" He raised his voice. "Geordie! Geordie Heriot!"

  In anticipation of such call, that man had moved forward. Now he climbed the steps also.

  Clutching the chalice to his chest, James picked out a coin. "Angels, Geordie. How many o' them to the pound Sterling?"

  "Two, Your Grace. Ten English shillings."

  "Aye. There's a peck o' them, here. Take it, Geordie. Aye, but first—the rings. You have some yet ? "

  Heriot delved into his pocket and produced a handful of gold-plated rings.

  James made a quick calculation. "Three'll do. Three'll do fine, man."

  There were the Mayor, and the chief alderman and the man who had brought the chalice—who was none other than George Robinson, one of the city sheriffs who had first come out with Sir William Ingleby. The others could be ignored.

  So the transfer was made, the gold-filled chalice for three, plated rings stamped with the royal monogram. The King bestowed the latter upon recipients as though precious beyond rubies.

  "We are pleased wi' you, much pleased," he beamed. "We will, ah, see you again. Later."

  "But—the sword, She. And the keys."

  "Ooh, aye. The sword and the keys. Och, well."