From one side a resplendent bearer was waved forward with the city keys gleaming like silver on a gold-tasselled cushion, and on the other, a stalwart individual with a helmet and the usual great two-handed sword. By touching the key and shooing the bearer away from him like an over-eager hen, James got rid of the first, but such tactics did not serve with the second, who seemed determined that the monarch should actually take the sword—unaware of his new liege lord's dire aversion to cold steel. James backed away—but he could not back very far or he would fall over the edge of the platform. Determinedly the other pursued him. Heriot would have taken the weapon for him but he had his arms full of gold angels.
"Awa' wi' you, you muckle limmer!" Majesty cried, in his broadest Doric. As a child he had been brought up in the large and noisy family of the Earl of Mar, hereditary keeper of Stirling Castle, where all spoke the Doric, and it remained his mother-tongue.
The sword-bearer did not appear to understand.
"Your Majesty should take the sword, as symbol that you rule us all," Mayor Walter explained helpfully.
"I dinna want the sword, man!" the sorely-tried monarch snapped at him. "I can rule you a' fine, without yon!"
George Heriot set down the chalice of gold pieces on the boards of the platform, "I will take the sword for His Grace," he said. "Give it to me."
That did not suit the sword-bearer, obviously a man who knew his own mind. The King was the proper and only recipient for York's sword, other than himself its custodian, and no jumped-up Scotchman was going to have it. Heriot came over to take it from him, muttering to the fellow not to be a fool, that the King could not abide naked steel.
James caught sight of his pot of gold sitting abandoned there in the middle of the platform, and letting out a wail, hurried over to stand guard over it. Anybody could have grabbed an angel or two.
"Vicky! Vicky!" he quavered.
In fact, many of the foremost nobles had now recognised that something was amiss, and were hastening to the royal aid— although undoubtedly none of the Englishmen fully understood what was wrong. Lennox did, but he had not been nearest to the steps, and Lord Burleigh it was who arrived first on the platform, however stiffly.
"I will take the sword, as His Majesty's representative," he declared authoritatively.
George Heriot had no objection, but the sword-bearer remained more than doubtful, King James also had his reservations.
"Na, na—who asked you?" he demanded. "I cried on Vicky. Vicky Lennox."
"If Your Majesty does not wish to take the sword yourself, then I, as President of the North, am the proper recipient, as your Deputy, Sire."
"My lord—if His Majesty does not want the sword, it should be returned to me," the Mayor announced.
"Who says you're the President o' the North, man?" James asked. "Nae doubt you were. But I'd remind you—aye, and a' others—that no man now holds any office o' state lacking my royal appointment. Any, d'you hear? I can appoint whosoever I will to be President o' the North. Or none. Mind it." The King looked round, still trembling in his agitation, could not see Lennox, who was in a queue at the bottom of the steps, and found the Earl of Cumberland at his elbow. "Aye—you, man Cumberland. You take it. Yon sword. Take it out o' my sight. Geordie— you got the cuppie wi' the angels ? Aye, well. Now—let's awa' out o' this. I've had enough o' this, God kens! And I'm hungry. My belly rumbles. Fetch my horse—you, Northumberland—fetch my horse. I'll climb on frae here. We'll see what they've got for victuals in this York..."
The Lord Mayor, aldermen and councillors of the city, left behind on their platforms, stared at each other and at the instrumentalists, there to lead the royal procession through the streets, and wrung their hands, rings or none.
* * *
That night, in the fine, lofty, beamed great hall of the Manor of St Mary, the former Benedictine Abbey now owned by Burleigh, the tables and remains of the banquet cleared away, George Heriot watched the scene from a quiet corner, a faint smile playing about his lips. Dancing was now in progress, the stately sort of dancing which Queen Elizabeth had delighted in, not the more robust Scots variety, and many handsome and finely dressed ladies now graced the royal presence. But James Stewart, up on the dais, was not much of a dancer—knock-knees and unsteady legs ensured that— nor was he very interested in women, young and good-looking men being more to his taste. As a consequence, he had settled down to an evening of hard drinking, abetted by a group of his Scots favourites and cronies, ignoring completely the efforts of sundry English notables to break into the circle, to present their ladies and friends. James, an arm round the neck of young Sir John Ramsay, his principal page, a youth of eighteen with the complexion of a girl and the ruthlessness of a wolf, sprawled at the dais table, high hat precariously askew—the only man in the great room covered—paying no attention to host, music, dancing, courtiers, suppliants or anything else than the replenishing of his own and his friends' wine cups. If he had felt any embarrassment when he discovered that his host for the week-end stay at York was not the Mayor and Council, nor the sheriffs, but none other than the Lord Burleigh in this Manor of St Mary, instead of the Guildhall, he had not let the matter trouble him. Burleigh was finding it just as impossible as were others to approach his royal guest.
Heriot, who knew his place with the monarch as exactly as he knew his debts and credits, was glad to stand aside and watch. By nature and inclination he was a mildly intrigued observer of the human scene rather than an active manipulator, happiest when circumstances allowed him to be an informed spectator. It was not that he was a negative man, any kind of drifter—anyone who suggested anything of the sort in the Scots capital would have been hooted at—but he was of a philosophical and reflective rather than a combative or assertive frame of mind. Observing King James was, in fact, always of absorbing interest to him, sometimes a joy, sometimes almost an agony, sometimes tragi-comedy or high farce, but never dull. The fact that he knew a real affection for and some understanding of his unusual sovereign lord added an element of personal involvement which gave point to all.
He caught the eye of Ludovick Stewart across the room. The Duke did not find it so easy to stand in a comer and watch, however much he would have preferred to, his lofty rank, proximity to the throne and friendly personality ensuring that. A certain innocence about him, in a Court where innocence was scarcely the dominant feature, seemed to attract women, especially the more mature woman, and he was much sought after—which did not please him, for he was deeply in love with Mary Gray, illegitimate daughter of the handsome and dashing Master of Gray, whom he of course, the only duke in two realms, could by no means have married even if he had not been wed already. A young man at odds with his fate was Lennox. Excusing himself to two effusive York ladies who had all but cornered him, he backed out and made his way across the floor to Heriot, circling the dancers.
"You are not dancing, Master Heriot," he said. "Nor yet drinking. Nor even wenching. What do you do for amusement ?"
"Some might say I count figures, my lord Duke. Jingle my well-known gold. Jinglin' Geordie Heriot !"
"Then some are fools! I know better. I think your entertainment is to laugh at us all. In that cool, knowing head of yours. Especially at the crowned mountebank up there—yet whom, I swear, you'd give your life for !"
Perturbed at the younger man's percipience, Heriot coughed. "Not laugh at, my lord. Laugh with, where I decently may.
Otherwise regard, heed—aye, and seek to understand my fellow-men, lofty and less so. Is that not permissible ? Even a cat, they do say, may look at a king.''
"To be sure. I but envy you your detachment"
"I do not think that I am detached, my lord. Not sufficiently for my comfort."
"Surely when we are alone, man, you can forget the lording and duking! My friends call me Vicky, as you know well."
"But your friends are not... tradesmen, I think 1"
"Damnation, man—be not so prickly I You, who could buy us all and sc
arce notice the price!"
"I am sorry if I sound prickly, my lord Duke. I would hope not to be that. Any more than purse-proud. But you will grant me that I have to walk warily? His Grace is kind to me, relies on me much. Too much. That offends many, I know well And men who lend money are seldom popular—especially to their debtors! I have heard, indeed, that there is a new play written by this English playwright on this very theme—I have forgot his name-set in Venice, I think. Many would pull down a man in my position, should I seem to ride even a little too high."
"So I must remain my lord Duke even when we are alone—lest men think I owe George Heriot more than I do and so he takes liberties!"
Heriot laughed. "Very well, Vicky—as you will. My friends, like my enemies, all call me Geordie!"
They stood for a few moments, watching the King.
"As you said, back at Berwick, fames does not change," Lennox observed, at length "These English are shocked. And will be more so."
"Did you expect him to change? When he crossed the Border? He has been a king for thirty-six years, since he was one year old. He is as he has always been, the Lord's Anointed. It is Elizabeth's England which will have to change, not its new liege lord."
"And yet... He has been waiting for this for so long, living for it. For the day when he would sit on the dual throne. I would have thought that he would have been concerned to display himself in a more acceptable, more dignified light."
"Once he told me that dignity was for those who required its support. He does not. As for being acceptable, it matters still less. He is the King. He must be accepted. So he is himself, only and entirely himself. Perhaps the only man in two realms who may be. We all play a part, or many parts, since we must. But he is James, by the Grace of God—and aware of it!"
Lennox looked at the other curiously. "You have considered it well, I see."
"I have had occasion to do so."
"And you do not blame him? For behaving as he does? Sitting up there drinking. Fondling these odious young men of his. Ignoring, indeed rejecting his host and these English."
"Who am I to blame or withhold blame of my lord the King? But I understand what he is and what he does, I think. He of a purpose holds the English at bay, so that they have no doubts as to who is master. He dallies with his favourites to demonstrate that he, representer on earth of heavenly power, is not bound by the codes which control the acts and behaviour of his subjects. He establishes his position before these new subjects. And though he drinks heavily, he is not drunk. Indeed, I have never seen His Grace drunk. Have you ?"
"Now that you remark on it—no. I had not really thought on it. But, no—he is never drunk, however much drink-taken."
"Aye. So there you have him, my lord Vicky. The Lord's Anointed. With one of the cleverest heads in Christendom on those padded shoulders!"
"Eh ? You think that ? You really think so, Geordie ?"
"Can you name any, any at all, whom you deem cleverer, shrewder, more sure of himself and his course?"
"M'mmm. We-e-ell. Only, perhaps, the Master of Gray!"
"Aye. There is the one man who may rival His Grace. This century's Machiavelli! My sorrow that they now are unfriends. That was an unwise move, at Berwick, I think—to send him away, in public mockery. I fear no good can come of it. But perhaps His Grace deemed it absolutely necessary. He must have planned to do it, for long. It was not done on impulse, that I am sure."
"It was folly. But then, James is the veriest fool, so frequently. A figure of fun..."
"Seems so. Acts the fool, perhaps. But is he? My livelihood, Vicky, depends on judgment of men, of character, or risks to run and trust to be taken. And I assess King James as clever, able, and far from a fool. Strange yes, difficult yes, ruthless yes—but a king. The English will discover it in due course—and perhaps have cause to be thankful for it" "You surprise me—by God, you do!"
As though James Stewart had realised that they were discussing him—as indeed were many others in that great room—he suddenly pushed Ramsay aside, looked up and directly at them, and grabbing a silver wine flagon, banged it heavily on the dais table, slopping the contents.
Shaken, the dancers came to a halt, the musicians stopped playing and talk and laughter stilled as the banging went on. All eyes turned to the dais and its high chair.
"Hey, Geordie Heriot—here to me, man," the monarch called. "Aye, and you too, Vicky Stewart To me, I say."
Side by side they obediently made their way to the dais, and bowed before it James shooed away his drinking companions, and leaned over the table. "A cup o' wine, Geordie? Come closer, man. Come drink a farewell cup wi' me."
"Farewell, Your Grace? So-o-o! I am to go? Back to Scotland?"
"Aye. Back to Scotland. I have been sitting here thinking on it That it's maybe time. Aye, time."
"I agree, Sire. Your Grace will remember that I asked you to allow me to return, at Newcastle. That my affairs were left hurriedly and in no very good shape..."
"It's no' the shape o' your affairs I'm concerned wi', man—it's mine! Or my Annie's. Guid kens what she'll be up to! She lacks sense, the woman, in maist things. Och, they a' do! And lacking me to take order wi' her, she'll be fair above hersel'. And there'll be none to cry her down. Yon Seton, Fyvie, hasna the weight for it. She's the Queen I I've thought much on this. She'll heed you, Geordie."
"I, I do not see why Her Grace should, Sire..."
"Oh aye, she will. She thinks a deal o' Jinglin' Geordie Heriot Fine I ken it Forby, she owes you money, much money—and she'll hae to keep the right side o' you or she'll no' get her gewgaws and trinkets, eh? And you ken, if anyone does, how much they mean to my Annie! Aye, she'll heed you, Geordie. As she wouldna heed Duke Vicky, here. Or any other. You're to go watch ower her, man. And to bring her, and the bairns, down to me in London. When a's ready and I send for you."
"If you say so, Sire. But I have no authority to control Her Grace..."
' Waesucks, you have not, sirrah I Nor has any man, under God, save my ain sel' She is the Queen. None will control the Queen, by authority."
"I humbly beg Your Grace's pardon. A foolish slip of the tongue..."
"Aye, it was, Geordie Heriot. You're going back to Edinburgh to guide the Queen, no' to control her. And no' by any authority, but by your wits, honest, decent wits—aye, and the fact that she needs you. Forby, there's the matter o' yon ill limmer, the Master o' Gray." James glanced at Lennox, only too well aware of that man's involvement with Mary Gray and the strange love-hate relationship he had with her father. "I'm feart for what he may be up to, see you. He'll no' be pleased at being sent back. But I wasna having him setting London by the ears the way he's set Scotland. And teaching the English how to be clever—eh? Na, na. There's no room for me and Patrick both, in London. But he'll be up to mischief in Scotland, if I ken him! And he kens Annie's weak. So you watch him, Geordie—watch him."
"But, Sire—how can I influence the likes of him? A man with more real power than the Chancellor..."
'The same way as you do the Queen—wi' your wits, man. And he'll no' have any power much longer, I promise you! You'll no' can pull him down—but you'll can frustrate his tricks, belike. And keep me informed. I'd send Vicky here wi' you but I'll need him in London, to act for me whiles. Till I can find others I can trust. So you'll off back to Edinburgh, Geordie."
"Very good, Sire. I shall leave in the morning."
"You'll no'. You'll leave the night. Now, man. Have you forgot? The morn's the Sabbath. We'll start the way we mean to go on. Elizabeth may have little heeded the Sabbath. But my Court will. I'll no' have you leaving for Scotland on the Sabbath day. So go now. Or you'll waste a whole day."
"But of course Master Heriot will have to rest for the Sabbath tomorrow somewhere?" Lennox wondered innocently.
"Dinna be impertinent, Vicky Stewart I" the King reproved. "Geordie kens fine what's what You'll be in Edinburgh on Monday's morn, eh man ?"
"If you wish it so, Sire. I will do m
y best on Your Grace's behalf, as in all things. As always. Though this is a, h'm, difficult mission Have I Your Grace's permission to retire?"
"Aye. Off wi' you. Though—bide a wee. It comes to me that I prefer the one English custom to our Scots usage. Aye, prefer it This o' Majesty instead o' Grace. It's mair . . . suitable, maybe. I'll be Majesty now, no' Grace. Let it be known—both o' you."
"To be sure, Your Majesty..."
3
"WEARY, STIFF, DUSTY and travel-stained, George Heriot and his two armed grooms trotted round the grassy base of Arthur's Seat in the dusk of the Monday evening, 18th April, two hundred and twenty miles in forty-four hours hard riding. The city gates would be closed for the night—but that did not matter. He had his own apartment in the Palace of Holyroodhouse, outwith the walls, which went with his appointment of Court Jeweller and the Crown's Banker. His private house, in Beith's Wynd above the shop and opposite St Giles, could wait. Only servants and a stepbrother had waited for him there since his wife's death some years before.
Rounding a minor shoulder of the hill his eyes narrowed. The palace, lying under the shadowy heights, had come into view. And it was ablaze with lights. Every window of the great pile seemed to glow and sparkle, almost as thought it was afire. Never had Heriot seen it like this. King James was apt to be careful of lights and fuel.
As they neared Holyroodhouse and its ruined abbey, the sounds of music, shouting and laughter seemed to throb through the old grey stonework and set the evening ah aquiver. Heriot and his men rode in at the rear gateway from the park. There were no guards on duty. The outer court was full of people and horses, men-at-arms, servitors, kitchen-wenches and women of the town, in loud-tongued, skhling pandemonium, barrels of ale open and spilling, victuals on benches, boxes, even on the flagstones. Horseplay, fisticuffs, near-rape prevailed.
The Wisest Fool Page 4
