Wanting to think more before he confided details of the previous night to anyone, Àdham said only, “I met his lordship late last night on the North Inch. He invited me to take wine with him, warned me that this alehouse is a noisy place for sleeping, and invited me to bide overnight in Curfew Row.”
Sir Ivor’s graying eyebrows rose. “Ormiston’s a gey powerful man. I’m thinking he may have told you much of interest.”
“We did talk some about this Parliament,” Àdham admitted. “I ken little about any involved in it, so we talked more about the King’s wishes and his opponents’ reasons for opposing him over such as heritable rights and other things that you and I and Uncle Fin have discussed with Malcolm.”
Ivor nodded. “Ormiston’s a canny one. Will ye see more of him?”
Without hesitation, Àdham said, “I expect he means to attend the festivities tonight. See you, his daughter, the lady Fiona, is a maid of honor to her grace. I believe the Queen and her attendants do mean to attend.”
Realizing that he might have given Sir Ivor, a canny man himself, more information than wisdom might advise, Àdham reached for the jug and poured ale into a clean mug from the assortment on the table.
Sir Ivor said, “Methinks we should attend this affair together, lad. I would be fain to meet Ormiston, myself.”
His light tone made Àdham look more closely at him. But Ivor’s expression revealed only innocent interest in meeting his lordship.
A stranger in a green tunic and breeks entered the alehouse then, declaring in Scots, “I be a-looking for one Àdham MacFinlagh. Be any man here called so?”
“Aye,” Àdham replied, raising an arm. “What is it you want of me?”
“I’ve a message for ye, sir. But I’m tae deliver it privily.”
Sir Ivor’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded when Àdham excused himself.
Immediately upon her return to Blackfriars, Fiona learned that the mistress of robes wanted to see her. Quickly returning her cloak to her chamber and straightening her caul, she found the countess and Lady Huntly with the other three maids of honor in the ladies’ solar, redolent now of Lady Sutherland’s sweet, earthy ambergris.
The maidens sat together in a cushioned window embrasure, attending to their needlework, while the countess laid out pieces of red woolen fabric on a square work table for a quilted doublet she was making.
Her serving woman, seated on a nearby stool, sorted threads for her.
Lady Sutherland looked up with a smile as Fiona curtsied, and said, “’Tis glad I am ye’ve returned, Fiona-lass. Her grace has decided tae attend the afternoon proceedings at Parliament House, so we will go down tae the refectory anon.”
“Should I change from this dress to another, my lady?” Fiona asked.
“Nae, for that green silk becomes ye and ’tis also suitable for this evening. Ye need only don a fresh pair o’ gloves. Her grace will want tae rest after the session and afore taking her supper. So, mayhap we might enjoy a stroll through the Gilten Herbar then. Meantime, ye might play your lute for us till we go downstairs.”
“I will, with pleasure, my lady,” Fiona said, making another curtsy. Stepping away, she retrieved her lute from its case nearby and seated herself on a stool by the embrasure. Testing strings until their notes were as they should be, she began softly playing and let her thoughts drift. If they drifted toward Sir Àdham, she told herself, it was only because the man was unlike anyone else she knew.
The summons to the refectory came a half hour later.
After the ladies finished eating, they tidied themselves and then, two by two, followed her grace’s litter to Parliament Close.
Situated at the end of that narrow passage, Parliament House was a modest-looking building, but the lofty hall where the sessions took place was a fine square room. Wood lined the walls halfway up all the way around with light brown stucco above. In the northeast corner, a turnpike stair led to a loft from which visitors could observe the proceedings.
The lord chamberlain, having called the meeting to order before the ladies’ arrival, hastily declared a brief recess when they entered.
While the Queen, Lady Sutherland, and Lady Huntly walked to the dais at the front of the hall, where his grace sat in a thronelike chair, Fiona and the other ladies went upstairs to the loft. Perched in a row along the front bench reserved for their use, they had a clear view of the hall below.
A few townspeople, all of them men, sat on two benches behind them.
The first time Fiona had attended such a session, she had given it her full attention. However, today, she soon began to wish that her grace had declined the King’s invitation to attend.
The Queen’s chair stood beside the King’s, while her two chief ladies sat on a cushioned stone bench against the wall nearby. While they all settled themselves, four of the King’s men moved through the chamber, responding to waves from men who wished to communicate with an official or another member.
When the proceedings resumed, a new official, introduced as “the dempster,” began reading what proved to be a list of judicial deems, verdicts of the King’s council from the previous day. Sighing, Fiona shifted restlessly and began to imagine lives for people she noticed while trying not to look as bored as she felt.
On the walkway outside the High Street alehouse, the messenger looked around warily until Àdham said impatiently, “Who the devil are you? And what is it you must say here that you could not say within?”
“I come from your uncle, Sir Àdham. He participates in the proceedings at Parliament Hall the noo. But if ye’ll oblige him, he would speak wi’ ye afterward.”
“Which uncle? I have many.” Àdham suspected he knew the answer but was uncertain of how he might react if he was right.
Lowering his voice, the man said, “Ha’ ye more than one in this part o’ the country, sir? I’d liefer no be speaking his name in the street, even do I whisper it.”
“Methinks you make much of little, sirrah. Art from Kinpont, then?”
“Aye,” the man whispered. Then, exhaling harshly, he added in a tone that barely reached Àdham’s sharp ears, “He’d liefer meet ye at Kinpont, too. But ’tis far, and he said ye’d liefer meet on yon track by the river, near the old tower, when they ring the monastery bell for Vespers. D’ye ken where I mean?”
“I do,” Àdham said, visualizing Lady Fiona clambering up the slope to the riverbank. “I answer to others, but I’ll meet him if I can. If I cannot, mayhap he will attend festivities in the assembly hall later. We could find someplace there to talk.”
“’Haps ye could. But I’ll tell ye, sir, as one wha’ kens the man weel; I’d meet him when and where he’s set the time and place if ye can.”
Nodding, Àdham turned away, wondering what to say if Ivor demanded to know who’d sent him the message. The family all knew that Sir Robert Graham of Kinpont, his late mother’s brother, was no friend to the King. But Ivor would want to know if the man was up to mischief. Deciding to avoid any questions until he had some answers, Àdham went on upstairs. The first room to his right was empty, but he found his squire, Bruce MacNab, tidying a smaller chamber next to it for himself.
“I want you, Bruce,” Àdham said. “I must change these clothes.”
“Aye, sure, sir,” the lanky, dark-haired young squire said with a nod. “Ye be sleeping in the next room and sharing it with Gillichallum Roy, aye?”
“So Sir Ivor told me. Prithee, see to these boots first,” he added. “They got wet last night, my breeks, too. I mean to wear Highland gear whilst we’re in town, but Sir Ivor did say that I should wear shoes or boots even so.”
“Aye, sir,” MacNab said. “God kens what filth bare feet will find in yon streets. The kennels soon be overflowing, though men do say they drain the cess well away from the river. Sir Ivor told me ye’d be attending festivities tonight,” he added. “Will ye want
tae change again afore ye do?”
“Nae, I’ll wear a clean tunic and the boots with this plaid,” Àdham said firmly. “I’ll watch where I step until then, but see to my boots before Vespers.”
The discourse of the Parliament that day concerned something called barratry, which, as Fiona understood it, had set the King of Scots in opposition to the Pope in Rome. It had also set him at odds with Bishop Henry Wardlaw of St. Andrews, Primate of Scotland.
The Queen had explained to her ladies that James thought Scotland sent too much money to Rome to pay for the innumerable supplications, appeals, and suits and countersuits by clergy against clergy, as well as requests for dispensations to marry within forbidden degrees or papal permission to annul other marriages.
Such activities provided the lifeblood of Holy Kirk, because money changed hands at every stage. So, as a result, good Scots money that James wanted to keep in Scotland left the country daily and traveled to the pockets of the Curia in Rome.
The King’s intent was clear. All barratry must stop or its costs be minimized.
Opposition from the papacy and Scotland’s own clergy—according to Joanna—had incurred his grace’s deep displeasure.
Midway through the afternoon, the chamberlain announced that two men, Sir Robert Graham of Kinpont and Bishop Wardlaw of St. Andrews, desired to make themselves heard before the members.
Dark-haired Sir Robert, wearing a dark-red velvet robe and matching cap, declared that the King and Parliament had no more business interfering in the income of Holy Kirk than they had trying to pass laws that undermined the heritable rights of his grace’s most loyal Scottish nobles.
“Landowners must retain their rights to punish trespassers and leave their estates to their rightful heirs without interference from the Crown. His grace’s notion of forcing everyone to act in the same manner throughout the kingdom, without regard to local custom, undermines all Scottish law, to wit . . .”
Fiona decided that although Sir Robert spoke eloquently, had a memorably mellifluous voice, and doubtless possessed a solid grasp of Scottish law—for he cited laws and policies to prove each of his too-many points—the man talked too long, was too adamant and generally tedious, and was visibly irking the King.
When Bishop Wardlaw began by reverting to Sir Robert’s first point, the state’s right, or lack of such, to interfere with the Kirk and the Kirk’s need to collect the barratry funds, James abruptly stood, silencing him.
Tersely, the King said, “If the good bishop is so bereft of funds that his kirk cannot continue without taking vast amounts in taxes and tithes from our citizens’ pockets, mayhap we should relieve him of that costly university he founded two decades ago. We can easily reestablish it here in Perth.”
A hush fell over the hall. Even Fiona had heard of St. Andrew’s University, which men declared equal to, if not better, than English universities at Cambridge and Oxford, and another nearly as famous one in Paris.
Into the hush, Wardlaw said diplomatically, “I believe that, if we put our heads together, your grace, we may come to agreement about how to manage the difficulties plaguing this matter.”
Fiona could see that his grace was in an undiplomatic mood. But the Queen stood then and said, “If your grace will excuse me and my ladies, I believe that I might enjoy much benefit from a stroll in the Gilten Herbar.”
Since most people in St. John’s Town were aware, although her grace showed no sign yet, that she was expecting another child in a few months, no one was surprised when James smiled and said gently, “Ye must do as ye please, my love. Mayhap ye’d liefer rest than tire yourself tonight with the evening activities.”
Fiona hardly dared to breathe for fear that Joanna might agree with him. That would mean that her grace’s attendants must also miss the festivities.
But Joanna returned his smile, shaking her head. “I am not as frail as that, my liege. I will enjoy the music and may even dance with my husband. However, vital as I know these proceedings to be, my presence does naught to improve them.”
“Ye’re wrong about that,” James said evenly, looking only at her. “I’d warrant that every man here is glad ye be with us, even those who, afore our discussion o’ barratry, may have said that your presence was unnecessary.”
A chuckle, hastily stifled, drew smiles from others in the chamber. But Fiona breathed easily again, and the ladies all began getting to their feet.
Whatever anyone else thought of the Queen’s decisions, Fiona told herself that she yearned only to breathe the fresh scents of the Gilten Herbar and leave all tedious parliamentary discord behind. She would attend the festivities, of course, because others expected it of her, and not for any other reason.
Chapter 5
The bell for Vespers tolled as Àdham went through the red port and past the ruined tower that was all that remained of the ancient castle. The tower formed part of the town wall, jutting northward from it and blocking his view until he crossed the bridge. So, he did not immediately see the man he had come to meet.
People strolled on the North Inch and along the riverbank. Others went to or from the monastery or walked alongside a thick wall of hedges that extended from the monastery’s stone wall to a gated archway.
That archway revealed more of the grounds, including a garden. Doubtless, her grace’s ladies walked there unless the garden was part of the brothers’ cloister, reserved for meditation and prayer.
Realizing that he’d let his gaze linger, watching for a particular figure, he turned to see his uncle striding toward him with a frown on his long face.
Sir Robert Graham looked much as he had a decade or more before, when Àdham had last seen him. For, despite their kinship, they had met only two or three times in his youth. He had heard much about Sir Robert from his Highland kinsmen, though, and knew that the powerful Grahams held large estates in the Lowlands.
Sir Robert’s long red gown was that of a wealthy nobleman. Visibly silk-lined and trimmed with dark fur, its skirt had slits at the sides, front, and doubtless the back to facilitate riding. However, he also wore purple-and-gold, pointy-toed silk shoes, so he was unlikely to ride anywhere without first changing into boots.
The long red-velvet cap that covered his hair, and thus kept Àdham from seeing if he curled it, boasted a flowing, soft, pointed tail.
Despite Lady Fiona’s assertion that men of fashion shaved off their beards, Sir Robert still sported the dark, pointed, two-inch-long one that Àdham recalled. It was neatly styled, and the hair on his uncle’s upper lip looked freshly trimmed.
Such sartorial splendor failed to impress Àdham, who believed that a knight worthy of the title went well armed. To be sure, he wore only his dirk in its leather sheath, himself, but as far as he could tell, Sir Robert was weaponless.
“Let us stroll by the river,” Sir Robert said in credible Gaelic without preamble. “Few will heed us there or understand what we say.”
“Have we reason to be privy, then?”
“Aye, perhaps, because I do recall how ye came by your knighthood two years ago,” Graham said bluntly. “Ye did yourself nae good thereby, my lad.”
Tempted to point out that he was not his lad since they scarcely knew each other, but put off by Graham’s latter statement, Àdham said, “Why is that?”
“Don’t act the dolt with me,” his uncle retorted. “Ye ken fine that the Camerons and Clan Chattan were duty bound to support Alexander in Inverness and at Lochaber. He believes now that both confederations betrayed his Lordship of the Isles. So, since James himself told me that ye’d persuaded your Cameron kinsmen to change sides when they did, ye must now persuade them to change back to their true liege.”
“The Mackintosh was Constable of Inverness Castle then, so of course he defended it, and I talked only with Ewan MacGillony. Since Ewan is your good-brother, you must know him well enough to know he makes his ow
n decisions.”
“Aye, but ye persuaded the traitorous man, and why ye took the trouble lies beyond my ken. Ewan’s done naught for ye since your mother left ye bereft o’ her care and advice. Amabel was my own sister, I’d remind ye.”
“I am the youngest of her sons by six years,” Àdham reminded him. “When Mam died, Da had no women left to whom he could entrust my care. He remarried at the urging of his clan chief, but his new wife wanted her own bairns and naught of me. So, when Uncle Fin offered to take me, Da agreed. I am content at Castle Finlagh and think of it as my home. But I hold naught against my father.”
“I see. Nevertheless, ye’d be wise to voice support for Alexander’s release as soon as ye can—here, at Finlagh, and elsewhere. The North rightfully belongs to Alexander, so his Islesmen will not suffer his imprisonment much longer without taking vengeance. Then, all who failed him at Lochaber will suffer. That includes all Camerons, including ye, my lad, as well as your foster Mackintosh kinsmen.”
“Be plain with me, sir. Is such an attack imminent?”
Graham shrugged and said, “I have nae ken of such. Although one does hear whispers that Alexander’s young cousin, Donal Balloch, Chief of Clan Donald of Dunyvaig, has returned to the Isles and sends messages to him. Because of their kinship, Balloch takes affronts to the Lordship of the Isles personally. He declares Jamie’s imprisonment of the rightful Lord of the Isles unlawful and unwarranted.
“The fact is, lad,” he added grimly, “that siding with James and the foolish notion he adopted during his English captivity of leaving all lawmaking to the King and his Parliament, as the bloody English do, is most unwise.”
“I’ll reflect on all that you say,” Àdham said. “But you should know that by laying waste to Inverness merely to spite the King, Alexander enraged nearly all Highlanders. As for trying to destroy Inverness Castle, which, as we all know, the King had refurbished and strengthened after three Lords of the Isles had added to its ruin, many consider that act alone to have been lunacy.”
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