With some misgivings as to what was coming next, he watched servants bring wine, fill two goblets and silently withdraw. A royal gesture signalled dismissal for the courtiers who bowed out of the room.
Last to leave were Lennox and Ramsay. If looks could have killed then Tam Eildor would have been spread out at their feet. Instead, what was almost equally as unnerving as sudden death was for Tam to know that he was now alone with James.
He took a great gulp of air as he was handed a goblet of wine.
Here was a situation out of nightmare, Tam thought, as James indicated a seat at the window by his side.
‘Sit ye doon, Master Eildor. Nae need for formal manners when we are alone. Ah now – here’s health to you.’
Tam inclined his head. ‘And to you, sire.’
James drank deeply, put down his goblet and regarded Tam thoughtfully. ‘We have a thocht to invest ye as our cupbearer, Master Eildor. What think ye to that?’
Tam could not think of anything that terrified him more than such an unexpected honour and it was certainly the last thing, or almost the very last thing, he wanted in this world.
Conscious of James awaiting an answer, Tam smiled vaguely. ‘Sire?’
This was taken as assent. ‘Aye, that would please us mightily.’
As James proceeded to explain the duties involved, Tam hardly listened. The prospect of close confinement with James was unbearable. This new honour would not please him nor fit in with his plans. His mind in turmoil, for he had no idea how long the quest would last and could only presume that it was not only the murder of Mistress Agnew – which he suspected was merely a curtain-raiser, the prologue to some bigger ploy – that had been selected as his challenge to solve.
He realised that if faced with the matter of satisfying the king’s lust for him then he would have to abandon the quest and seek an emergency recall. He had never done so willingly, but his present predicament added another dimension, a moral dilemma.
He considered the king, a man of his own age who looked considerably older. Had he been more attractive and cleaner in his person, for he smelt abominably at close quarters on a hot day, Tam wondered if he could have abandoned his own scruples for the sake of finding the solution to an event that had baffled historians.
At last James paused with a flourish of Latin quotations none of which Tam understood, to ask again, ‘Weel, Master Eildor, what think you? Are ye no’ pleased to serve your king?’
As Tam had not been paying attention, he could only respond with, ‘I am glad to serve Your Grace, but alas, this honour is too great for me – ’
‘That is for your king to decide,’ James interrupted sternly.
Tam bowed his head. ‘Sire, I have no noble background. I am …I am only a humble scholar.’
James’s narrowed glance, sharp and shrewd, told Tam that he had made a mistake.
‘Humble, indeed, ye may well be, Master Eildor, and sichlike modesty becomes ye well. But a scholar who kens no Latin taught to every lad in the village school?’ he added softly. ‘An erudite man ye are, your origins well-bred too, oh aye.’ A pause for comment which Tam chose to ignore. Rubbing his chin, James frowned. ‘So whereabouts was it you came by your learning? Was it in some place beyond our realm?’
‘I had a learned tutor, near Peebles,’ said Tam and went on hurriedly. ‘To where I must imminently return – ’
At that moment there was an interruption in the shape of Vicky Stewart. Tam greeted his appearance with a profound sigh of relief. Never had he imagined that he would have occasion to bless the Duke of Lennox for deliverance.
‘Sire,’ Lennox bowed.
James made an irritated gesture. ‘No’ this meenit. Later, Vicky.’
‘Sire, there are messengers waiting.’
‘Aye, then let them wait,’ said James huffily turning back to Tam with an encouraging smile.
‘Sire,’ Lennox persisted, ‘they are from Elizabeth of England, Your Grace’s godmother.’ And with a sour look at Tam, he came between them leaned over to James and whispered, ‘Her Majesty has been unwell this fortnight and there are matters serious and urgent concerning the succession which they must discuss with Your Grace.’
James sighed. This was one matter certain to receive all of his attention. Nothing on earth was more important than the fact that when Elizabeth died he was her sole heir and stood to inherit the throne of England. His one dream, his every scheme since boyhood, led to the fulfilment of the burning ambition which obsessed him. To be king of Scotland and England, to unite the two countries.
He sighed, nodded. ‘Ah, weel, let it be so. We will see them.’ To Tam, ‘We will talk again when we have prepared a place for you, Master Eildor,’ he said, holding out a grubby hand for Tam to kiss.
That act of submission performed, Tam bowed and hurried away reeling from the scene, with the nearest he had ever suffered to a blinding headache of mammoth proportions. The heavy wine so early in the day was only partly to blame.
Walking quickly towards the gatehouse, he had more pressing matters to concern him than how he was to deal with the king’s invitation – nay, command – to be the royal cupbearer.
For instance there was the urgent matter of why Mistress Agnew had been murdered and of tracking down her killer as soon as possible. What troubled him most was Tansy’s revelation that the cloak Agnew was wearing had belonged to her, a gift from Queen Anne. And that suggested to even the most unintelligent that the assassin had made a mistake. He had killed the wrong woman. In the dim light of the turnpike stair, his dagger’s deathblow had been intended for Mistress Tansy Scott.
Tam sighed deeply. However he resolved the situation of the king’s infatuation he could not quit while Tansy was in any danger. And at the back of his mind something he had heard but which he could not quite get into focus. Tansy’s story of the king’s bitter reaction to any reference to his birth.
Was it possible, could the fatal connecting link between Agnew and Tansy be that both their grandmothers had been in attendance on Queen Mary during the period of her lying-in and delivery?
From Tansy’s directions. Tam had little difficulty in finding the house Mistress Agnew had visited. He knocked on the door, which was slightly ajar. There was no reply.
‘Is someone there?’
Still no response, so cautiously he pushed open the door and found himself inside a large room, its gloomy depths only faintly livened by thin sunlight from one window.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he recognised the outline of a bed with straw mattress, a pillow and rough blankets, recently slept in for it was unmade. At a wooden table, two chairs sprawled at untidy angles.
An empty hearth. He went close, put out his hand. The ashes still gave out heat, adding to the significance of the unmade bed, that the occupant of the house had left recently and in some haste.
Tam set to right the chairs which uneasily suggested a struggle and that the occupant might have had unexpected and unwelcome visitors. It was then he became aware that the door of the press was open and some parchments lay scattered on the floor nearby.
As he picked them up, he felt sure that a searcher had been at work. The name on them was David Rose. They were legal documents, bills of sale relating to property.
Tam’s conclusions, based on this evidence, were not difficult to reach. The man he sought had fled, or been taken, but more important as far as he was concerned, the vital opportunity of extracting information from him regarding the possible reasons for Mistress Agnew’s death was also lost.
He considered the scene and again what the rifled documents suggested. That whoever induced the man to leave, willingly or not, it was the documents themselves which had concerned them. The state of the room also told Tam that they had been interrupted and had left in great haste.
Tam looked around carefully. The signs were that Mistress Agnew’s man, David Rose, was the owner of the house and most certainly an educated man who could read and write.
Closing the door behind him, he crossed the road to where a blacksmith of enormous dimensions was hammering at his forge. He had observed Tam leaving the house and his look posed a question.
‘Is it Davy you seek, sir?”
‘It is.’
‘He’s no’ home at this hour o’ the morning.’ And as if Tam should be aware of this he said, ‘Ye’re no’ from these parts, sir.’
Tam hoped his vague nod was sufficient as the blacksmith said, ‘Ye’ll most like find him ower there,’ and pointing to the church, ‘He helps the minister wi’ his garden and sichlike’.
Tam would have liked to ask more questions but the man had already turned his attention back to his forge’s glowing iron.
Walking quickly through the kirkyard, Tam already had an ominous feeling that he would not find David Rose at work there.
The signs he had left at the house were sinister hints at an unexpected and violent departure rather than a man casually off to a day’s work.
The church was considerably older than Falkland Palace. A place of worship poorer and much less ornate than the chapel royal and serving only a small parish, it was overshadowed by the wealth and magnificence of the royal court, most of whom Tam suspected had never set foot in so humble a church.
The interior was cold and gloomy, but showed evidence of having seen better days. Niches that had once held holy water and sacred images were empty, sternly set aside when Scotland’s old Catholic religion had given way to the Reformation and the Protestant faith.
As for the minister, who approached Tam with faltering steps from the dim recess near the altar, his rusty black hat and robe with unstarched curling white linen bands implied, as did his church, that he had also seen more prosperous days.
Peering at him short-sightedly, so close that, despite the spectacles he wore, Tam suspected that the old man was almost blind, was confirmed by his question, ‘Davy, is that you?’
‘Nay, sir. It is Davy I search for,’ said Tam. ‘I was told I would find him here.’
The minister shook his head. ‘Alas, he failed to arrive this morning. A matter of great inconvenience for he was to help me with some parish affairs, accounts and so forth.’
Sounding rather cross and put out, he added, ‘Davy writes a fair hand, a fair hand indeed.’
His firm statement led Tam to speculate further that the minister also relied on the absent Davy’s superior eyesight.
However there were more important issues suggested by the man’s failure to put in an appearance which implied that Davy Rose was no simple crofter who could not read and write but a man of some education. A fact that further intrigued Tam regarding his connection with Mistress Agnew.
‘I cannot imagine what has happened to him,’ said the minister. ‘He is usually so reliable,’ and with a sigh, ‘Shall I inform him of your visit, sir?’
‘No need for that, minister. I will look in again.’
‘It is no trouble, sir,’ the minister urged. ‘If you leave me your name I will tell him.’
Aware of the minister’s curiosity regarding his identity, Tam thanked him kindly and left before any further questions were put to him.
As he walked quickly towards the Palace he was full of foreboding and a growing certainty that the killer of the queen’s midwife had also cut short the life of the minister’s scribe.
He had been too late. Tam was certain that David Rose would never be seen alive again.
Chapter Seven
Tansy had returned and was in her sewing-room surrounded by bright silks, satins and velvets; costumes for the queen’s Masque.
At the end of Tam’s account of his visit to David Rose’s home in the village she frowned. ‘’Tis curious about those parchments. As you know, Mistress Agnew kept her door locked. She was a very private person and her herbarium was part of the royal apartments.’
She paused. ‘I spent evenings with her sometimes and she had a press where she kept goblets and so forth. There were also rolls of parchment, books which she said contained her recipes. I went to her room, expecting the door to be locked.’ She paused. ‘It was open.’
‘So someone had removed the key from her body,’ said Tam.
Tansy nodded. ‘It seems so. All her possessions, the contents of the press, had vanished. The room was so empty, as if she had never existed.’
Again she paused. ‘What do you think, Tam? Is it not strange that the man she visited in the village has also disappeared?’
‘And his house has also been searched, his documents carefully examined,’ said Tam grimly. ‘All this is too much of a coincidence.’
Tansy looked fearful. ‘A very sinister connection by the sound of it.’
‘I am certain that the link, the key to this mystery, lies in the missing documents. Documents, we can conclude, that were the object of their search.’
‘But we do not know who,’ Tansy whispered.
Tam shook his head. The speed with which matters had been carried out pointed to some person who had an effective and very efficient organisation at his command.
King James fitted that category admirably.
Sounds of mirth outside erupted into the arrival of six young women who were very interested in seeing the breeches they were to wear at the queen’s Masque. Tansy laughed at Tam’s puzzled expression. ‘The queen has commanded that ladies wear men’s attire and the gentlemen wear court dresses.’
‘That should create some problems,’ said Tam drily.
‘And a lot of merriment,’ said Tansy.
One of the ladies, introduced as Matilda, held up a pair of padded breeches and sighed. Such a style would do her ample hips no favours.
‘Is it not a comical sight? Quilted doublets, so unwieldy and uncomfortable – stuffed, bombasted so that men can neither work nor yet play in them.’ And to Tansy ‘Who on earth invented such an absurdity?’
‘The Italians, about a hundred years ago,’ said Tansy. ‘The slashings were meant to display to the world the wearer’s ability to obtain undergarments of fine linen, by cutting slits in the outer costume and pulling a contrasting colour through. Like so,’ she demonstrated, on the garment being held up for examination.
‘But the custom was thought to have begun with the mercenary soldiers who kept their good clothes under their fighting rig. Sleeves and doublet were first, colours ran riot and, as slashing became more popular in other regions, the tops of breeches were literally cut to ribbons. Huge padded sleeves to give balance across the shoulders, then the codpiece – cod meaning bag as you know– a flamboyant addition in dress whose emphasis is masculine virility.’
‘Men,’ said Matilda contemptuously, handing the breeches back to Tansy with a sigh, her sad shake of the head echoed by her companions.
Then, looking approvingly towards Tam, a silent listener in modest unadorned garb, she asked, ‘What think you, sir?’
‘I agree with you. It is certainly not the garb in which one can comfortably play – and win – a game of tennis.’
‘Tell us more, Master Eildor.’
But at that moment, the door opened again to admit a maid who staggered in and set down on the table an armful of ruffs, a fashion that had evolved in France from frills formed by the drawstrings fastening men’s shirts and ladies’ shifts at the neck.
‘And every one of those to be starched! groaned Tansy. ‘For that we have to thank Mistress Dinghem, wife of Queen Elizabeth’s Dutch coachman who brought the art of starching over to England in the ‘60s.’
Tam listened fascinated, as Tansy continued: ‘Made her fortune by taking in pupils and charging five pounds sterling each to teach them the secrets of white and yellow starches, the additional stiffening provided by silk-covered wire.’
Tam laughed. ‘Which accounts for that look of hauteur.’
‘As well as very long and painfully aching necks!’ said Tansy and leaving the ladies privacy to try on the various garments she ushered Tam into the parlour. ‘What did you t
hink about the royal game of tennis?’
‘I did more than think. I took part – at His Grace’s insistence.’
‘You played with him?’ asked Tansy wide-eyed.
‘No. My opponent was John Ramsay.’
‘You mean that the king matched you against his favourite, his star player! How embarrassing. Did you lose?’
‘On the contrary. I won. By twelve points.’ At her shriek of delight, Tam added modestly, ‘But Ramsay, I fear, was hindered by his padded breeches and doublet.’
Tansy shuddered. ‘On such a day. In all this heat. Tell me what happened.’
Briefly Tam described the match and then added, ‘But that was not the end of it. His Grace now commands that I move into the royal apartment.’
Tansy stared at him. ‘Your game must have been very impressive, since it would appear that you have usurped John Ramsay in the royal favour.’
‘And if I accept, then I fear the next step will be up into His Grace’s bed,’ said Tam dolefully.
Tansy shuddered. ‘Poor Tam, what a very unwholesome predicament.’
‘It is indeed, especially as I have no taste for kings who seldom wash, or for young lords and ambitious pages.’
Tansy smiled sadly. ‘Fashionable in the royal court, I am afraid, like the absurdity of slashed breeches and codpieces.’ And regarding his solemn expression, she asked softly, ‘So where does your taste lie, Tam Eildor?’
‘I thought you had guessed that already, Mistress Tansy Scott.’ His voice was gentle, his tender smile held her eyes.
She blushed and shook he head sadly. ‘No, Tam, you must not love me – I beg you – it could never – ’
Tam leaned over, put a restraining finger against to her lips. ‘Do not say it.’ And a stern warning. ‘Even had you been free, I cannot commit myself. I know nothing of what your granddam told you about me…’
He paused awkwardly and she touched his hand, whispered, ‘The man without a memory of – from whence you came – ’ Then looking at him curiously, she said lightly, ‘You have no memory at all of Janet Beaton?’
The Gowrie Conspiracy Page 7
