Friend & Foe (19 page)

‘I saw none of that,’ asserted Andrew Wood. ‘Yet I should say, he wants diversion, exercise, and air. You should take his highness out into the field.’

‘Aye, then, so we shall, when he will consent to it. He is a fickle sprite. He had you play at billiarts, I suppose?’

Sir Andrew grimaced. ‘Aye, and to my cost. So many ways his highness has of cutting loose my purse, he might be a piker, were he not a king. My pockets are wrung out.’

His new friend laughed at this. ‘His hand is in your pocket, or else yours is his. I feel for you; I too, have felt that sting. This afternoon, he had my hawk, a sweeter, stauncher falcon you have never seen, nor so stout a heroner, and nothing in return for her apart from his goodwill, which by this hour the morn will not be worth a pin. He has cozened us, you and me both. So, good sir crownar, where do you go now?’

Sir Andrew knew full well that he was being pumped, by the friendly courtier’s smooth plump greasy hand. He could have blown him over in a puff of wind, or cut him to the quick with one shimmer of his sword. For a moment, he considered it, just to see the limmar squealing on a spit, kenning Crownar Wood was not a gentle man.
Instead, he answered honestly, for nothing put men off the scent as simply as the truth. ‘Onward, to St Andrews on business of the Crown. There is a trouble brewed betwixt the bishop and the presbyters, a fierce unhaly fieriness that threatens all our peace.’

‘Is that a fact? In that I do not envy you, your dealings with the kirkmen. For I would rather settle with a thousand peevish princes, than hear one canting preacher carping at my back.’

‘If I had my way,’ Sir Andrew winked at him, ‘then I would hang the lot of them. But we maun bow to government, to kirkmen and to kings.’

‘God speed you, sir! Good luck!’

‘Grammercie, my lord.’ The crownar took his leave, and left the courtier satisfied, to set off at a gallop on the darkening road.

Chapter 18

A Bright Bird Flown

His majeste thocht him self at liberte, with gret joy and exclamation, lyk a burd flowen out of a kaig

Sir James Melvil of Halhil

The king broke out at last, escaping to St Andrews at the end of June. He gave slip to his gaolers with a simple trick. His grand uncle, the earl of March, was grace and favour commendator of St Andrews priory and staying at his house in the old inns of the town. March invited James to come and sup with him. There were fresh wild meats, from a fair day’s hunting, that would all be spoiled if they were not shared. The king was bound by kinship to honour the old man, his captors had agreed to it, and James set out at once.

Sir Andrew Wood, as asked, had made the passage safe for him, and kept at bay the brigands roaming at Garbridge, which posed less of a challenge than the king supposed, since most of them were Andrew’s men, and under his control. James was in high spirits as he passed the estuary; his spaniels swam in fearless after waterfowl, ruffling up the feathers of the bright lairds on the bank. The provost of St Andrews met the company at Dairsie, to secure his highness and escort him to the town, where he would find his friends.

They entered through the west port of St Andrews, late that afternoon, on a note of triumph, for the bearers’ arms were heavy with the herons they had killed, and the saddles of the mares were sleek and wet with blood. They brought with them the scent of earth and iron and victory, to startle the good people who were walking in the
town, the quiet south side colleges and kirk of Holy Trinity, who had not been expecting them. James went on to supper at the old inns of the priory, where he made a merry banquet of the meats they brought with them, his great uncle, as it turned out, having nothing in. James was overjoyed, and by evening overwrought. He had written to those lords in whose support he trusted, and called them to St Andrews to convene a council, while Gowrie’s privy councillors were warned to stay away. By nightfall, it was clear his plans had gone adrift.

The news had flown from Falkland, swift as James himself; his captors took no warning from it, and were on their way. Those good lords he had counted close among his friends were either late in coming or had turned up unprepared. The full force of the provost’s men, together with Sir Andrew Wood, could not defend the king against the present threat, and so he was advised to withdraw into the castle, until his friends arrived, for fear he would be taken up, and kept in charge again. The priory was not fortified, and March could not ensure his nephew’s safety there.

At first, the king refused. He rode out through the streets, openly and recklessly, accepting with a gracious hand the tributes of his people, who had come out from their houses with fresh lobsters, fish and fruit. The baxters brought a hundredweight of fine white wheaten flour, the vintners rolled out barrels of their sweetest wines; the king would want for nothing while he was in town. James made free with all, careless of his liberty, until his uncle March was forced to call him in.

‘Would ye shut me up,’ cried James, ‘and keep me in that place?’

‘But for the while, your Highness, till we ken your liberty and safety are assured.’

Dark forces descended, circling the town. The lords who pursued him were heavily armed, and the king was soon persuaded that he had no choice. He entered in the castle, half against his will, with a small band of men who were loyal to him, and one or two more, who were not.

At the castle, the archbishop was the last to hear the news. While James worked his charms on the startled crowds in South Street, while he was sampling wines and sweetmeats with the earl, Patrick Adamson consulted and consorted with his physick wife, experimenting with her underneath the sheets. This lewd and thorough industry was not to be disturbed for less than life and death, impending fire or flood, or, Tam Fairlie judged, the coming of the king.

Patrick took a moment to distract from his endeavours, and another half a minute to deflate. ‘What, king? What, here? What, now?’ he squeaked.

‘At supper in the priory with the earl of March. His attendants to arrive here in under half an hour, to be followed, in due course, by a full retinue of friends.’

The physick wife was thrilled. ‘I could hide in the closet there, an’ keek upon his face. I never saw a king.’

‘You never shall again.’ Tam Fairlie stripped the bed, and tipped the woman out. ‘I will scare this jack-daw back where it belongs.’

Alison clung, like a leech to a boil that sucked at the sore to the sap. ‘You have no cause to call me that. I am a proper physick wife, and salve to Patrick’s maladies. If I do not relieve him, he will suffer more.’

Patrick blanched and whispered, ‘Do ye mak a threat to me?’

‘I have not been paid.’

Tam Fairlie grasped her arm, and marched her to the door. Her belongings bundled after, tumbled from the bridge, and were buried in the fosse. ‘Ye will get your due. Do not come again.’

The physick wife stood whimpering, naked in her sark. ‘He will want me, you will see. He cannot keep his hands off me.’

Tam dismissed her, ‘Damn you, whore!’ He poured out the physick from the bishop’s window, where it left a damp patch, sullen, on the stone.

It had taken Patrick all his time to dress, shaken as he was, with fear and shame and palsy; he did not think his heart could recover
from the shock, or hold out at the strain. His household staff and chamberlain were frantically dispatched.

Tam Fairlie had departed to take stock of March’s men, who were lolling idly in the outer court. The castle could accommodate a hundred extra guests, but Tam had no idea how many might descend. Carpets, hangings, pictures, plate, gaming tables, folding beds, all were borrowed, bought or begged, from local lairds and colleges; St Salvator’s sent table napkins and a dozen cloths. The king’s equipage had remained behind at Falkland; he had come with nothing but the clothes he stood up in, horse and hounds, and hawk.

Patrick was not certain what he should put on. It had been some while since he wore proper clothes. Should he be drab and dull, as fitting to a scholar of the true reformit kirk, or courtlier and gay, in honour of his king, and of the shift in fortune he had doubtless brought with him? At length he chose a satin doublet, cap and gown in black, set off with a tippet lined in silver fox. His deliberations were as nothing to the king, who turned up in a heightened state of tremor and perplexity. He did not wish to see the chapel with its fair Italian colonnade, the dormers in the gallery or fine view of the bay. He did not care to be confined.

‘Do you have strong fighting men here you can trust?’ he demanded.

Patrick swallowed. ‘One or two.’ He made a mental note to have Tam keep the bairn and perhaps the Richan boy out of sight and sound, lest their uncanny trattle fuelled the king’s unquietness. His air of agitation soon translated to the bishop, who felt a little queasy and unsteady in the knees. The chamber had been swept and aired, but Patrick could not help but fear some relict of the physick wife might still be in the bed – a ribbon, lace or sock.

‘Where does this door lead?’ asked James.

‘To the fore tower, your Grace, and onward to the chapel, where if your Highness pleases I will preach a sermon to thank God for your safe deliverance.’

‘Deliverance from what? I am at no peril,’ James protested.

‘No, sir, ah, of course.’

‘Yet,’ the king conceded, ‘a sermon might be apt, in the kirk of Holy Trinity. I will give you the direction for it, presently. And what is behind this curtain?’

‘That is the privy closet, sir, when you may . . .’ Unusually for Patrick, he was lost for words.

‘Be privy?’ James supplied.

‘Indeed, quite so, your Grace.’

‘And who was that old man we saw back on the stair? A fruel and grovelling simperer.’

‘That is my privy clerk. His room is in the tower. I will, of course, vacate these chambers now, and have them swept and plenished as your Grace desires. The earl of March is kind enough to send in his own furniture, until such time as your possessions may be brought from Falkland.’

James looked vexed at this. ‘I must have my bed.’

‘My chamberlain tells me it has been sent for, but it will not be here before the morning, Sire.’ Patrick felt a little at a loss, as to what comfort he might offer the unhappy king.

‘I do not, you see, sleep in a bed like this.’ The king looked helpless for a moment, frightened as a bairn. ‘I have those beds, of course. But the one that I sleep in rolls up.’

‘I understand, your Grace. Both the beds were sent for.’

For it was understood that the great bed of state, though it was carried through the kingdom on to every passing place, never would be slept on.

James had wandered to the windows that looked out upon the town. ‘What house is that?’

‘It belongs to Giles Locke, who is principal at St Salvator’s College. He is an anatomist, and does work for the Crown in finding out the cause of unexpected deaths.’

‘I saw him, once, in a play.’ The king relaxed a little. ‘In an extravagant hat. He is Hew Cullan’s brother-in-law.’

The bishop smiled weakly. ‘Indeed.’

‘A man of most singular talents.’

It was not clear to Patrick which man was referred to.

‘I will not want these chambers,’ James made up his mind. ‘There is a stench and staleness here that is far from wholesome.’

Patrick answered, blushing, ‘I have not been well.’

‘How, not well?’ snapped James.

‘It is not the sort of sickness that will spread to other men,’ the bishop reassured him, ‘but an internal fedity, gnawing at my wam.’ He almost said,
my soul
. He felt the prick of tears, a sudden surge of confidence. His king was in his palm, and castle. James had been restored to him. He was overcome.

The king returned to his inspection. ‘They are, besides,’ he reasoned, looking round the rooms, ‘too close to the entrance gate; the first place they will look if the castle defences are breached. Do you have guns here?’

‘Aye, your Grace, guns. But no powder or shot.’

‘Such things must be sent for. I saw a chamber at the head of the north west tower, that overlooks the water and is well appointed. I will quarter there. There is a gateway on the north side. Is the descent there passable?’

‘When the tide is out.’

‘I will, not, you understand, be kept a prisoner here. And I will die before I allow them to lay hands on me again.’

Patrick was alarmed at this. ‘Majestie . . .’

‘I will die first, do you hear me?’

‘Nay, Sire, none of that! Know that I shall pray for you.’

‘I shall want a kirkman, Patrick.’ James was plaintive, childish now. ‘The masters of the kirk are not always kind to me, though I am most careful and devout, and attendant to the faith, as I have ever been.’

‘No one doubts that, Majestie,’ the archbishop assured him. He was taken aback at the hurt in his voice.

‘Since my mother is a Catholick, they suspect me of wrong.’

‘That were not reasonable, Sire. All of our mothers were Catholicks, once,’ Patrick murmured soothingly, though he felt ill-equipped to give spiritual advice.

‘But some of them were brought since to a clearer light. The ministers of the kirk will not spare my years, but where they see small faults they put them to the light of a cold and public scrutiny, and punish my offences with the bitterest of words. They scourge my frailties openly before a mocking crowd. They show no shame or pity for the person of their king, and they are not kind. They hurt me, sir, and I am humiliated, when a word in private, or a gentle look, might better serve their purpose and achieve their end. In such a heavy climate I require a friend.’ The king laid bare his heart.

‘I understand, your Grace. For I too have been harried by that same monopoly. They hound a sick man cruelly, almost to his grave.

‘They did beset me all around

‘With words of hateful spite

‘Without all cause of my desert

‘Against me they did fight.’

Patrick sang out from the psalm.

James approved. ‘You speak truth, sir, and wise and good words. For once I had a friend, a good sweet honest friend, who converted from a Catholick to the one true Christian faith, for love of truth and love of me, and no more loving honest friend could a man desire to see, while he was alive; and now that he is dead, they persist in telling lies, that he reverted to his faith, and put up but a paper show, to wind his pleasures close to me.’

‘Does your Highness refer to Monsieur D’Aubigny?’ Patrick dared to ask.

‘Aye, sir, Esme Stuart, lately duke of Lennox.’

Adamson nodded. ‘Aye, it is true, he has been much maligned. With a little pressure, we may yet amend that. I can make a sermon of it.’

‘I had hoped you might.’

James looked young and vulnerable, and Patrick groping for some thread, some small scrap of grace, was astonished to discover his own cheeks were wet with tears. ‘In the town, tis rumoured . . . I fear that ye may hear . . .’

‘I have heard the rumours.’ James was thinking still of the duke of Lennox, and did not see the bishop falling to his knees.

‘Sire, I have been foolish. I have not been very well.’

The weight on Patrick’s shoulders had begun to lift. He could sense, almost smell, the chance of redemption here. Without daring to believe it quite, he felt that there was hope. ‘And in my sickness, have resorted to desperate remedies. I bought medicines from a woman who had a reputation for some skill in mixing herbs. I swear I had no kenning that she was a witch.’

The words were said, at last. And Patrick felt the burden lifting from his heart. Whatever happened now, he would come into his grave with a quiet conscience. He laid bare his soul before his Lord and king.

James took a step back. His voice teetered high in his nervousness. ‘A witch? There is a witch, here?’

‘Not near here, your Grace,’ the archbishop assured him. ‘My guard has disarmed her and driven her out, when we saw what a viper she was. I have severed all contact with her, and my men are under orders to arrest her on sight, if she should dare approach us. She can pose no danger to your Grace. Yet am I persuaded that she has fed me poisons that prolonged my sickness, and made me beholden to her. I have been under her spell. By God’s will, and my prayers, I have repelled her. But it has sapped all of my strength.’