Unicorn Rampant (30 page)

Dartford lay some seventeen miles down-river from London, and to reach there most expeditiously from Theobalds, without traversing the city and obtaining a barge, it was necessary to make for the nearest crossing of Thames, at Chiswick Bridge, and then to proceed eastwards by Mortlake and Lewisham and Bexley. John's own beast being tired and a little lame after its long journey from Scotland, he borrowed one of his father's horses.

The weather was still grey, chill and misty, so that the thirty-mile and five-hour ride was scarcely enjoyable, although John was interested in all he saw, particularly the Kent farming scene with its oast-houses, apple-orchards, brewhouses and cider-presses, so different from anything in Scotland—although the cattle, he noted, were no better than his own at Methven.

Dartford proved to be much different from his anticipation, after the flat country he had passed through. Although scarcely hilly by Scottish standards, the land hereabouts became folded into a sort of downland, through which the River Darent, swift-flowing compared with the other sluggish streams he had seen, ran in a narrow and shallow valley. And some couple of miles from the river's confluence with the now estuarine Thames, the thriving little market-town clustered around an ancient church and former monastic buildings, the Chantry of St Edmonds.

John had no difficulty in finding the paper-mill, some way upstream, where th
e water was comparatively uncon
taminated. There were other mills, the Darent's flow making this the best water-power for a large area, but the paper-mill was larger than those for meal and flour. But obviously it was not working, the premises shut up although clearly not abandoned. He made enquiries at cottages nearby, and learned that the mill worked only intermittently. But, if he wanted to speak with the miller, he would find Master Vandervyk's house in the High Street—or more likely at this time of day he would be in the Bull's Head tavern. When John mentioned that he thought that the name was Spielmann, he was eyed somewhat askance and informed that Sir John Spielmann had died years before—although Lady Spielmann still lived in Park House up the valley. Master Vandervyk had run the mill for long, even before Spielmann died.

So John went back to the town centre and found the Bull's Head inn prominent in the market-place. Within, the innkeeper directed him to a heavily-built, middle-aged man drinking ale in company with two or three other substantial-seeming citizens in a corner of the premises. Ale and trade, in England, appeared to be inseparable.

He introduced himself as John Methven, from Scotland, interested in paper. The big Dutchman made room for him at his side, ordering more ale, his companions decently moving off to another table.

John explained his quest thus: he had links with the paper-trade in Scotland, but had come to London where he had kin. He was interested to know whether there was any opening for further paper-making here in the south, and had been told that Spielmann's was the only paper-mill in all England. Could Master Vandervyk give him any useful advice and guidance?

The other appeared only too ready to do so. Forget it, John was told, in a thick foreign accent but eloquently enough. Paper and England just did not go together. There was not enough trade to keep
his
mill going six months in the year, without any other starting up. Anyway, it would not be permitted. All the paper used in this country came from the Germanic states, with the Hansa merchants holding a tight grip on all the trade. His own sales were confined to certain private buyers who required a special quality linen paper, mainly in the West Country, such as the Germans did not make in any quantity. Indeed, he had thought of transferring his mill to Devon, but doubted whether it was worth it, the trade being so small and even declining. Probably he would be wiser just to close down altogether, or change over to milling grain. Certainly there was no opening for another mill, here or elsewhere.

John sought to sound suitably disappointed. Why should this be, he demanded? Surely much paper was used here in England? Why not produce it here?

The other shrugged great shoulders. It was all a matter of monopolies, he said, making something of a mouthful of the word. The Hansa papermakers had a close monopoly, and appointed their own distributors in each country. No one else could break in. Even the Dutch and Flemish millers —who had trained him—had to export their paper through the Hansa merchants. The only reason why his mill was able to survive was that old Spielmann had himself been granted a monopoly by the late Queen Elizabeth, to collect linen and make linen-paper, and this charter he still held, even though Spielmann himself had given up paper-making for more profitable jewelling and money-lending in London—being a wiser man than he, who had taken over the management of the mill! So this mill could not be closed down by the Hansa traders nor their distributors in London. But it was scarcely worth running.

And did Master Vandervyk know who were the London distributors—who presumably themselves knew about this mill?

The Dutchman made no bones about that. Mansell held the distribution of paper in his fist—Robert Mansell. And a tight fist it was.

So, John saw it all. Why Cockayne and his associates were so eager. This was all to be part of their war with Mansell. Presumably
they
did not know of this Dartford mill; but even if they did, they probably would not consider it of any significance. It was an alternative
import
monopoly they were concerned with, which would a
void the Hanseatic strangle-grip
and Mansell's share in it. The issue was clear enough now.

Feigning grave disappointment, John bought the Dutchman some more ale, and took his departure.

The King ought to find all this to his taste and relief.

It was much too far to consider making for Oatlands that day. John rode back to Bexley and put up for the night at an inn there.

Margaret Hamilton welcomed him at Oatlands Park next afternoon, clearly delighted to have some young male company again. This Oatlands, a vast sprawling mansion in extensive parkland, was not her idea of paradise, cut off from all the excitements of London life and with no other associates than the Queen's ageing attendants. Country life, she asserted, was not for her. And she had missed John, she averred, all but purring, and rubbing against him like a cat.

The Queen's condition was not good, she reported, this place by no means helping her, despite her physicians. Could he believe it, they had had her up and outside and sawing wood, logs for the fire! That had all but killed her, and for days after each attempt she was prostrate—so that at least had been discontinued. But she was still being wheeled out, in a day-bed, to partake of the country air, chill November as it was, and she was often blue and rigid with cold.

John was suitably shocked and declared his lack of faith in all physicians, leeches and blood-letters. But what about his own position, he wondered, somewhat warily? What was the Queen's attitude towards him now?

Laughing pityingly, the young woman told him not to think so highly of himself as to imagine that, in her present state, Anne was in any way concerned with him. Her mind was wholly on her own state. Margaret had not heard John's name so much as mentioned since they came to Oatlands. Why? Was he anxious to come back to the Queen's service?

Not so, he asserted, probably too hurriedly. The King was altogether too demanding of his time. He did not go into details of his activities and the young woman did not enquire.

Margaret, in fact, was concerned about her own future. The Queen's illness might well prove fatal, she admitted— and then what was to happen to her? This household would be broken up and she would be without employment. She would have to consider what she was to do. She might even consider marriage!

John still more hurriedly changed the subject, or at least its direction. Something would turn up, he asserted. Was not her uncle the Earl of Abercorn, a great man in Ireland, practically ruling in the north there?

She dismissed her uncle. He had no concern for her, with innumerable sons and daughters of his own to settle; moreover he was said to be failing in health. Besides she had no desire to go to Ireland, nor even to leave London, where life was to be lived. Oatlands was quite sufficiently countrified for her, thank you! No, it might have to be marriage. Had he any suggestions?

John definitely had not. He asked urgently whether there was not some other great lady's household where the Queen's Maid-in-Waiting would be welcome? What about the Marchioness of Winchester? She was rich and powerful enough.

Margaret snorted indelicately over the Marchioness, a puling, fushionless creature! To be in
her
househo
ld would be as bad as being buried alive! No, it was marriage for her—unless some opening could be arranged in the King's court? Since John was so far ben with the King, could he not contrive something for her?

That young man's mind worked quickly, assessing, balancing. He had to get her off this talk of marriage, somehow. So far as he knew, there was no position at James's establishment for women, save as mere servants. There were women about the court, of course, but these were only there as the wives of courtiers and visitors. On the other hand, this might be the opportunity he required to introduce the subject of the Queen's will. He had been wondering how to bring it up without making the point too obvious. This might serve—and possibly James might be persuaded to show some gratitude towards the girl thereafter?

"I do not know," he answered carefully. "But there is one matter which occurs to me, in which you might be of use to King James. And which might cause him to favour you in some way. He is concerned about the Queen's health, naturally, even if he does not show it openly! But he is also concerned about her affairs. He does not know what she aims to do with her properties, her lands and moneys. Apparendy she has not told him. He does not know even whether she has made a will. Nor what her debts may be. You will understand that it is important for him to know. If he is responsible for her debts
..."

"Oh, I can tell you that," Margaret interrupted, without more ado. "Anne will not make a will. She has said that, often. Declared that it would be as good as signing her own death-warrant! Some of her countesses have urged her to it, saying that otherwise the King
will take all. But she refuses t
o set anything down on paper."

"You are sure of this?"

"Oh, yes. They rally her on it—the ladies. But-all know that she intends that Prince Charles shall have all her properties. Including this Oatlands, I suppose. Her jewels will be shared out amongst us, I think—if Danish Anna does not get to them first!"

"So-o-o!" In these two brief sentences, surprisingly, John had practically all that he had come for. He nodded. "Then, if you learn more of a will being made, or any word of bequests, let me know. I think that the King will be grateful."

"You will speak to him, of me, John?"

"Yes. But, of course . . . this may be all a, a beating of the air! The Queen may recover and live for years yet. She is none so old—still not fifty years, James says. Then you would need no new position. And this talk of wills unnecessary."

"Perhaps, yes. We shall see. But still I might be wise to find a husband . .
.!"

They left it at that, meantime.

John, of course, had no room allotted to him at Oatlands, but it was late to ride the near thirty miles to Theobalds that night, and Margaret appeared to take it for granted that he would share her bed. The great house was sufficiently large for privacy, and she had elected to occupy a wing well removed from the rest of the now reduced household, no doubt advisedly, being the young woman she was. Without ever making his presence known to the Queen herself nor to her elderly attendants, and eating in the kitchen premises, John more or less inevitably spent the night with Margaret—and would have been hypocritical to assert that he had not anticipated it or that he did not enjoy the proceedings. Free with her favours she might be, and not altogether to his taste in some other ways—but she was very good in bed and whole-hearted in her physical enjoyment.

Not too early in the forenoon following he set off on his return to Theobalds.

James, still abed, was delighted with both items of information brought by John, although as ever he hedged about his satisfaction with reservations. He declared that he could well believe that his Annie would be feart to make a will—women were right irrational creatures at best. But John was still to keep his lug to the ground—or at least to the person of the lassie Hamilton, which he gathered would not be too. unpleasant—in case the Queen changed her mind, if that was the right word.

When John tentatively suggested that perhaps His Majesty might wish to remember Margaret Hamilton, if it came to the Queen's household being broken up, James eyed him shrewdly and declared that, if he was so concerned for the lassie's future well-being, would the best thing be not to just marry her? Marriage was a lottery, mind—but most men had a try at it, if only to produce lawful heirs. And at least this quean was bedworthy, by all accounts, and well-connected, if penniless. Johnnie could do fell worse.