Unicorn Rampant (50 page)

Somewhat doubtfully they went with the Duke.

They found the King settled before a roaring log-fire, although it was a warm May night, in the ante-room of his bedchamber, with two others, Francis Bacon, now Lord Verulam, and James Hay, Earl of Carlisle, one of the King's original Scots cronies. There was no sign of Steenie. Bottles and flagons were ranged conveniently on a table beside that on which cards and coins were stacked.

At sight of the two younger men, James, in the midst of a vehement exposition on something or other, stopped and looked distinctly displeased. Spluttering wetly, he pointed at the new arrivals and flapped a dismissive hand. Lennox, however, was probably the only man in two kingdoms who might ignore such royal gesture.

"These two have arrived from Scotland, James," he said cheerfully. "With good tidings which I think you will wish to hear."

"Maybe so. But the morn will dae fine, Vicky Stewart. I'll see them the morn."

"As you will, Sire. But siller and poetry make an unusual combination. I guessed that you would wish to hear of it forthwith."

"Eh? Eh? Siller and
poetry,
did you say? What's this, what's this? It was yon Acadia I sent them to speir aboot. Whatlike havers is this?"

Ludovick waved an encouraging hand at his two companions.

John and Will exchanged uncertain glances. It was the latter who found words first.

"We attended to the New Scotland project, Sire. And found
some
support. But, on my long travels, I composed a new poem, a heroic work, which I have entitled 'David and Jonathan', or perhaps just 'Jonathan'. And, and dedicated it, in humble service, to Your Majesty." That was the first John had heard of dedication.

"Hech, hech—is that a fact? Maist meritorious—if it has the quality, mind. Yon other bit you did, about 'Monarchick Tragedies' was it, had flaws, mind, flaws."

"Yes, Sire. But I took to heart Your Majesty's wise criticisms and advice and have sought to better my muse accordingly."

"Uh-huh. Creditable. Weel—let's hear it, man."

"Sire—it is a lengthy piece. Covering many pages. I have not brought it on my person. It is with my gear, in my lord Duke's lodging
..."

James's face fell, even though those of his companions did not. He raised a minatory finger. "You shouldna raise false hopes, man. We are displeased." He turned on Ludovick. "You said poetry and
siller,
Vicky? Is this likewise no' to be forthcoming?"

"My son John will tell you, James."

John cleared his throat. He wondered at the wisdom of saying what he had to say in front of Verulam and Carlisle. But he could hardly voice his doubts.

"We spoke before of the revenues and taxes payable to the castle of Dumbarton, Sire, of which I have the honour to be Your Majesty's Keeper," he said. "I learned that none of the moneys so collected came to Your Majesty's person. This seemed to me . . . unsuitable, when all is collected in your royal name. So, on this occasion, instead of sending it to the Treasury in Scotland, as hitherto, I thought to bring some of it south with me, to hand over to Your Highness."

James stared, slack lips forming a wet circle. "You did that, Johnnie Stewart! How much?"

"Five hundred pounds, Sire. On this occasion."

"Guidsakes—£500!" Majesty looked around him, almost at a loss—which was unusual, to say the least. He took off his high hat, which he was wearing with his bed-robe over partial undress, looked inside it, and put it on again. "Man, Johnnie—a' that?"

"Yes, Sire. Did I do wrongly?"

"Och, well—no, no. Leastways
..."
He scratched at his straggly beard. "Five hundred pounds sterling in siller! No notes o' hand? I could use £500, right enough. But—Johnnie Mar's no' going to like this!"

"Johnnie Mar, I think, has been doing very well for long, James," Ludovick observed.

"Ooh, aye. But he's the Treasurer, mind. Wi' much to see to. And an auld friend."

"I will take it back, Sire, if I erred in my judgment,"
John said. "And pay it in to the Treasury. As the last half-year's collection was paid."

"Eh? Bide a wee, bide a wee. How much was that, man?"

"Nearly £900
I
think, Sire."

"God-a-mercy! Nine hundred pounds—o'
my
revenues! Just frae Dumbarton? That's a fell lot o' siller going some place!"

"So thought I, Highness. Did I misjudge?"

"I'm no' sure, man—I'm no' right sure. Vicky—when you were keeping Dumbarton,
you
never thought on this?"

"I must confess I did not, James. The collection was always dealt with by that rogue Middlemas and sent, after due deductions no doubt, straight to the Treasury. I had little to do with it."

"H
ph'mm. Maybe. But what's the rights o' it? I should get some o' the siller frae my royal lands and customs, should I no'?"

"I would certainly say so, yes."

"Frankie Bacon—you're a lawyer and clever, ower clever maybe! What say you?"

"Sire, I would not presume to submit an opinion," Verulam answered genially. "On a matter concerning Scotland. Your law there is different from ours."

"Och, be no' sae nice, man! This is no' a court o' law! Gie's your opine."

"Well, Majesty, it would seem to me that there are two aspects here," he said. "There are royal lands and there are customs and taxation. Without being competent to judge exactly, I would think that they should be separated. Customs and taxation are scarcely a matter for the privy purse, I fear. They are to be used for the needs of the state—through the Treasury, yes. That is as it would be here, in England. But royal lands and the rentals therefore are different. These, it seems to me, might well come to your privy purse, since they are not the state's lands but the crown's. Certain other items, also. I may be wrong,
but..."

"And you, Jamie Hay?"

"Take it, Sire. Take the lot, I say! And let Johnnie Mar whistle for it!" Carlisle advised, grinning.

James eyed them all. "Aye, well—we'll see," he said. "You, Johnnie Stewart—bring me this £500 the morn and we'll see what's what. I'm no' saying that you've done just right, mind. But there could be right in it. Now—you can be off, the pair o' you. We hae business to transact here. Awa' to your beds, laddies
..."

Enviously Ludovick watched the younger men bow themselves out.

Late as it was, John left Whitehall for Wallingford House, while Will made for St James's.

At the palatial residence which the Marquis of Buckingham had bought to complement his new state, the servants were used to untimely comings and goings, and a porter on duty admitted John without difficulty. The rooms Margaret had been allotted were in a wing of the great house to the rear, near the servants' quarters. Making his way there by darkened corridors, John entered their outer room, where the remains of a fire still flickered on the hearth. There was just light enough to see that the room was empty but untidy, with platters, flagons and beakers on the table. Lighting a couple of candles from the fire, he cast about for some food, for he had not eaten for long. There were some scraps of cold fowl left on the platters and some broken sweetmeats. He was stepping over to the cupboard to see what might be available there when the sound of movement reached him from beyond the inner door, the bedroom. He went to it, calling, "It is myself, Margaret—John. Just back."

He raised the latch but found that the door was locked. Distinctly he heard whispering beyond.

Frowning, he rattled the door. "Margaret!" he called.

There were further faint sounds from within. Grimly he stepped back, waiting. When the door did not open, he went to pick up one of the candles. There was another door to that bedchamber—most of these apartments were intercommunicating, not having been built as suites—and he could reach that from another room further along the corridor. Moving to their outer door, his candle illumined a chair nearby. Over this was flung a cloak, black, decorated with golden filigree-work. Picking it up, he stared. He knew that cloak.

His hand was on the outer latch when he heard the inner door open behind him, and he turned. Margaret stood there, a wrap loosely thrown around her. Under it, clearly, she was naked, her hair tousled. They gazed at each other.

"I disturb you!" he jerked, gratingly.

"You do, yes," she answered, a little breathlessly. "You, you come at a strange hour!"

"Who else do I disturb?" he demanded.

"No one in particular, John," she said, with an attempt at lightness. "It matters nothing. One of the Countess's ladies. You will not know her. It grows lonely, sleeping alone."

"You lie, Margaret," he declared. "That cloak—it is a man's cloak. George Villiers'. The King gave it to him. He should be more careful with so kenspeckle a cloak!"

She said nothing.

Striding forward, he pushed past her roughly, into the bedroom, still with his candle. The great bed was rumpled but empty. The other door, at the far side of the chamber, was ajar. He hurried over to it, and through. The apartment beyond was empty likewise, but its further door was open. He went to peer through that also but saw nobody.

Back in their own room, he found Margaret sitting on the edge of the bed.

"She has gone. She must have borrowed Steenie's cloak," she suggested, brazenly. "After all, she is one of his mother's people and this
is
his house."

"Spare yourself your inventions!" he told her grimly. "I have a good nose. That was a man sharing your bed—do not try to deny it."

"No—then I will not deny it, John Stewart," she exclaimed. "Why should I? You are a husband only in name! You leave me for weeks, months, at a time. You care nothing for me
..."

"You are my wife."

"In name only, I say. You are no true husband to me, nor ever have been. I am a whole woman, no shrinking nun! I need a man . . ."

"Damn you—my wife's body is not for other men, Steenie Villiers or any, to use. I. . ."

"You were sufficiently happy to use my body before, when it suited you! I do not recollect you complaining of other men then!"

"Whore!" he cried, clenching fists. He only restrained himself from striking at her with an effort. At the threat in him she rose, as though to dart away, and the wrap she wore fell off.

Tensely they looked at each other, she at his fists and his working features, he at her full and very splendid body, large breasts with dark circular aureolas, and rounded belly above rich auburn bush. And, angry as he was, it was that gently rounded belly which, as it were, brought him up short. He actually pointed at it.

"You . . . you are not . . . with child!" he got out. "Look—you are no different than ever you were. Not pregnant! It would be next month, or the next
..."

"No," she admitted. "It was, shall we say, a mistake. Such can happen."

"Merciful soul of God—a mistake! A lie, rather—a damnable lie! You never
were
with child. It was but a trap. To trap me into marrying you! Curse you, Margaret Hamilton—curse you, for a liar, a cheat and a whore!"

"And you for a sour, stiff prig! And a fool, likewise!"

"You are right in that, at least!" And, in a different voice, opening those clenched fists to an open-palmed, helpless gesture, he said, "Woman—you have cheated me out of the best thing in my life!" And, turning on his heel, without another word, he left her there beside the bed, to stride off through the outer room and out, slamming the door behind him.

Hunger and weariness forgotten, he walked the streets for the rest of that night, a man all but bereft of his wits.

18

John Stewart was not the man to let matters lie. Out of his wanderings that night and all the turmoil of his mind, two matters were clear to him. His marriage was to all intents at an end; and he had a score to settle with George Villiers. So, in no very composed state of mind, next day he went in search of Steenie. He traced him to Whitehall, indeed to the King's bedchamber. He could not follow him therein, save by royal command; but he could, and did, wait for him in the audience-chamber adjoining, through which the Marquis would have to pass when he emerged. He was not alone in his vigil, for there were always suppliants and litigants tarrying there in the hope of an audience with the monarch or his advisers.

He had quite a long wait, as did the others, for although there was considerable passing in and out of officers and secretaries, the King made no appearance. But John was now possessed of a cold, steely patience. He sat on, as others came and went.