The long-awaited moment arrived—fourteen years awaited, in fact, for this was 1617—and Scotland's curious absentee monarch came into view round the burgh wall, riding at a brisk trot before a multi-hued company of gentlemen which stretched away out of sight. All who sat rose to their feet, and after a false start and some uncertainty the musicians struck up with the rousing strains of Brace's battle-hymn before Bannockburn, generally called "Hey Tutti Tattie".
To this stirring accompaniment the royal cavalcade clattered up. James Stewart, as ever, rode like a sack of corn—which was strange considering that he was one of the most enthusiastic horsemen and huntsmen in his two kingdoms. Overdressed but with most of his too-decorative clothing neither quite properly fastened together nor very clean, he wore one of his notably high-crowned hats with jewelled clasp and feather—odd choice for riding—tipped forward over his nose. As far as could be seen beneath it, he appeared to be scowling.
But neither John nor his mother were really considering their liege-lord and his little eccentricities, concentrating their gaze instead on a stocky, plain-faced man, superbly mounted but much less extravagantly dressed than was the King, who rode immediately to the right, although not nearly so close as the exquisite youth on the other side, clad in the height of London fashion, whose mount almost rubbed against that of the monarch. Behind this trio rode a solid phalanx of impressive-looking gentlemen, and following on came the endless stream of riders, led by a troop of horsed guards in the royal colours, all gleaming armour and nodding plumes.
King James and his two companions trotted up to the dais-platform and, timed to synchronise with this, a file of one hundred of the Edinburgh Town Guard marched round from either side of the stage area, all uniformed in unlikely white satin, no less, with beribboned halberds over shoulders, to form up around the monarch—who eyed them somewhat askance, especially the halberds. James did not like weapons of any sort. Thereafter a pair of scantily dressed ladies emerged from behind the solid black-velvet-clad rank of magistrates and councillors of the city, tugging between them what seemed at first sight to be a baby in long clothes but which thankfully proved to be only a life-sized doll. Uttering shrill cries, partially lost in the martial music, the ladies pulled and shook fists at each other until a gorgeously robed figure wearing a crown and carrying both a sword and a sceptre, appeared, apparently to remonstrate with the furious females, although what he said could not be heard for Bruce's battle-hymn. However, his purpose was made sufficiently clear when he raised his sword above the baby, conveniently stretched out between the claimants, obviously to cut it in half, whereupon one of the disputants let go of the doll, wringing her hands and presumably howling, whilst the other clutched it, only to have it snatched from her by the man with the sword, who gave it to the other, who presented it to her bared breast as though to give suck. The crowned individual then turned and bowed deeply to the true and modern Solomon whose unerring judgment was thus exemplified, and all three retired backwards around the Town Council.
James attempted to speak, but "Hey Tutti Taitie" was still in full swing. Glaring from large, eloquent, indeed quite beautiful Stewart eyes, the monarch, who had no ear for music anyway, took off his high hat and flapped it at the enthusiastic instrumentalists. Without the overshadowing headgear, God's Vice-Regent on Earth, as he was wont to style himself, could be seen to have somewhat shapeless features but a high forehead to suit his hat, a slack mouth from which a pink tongue was apt to protrude—for it was too large for the rest of him and consequently he dribbled fairly consistendy—and a wispy beard. Now aged fifty-one, his hair was beginning to thin and grey and he had developed a paunch—scarcely an impressive figure, save for those eyes.
The musicians' leader got the message and the victorious paean ebbed away.
"God be thankit," Majesty declared thickly, and then nodded towards the stage. "Aye—och, maist appropriate and homologous. Aye, and perspicacious, perspicacious. Was it no', Vicky? Mind, yon wifie that didna get the bairn was auld enough to ken better, as you could jalouse by her paps. She was yon Jean Stewart, Lindores' lady, if I'm no' mistaken, and no' far off a grand-dame her ainsel', I'm thinking." He nodded sagely, and clapped on his hat again. "Now—what's next?"
"Let us hope no more Latin poems, Sire," the good-looking youth on the King's left announced, in the loud and clear, if clipped tones of the English ruling class. He yawned, frankly.
"Wheesht, Steenie, or they'll hear you," James said, equally audibly, and leaned over to pat the other's hand, to show that there was no real reproof intended.
The Provost stepped forward from the ranks of the magistrates, dressed like them all in black velvet for the occasion, but this enhanced by a special fur-lined cloak, very fine. The Lord Lyon King of Arms, in heraldic tabard, raised his baton and intoned:
"The Provost of Your Majesty's City of Edinburgh, Alexander Nisbet of the Dean."
"Aye, well—he has our royal permission to speak," James nodded graciously. "But no' for too long, mind."
Thus advised, the Provost bowed low and began. "Your Grace, in the name of your ancient capital and royal burgh of Edinburgh ..."
He got no further meantime, James interrupting: "No Grace, man—Majesty. You should ken that by now. Grace was the auld Scots usage, aye. But now it's for archbishops and dukes and siclike, eh, Vicky? Majesty, mind. And this Edinburgh's no' the ancient capital at all, see you, Provost —Nisbet is it? Nisbet's a right Merse name, frae the Borders, is it no'? Mainly rogues come frae the Borders, I've found, guidsakes! Ask Alicky Home. I've been biding at yon Dunglass wi' him yester-night. Aye, and the Homes are the worst o' the lot. Eh, Alicky?" And he turned in his saddle to scan the ranks behind him, where the Earl of Home quickly changed his black scowl into a smile. "Aye, well—Perth and Stirling, aye and Dunfermline and even Roxburgh, no' to mention yon Forteviot, were a' capitals in their day, before Edinburgh. Sic transit, you ken. So dinna get too high in your opinion o' this bit town! Proceed, Provost man—proceed."
Quite put off his stride, the chief magistrate hummed and hawed. "Majesty, I... I crave Your Majesty's pardon. I... ah, a slip o' the tongue, just. I was going to say ... I was going to say ..." Clearly, in his confusion he had forgotten just what he was going to say. Looking around him in desperation, he jettisoned his prepared speech. "I, I welcome Your Majesty on behalf of the City of Edinburgh, after your so long absence from it. To our loss, aye our great loss, to be sure. And, er, call upon the Town Clerk, Master John Hay, to make known the leal greetings of the Council and citizens."
The Town Clerk, a bustling little lawyer, thus prematurely thrust forward, produced a large swatch of papers from inside his velvet, with which he fumbled—and which James and others eyed with some alarm. However, as befitted a man of words, he fairly quickly found his place and launched forth into a flood of, if not exactly eloquence, at least verbiage.
"Your Gr . . . er, Majesty, blessed be God that our eyes are permitted once more to feed upon the royal countenance of our true Phoenix, the bright star of our northern firmament," he began, paper held close to his face the better to read.
He was corrected. "Phoenix, man, is no' a star, in this or any other firmament. It's an unchancy crittur, a sort o' fowl, wi' a habit o' burning itsel' in a bit fire every 500 years. You're no' likening your royal prince to siclike beastie?"
"No, no, Sire—no! It is but a figure, do you see. A figure of speech, just. Representing Your Grace . . ."He changed that quickly to gracious Majesty. "Aye, our sun, the powerful adamant of our wealth," he read on, "by whose removing from our hemisphere we were darkened. Deep sorrow and fear possessed our hearts, where had rested the imperishable, unconquerable by the fires of this world and the flames of tongues of evil men ..."
"Ooh, aye—and there's plenties o' those, eh Steenie? Plenties—especially in yon England! A right incubatory and hatchery for flaming tongues! But go on, man—and be quick about it. We've been here ower long as it is."
"Yes, Sire." Ma
ster Hay had to find his place again. "... tongues of evil men. Aye, the very hills and groves, accustomed before to be refreshed by the clear dew of Your Majesty's presence, not putting on their wonted apparel, but with pale looks representing their misery for the departure of their royal King, a King in heart as upright as David, wise as Solomon and godly as Josias! Your Highness, formed by nature and framed by Education to be the perfection of all elegance and eloquence, we, protected under the wings of Your Majesty's sacred authority from the Beast of Rome and his Antichristian locusts . . ."
"Hech, hech, man—Beast o' Rome is sweeping, aye sweeping! And the good ambassadors o' their maist Christian and Catholic Majesties o' France and Spain—here present, mind—will no' like yon o' Antichrist and, and locusts, was it? Right enough about David and Solomon and the like— but moderation in a' things, mind. Aye, and in length too, mannie. Enough is enough."
"Yes, Your Majesty. On the very knees of our hearts, we. . .
"Quiet, man—quiet! I said enough. If you hae knees to your heart, then you're a right wonder! Myself, I'm hungry—and it's a guid mile yet to Holyroodhouse, forby! Have done. Is that a', Mr Provost? It's usual, mind, for a bit presentation and recognisance, at such time. Secretary Tam—did you no' say . . . ?"
In his urgency the Provost actually interrupted the monarch. "To be sure, Sire—Your Majesty. Here it is. The city sword and keys, delivered to your royal keeping."
"Ooh, aye—but I wasna just meaning bits o' iron, man." Gingerly James looked at the two city officers now bearing down on him, one bearing aloft the great sword, the other the keys on a crimson cushion. The monarch was expected to signify his acceptance of these symbols by touching them and returning them to their keepers. But throughout James had remained sitting on his horse instead of dismounting and coming to sit under the fine purple velvet canopy erected for him. So that the two officers were up on the platform and, though the King was approximately on the same level, there was a sizeable gap caused by the steps up. The bearers of the capital's emblems were in a quandary. Were they to descend the steps and then hoist up their awkward burdens, or would the sovereign dismount or even climb to the platform? Actually, James, who hated and dreaded cold steel—save for the gralloching-knife of the deer hunt—waved away custodians and symbols both, looking round accusingly at Sir Thomas Hamilton, the Secretary of State, now created Lord Binning and Byres, who had come to the Figgate Burn to meet him.
That bulky but shrewd individual raised the powerful voice which had so often intimidated the Court of Session —for he had long been Lord Advocate and was now Lord President of Session as well as Secretary of State. "The cup, man!" he shouted. "The siller cup."
Provost Nisbet, whose day this seemingly was not, hastily turned to the City Treasurer who handed him a silver chalice, with which he came forward, almost at the run. Again there was the gap to contend with. He hurried down the steps and more or less thrust the cup up at the King, wordless.
James leaned to take it, and hefted it expertly in his hand, peering within. "Light," he pronounced. "Gey light." He passed it over to the plain-faced man on his right. "How much, Vicky?" he demanded, frowning. "Scanty, I'd say— aye, scanty."
The Duke of Lennox grimaced. "Now, James? Here?" He had scarcely been attending to all this performance, his gaze tending to be fixed on the persons of Mary Gray and his son, sitting there across the platform.
"Aye, now. You'd no' have us ignorant, Vicky, about so important a matter? Eh, Provost?"
"No need to count it, Sire. There is five hundred pounds there, in double-angels," Nisbet asserted.
"Five hundred, just?" James sniffed. "Five hundred, eh? Och, well." He turned and glowered back at the Secretary of State. "You hear that, you Tam?"
"Wait, Sire," that individual called.
"Na, na—we've been here ower long as it is. I'mawa'..."
"Sire—the Provost," the Duke reminded, in a penetrating whisper. "It is customary to knight the Provost of this your capital city."
"Customary, eh? Customary! Na, na, Vicky—no' for five hundred pounds, it's no'! You should ken that. Geordie Heriot wouldna have said the like. He kent what was what. See you to this Provost-mannie—I'm awa'. Come, Steenie." Majesty dug in his heels, reined his horse half-round, and headed off for the West Port archway.
Ludovick Stewart looked at the unhappy Nisbet, shrugged and dismounted. He tossed his reins to one of the Town Guard, handed the silver chalice to another, patted the cloaked provostly shoulder sympathetically, and ran up the steps on to the platform and straight over to Mary Gray, his son and his sister.
"My dear, my love, my heart!" he cried, and enfolded the dark woman in his arms, there before all. "At last! At last!"
Mary Gray hugged him, laughing between kisses. "Dear Vicky! Dear, dear Vicky! But . . . but is this wise? So many... to see."
"Let them see! All know, anyway. And I am a widower now, mind!"
"And growing fat on it!"
"That is French food. Too much oil!" He turned to embrace his sister—but still kept one arm around Mary Gray. Then he held out a hand to his son. "Johnnie! Johnnie—how good! Damn it—you're a better-looking man than your father!"
John Stewart was speechless.
"Where are you lodging? With the old Tippermuir dame? Then I will come to you there as soon as I can get away from James."
"Will he let you go, Vicky? He is always so demanding."
"He has this new pup, George Villiers, whom he calls Steenie. He dotes on him, even more than he did on the late and unlamented Carr. So long as he has young Steenie he maybe will scarce miss me ..."
"Look—there seems to be some trouble at the gate," the Countess said.
There was indeed now a great milling of horsemen and guards at the West Port arch, although that was to be expected with so many to get through the narrow entry. But, by the shouting and jostling, with the white-satined Town Guard hurrying thither, there appeared to be more than mere congestion.
The Duke felt that he might be required, as so often he was by his crowned cousin—for one thing, because of James's fear of naked steel, he alone was permitted to carry a sword in the royal presence, which weapon was required more for knightings than for anything more martial, but, in the sudden crises and panics which were so apt to develop out of nothing with this Lord's Anointed, James was glad to have both sword and reliable kinsman ever near-at-hand. So now he hurried to the gateway. John went with him.
Actually there was no call for any alarm. All that had happened was that the royal interest had been caught, typically, by the three grinning malefactors' heads stuck on spikes above the West Port archway, a favoured display spot for such relics, where they would do most good. Being James, he was intrigued not only by the various expressions thereon but in the varying stages of decay and putrescence, demanding of the gate-porters to know just how long each had been there exposed and wondering why one, not the newest apparently, should be still reasonably whole and intact—save for the eyes pecked out by crows—and a later example little better than a grisly skull? Nothing would do but that all three items should be brought down for royal examination. Not only had all this delayed passage through the gateway but, it so happening that the ladder to mount to the wellhead above the arch being kept behind one of the halves of the great double-doors, this half had to be pulled out, thus part-closing the already constricted entry. Such semi-closure, with the monarch on the other side, was of course incomprehensible for much of the royal train queueing up, and there ensued, in some; a scare that some sort of attack or assault was in progress, especially amongst the English courtiers—and much of the huge cavalcade was English-born—who were prepared to believe that everything in Scotland was barbarous, hazardous and probably treasonable into the bargain. So confusion developed outside the gate, and an anatomical study inside.
By the time that Ludovick and John Stewart had pushed their way through the noisy throng, however, at some risk from horses' stamping hooves, and dis
covered all this, the monarch had lost interest in the relics, and, yielding to Steenie's gasping complaints about the stench, shooed the heads away and set off eastwards down the street towards the Grassmarket at a brisk pace, scattering the crowded citizenry before them like squawking poultry. They left behind major disarray and doubts, as the most illustrious of two kingdoms sought to get through into the city after their liege-lord.
The Duke, of course, found himself in the forefront but without his horse. "A plague!" he exclaimed, "James will not stop now until he gets to Holyrood! Where the devil is my horse? He'll be shouting for me, God knows!"
"He'll have to stop," John pointed out. "There are other arches and spectacles to get through, three more at least. At the West Bow and St Giles and the Tolbooth ..."
"Lord!" his father groaned. "He'll be in direst straits then, I swear! I'll have to be after him, or he'll be yelling treason! A horse ... ?" He looked about him and reached for the bridle of the most forward-placed mount he saw—which happened to be that of Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, chief of the greatest house in England, and who should have been Duke of Norfolk but for the attainder of that title by the late Queen Elizabeth. "Off!" he shouted. "Off with you—in the King's name!" And, more or less, he tugged that astonished young man out of the saddle by main force. "Sorry, Tommy—you'll find my grey somewhere. This is important," he panted. Mounting to the vacated saddle, Ludovick looked down at his son and held out his hand. "Up behind me, Johnnie—you'll know where these damned arches are. Come!"
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