"I have already waited sufficiently long. I protested to this man, last night. Told that he was responsible. And he has done nothing." He pointed to Sir Gideon Murray.
"May I speak, my lord Duke—to this lord and to others?" that harassed individual said urgently. "His Majesty sent me command to find lodging for 5,000 persons. Five thousand. And stabling hereabouts for 5,000 horses! Can any here turn their minds to these numbers? To finding 5,000 beds? Of any quality! This palace of Holyroodhouse has been empty and unused for many years—save for a servants' wing. I have had to rebuild and refurbish, put on new roofing. Even so, in its present state the palace cannot sleep more than 1,500. I do what I can, but..."
While this heart-felt disclaimer was proceeding, Ludovick turned to his son, still at his side, to whisper. "Go find the King, Johnnie. You will know this park and demesne well enough. Find James and ask him what he intends. Tell him what is to do here, but chiefly of this banquet. He may know well enough, and care not. He may have forgotten. But tell him that I must know what is to be done. If I am to look after his interests. Save us—he has a Master of the Household whose task this should be—but Lord knows where he is. Probably hunting, also. Off with you now, lad. . ."
Looking doubtful indeed, but anxious to help his father, John nodded and slipped away.
So, John Stewart traversed the green slopes of Arthur's Seat for the second day running, but this time he did it mounted, as befitted a knight, for he was learning how to behave at court and had grabbed the first good-looking horse he saw tethered in the palace forecourt 'on the King's business', none gainsaying. With not the least idea where James might be by now, he was uncertain in which direction to ride. However, since it was said to be a hawking-party, the probability was that the sportsmen would be somewhere in the vicinity of water—for indeed there was little else for them to hunt these days than wildfowl. The deer which used to be so plentiful were now all gone, mainly poached by the Edinburgh citizenry but also dying out as the woodland around the skirts of the hill, which had given them cover, was gradually cut down. There were still a few hares and rabbits on the hill but Majesty was scarcely likely to go chasing these. A royal decree had come up from London some months previously declaring that, from that date, no muirfowl, partridges nor pout—meaning game-birds— were to be killed by any whatsoever on pain of £100 fine; so clearly James had his eye on such. He would not find many partridges nor muirfowl—that is red grouse or hazel-hens —on Arthur's Seat, but the three lochs were a great haunt of wild duck, wild geese and swans. So the hawking would be apt to start in the vicinity of one or other of the lochs.
The nearest was St Margaret's Loch, which lay on the low ground at this north-east side of the hill, named after the well nearby where King David the First had drunk for much-needed refreshment after he had been attacked by the wounded stag—which of course had been scared off by his chaplain waving the casket containing his mother, St Margaret's, famed Black Rood, or piece of the true Cross of Calvary, the occasion for his founding of the Abbey of the Holy Rood and the palace which developed therefrom.
John rode to St Margaret's Loch, beneath St Anthony's Chapel on its knoll, but there were no sportsmen there; and some children playing at the water's edge declared that John was the first horseman they had seen. Which left Dunsappie and Duddingston Lochs.
Dunsappie, which John had skirted the day before on his climb, was not much more than half-a-mile off, to the south, but some three hundred feet higher. It was small, really only a mountain tarn, and without the great reed-beds of Duddingston, to shelter and feed the wildfowl—so the latter was the more likely. However, Dunsappie was as it were on the way, although involving the ascent; and from the ridge above it a panoramic view of all the Duddingston, Priestfield and Craigmillar area could be seen and the huntsmen surely to be picked out.
With a horse to do the climbing for him, he was soon up to Dunsappie, scattering sheep. The place was deserted and looking desolate, so different from yesterday. He seemed to have Arthur's Seat to himself.
But from the ridge to the south he had no difficulty in spotting his quarry. Far below, on the firmer ground beyond the vast sedge-beds of Duddingston Loch, on the lands of Priestfield—now being called Prestonfield, priests being out-of-favour after the Reformation—about a dozen horsemen could be seen milling around, presumably flying their hawks. The chances of them being other than the royal party were remote.
Although not much more than another half-mile away as the crow flies, to get down to them was less simple. First of all, the slopes at this side were exceedingly steep, really a southwards extension of the great red crags which soared above Holyrood, with a peculiar pillared rock formation known as Sampson's Ribs. Then, at the bottom was the quaking sea of reeds. No horseman could descend the first nor cross the second. So John had to ride on eastwards at this high level, and in the wrong direction, to get down the more manageable slopes beyond, where their Pictish ancestors had dug cultivation-terraces out of the hillside, to reach Duddingston village itself. Then he had to work the long way round the loch and its sedgy extension westwards, although most of this he could do at the canter on fairly level ground so long as he kept well back from the shore. In this royal demesne the King could not have chosen a hawking-ground further away from his palace.
As he rode up on to the Prestonfield parkland, the mounted huntsmen were well scattered and mainly in pairs, much shouting and wagering going on and dogs barking. The sport consisted of the dogs being sent into the reeds to put up duck, geese, herons, swans or other fowl, and then the hawks to be unhooded and released from their owners' wrists to fly at selected birds. Although the sportsmen would prefer to choose each their own fowl, it was usually the sprung hawks that did so. Then the owners would wager on whose hawk would stoop on what quarry and make the kill, whilst they strove to ride as nearly beneath the aerial chase as was possible, shouting encouragements or curses—although here, much of it being over water or swamp, this was difficult. The dogs were then sent in to retrieve the plummeting game and the trained hawks called or whistled back to their owners' wrists. It was all a lively, noisy, ploutering business.
The ideal was for two hawks to aim at the same quarry, so that their owners could wager against which would make the kill, in which case the riders tended to be in pairs. But that by no means always happened and frequently, with sufficient game put up by the dogs, as here, the hawks all went after different fowl—in which case the wagering had to become more complicated. A further complication now was the reluctance of the others to wager against the King— who liked to win, and moreover kept notably good and well-trained hawks. Reigning favourites, such as Steenie Villiers, usually prudently saw to it that they flew inferior birds so that the monarch was unlikely to be offended by losing to them.
John had no difficulty in spotting James, whose extraordinary sacklike posture in the saddle was unique. He was with two others, Steenie—who presumably was forgiven for yesterday's failure—and the rubicund Bishop of Ely, who of course came from splendid wildfowl country in the Cambridgeshire fens. The young favourite looked bored.
Boredom took on an added sourness at sight of John riding up. The King spared only a glance from his hawk's assault on a great, lazily-flapping heron.
"Ha—Johnnie Stewart, come a-hawking! You're late, man—right dilatory. Long abed, nae doubt. Lying in after your knightly vigil, eh? Or after chambering and wantonness, mair like!"
"No, Sire, neither. My lord Duke sent me. We ... he knew nothing of this hunting and hawking. He sent me for Your Majesty's instructions."
"Aye, well—no' the noo, laddie. Can you no' see I'm busy? I. . . ha—a strike! An excellent strike. Feathers! Aye, a notable stoop. Yon heron will no' survive another, I say. It'll no' survive another stoop. Ten gold nobles, Bishop, that it comes doon on the next strike."
"Taken, Your Majesty," the prelate said, if without enthusiasm.
"Aye—at him, Hippogryph! At him, my bonny bird! He's bi
g, but nae spunk, the great muckle brute! My Hippogryph's mair'n a match for him, Bishop. Hippogryph—you catch the allusion, John Stewart, eh?" A quick look at the younger man. "The winged hero, mind! Ha—there he goes again! A kill... och, well, no'just. Yon was no' really a strike at a', Bishop, mind. A miss, just. No' to be counted ..."
"But feathers, Sire! Look—see them fluttering down. That is ten gold nobles . . . !"
"Na, na—those are loose feathers frae the last strike, man. It was no' a hit, I say. Was it, Steenie?"
"I . . . ah, did not notice, Sire," the beautiful youth said.
"You should keep your bit mind on the sport, boy. Dreaming, eh? Och—maybe dreaming o' your auld gossip
Jamie, belike? Aye, maybe! You, John Stewart—you've got guid eyes, I warrant. You saw it was nae strike?"
As has been said, John was an honest young man. He coughed. "It... it seemed to me to hit, Your Majesty. At the base of the neck. A fair stroke. But—see! It is coming down, I think. The heron. Yes, it loses height. . .!"
James, who had turned to glare at his new knight, looked back. "Guidsake—aye, so it does, lad! It comes doon. See—there it fa's. I was right, Bishop man. Yon great waffling fowl hasna survived a second strike. Ten gold nobles . . .!"
The heron's deliberate flapping had changed to an ungainly aerial floundering, and in an untidy bundle of long wings, neck and sticklike legs it fell with a splash into the reeds. Majesty spurred in after it in triumph.
He did not get far, of course—his horse had more sense, swinging round and back as it sank up to its knees. The dogs retrieved the heron, and James began to coax down his hawk with wheedling cries.
John tried again. "Sire—the Duke of Lennox requires your instructions. There is much, much concern at the palace. Matters have been arranged for Your Majesty. For this day. Many wait, not knowing what.. ."
"Aye, lad, folk are ay arranging matters for my Majesty! No' always to my taste, see you. Whiles, I prefer my ain arranging."
"Yes, Sire. But the Duke my father requires to know Your Highness's will. In especial in this of the banquet in the City Chambers. It is due to start within the hour, I think ..."
"Then it will hae to wait. It will do them a' good. They're ower fond o' belly-pandering, these folk." James had retrieved his hawk and hooded it, stroking its feathers gently. "Is my Hippogryph no' a bonny bird?"
"Undoubtedly, Majesty. Shall I go tell the Duke then that Your Highness will not be attending the banquet?"
"No' so fast, Sir Johnnie—no' so fast! I didna say that, did I? I said they'd hae to wait. You'll need to listen mair needfully to my royal words if you're going to serve me, mind. Eh, Steenie? Bishop—your doited bird is after a shelduck, see. Shelduck are nae guid—you should ken that. Even you Englishry'll no' eat shelduck, I warrant!"
"It is a passage-hawk, Sire, and may have fed on them wild. . ."
"And what of the cannon-fire?" John asked, getting desperate.
"Eh? Eh—cannon-fire, did you say? What's this?" He had the royal attention now.
"The salutation, Sire. From the Castle. The Constable is to fire cannon there, in your honour."
"When? When is this, man?"
"It was to be forenoon, Sire, I think. About now ..."
"Sakes—they'll no' fire them and me no' there, will they? This Constable man—he canna dae that!"
"I do not know. If it is but a salutation to mark Your Majesty's return to your Scots capital city, it could be fired at any time, for all would hear it. .."
"Hech, hech—that would be a wicked waste! He'll no' hae done it? Already? Would we hear it, here?"
"Oh, I think so. With the Castle set so high. It ca- not be more than two miles."
"Aye. Then off wi' you, John Stewart. To Edinburgh Castle. Tell yon Constable, whoever he may be, that he's no' to fire a single cannon until I come. I’ll fire thae cannon! You have it? You go tell him."
"Now, Sire? Before I go back to Holyrood?"
"Aye, now. Instanter. In case the fool starts up. Nae time to lose."
"But—what of the banquet?"
"Deil tak their banquet! It can wait. Off wi' you."
"Yes, Sire. I am to tell the Constable to wait until you come? When will that be?"
"Hoo can I ken that? So soon as I can get there, man. What think you?"
"Before the banquet. . . ?"
"Guidsakes—hud your wheesht aboot this banquet! What's one banquet mair or less?"
"It is just that the Duke said I was to find out, Your Majesty. If Your Majesty wishes to go to it..."
"My wishes are that there is to be nae cannon-fire until I come. See you to it—and nae mair havering aboot. Go, John Stewart—or you'll no' be knight for muckle longer, I promise you!"
John bowed from the saddle and reined round his borrowed horse.
He rode, fast, round the south-western flanks of Arthur's Seat, in past the hospice and hamlet of St Leonards, with the suicides' graveyard, and through the Greyfriars Port into the city. Thereafter, down Candlemaker Row, up the West Bow again, scene of yesterday's heroics, and into the Lawnmarket. Thereafter it was merely a straight canter up the causeway to the castle gatehouse and drawbridge.
Today the bridge was down and John was able to ride in unchallenged, a highly unusual state of affairs. He found the various wards and terraced-courts of the great fortress on the crest of the rock thronged with folk, mostly looking bemused and worried. None asked a single young horseman what he was about.
He rode up to the Constable's quarters in one of the topmost towers, to be dismissed briefly with the information that that luminary was not there, and whereabouts unknown. Deciding that the actual battery, where the main armament of cannon were ranged, high above the gatehouse and moat, to protect the only approach not guarded by precipices, was the likeliest place, in the circumstances, he hurried thither. This great semi-circular fortification, built forty years earlier, had no fewer than fourteen cannon-ports, pointing to east, north-east and south-east, and was known as the Half Moon Battery. Here, although there were plenty of people surrounding the ranked cannon, enquiries brought him to, not the Constable but the Master of the Royal Ordnance, John, eighth Lord Borthwick, who appeared to be in charge, a cheerful, burly character in his early thirties, who was whiling away the time of waiting by eating an alfresco meal and emptying a flagon of wine. When John had explained-his identity and mission, Borthwick informed that the Constable had gone down to Holyroodhouse to discover what had happened to the King. But he added that it was he who would actually order the cannon to be fired, as Hereditary Master-Gunner. He was in no hurry and no fret, he assured, prepared to wait all day— unlike that Constable, who was something of an old wife. He suggested that Methven—John was bashful about informing others that he was now Sir John—join him in refreshments.
The pressure being thus eased, the visitor was in three minds whether to return to the King, go back to his father at the palace, or to remain where he was. However, he decided that the monarch might be anywhere by now, on his way here, or returned to Holyrood first; so the best course was probably to wait.
It was as well that he did, for Lord Borthwick, who seemed glad of his company, was showing him the various pieces of artillery, rhapsodising over the mighty Mons Meg, its virtues and vices and odd name, when there sounded a great clattering of hooves from the approach-causeway below. Hurrying to the parapet, they peered over. About a dozen horsemen were pounding up fast, strung out; but well to the fore was a rider whose jouncing, sacklike seat and high hat were unmistakeable.
"It's the King!"John cried. "He has come right away. ‘It is James himself."
"You say so? Then—the guns should be firing. Quick . . .!"
"No, no—do not fire. He said that he would fire them. None to be fired until he came. He was strong on that. . ."
"James? Fire them himself? The King . .. ?"
"Yes. My father says that he likes cannonading."
Borthwick shrugged. "He could b
low himself up! Like James Second, at Roxburgh yon time!" He shouted to the gun-teams at each of the nine cannon in use, to stand to and await orders.
James came beating up, swaying in the saddle, hat askew, horse foaming, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. John ran to help the monarch down.
"You were in time, Johnnie man," Majesty gasped. "As well, mind. Whae's this? The Constable, is it—or Keeper, or whatever he ca's himsel'?"
"I am the Lord Borthwick, Sire—Your Majesty's Master of the Ordnance."
"You tell me that? Och, I kent your faither, then. A right lecherous auld rogue, too! But leal enough. Noo—whaur do we start? You got plenty powder and shot?"
"Plenty of powder, yes. We'll not need shot, Sire. Or we could be killing folk and bringing down chimneys!"
"Och, there's surely some bit open space where we could aim withoot hurting folk? Just a ball or two. Firing a cannon withoot a ball's like trying to mow a woman lacking the same gear, eh?"
"It is dangerous, Majesty. If the ball falls short. . ."
"If you're a guid cannoneer it shouldna fa' short, man. That's the art o' it—you, my Maister Gunner, should ken that. Yon bit ayont the High Riggs, where Geordie Heriot's new hospital's to be—yon's fine and open. A ball there'd dae nae harm. Noo—this muckle great brute's auld Mons Meg—I ken her fine. We'll start wi' her. Is she a' primed and loaded?"
"Primed, Highness—not loaded. None are loaded. Meg throws a seventy-pound ball over two thousand of paces ..."
"What of it? We'll gie her a bit bang, anyway. You'll hae some wool, man?"
"Wool? No, I never use it, Sire. Some of the gunners have it..."
James peered at the master-gunner beside Mons Meg, saw the white lamb's wool plug stopping his ear, tweaked it out and put it in his own ear. He dodged round behind the man to extract the other one. "Noo—gie's your bit lucifer, laddie." Taking the flaring match-rope, he went to the cannon, bent to gaze along the line of the huge barrel, clucking his tongue at the fact that it was lined up on nothing in particular, and applied the flame to the touch-hole.
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