Unicorn Rampant

by Nigel Tranter

  For the next fifteen or twenty minutes the talk was clinical rather than financial or administrative, as Esmeralda, with a minimum of fuss on her part in contrast to that of her royal master, produced a fine bay colt, hooves first as James had prophesied. He himself did much of the midwifery required, and what he did not actually do he directed and expounded upon, as much apparently to the two physicians as to the Spanish ambassador. He was even more odoriferous and soiled than usual by the time that all was tidied up and dam and offspring re-united—but that was not a matter to concern the Lord's Anointed.

  On their hobbling way back to the great house, with James clutching a Spanish and a Scots arm, from excogitating on the interesting relationship in conception, parturition, death and the hereafter, the improbability of reincarnation and the form of the spiritual body, he suddenly dug an elbow into John's ribs, and chuckled.

  "You, Johnnie Stewart, should be showing mair interest in this matter, for we've a' go to pass on, some o' us sooner than others—and you are like to be consaimed in the parturition bit o' it, a' too soon! Ooh, aye."

  "I do not take Your Majesty's meaning . . . ?"

  "You do not, eh? And you sae gleg! Why, it's marriage for you, man. And without delay. Marriage, aye."

  John blinked. "Your Highness jests . . ."

  "Not so. You've got yon Hamilton lassie wi' child, and you'll wed her. The jesting's by wi'."

  "But. . .but. .."

  "Aye, you were aye a great one for buts, my mannie— but it's my turn! I was for you wedding the quean before, you'll mind—but noo it's fell necessar. I'm no' having young females wi' faitherless bairns aboot my court—I am not! I promised her a place, mind—you were strong enough on that, a few months back. Weel—noo she'll be wife to Sir John Stewart o' Methven, Keeper o' Dumbarton Casde! That'll dae her fine. So, you see—conception and parturition are right applicable, you'll no' can deny?"

  "Sire! I . . . I . . . this is not right, just. It is unfair. Not marriage. I.. ."

  "Dinna tell me you would refuse to mak an honest woman—or sort o' honest—o' the lassie, man? You've lain wi' her, many's the time. This is what can happen when you bed females—is it no', Don Diego? Safer, sometimes, wi'. . . others!"

  "But, Sire, she. . . she . .."

  "Na, na—dinna say it, lad! Dinna say anything you might regret. She's going to be your wife—for that is my royal command. So her guid name has its importance, eh? If it's no' too late! You'll wed—that's a' that's to it. And it had better be right soon—before she begins to show. Och, you might dae a deal worse. She's got wits, that one, and plenties o' spirit. And she's weel enough connected. Sir Claud, her faither, wasna very bright but he was a decent-enough man. And his brother, Abercorn's nae fool. The Hamiltons hae some royal blood, mind."

  "Are my feelings of no matter, Sire?"

  "Your feelings were weel to the fore when you got yoursel' up under the lassie's skirts, were they no'? Forby, there's mair feelings than yours to consider. So—enough talk. You'll be wed so soon as it can be contrived. You can be off the morn to see Cockayne and his Merchant Venturers, and you can forgather wi' your bit bride-to-be at the same time, at St James's, and decide on a day for it. As to the price you get frae Cockayne, mind to be not ower soft wi' him. He'll ca' it a' back frae the folk who need the paper, and plenties mair, you can be sure. Let us see you making a keener paper-merchant than you are a bridegroom! Or a Keeper o' Dumbarton . . .!"

  Next afternoon, then, John presented himself at St James's Palace in no very happy frame of mind. He found not only Margaret Hamilton but Will Alexander with her, and two others of the Prince's gentlemen, playing cards and drinking wine, a scene of pleasant relaxation into which it is to be feared he intruded a somewhat souring note, however warm the young woman's greeting. He sought not to eye her lower person too directly—but to him she seemed no different from normal.

  Will got rid of the other card-players presently, and then gave John some account of his activities since returning from Scotland. He had given the King and the Duke a report of the situation there. He had seen the Merchant Venturers at St Paul's, not Cockayne himself but Elias Woolcombe, and they were eager for the paper deliveries to commence. The ship from Leith had brought the first cargo into the Thames and the paper was now stored in a warehouse, Bertram's, at the Blackfriars Wharf. Woolcombe had been very urgent to get a price for it, from him; but he had said that was not for him to state. Had John heard about parliament's act ending the monopolies . . . ?

  John told him that he intended to visit St Paul's immediately hereafter. Meantime, he desired a word with Margaret.

  Alexander took the hint and withdrew.

  The young woman, laughing, came to throw her arms around him again and to rub herself against his person. "You are good at getting rid of folk, John!" she said. "So long since we were together. I have missed you."

  He stirred uncomfortably in her embrace. "You are . . . well? Or . . . well enough? In the circumstances ..."

  "Oh, yes—never been better. And the more so, now that you are back."

  "But ..." He glanced downwards, where her belly was continuing with a sort of rotation motion against his groin, distinctly disturbing. "Should you be doing this?"

  "Why not? Oh—I see. You mean—that? No difficulties there—yet!" "I am sorry."

  "Sorry? Sorry for what, John?"

  "This . . . trouble. The child."

  "It is scarce a trouble. That is no way to speak."

  "Perhaps not. When is it to be?"

  "Oh, that? I, I cannot be sure. In the spring-time, it will be."

  "You must have some notion, less vague than that?"

  "Such matters are not so simple. We were . . . together, many times. Over a period."

  "Yes—but you must know when, when .. ."

  "John—I cannot tell you the exact time. Is it so important to you? One month, or the next?"

  He shook his head. "I suppose not." He paused, and then blurted out, "You know that we are to marry? The King commands it."

  "Marry, yes. But not only because the King commands, surely? We talked of marriage before ..."

  "You did!"

  "You are less than gallant, John, I think! What is wrong with us marrying? You . . . enjoy me, sufficiently, do you not? And I you. We have much in common. The royal service, our Scots blood ..."

  "There is the matter of love."

  "Love? What is love, John? We make love very well, do we not? We suit each other. We can be sufficiently close in other ways also ..."

  "There is more to love than that."

  "How do you know? Are you in love with somebody else, John Stewart?"

  He looked at her for moments on end. "I am, yes," he said at length.

  "So-o-o! Why have you not married her, then?" "I cannot," he said, shrugging.

  "Because she will not? Or because she is already wed?" He did not answer.

  "Married, then. Who is this woman? Do I know her?"

  "No. Nor shall you! That is my business, only."

  "I see. So you are having an affair with a married woman—but it must be kept secret! In Scotland? Is that why you have been away so long?"

  "No. Nothing to do with that. And there is no affair— none. I loved her before she married. A marriage forced on her by her father. She is entirely virtuous."

  "Virtuous! Yet keeps you dangling! I know the sort..."

  "You know nothing of it! And knowing nothing, will kindly say no more. It is no concern of yours."

  "If I am to be your wife—as the King commands—and you are in thrall with another woman, it does seem to be of concern to me."

  "Do you wish, then, to abandon the notion of wedding me?"

  "Oh, no, John—oh, no! It is me that you have got with child, not this virtuous wife of another! I need a husband and father for my bairn, and she does not. I also need a place at court. So we shall be wed, as His Majesty decrees. But... so long as you remember this other, so shall I!"

  He ey
ed her with the negation of love.

  "When shall we have the wedding, then?" she asked, brightly again. "It had, probably, better be soon."

  Curtly he nodded.

  "Have you any preferred day? We are near to November. Yuletide would be best avoided. Do you agree? Then, say, in a month? St Margaret's Day sounds well. Whom I am named for. November the sixteenth. Have you anything against St Margaret? No? Good. But try to sound something more eager as a bridegroom. Sir John Stewart and his lady must keep up appearances, no? Where shall we be wed?"

  "I care not. Since it is you and the King who are so keen, you can settle that between you."

  "Very well. There will be much to see to before then— and no doubt I shall have to see to it!"

  "As you say. I have to go now, to St Paul's. On the King's business."

  "So soon? After so long a parting? You do not desire some little ... enjoyment? Of, shall we say, a bridegroom's privileges? It might be contrived ..."

  "I thank you, no," he said stiffly. "I must go, if I am to catch these merchants, at St Paul's."

  She nodded. "It is that way, is it? As you will." Then, she reached out a hand to his arm. "John—it will not be so ill—being married. You will see. With an understanding of each other, we will fare well enough. We need not be... difficult with one another."

  "I hope so—indeed I do . . ."

  In consequence of all this, John was not in his most accommodating frame of mind when he reached St Paul's. He could not find any of the Merchant Venturers whom he knew in the throng and was directed to a tavern in Seething Lane, a poor place for such influential traders, but full to overflowing. Woolcombe was there and the man Cardell. When they perceived John they did not delay in detaching themselves from others, and approached him as though he was a long-lost relative. Where had he been? Why the long delay? They had looked for him. His paper was waiting at the Blackfriars.

  John told them briefly that he had been detained in Scotland. Had they examined the paper?

  Yes, they had. The quality was about right for their requirements. How much?

  "How much do you require?"

  "We can take all that you can send us. If the price is right. How much money is what I meant."

  John shrugged. "Three hundred shillings for the 1,000 sheets," he answered flatly.

  The two merchants glanced at each other.

  "Three hundred. That is £15 sterling. For 1,000 sheets." Woolcombe gazed into his tankard. "That is, delivered here, to London River? Fifteen pounds the 1,000. Ummm."

  "Fifteen pounds ..." Cardell repeated, examining the ceiling.

  "Yes."

  "Is there any reduction for quantity? A continuing purchase?" Woolcombe wondered. "We could make it a steady order. For regular deliveries. Some small reduction, sir?"

  John could scarcely believe his ears. The price suggested in Scotland had been not much more than a third of that sum—120 shillings per 1,000. He had named 300 merely as an opening bargaining figure, prepared to chaffer. But they seemed to be taking it seriously. This monopolies ban must be hitting these people hard, that they were so eager. He would have thought that prices would be coming down, not going up. He took a chance.

  "No, sir—no reduction. That is our price. Take it or leave it. We would have no difficulty in selling the paper elsewhere."

  "This price will stand for further shipments?"

  "In the meantime, yes."

  "How many? How much in each cargo? And how often?"

  "There are 30,000 sheets in this first consignment. We could send more, at a time. How often would you wish deliveries? Monthly?"

  "We could take more."

  "Fifty thousand sheets monthly, then? At 300 shillings per 1,000. Present quality."

  "So be it. If that is the best that you can do for us. But, see you, Master Methven—there is one matter more. We would not wish you to sell to others also."

  "I understood that monopolies were now to be unlawful?"

  "No doubt, sir—but this is scarce a monopoly. But a private arrangement between buyer and seller. As all trade must be."

  "Very well. Let us say that we shall consider no other sale in England without first informing you."

  "It is agreed, then?" Woolcombe held out his great paw. "We'll shake on that, Master Methven. It's a bargain. We will seal it with the best ale. When can we have delivery?"

  "When you have payment to hand."

  "The morrow, then? At Bertram's, in Blackfriars. At twelve noon? Thirty thousand sheets. At £15 the thousand.

  That is £450 sterling. You will have the Merchant Venturers' note-of-hand for the sum, then. Made out to whom? Yourself, Master Methven?"

  "No, sir. Made out to Sir John Stewart, Knight."

  "Sir John? A knight. . . ?"

  "Yes, In Scotland we do such things differently. You have the name? Stewart."

  "Stewart it is, yes. Four hundred and fifty pounds. Tomorrow noon. Yes, Master Methven. Now—ale!"

  Sir John Stewart, Knight, returned westwards with mixed feelings again. Kingjames would be happy, at least. Even at 120 shillings there would have been a fair profit. But at 300, if he calculated aright, there would be no less than £270 profit. In sterling. For this load. And at 50,000 sheets a load, £450 profit. Each month. Surely the King would not grasp it all, thirled to money as he was? Some ought to come to himself—to help pay off Middlemas. And him soon with a wife to keep . . .!

  16

  They were married on St Margaret's Day in the private chapel of St James's Palace, a small and rather shabby sanctuary, now but little-used, and cold on a chilly mid-November day. Nor was there any large crowd to fill and warm the place, only a handful of guests, however distinguished some of them. One of the King's favourite chaplains, Valentine Cary, Dean of St Paul's, officiated, and made fairly short work of it. Will Alexander was groomsman and one of Margaret's cousins, another Margaret Hamilton, coltish, plump and plain, was bridesmaid. Another cousin gave her away, in the absence of his brother, the new Earl of Abercorn—the old one had died, in Ireland. He seemed almost glad to be rid of her. Ludovick was there and one or two of his friends at court. Otherwise most of the congregation appeared to be grinning young men, who were presumably friends of Margaret's, since John did not know any of them.

  Margaret herself was certainly looking at her best, high-coloured, bold-eyed, smiling, scarcely a demure bride but clearly pleased with life—and no sign of pregnancy was evident. John, having taken himself in hand, put the best face on it all of which he was capable, and sought to look reasonably cheerful even if less than ebullient.

  The King did not grace the occasion; perhaps that could hardly have been expected, however much of it all was of his engineering. His contribution was the wedding-feast at Whitehall, to which the court had returned for the winter, the Ralegh furore having died down. This proved to be a fairly modest affair of no great munificence, over which Ludovick presided and which fairly quickly became noisy, with the liquor flowing and only the two females present, neither of whom were shrinking violets. Presently, possibly attracted by the noise, James himself turned up, with Steenie Villiers, and, after proposing a toast to Sir John and Lady Stewart, settled down to some steady drinking.

  John, in fact, could have done without this expression of royal goodwill, for it meant that he and Margaret were now stuck at this table until such time as the monarch might choose to remove himself, since none could leave before the King. And, once James started serious drinking, he could keep it up for hours.

  However, Ludovick, recognising his son's lack of enthusiasm, not being a drinking man, presently had a word with James and then announced to all that he conceived that it was just possible that the bride and groom might be growing slightly impatient to proceed further with this auspicious day's, or night's purposes, and he suggested that, with His Majesty's permission, they should be allowed to get on with it. Whereupon, amidst the shouted rudery, James beat on the table with his goblet and declared that the
vital, aye vital, matter of the bedding should not be longer delayed; and that it would be their pleasure and privilege to assist the happy couple to due fulfilment thereanent. Although, mind, he jaloused that this fine pair would require but little instruction and advice, being possibly already as expert at the business as any present! To loud cheering, all rose, eager to co-operate.

  John had been afraid of something of the sort being envisaged, and had been ready to reject it in no uncertain fashion. But this of the King changed all; he could not flatly refuse a royal proposal. He had heard about these nuptial beddings, and wanted no part in one. But how could he avoid it, especially with Margaret showing no signs of alarm or reluctance?

  "I thank you, Sire," he said, raising a hand. "But, since no guidance in the matter is required, as Your Majesty says, the lady and myself would prefer to take our departure in more private fashion. And not to disturb the feasting of you all. If you please ..."

  "Nonsense!" the new Marquis of Buckingham declared loudly. "You misjudge your lady, so soon! Meg Hamilton is none so ill-humoured, I swear!"

  "I misjudge nothing, my lord. Would you deny me my first exercise of a husband's authority?"

  "Na, na, Johnnie," James intervened. "You'll no' deny us oor right in this fell important matter? You've been wed before these witnesses. Now you'll bed before the said witnesses, in the guid auld-fashioned way. So, nae mair havering. Let us dae oor duty by these twa, friends a'."

  So, like it or not, bride and groom were grasped and propelled from that dining-hall in triumph, and all but carried along corridors and down stairs of the palace to the very modest bedchamber prepared for the happy couple, John set-faced but Margaret laughing amiably. With the King nowise backward in the proceedings, John came to the perhaps jaundiced conclusion that this was indeed why James had come to grace the occasion.