James eyed the speaker thoughtfully, plucking at his sagging lower lip. "Is that so?" he said.
The other blinked. "Yes, Sire. We ask you to accept the esteem and support of the greatest county and second greatest city of England. In proof whereof the city Sheriffs present to Your Majesty these tokens."
His Majesty's regard lightened a little at the word tokens-but fell again when the tokens proved to be no more than the Sheriffs' white wands of office held up for him to touch. He tapped their wood distastefully.
"Ooh, aye," he said. "Esteem and support, is it? You could scarce offer your sovereign lord less, I jalouse! Your simple duty, man."
"Yes, to be sure. Your Majesty. Of course." Ingleby looked a little worried. "York will not be found wanting, I assure you. Yes. And these, Sire, are the Sergeants-at-Arms. By name Wood, Damfort and Westrope." "And what do they bring me? More esteem, man?" "Er, their maces, Sire. Symbols of their authority. To offer you."
"Hh'mm." James touched the handsome extended jewelled maces, one, two, three, as though they might have burned him. "I will consider the matter o' your privileges and charter hereafter," he added, licking thick lips. "After I have tasted the flavour o' your esteem." He raised his voice. "On our way, Dand." And, as the horses moved forward, he jerked his over-large head in a see-you-to-it gesture to George Heriot
As the distinctly upset representatives of York were all but brushed aside by the resumed royal progress, Heriot fell back and dismounted, to speak with the High Sheriff.
"Greetings, Sir William," he said pleasantly. "As representatives of your great county and city, you perhaps find His Grace a little… unappreciative?"
"I… I did not say so, my lord," Ingleby declared hurriedly, caution in every dignified line of him.
"No, sir. But perhaps you thought it And I am no lord, but a simple tradesman." 'Tradesman? You? At the King's side!" "Even so. His Grace is a man of… simple tastes."
"His tastes, sir, did not appear to embrace the County and City of York!"
"It is too early to say that, Sir William. Newcastle is less fine than York. I am sure. Yet His Grace found Newcastle very much to his royal taste." He paused. "Newcastle, of course, did present His Grace with a purse of gold pieces. Four hundred if I mind aright As well as their, h'm, esteem and support" "Ah!" The Sheriff stared. "Exactly. A pleasing thought, was it not, sir?" "Yes. Yes, of course." "Newcastle, to be sure, is a much poorer place than great York. Probably it is not yet too late to prove it." "You mean…?"
"Only that a fast horse could take you, or one of your friends, back to the city, sir, before His Grace reaches it in his somewhat leisurely progress. You can have my mount, indeed. I will find myself another…"
So, in a little, George Heriot, on another horse, spurred up again to the head of the column. But now a very splendid gentleman, the Earl of Cumberland, had moved into the place he had occupied on the King's left-and, not to be out-manoeuvred, the Earl of Northumberland and his brother Sir Charles Percy had edged forward to flank Lennox. Heriot slipped into a position behind where Lord Henry Howard and the Lord Cobham eyed him with disfavour and urged their mounts a little aside- although the Scots lords and bishops of the train knew better and welcomed him affably enough, most of them owing him money.
At the sound of the name Heriot, called in hearty greeting by the Lord Home, the King turned in his saddle and caught his goldsmith's eye. That man nodded almost imperceptibly and James faced front again.
"What's now, Geordie?" Home asked, low-voiced, reining close. "James has something on his mind, I swear."
"Would he be King if he had not, my lord? He is but concerned for the cost of this ever-lengthening train, I think. As who would not be?"
"Och, the English will pay!" Home said easily-and did not trouble to lower his voice this time, indeed stared round him with a sort of gleeful arrogance. Heriot did not comment.
Soon, at a mile from the city's Mickle Gate, another deputation awaited the monarch. This consisted of a superior-looking gentleman supporting a tall, thin, mournful-seeming man in richest clothing, who stalked on stick-like legs, resembling a disillusioned heron. "My Lord Burleigh, Lord President of the North," Cumberland informed him. "And a damned fool!" The Earl of Cumberland was, of course, a Clifford, of ancient line, and despising of Elizabeth's favourites.
"Ha-Cecil's son!" The King peered. "His father wrote me a wheen letters. Aye, kept me well informed."
"No doubt, She. But this William Cecil is a very different man from his father, God knows! Her Majesty made him Lord High Treasurer for a time-and lived to regret it! He well earned banishment to the North."
"Eh-Treasurer, you say? You mean that he thieved frae the Treasury? Lined his ain pockets, the man?"
"I scarce think he had the wit for that, She! No, he did nothing so understandable-did nothing at all, indeed. Failed to gather in the taxes. Let others spend as they would. Mismanaged all. A master of inactivity."
The monarch frowned at the earl, for he disapproved of levity on the vital subject of money; but it was as nothing to the darkness of the glare he turned on the second Lord Burleigh, son of Elizabeth's great Secretary of State, who it seemed was responsible for this alleged and most shocking state of the English Treasury, the bright morning-star which had for so long beckoned James Stewart southwards.
Burleigh's jerky brows and equally jerky assertions of loyalty and privileges were cut short.
"Aye, man-no doubt No doubt But facta non verba, see you. Deeds speak louder than words. We have heard tell o' you, and will reserve our royal judgment. Aye, reserve it"
"But, Majesty, I am your most devoted subject," the other declared, astonished. "Anxious ever to serve you in deed as in word. As Lord President of the North, it is my privilege to bring you the greetings of half Your Highness's kingdom…"
"Half, man? I am King of Scots, of England, Ireland and France. Dinna forget it"
"I, ah, meant England, of course, Sire. The greatest, richest, most powerful…" "No' so rich as it should be, as I'm told!"
"Alas, She, fortunes vary, fluctuate, with realms as with mere men…"
"But it's the mere men that make the realms' fortunes fluctuate, man! Some men. Fortuna favet fortibus-fortuna fortes adjuvat! You ken what that means? Guidsakes-do they no' give the English any education?"
In the profound silence which followed that, James resumed his march on York, the Lord President falling in unhappily with less illustrious but equally shaken folk behind.
With the great city walls rearing their barrier before, they came to the Middle Gate where a large company waited on a high wooden platform-the Lord Mayor, twelve aldermen and twenty-four councillors in their robes, all kneeling, with the keys of the city, the sword and other tokens. A trumpeter blew a fanfare and the Mayor launched into a lengthy oration, rather breathlessly, thanks to the difficult kneeling posture for a man with a notably large belly.
James listened for a little, but fairly quickly lost interest. Because of the height of the platform he would be able to touch the keys and sword without getting off his horse. As the Mayor, Robert Walter by name, gulped and panted on, the King announced that this is what he would do and let them get on into the town, for he was gey hungry. Lord Mayor Walter, preoccupied with memorising his oration, plus maintaining his equilibrium, eyes tight shut, presumably did not hear, and it looked as though there might be some slight dislocation of the proceedings when, from behind, George Heriot gave one of his significant coughs. The King looked round-for he knew that cough of old- and his jeweller jerked his head in a direction slightly left of forward, and raised his eyebrows.
James turned back, peering short-sightedly. A horseman had come hurrying out from the town, dismounted behind the platform and was now pushing through to the front of the official party, something familiar about him. Carrying something under a cloth, he squeezed in between the still-intoning Mayor and the senior alderman, getting down on his own knees in the process. He whispered in the alderman's ear, at some
length.
Nodding, the alderman took the covered object, obviously very heavy, and leaned over to nudge the Mayor. At the second nudge, Master Walter opened his eyes and stared, surprised, his voice faltering. There was more whispering.
Oddly, James no longer seemed impatient, but indeed highly interested.
The Mayor got to his feet, smoothed down his robes, and took the covered object, removing the cloth to reveal it as a large silver-gilt chalice.
'Your royal Majesty," he said, stammering a little. "Before we present to you the sword and keys of the city, it is my duty, my pleasant duty, to give you this loving-cup. Filled with gold pieces. As many as it will hold, see you. As mark and token. Token, yes, of the love that this City of York bears to Your Majesty. In promise of further, er, kindness."
The King smiled graciously. Indeed he grinned the sort of boyish leer reserved for highly satisfactory occasions. He actually dismounted and moved forward with his knock-kneed gait to climb the steps of the platform-and perforce everybody else must dismount also, since it would by no means do to be higher than the King.
"Aye, Master Mayor," he said. "This is right kindly." And he held out his beringed hands for the chalice without delay.
Indeed he all but dropped it, as the Mayor handed it over, for, as has been indicated, his wrists were not the strongest of him and the tiling was exceedingly heavy.
"Hech, hech-weighty! Aye, right weighty," he observed, juggling with his handful-but in no complaining fashion. He peered in at the contents assessingly, as though to assure himself that they could not have squeezed in another coin or two. "Good, good," he commented. "Angels, eh? Gold angels. They're better than nobles, are they no'?" He raised his voice. "Geordie! Geordie Heriot!"
In anticipation of such call, that man had moved forward. Now he climbed the steps also.
Clutching the chalice to his chest, James picked out a coin. "Angels, Geordie. How many o' them to the pound Sterling?" "Two, Your Grace. Ten English shillings."
"Aye. There's a peck o' them, here. Take it, Geordie. Aye, but first-the rings. You have some yet? "
Heriot delved into his pocket and produced a handful of gold-plated rings.
James made a quick calculation. "Three'll do. Three'll do fine, man."
There were the Mayor, and the chief alderman and the man who had brought the chalice-who was none other than George Robinson, one of the city sheriffs who had first come out with Sir William Ingleby. The others could be ignored.
So the transfer was made, the gold-filled chalice for three, plated rings stamped with the royal monogram. The King bestowed the latter upon recipients as though precious beyond rubies.
"We are pleased wi' you, much pleased," he beamed. "We will, ah, see you again. Later." "But-the sword, She. And the keys." "Ooh, aye. The sword and the keys. Och, well."
From one side a resplendent bearer was waved forward with the city keys gleaming like silver on a gold-tasselled cushion, and on the other, a stalwart individual with a helmet and the usual great two-handed sword. By touching the key and shooing the bearer away from him like an over-eager hen, James got rid of the first, but such tactics did not serve with the second, who seemed determined that the monarch should actually take the sword-unaware of his new liege lord's dire aversion to cold steel. James backed away-but he could not back very far or he would fall over the edge of the platform. Determinedly the other pursued him. Heriot would have taken the weapon for him but he had his arms full of gold angels.
"Awa' wi' you, you muckle limmer!" Majesty cried, in his broadest Doric. As a child he had been brought up in the large and noisy family of the Earl of Mar, hereditary keeper of Stirling Castle, where all spoke the Doric, and it remained his mother-tongue. The sword-bearer did not appear to understand.
"Your Majesty should take the sword, as symbol that you rule us all," Mayor Walter explained helpfully.
"I dinna want the sword, man!" the sorely-tried monarch snapped at him. "I can rule you a' fine, without yon!" George Heriot set down the chalice of gold pieces on the boards of the platform, "I will take the sword for His Grace," he said. "Give it to me."
That did not suit the sword-bearer, obviously a man who knew his own mind. The King was the proper and only recipient for York's sword, other than himself its custodian, and no jumped-up Scotchman was going to have it. Heriot came over to take it from him, muttering to the fellow not to be a fool, that the King could not abide naked steel.
James caught sight of his pot of gold sitting abandoned there in the middle of the platform, and letting out a wail, hurried over to stand guard over it. Anybody could have grabbed an angel or two. "Vicky! Vicky!" he quavered.
In fact, many of the foremost nobles had now recognised that something was amiss, and were hastening to the royal aid- although undoubtedly none of the Englishmen fully understood what was wrong. Lennox did, but he had not been nearest to the steps, and Lord Burleigh it was who arrived first on the platform, however stiffly.
"I will take the sword, as His Majesty's representative," he declared authoritatively.
George Heriot had no objection, but the sword-bearer remained more than doubtful, King James also had his reservations.
"Na, na-who asked you?" he demanded. "I cried on Vicky. Vicky Lennox."
"If Your Majesty does not wish to take the sword yourself, then I, as President of the North, am the proper recipient, as your Deputy, Sire."
"My lord-if His Majesty does not want the sword, it should be returned to me," the Mayor announced.
"Who says you're the President o' the North, man?" James asked. "Nae doubt you were. But I'd remind you-aye, and a' others-that no man now holds any office o' state lacking my royal appointment. Any, d'you hear? I can appoint whosoever I will to be President o' the North. Or none. Mind it." The King looked round, still trembling in his agitation, could not see Lennox, who was in a queue at the bottom of the steps, and found the Earl of Cumberland at his elbow. "Aye-you, man Cumberland. You take it. Yon sword. Take it out o' my sight. Geordie- you got the cuppie wi' the angels? Aye, well. Now-let's awa' out o' this. I've had enough o' this, God kens! And I'm hungry. My belly rumbles. Fetch my horse-you, Northumberland-fetch my horse. I'll climb on frae here. We'll see what they've got for victuals in this York…"
The Lord Mayor, aldermen and councillors of the city, left behind on their platforms, stared at each other and at the instrumentalists, there to lead the royal procession through the streets, and wrung their hands, rings or none.
***
That night, in the fine, lofty, beamed great hall of the Manor of St Mary, the former Benedictine Abbey now owned by Burleigh, the tables and remains of the banquet cleared away, George Heriot watched the scene from a quiet corner, a faint smile playing about his lips. Dancing was now in progress, the stately sort of dancing which Queen Elizabeth had delighted in, not the more robust Scots variety, and many handsome and finely dressed ladies now graced the royal presence. But James Stewart, up on the dais, was not much of a dancer-knock-knees and unsteady legs ensured that- nor was he very interested in women, young and good-looking men being more to his taste. As a consequence, he had settled down to an evening of hard drinking, abetted by a group of his Scots favourites and cronies, ignoring completely the efforts of sundry English notables to break into the circle, to present their ladies and friends. James, an arm round the neck of young Sir John Ramsay, his principal page, a youth of eighteen with the complexion of a girl and the ruthlessness of a wolf, sprawled at the dais table, high hat precariously askew-the only man in the great room covered-paying no attention to host, music, dancing, courtiers, suppliants or anything else than the replenishing of his own and his friends' wine cups. If he had felt any embarrassment when he discovered that his host for the week-end stay at York was not the Mayor and Council, nor the sheriffs, but none other than the Lord Burleigh in this Manor of St Mary, instead of the Guildhall, he had not let the matter trouble him. Burleigh was finding it just as impossible as were others
to approach his royal guest.
Heriot, who knew his place with the monarch as exactly as he knew his debts and credits, was glad to stand aside and watch. By nature and inclination he was a mildly intrigued observer of the human scene rather than an active manipulator, happiest when circumstances allowed him to be an informed spectator. It was not that he was a negative man, any kind of drifter-anyone who suggested anything of the sort in the Scots capital would have been hooted at-but he was of a philosophical and reflective rather than a combative or assertive frame of mind. Observing King James was, in fact, always of absorbing interest to him, sometimes a joy, sometimes almost an agony, sometimes tragi-comedy or high farce, but never dull. The fact that he knew a real affection for and some understanding of his unusual sovereign lord added an element of personal involvement which gave point to all.
He caught the eye of Ludovick Stewart across the room. The Duke did not find it so easy to stand in a comer and watch, however much he would have preferred to, his lofty rank, proximity to the throne and friendly personality ensuring that. A certain innocence about him, in a Court where innocence was scarcely the dominant feature, seemed to attract women, especially the more mature woman, and he was much sought after-which did not please him, for he was deeply in love with Mary Gray, illegitimate daughter of the handsome and dashing Master of Gray, whom he of course, the only duke in two realms, could by no means have married even if he had not been wed already. A young man at odds with his fate was Lennox. Excusing himself to two effusive York ladies who had all but cornered him, he backed out and made his way across the floor to Heriot, circling the dancers.
"You are not dancing, Master Heriot," he said. "Nor yet drinking. Nor even wenching. What do you do for amusement?"
"Some might say I count figures, my lord Duke. Jingle my well-known gold. Jinglin' Geordie Heriot!"
"Then some are fools! I know better. I think your entertainment is to laugh at us all. In that cool, knowing head of yours. Especially at the crowned mountebank up there-yet whom, I swear, you'd give your life for!"
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