by Donald Smith
‘Kirkcaldy, Kirkcaldy! A couch for the King.’
Unstrapped, he slumps into their arms. I lead the way calling for cloths, a blanket, and warm water. He retches in the passage. Is my father safe? The King’s army? I dare not ask. The women come running. As we lower him onto a bed the stench is overpowering. This is the smell of defeat, disaster. My King rotting in his own foul fluids. Dissolution of our nation and all carefree ended.
Good choleric Sir James, the old Treasurer, retired to Hallyards and stared at the logs burning. My father was suddenly worn and feeble. But I returned to Court and continued apprentice to Sir David Lindsay – proud Lyon Herald, stern in speech, until his players opened their mouths and spoke free thoughts.
Crouching in the minstrels’ gallery, I would catch every word. The King was still in his high throne then surrounded by churchmen and earls and knights, aye and ladies of the realm. He had his eagle eyes on them. The feast was sated with jugs of wine going all ways, when the fool scampers cap and bells to cry an interlude.
My great grandpère was Finn McCool
Who dang the devil, and made him yowl
He had a wife, of giant size
Who in the stews with him lies
And spits Loch Lomond from her lips
Fire and thunder from her hips
And when she rifts, the heavens lift,
So do we mark this holy day
Come and listen to our play.
No one notices or even listens. The players wander in – courtiers, bishops, townsfolk, and then a king. Chatter falls away. A poor man, Jack Commonweal comes, asking for the king, and they point out the player. This is not the King, says he, and suddenly everyone is listening. No, no, the King is the one who hanged Johnny Armstrong the outlaw. Only he forgot to bring justice to the poor. Because the churchmen and barons are taking their wives and daughters, and harrying them for taxes.
Next a ragged widow enters, lamenting and denouncing the priest for demanding her last cow before he would bury her husband.
Silence deepens.
Wise experience comes to back up the complaints and the player King vindicates their plea. No one attends the final dance and caper; all eyes are on the monarch. Can he have sanctioned such license? By his own Lyon Herald
James seemed sunk in his seat, eyes veiled, a countenance turned away to his own thoughts. The narrow features ringed by brows and beard. No one dares applaud and the players stand at a loss.
‘Archbishop,’ he snarls abruptly. ‘If you don’t mend your ways, I’ll send six of you to England to learn better.’ He signals the interlude away, and music commences. Lindsay stands behind the throne, gaunt, unbending. Is he a Protestant?
We turn into a courtyard. That King is dead, streaked with vomit. Only the Player King survives.
I climb down to hold my master’s reins, and the old courtier dismounts stiffly. A servant comes to guide Sir David Lindsay up the steep outside stair. ‘Follow up, William’, he says. ‘You might learn something.’
Through a lobby he goes, with that careful step of the elderly, and an inner door swings open. The figure by the fire seems shrivelled, ancient by comparison. Shrewd sharp features tucked under a warm woollen cap. Veined skeletal figures reach out towards the heat.
‘Lindsay, come in and rest your legs.’
‘It’s a cauld sough.’
‘You mean the weather, or the universe breathed on by God’s Holy Spirit?’
Old eyes gleam with wit.
‘You’re too sharp for me, Doctor.’
John Mair chuckles drily, or clears his throat. An almost translucent hand gestures towards the other side of a roaring fire. ‘Who’s that?’ I was in the doorway.
‘William Kirkcaldy, the Treasurer’s son. He is in my care at court.’
‘Go to the kitchen, lad, and they’ll feed you.’
I step back into the lobby and draw the door nearly closed. I want to hear.
‘I remember when I was sent first sent to Court service.’ It’s my master’s voice. ‘He’s a ready youngster, though his father’s been broken by events.’
‘Things are broken, Lindsay, and we must depend on the next generation to make and mend. Pour a glass for us, Herald, we don’t stand on court ceremony here, poor scholars as we are. A few years back I taught a brilliant boy from Haddington, John Knox. He was first in all studies, granted papal license as the youngest priest in Scotland. Where is he now? No place, no patronage, all his promise sunk in obscurity and resentment. A nation that eats its own young makes an ill diet.’
Behind the door, I felt sympathy for a youngster cast adrift in this hostile world, like me. It was the first time I heard his name.
‘The Church needs reform. The money meant for priests provides luxury to prelates.’
‘Or to the King’s bastards, Lindsay. I hear you’ve written a play.’
‘More folk hear about my Interlude than listen to what it says.’ From my spying angle, I saw Lindsay draw a roll of parchment from his jerkin and lay it on a reading stand propped against the philosopher’s chair.’
‘Is this a philosopher’s study – clerks’ plays and vain mysteries?’ Mair chided.
‘They are the people’s scripture, since the Church gives them no other,’ my master retorted.
‘Are you turned Lutheran now?’
‘No, for God requires our good works as well as our faith.’
‘Without goodness there is no truth, no divinity.’
‘But the Church cannot dispense goodness like two-penny candles. We need God’s grace.’
‘And our own free will.’
‘Aye, if we can win such freedom.’
‘Only Christ’s sacrifice can give us freedom.’
‘The Mass is a sacrifice.’
‘To deny that is blasphemy. You know there must be ceremony, ritual and worship if our souls are to be nurtured. This is the miracle of grace, God made flesh, the creation restored, renewed.’ The old man’s face was suffused with clarity.
‘The Church’s ceremonies are sold like worldly goods, Doctor, to feed the avarice of popes and cardinals.’
‘You are right. The Church must be reformed by its bishops in council and not governed by worldly tyranny. That is what I fear, Lindsay, that the snares of power will bind the body of Christ till all is broken, torn down, beyond repair. The spiritual life will be extinguished; the work of God’s Saints in Scotland overthrown.’
‘Or find a new form.’
‘You will turn Protestant.’
‘No, an old dog cannot learn new tricks. Yet since His Majesty’s death I have drunk deep in Scripture.’
‘The English Testament.’
‘How else are the people to be taught? I turn again and again in its pages to the last things. I am afraid that the end of the age is coming on us like an elemental darkness.’
‘Faith, hope and charity, Lindsay. Perfect love casts out fear.’
‘You do not believe in history, the wheel of time?’ quizzed the Herald.
‘I believe in God’s goodness and his omnipotence.’
‘But what of his judgment – we have brought this evil on ourselves.’ My master’s voice was heavy with conviction.
‘The sacrifice of Christ is sufficient to redeem. Do not fall into disbelief.’
‘And how is Scotland to be saved?’
‘By alliance with England, as you know well. Have we learned nothing from Flodden? Or Solway Moss? The infant Queen must be wedded to an English cousin, so the thistle can unite again with the rose, but this time for good.’
The scholar’s mask had slipped revealing a statesman’s wisdom.
‘You were a Doctor of France, the most learned in Paris,’ reproved Lindsay.
‘Perhaps, but I had enough native wit to see the difference between kingly vainglory and the security of our borders.’
‘King James hanged Johnny Armstong for our security.’
‘Aye, and traipsed to France for a bride.’
‘The Pope approved.’
‘Quod erat demonstrandum.’
The old man leaned back in his chair, as if drained. Expecting theology, I was apprenticed to statecraft. Lindsay leaned forward close to the reclining figure. ‘And what of the cardinal…’ The voices lowered and mixed till nothing could be distinguished. Suddenly chilled, I turned away to seek a kitchen fire and some food for my rumbling belly.
Sister Beth
THAT WAS JUST the beginning of trouble and not its end, for though hard used, my sufferings were nothing to what came on us after. There were rumblings at first when Beaton the fat cardinal was raw sliced in St Andrews by Protestant rogues, his corpse hung on the ramparts. One wag undid his britches to piss on the great man’s head. What a stramash. Fifers like young Kirkcaldy got the credit, such as it was.
Then Father John ran off there to find his vocation. Of course preacher Wishart was already burnt, which was a shame, for he was a tall slender man with dark colouring, though very learned with it. He preached here in Haddington on our sins, but got small audience. Earl Patrick had him carried off to Hailes and then sold him to Beaton for roasting. What religion’s in that? Killing and burning? Mary, Mother of God, save us from the fires.
He was on the royal make then was Pat, all the old quarrels with James forgotten, now he was dead. First Pat fought with the Scots, and then with the English, all for keeping Liddesdale as his own domain. Then off to Venice he runs, some watery place, to waste his lands on wine and whores. Now he was back, supporting the bairn Queen, resisting the Protestants, and sooking up to the widow Guise. Bothwells are always kindly to widowed queens.
He fancied his chances, did lanky Pat, and put away his own good wife, Agnes of Morham, the mother of his children, on the excuse she was a cousin in blood and too close to wed. It’s a crying shame and who does it remind you of, Francesca? Aye exactly, only Pat wasn’t fat and stinking, just thin and oily. She was better without him.
Now Earl Pat hies to Court in the best doublet and hose, studded with jewels and handing out gold guineas as if they grew in his own kailyard. Quite the gallant, pox or no pox. His face was marked. I suppose the jewels were pawned.
But she had his measure, the French Marie, and soon Pat was in the sulks, sent packing with a tail between his legs, and an empty purse. So he’d given George Wishart to the burning and gained nothing for his pain. What can the bold Earl do now? Off to the English who pay him to lie low at Hermitage and keep out of the fight that’s coming. No one guessed till the Castle at St Andrews fell down, and there was Pat’s name on an English payroll. So much for his religion. Pat’s son turned Protestant but that’s another story.
I think my girl, our daughter, was kept all this time at Hermitage till use could be found for her. It’s a cold stark place almost in England. Did she see her father and have her cheek petted, her hair ruffed? Did he even throw her a look, while he hunted and drank, plotting what he could get next? A skivvy doubtless, till she had a use for the son Hepburn, whose name curdles on my tongue like vinegar in cream. Faithless, cold hearted Pat – nothing dear but himself, not even his own boy Jamie, Agnes Sinclair’s laddie. And he casts the mother off without respect or mercy, the good lady mother. Aye, and I was a mother too.
What’s the use of brooding? Confess your sins to Mother Mary and leave them behind you. There was no time to spare besides, for the English were on us. While Pat was safe in his darksome castle, the manhood of Scotland was felled at Pinkie. All because they wouldn’t send the babbie Queen to England to be wed. For three days the Esk ran red with blood. We took in wounded and dying like a plague season. Black Saturday. Then down they came to Haddington, Hertford’s wild southern beasts, and wrecked the town, carrying off everything they could on legs, hooves, wheels. It was plain robbery. We barred the convent gates and escaped the worst for a time. Our time was coming, though.
Put down your quill, woman, for Jesu’s sake, and listen to me. I’m ashamed, but I’m speaking plain and true, so hear me out. For most folk war was waste and trouble. But the war made me what I am, Francesca, it gave me chances. I thickened at the waist but my purse fattened with my belly.
You see I was in charge of all the supplies. Lady Prioress was failing and not suited anyhow to dealing with soldiery. So I bargained with the English army – and later with the French. All these rough men needed fed, and their horses wanted fodder. We had food enough snug in the convent, since the well-born sisters had made off in carts and litters to their castled kin. Up in the Lammermuirs I had stores aplenty hidden. The army had money which was easier for them to pay than risk foraging in enemy country. Some supplies I saved for the sisters, but much more was lost for a price. I became a woman of means, and why not after all I suffered? Aye, put that down if you will. When it’s said and done I was able to plough, and put my hand to the furrow. Without me, Francesca, the convent would have been ruined entire, and you and I sent out with beggars’ badges.
The next spring they were back, another army. Grey was commander now. This time the Prioress gave them up the nunnery and withdrew to Dunbar. She could take no more. The English began building walls and ramparts round the town, sending out to garrison Yester, Nunraw and Hailes. But I bargained again to keep our lands and manor, in return for livestock and crops when the season came.
Yet the best was still to be. A hosting of Highlanders and Scots was marching south. Grey lacks men to hold all his places and wants to give up Hailes to someone other than the enemy. Earl Patrick’s lying low at Hermitage, so I offer to manage the Castle, and keep a supply route open. The servants creep back to Hailes to find me in charge – in my habit for respect. Then as soon as the Scots arrive I offer to supply them too. Prices are high in times when so much is wasted or driven off by one side or the other. Who can question a holy sister on the weight of beef?
Haddington’s flat-bottomed, which was never said of me. So the English must be hollowing out a massive ditch and raising huge turf walls, one behind another. But they cannot take in all the town, so St Mary’s Church is left beyond the wall, though they try to ding it down, only managing to hole the roof. This was mistaken as proved, when Scots occupy the church and build a scaffold for their guns. What a cannonade from dawn to dusk. It sounded round the country and the hens at Hailes stopped laying. And all that soldiery wanting provender for empty bellies. It’s hungry work the soldiering, aye in more ways than one. Keep your eyes down on those papers, my girl, and spare your blushes.
How am I so learned in the wars? Well, thereby hangs a tale. Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say. The French arrived, armoured troops with guns and money for supplies, unlike the naked Highland savage with his skirts and empty sporran. And with the French, Italian fortifiers. It’s war now for holy Europe but fought in our wee kingdom to defend the widowed Marie and her little Queen.
Leaving Sir Wilford in command, Grey went back to England burning as he goes. But at Dunbar, while the town burnt, he could not touch the castle for its strength. God preserve our Lady Prioress. And as he watches, white sails come up the river past Bass Rock. It’s the French, as I told you, carrying Signor Ubaldino the master builder.
What a proper man he was, well made but gentle with it, all neatly shorn and bearded with trimmed nails and perfumed hair bound back. A courteous, cunning man without a wife to handle, here at least. He soon made Dunbar Castle impossible to take. Some said this won the war, for how could Haddington be supplied with Dunbar commanding land and sea?
Next Ubaldino started to wall in Haddington with earthworks and counter bastions. He explained it all each night when he returned to lodge with me at Hailes. I accommodated the better sort of soldier there in special comfort. It was a blessed time, always up and doing when not abed. The English were shut in now, though ever ready for some foray or supply if it could be contrived. Yet their case looked grave. The Scots camped first at Lethington, but then took the convent for their comfort, leaving me the French and Italian s
ort of men, who were better payers anyway.
Soon a whole Scots Parliament assembles to negotiate with the French, for what I know not. So all must needs be fed and watered to a high degree. Only Beth Hepburn has the keys, and knows the oldest wines buried in the vaults. So back to the Nunnery I go to ply my latest trade. How strange, Francesca, to see the genteel rooms of holy sisters given up to lords with all their knights and retinue crammed like goslings in a coop. To and fro the Parliament went with meetings and eatings. I hustled in all the old servants, and those from Hailes besides, but guests bred like rats. It was no concern of mine except they must be fed.
The widowed Queen, Marie de Guise, came one day riding into the convent court with all her train about her. A souple sapling she was as well, swinging from the saddle to stand taller than lanky Pat himself. Lovely reddish hair, fair skin, and grey eyes – a beauty in her prime – I say so myself. And all the heralds, banner bearers and courtiers of the day, Scots and French, clustered round her as bees to honey. She was ushered into the refectory where clerks and nobles were spreading seals, papers, quills. The baby Queen must go to France, no longer bound to Edward Tudor. In return King Henri will defend us from the English and steer the Scottish government. Hamilton will be made a duke in France. That seems the nub for all the long orations. Then more wine and food is called for and everyone mightily content.
I returned to Hailes, relieved to see them all away if truth be told, but merriness was gone from the business. Too many died, which is a waste, Francesca, of sweet flesh. First our Scots and the French thought to overwhelm the ramparts, but Wilford fought them back, an English lion. When the garrison tried to sally out, they were surrounded and lost half their number. Provisions were become scarce and I could no longer play procuress without risk.
Next, an English fleet arrived in the Forth, so reinforcements and supplies reached the famished town. But strange to say this weakened resistance, since none had volunteered to starve, and many slipped through the blockade to desert. God knows, any poor wretch would do the same before die upright on an earthwork, or stretched out like a sewer rat. Hand to hand and desperate, they killed and maimed each other without mercy. Pretty bodies ruined.