The Wisest Fool

by Nigel Tranter

  The waiting company stood spellbound.

  The Queen, with Lennox and Lady Huntly, rode up—with Mar and Ramsay trying to edge in from behind. The trumpets ended with a flourish and fell silent, and for a moment there was no sound but the horses' scraping hooves.

  'Yon was a right coarse noise!" the monarch snarled, into the hush. "We are displeased. Right displeased." He still had his trembling back to his newly-arrived royal consort He turned, making no move either forward to greet his wife or back to his throne. "Annie," he said, "you're late. Fell late."

  She inclined her head slightly, with great dignity, and said nothing.

  James looked up at her from under down-drawn brows. 'You should have been here days agone. We've been waiting on you," Southampton tried to back out from under the royal grip, but could not

  Still the Queen stared straight ahead of her at the ranked notables.

  Lennox hurriedly dismounted and bowed low. 'Your Majesty's impatience to see your royal consort is very understandable, Sire," he declared, "but Her Grace has been grievously ill. It would have been most unwise to travel more hastily."

  "You speak when you're spoken to, Vicky Stewart!" the King said. "We have been kept waiting. It wasna suitable." The rebuke delivered, James was prepared to show generosity "You look well enough now, Annie. Aye, healthy. I've never see you look weller."

  "I thank Your Grace," she answered stiffly.

  "Majesty, Annie—I'm Majesty now. Aye, and you too. Yon Grace is done wi'." He peered up at her. "So the bairn died?"

  "Miscarried," she corrected him. "It was I who almost died."

  "Hh'mmm. Stravaiging about the country, I'm told, when you should ha' been biding still. To Stirling, heh? Blameworthy, aye blameworthy."

  "The blame for my miscarriage lies with the Countess of Mar who refused to let me see my son. On your orders, she said!"

  "Ooh, aye. Well, we'll no' go into that the now. But—get down, woman! I'm getting a right crick in my craig looking up at you. Down, I say."

  There was a hasty dismounting all around, Lennox aiding the Queen to alight, the process drawing James's attention to something of the great size of her following.

  "Guidsakes—what's a' this?" he demanded. "This, this multitude and numerosity! Who a God's name are they a' ? These folk. What do they want?"

  "To present their loyal duty to Your Majesty," Lennox put in hastily. "Your faithful and honest subjects. Er, English ones. Seeking the, h'm, sun of your royal presence. Her Majesty has been picking them up all the way through England ..."

  "Waesucks—then she shouldna! Mouths—mouths to feed! I'm Christ's Vice-Regent, yes—but if s no' for me to feed the five thousand!" James managed a complacent smirk at that example of his quick wit—but quickly reverted to a frown. "It isna right You'll hae to get rid o' them, Vicky Stewart A, a plague o' locusts, just."

  "I told them, Majesty," the Earl of Mar declared, now well forward. "I said you'd no' be pleased..."

  "James," Anne intervened coldly, "instead of miscalling your good subjects, who see fit to show their loyalty and affection for your Queen, ought not you to be greeting your own children, Frederick and Elizabeth, who have journeyed all this way to see their father?" Princess Elizabeth had recovered of her ailment and caught up with the rest in the North of England.

  "Ummm," the King said. "Och, well. Aye, then—where are they, in a' this clamjamphrie? If you hadna brought sae many folk, I'd see them easier..."

  Heriot and Alison Primrose brought forward the two children, bowing low.

  "Och, is that yoursel’, Geordie. Aye, man—it's good to see you. Though mind you, I've a wheen bones to crack wi' you, just the same! But later. And who's this ?"

  "Your fine son and heir, Sire, the Duke of Rothesay. And his sister, the Princess Elizabeth."

  "Sakes, man—d'you think I dinna ken my ain bairns ! It's this bit lassie wi' the bold eye. Aye, right bold!"

  "The Mistress Alison Primrose, one of Her Majesty's Maids-in-Waiting, daughter of the Clerk to the Privy Council..."

  "Hech—that cock-sparrow! Jamie Primrose. Aye, and cock's the word, heh, wi' a' the brood he's faithered!" The King hooted. "So—this is one o' his gets? Cocky too, eh?" Then Majesty recollected. "But—where's the Kildare woman? I sent her to take charge o' the lassie, Elizabeth. Where is she? Aye, and where's Sussex and Lincoln. And Carey? I dinna see them in a' this stramash."

  "The Countess of Kildare is somewhere in my royal train, James. I do not require her services," Anne announced thinly. "Nor that of the lords you mention. Now—I humbly suggest that Your Majesty recognises your own royal offspring, the Prince Frederick..."

  "Och, I recognise them fine. They've grown much—the laddie in especial. Dinna stand gawking there, bairns—come and kiss your daddy's hand. It's the least you can do, in front o' a' these folic" James, in truth, did not greatly like children—unless slightly older boys—finding them embarrassing. However, after the pair had kissed his hand—and involuntarily recoiled at its ingrained dirt, for the King believed water on the skin to be unnatural and dangerous and only permitted an occasional wiping of his fingertips—he patted his son on the head and, having trouble with his stick, picked up the little girl in his arms—so that Southampton escaped at last. "Och, Bessie, eh? No' an ill-favoured wench. Heh —Harry! Harry Wriothesley—you there, man. What think you —she'll outshine her mother one o' these days, eh?"

  Southampton coughed. "If she equals Her Majesty some years hence, it will be more, I make bold to say, than any other princess on earth will do I"

  James looked at his current favourite pityingly, and turned back to his stiffly-standing wife, setting down the child and shooing her away. 'This o' Sussex and Lincoln. And the Kildare. I dinna like the sound o' this."

  "Then it can be discussed later, I think, Sire," Anne declared. "Here is scarce the place." She nodded towards the serried ranks of berobed and glittering officers and dignitaries behind the thrones. "Perhaps I should be informed who are all these?"

  "Eh?" James turned. He had rather forgotten the welcoming hierarchy, now looking distinctly limp and jaded in the hot sun. "Och, these are a' the English," he said. "Yon's Cecil, wi' the crooked back. And the wee fat man's Popham that they ca' the Lord Chief Justice—as though I wasna the Lord Chief Justice o' my realm! And him that's glowering there like a Hielant stot— that's Coke, the Attorney-General. A fell man, yon. Aye, and there's Egerton, the Lord Chancellor. And Suffolk, another o' thae Howards, that's Lord Chamberlain. And Nottingham, a Howard too, that's the Admiral. Och, and a wheen mair. A' wi' great swollen heads—aye and swollen noses too,, to talk through ! Auld Elizabeth fair let them get above themsel's. I hae my hands full, wi' these critturs—but, guidsakes, I'll tame them! Think they're the salt o' the earth, stick their bit chins in the air—and havena' the rudiments o' wit and learning. They'd scarce muster a Latin paradigm between them! O' statecraft they've none, and the strategy o' nations no notion. Only of wars wi' Spain and France—war, the resort o' fools! Och, Cecil's got a sort o' cunning and manoeuvre mind and as smooth tongue—blandae mendacia linguae.! But I'll teach them. Jamie Stewart will be their dominie —ooh aye!" He paused, panting with all this eloquence in the heat, and glancing sidelong at the uncomfortable Southampton to see how he took it. Then, in case these disclosures might seem to imply a weakening of his displeasure with his wife, he frowned. "Och, well—we'd better awa' up to thae chairs. There'll be talking through long noses, and speeches where you ken every next word! Come on, Harry." And resuming Southampton's shoulder, he shambled up towards the twin thrones, leaving Anne to find her own way.

  Hurriedly, Lennox moved up to offer his arm and escort the Queen. After a momentary hesitation, Heriot and Alison brought forward the children. Garter King gave the signal for another fanfare.

  Belatedly the official welcome proceeded, with addresses, presentations, ceremonial, the Queen gracious, James looking impatient, tapping his shoe-toe and stick on the ground, and the children whi
spering behind the thrones. The sun beat down.

  At last the King could stand it no longer. Abruptly he got to his feet, waving his stick. "Enough!" he cried. "It's ower hot. I'm right tired. Enough's plenty. Ha' done, in God's name!"

  "But, Sire!" Garter King, who acted master of ceremonies, protested. "The presentation. To the Prince of Wales, to be..."

  "Prince o' Wales ? Who's that?"

  The herald choked. "Why, Sir—your son. The King of England's heir, if a son, is always Prince of Wales..." "No' till I make him so, man!"

  "Of course, Sire. Lacking the official ceremony. But in courtesy..."

  "See you—I've told you all. I'm no' King o' England. Leastways, I am, but that's no' my title and style. My throne is that o' the United Kingdom o' Great Britain and Ireland. Wi' France if you like—though yon's a nonsense. I'll hae no limiting me to this England, d'you hear ?"

  "Yes, Majesty. To be sure."

  "Aye. And the laddie's Prince o' Scotland, Duke o' Rothesay, Earl o' Carrick and Baron Renfrew. Is that no' plenty, at nine years?"

  "As Your Majesty wishes. And the Prince's presentation... ?"

  "Can wait. Harry Wriothesley—where are you? Your arm, man. My lords and gentles—I'll see you later. Aye, later. Or at the Investiture the morn. Annie—come you." And the audience very much over, the monarch stalked off, tap-tapping, uncertain as to footwork but very definite as to purpose, the illustrious, hierarchial ranks parting hastily to give him passage on his way into the castle proper. There was some competition amongst the highest nobles as to who was to be the Queen's escort, Lennox brushed aside.

  "There goes the Coadjutor of the Almighty!" that young man observed, low-voiced to his friend Heriot. "By the Grace of God master of us all. Save, perhaps, his Annie!"

  "But master of this England, too, I note! I said it would be the English who would have to change, not James. These haughty grandees of Elizabeth's Court will resist and struggle, but they but hatter their proud heads against our liege lord's stuffed doublet! They cannot win. For he is entirely sure of his divine right to be master, and so is unshakeably sustained, requiring to concede nothing—therefore conceding only when it pleases him to do so."

  "Yet he concedes more to you than to most men, Geordie!"

  "Only because I require nothing from him. Not even the payment of his debts !"

  "A strange position, yes. And Anne? Has she reached that good position also, think you? She is a changed woman, since her illness."

  "It may be so. I think that she has chosen, now, to be queen indeed, but no longer wife. And she is a determined woman. James will have to come to some sort of terms with her—the only one he must. Anne is learning, I swear, that she is in a stronger position in England than ever she was in Scotland."

  "You think deeply in that long Edinburgh head of yours, Geordie!"

  "I must needs sum up my customers, my lord Duke!"

  * * *

  The Garter Investiture the next day, 2nd July 1603, was a great success, at least as far as King James was concerned—though the Garter King and the Prelate, the Bishop of Winchester, on whom the ceremonial depended, tended to have their brows deep furrowed throughout. But that was a small matter. James had his own ideas, of course, as to how such affairs should be conducted, and if this was apt to clash with the traditional arrangements, that was unfortunate for the upholders of the latter. After all, this was a new dispensation. James enjoyed arranging things.

  Garter—and not only he—was shaken from the start by the unexpected inclusion of the young Earl of Southampton in the knights to be invested, but the King insisted. James had only met Harry Wriothesley a few weeks before when, despite the plague in London, he had paid a fleeting visit to the Tower—by river, which he was assured was safer—to see and evaluate the Crown Jewels kept there, a matter much on his mind. While therein, he had received a pathetic plea from the young Southampton to let him glimpse the sun of his royal presence and lighten the gloomy cell to which he was confined on King James's behalf, even for a moment The Earl had, in fact, been involved in the late Essex's abortive rebellion against Elizabeth, when that disgraced favourite had proposed that James should enter England in 1601, at the head of an army, and insist from strength on being recognised as the Queen's successor—a plot for which Essex lost his head and Southampton went to the Tower. James, not ungrateful and always interested in young men, had acceded, and down in the grim cell was greatly struck, indeed his heart wrung, by the other's pale beauty, delicate air and sad state. On the spot he had ordered a special pardon, coupled with a command to appear forthwith at Court. Progress had been phenomenally rapid thereafter—to the distress of certain young Scots, notably Sir John Ramsay and Dand Kerr. Now the Garter was to compensate him for all his sufferings.

  There were other reasons for the King's good humour, on his fine throne in the choir of the magnificent St George's Chapel. The Duke of Wurtemburg, a huge and coarse, red-faced German, was the first foreign royalty to visit the English Court on a tour of Europe since the accession, and James found his bibulous, bawdy company much to his taste. He also must have the Garter; King Christian of Denmark, Anne's brother, was to have it too, but in absentia. The Earl of Pembroke, who had also been imprisoned by Elizabeth—but for getting her Maid of Honour and favourite Mary Fitton with child, not rebellion—was the fourth knight Then there was Vicky Stewart, who certainly did not deserve the honour, but as the only duke in two kingdoms could hardly be denied it Finally, there was Henry himself, on the young side perhaps but as heir to the throne not to be outshone by his cousin Vicky.

  The King, Wurtemburg and Lennox had been hunting in Windsor Great Park from 5.30 that morning—an hour far too early for Southampton who required his beauty-sleep—and had killed no fewer than seventeen fine bucks—a further source of congratulation. James and the German had been drinking steadily in consequence and celebration, since returning, and were now both in excellent trim for services of praise, thanksgiving and initiation, Wurtemburg indeed at the singing stage, joining in lustily with the Dean of Windsor's chants and intonations—and not only in the responses—while his host, eye-catching in stuffed cloth-of-gold, scarlet and purple, slapped his padded thigh and hooted, in sheer and hospitable delight The colourful but slightly stodgy ceremony had never gone so merrily before.

  James was particularly pleased with young Henry Frederick's manly behaviour and appearance—even though his Garter robes and feathered bonnet were on the large side, there having been insufficient time for proper measurements and fittings. He made his bows to the high altar, under the enormous stained glass window which filled the entire eastern gable-end of St George's Chapel, with the greatest dignity—sufficiently for the King to cry out in ringing tones for all concerned to note the fact. At his side, Anne did not know whether to look proud of her son or ashamed of her husband.

  The music played by the company of mixed musicians was the King's own addition to the programme, and he felt that it livened things up nicely. James was not really musical, but he could appreciate a well-going rhythm, something with a good beat to it, to which he could thump in time. Beating time here was difficult, the gold ferrule of his stick tending to slither on the tesselated marble flooring, and the skreik when that happened set the teeth on edge. The choir of singing boys' contribution was a poor second—and all the priestly yowlings were, of course, a bore.

  The procession thereafter, with all the existing Garter knights leaving their splendid heraldic stalls to join their five new colleagues in parade after the hobbling Sovereign of the Order, was perhaps the best of it, with the musicians playing a lively tune, and Wiirtemburg all but dancing, with rousing hoch-hochs. Not all entered so enthusiastically into the spirit of the thing, but such as could do so declared it the most interesting Investiture they had ever attended.

  Unfortunately a good day was spoiled for the King at the end of it when, after the great banquet in St George's Hall, James settled down to some hard dririking, with a se
lection of his entourage— nearly all Scots—with Wurtemburg already under the table and snoring. The Queen and her ladies retired—and not only her ladies. Quite a number of the men, who knew themselves to be unable or unwilling to keep up with their liege lord's thirst, elected to go with her, including two of the new Knights Garter, Lennox and Southampton. James had been disappointed when the latter asked to be excused, but the young man had clearly already more wine in him that he could comfortably carry; besides, there were plenty of young but hardened topers left available—it seemed to be a fact that the Scots were more seasoned to strong drink than were their southern fellow-subjects. John Ramsay was only too glad to take Southampton's place at the King's side, with James Hay eager to replace him should his capacity fail.

  In the Queen's palatial withdrawing-room there was soft music, sweetmeats and dalliance for those not yet ready for bed. Here a suddenly and totally different atmosphere prevailed, feminine, lightsome, though far from innocent. Laughter tinkled instead of hooted, wit became delicate rather than ponderous—although no less spicy—and Anne proceeded to demonstrate that England might well be going to have an alternative Court to the King's.

  Oddly enough, it was Anne herself who precipitated the trouble. Undoubtedly, although she pretended to ignore, or at least put up with her husband's fondness for good-looking young men, in fact she resented it fiercely. The latest addition to the string hardly commended himself to her. When she saw Harry Wriothesley, Lord Southampton, paying elaborate attentions to Alison Primrose, she rallied him shrewdly—to George Heriot's entire satisfaction.

  "Ha—spare my little Scots innocent, my lord," she called, above the liquid notes of a lute. "I vow you are mighty catholic in your affections ! Have you not had sufficient for one night?"

  "Could I ever have sufficient of so great beauty, wit and kindness, Majesty?" the other returned, nothing abashed if slightly thick in speech.