The Wisest Fool

by Nigel Tranter

  As then, Tam o' the Coogate—who had survived a phenomenally lengthy spell as Lord Advocate, indicative of considerable agility of mind and conscience, despite his looks—was concerned largely with the same charges, involvement in the hateful and treasonable attempt on their liege lord his life and person, the Gowrie Conspiracy in St John's Town of Perth, in 1600. Much new evidence had come to light since then, and since the accused's death by God's just hand, indubitably and undeniably indicting him as in fact one of the prime movers in that shameful stratagem. It was necessary, therefore, that his guilt should be established and made plain to all, conviction of high treason duly pronounced upon him, his estates, lands, properties and goods declared forfeit, his name proclaimed infamous, and all legal rights whatsoever denied to his heirs and assigns. In the name of the King's Majesty and of the Estates of the Realm of Scotland.

  There was no counsel for the defence.

  Hamilton, sole performer—for Dunbar had played his part, in leaving the judges in no doubts as to their duty beforehand—put on a virtuoso act, with a mixture of righteous indignation, legal nicety and earthy humour. He relied for his case mainly on the signed confessions of the late George Sprott, notary, who, by the implicit faith put in his testimony might have been one of the authors of Holy Writ, no mention being made that one of the charges he had hanged for was forgery. Sundry other letters were produced, sworn to by witnesses as in Logan's own writing. All led to the inescapable conclusion that the former Laird of Restalrig, along with the unnameable Gowries, had been a major instigator in the horrid plot to abduct their gracious sovereign from Gowrie House, at St. John's Town, and to convey his royal person by boat across the cruel seas to Restalrig's hold of Fast Castle on the Berwick coast, there to constrain him to the plotters' evil wills and purposes, or to His Grace's possible death. Heriot recollected that the dead Gowrie brothers had been convicted of conspiring to kill the King at Gowrie House itself; but this slight discrepancy seemed to occur to neither prosecutor or judges.

  There being no defence, no questions and no need for a summing up, when Hamilton had finished, and demanded the sentence as detailed earlier, there was something of a hiatus, not to say anticlimax. The Lords of Session fidgeted and looked uncomfortable, the Earl of Dunbar considered the hammer-beam ceiling and spectators eyed each other or the accused.

  The successor of Balmerino as Lord President, Sir John Preston of Fentonbarns and Penicuik, did not trouble to consult his fellow Senators. He declared that all was most indubitably proven as libelled, to the satisfaction of the court, and that the accused Robert Logan was indeed hereby pronounced guilty on all charges, condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered insofar as this was possible, and his severed members exhibited above the gates of the cities of Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen, Glasgow and St. John's Town of Perth, his name declared infamous, his heirs deprived, and his property forfeit to the Crown. This for doom. God save the King!

  The judges rose, and bowed to the King's representative, who nodded back, stood up—as did all others—and strolled from the chamber; at least thirty-three thousand merks the richer. The accused grinned on.

  Heriot caught a glimpse of Patrick, Lord Gray of Fowlis, in an inconspicuous position at the back of the hall, as he queued to get out As one of Logan's heirs general, was this then a defeat for him? He certainly did not look defeated. Probably he had obtained all he could out of his cousin's estate long before this—he had had three years, after all.

  Who, then, was this elaborate charade aimed at? James Stewart would know—and perhaps only he.

  * * *

  The High Kirk of St Giles, since the Reformation, had been divided into three parish churches for the city of Edinburgh-within-the-Walls—the High Kirk to the east, the largest, the Tolbooth Kirk to the south-west and the Little Kirk to the northwest. This latter was packed full at noontide of the 24th of August 1609 for the wedding of George Heriot, burgess of Edinburgh and Master Goldsmith to the King, to Alison, daughter of James Primrose, Secretary to the Privy Council of Scotland, former Maid-in-Waiting to Her Majesty. This happened to be the parish church of both families. Moreover, Heriot had a personal interest in it, for exactly ten years before he had petitioned the King to have it enlarged and had partly paid for the improvements out of his own pocket Even so, it was scarcely large enough for this ceremony, despite the use of its flanking side-chapel of St. Eloi, a Popish relic which had been allowed to survive because it was the chapel of the Incorporation of Hammermen of which Heriot was Past-Master. Both families had wide ramifications and all must be invited—however much the principals would have preferred a quiet country wedding over at Culross. Moreover, practically everybody who claimed to be anybody, in Edinburgh, appeared to have made a point of being present—not all, presumably, out of love and admiration Many of the nobility and gentry also found it expedient to attend, in view of the royal and Privy Council connections, or merely due to the universal pull of great wealth. Some, no doubt came out of pure goodwill— the Lady Marie Gray, for instance. Although what brought her gallant and splendidly-dressed husband, the bridegroom for one did not care to hazard a guess, as he waited up near the former altar-steps, for his bride. He noted, too, that the Chancellor, the Earl of Dunfermline, was present, with Heriot's cousin, the Lord Advocate. Moreover, Hamilton's father, also Sir Thomas, and brother, Sir Andrew, both Lords of Session under the titles of Lords Priestfield and Redhouse respectively, graced the occasion, though seldom indeed had they had any dealings with their tradesman kinsman. The Primrose family were duly impressed.

  Mary Gray was there, with her son John Stewart of Methven, now a boy of almost fifteen, representing the Duke of Lennox, who was on an official embassage to France.

  When Alison arrived on her father's arm, Heriot thought that he had never seen her looking lovelier, more piquantly, excitingly alive—nor younger. Her youthfulness once again hit the man as with a physical blow and made him suddenly and heavily aware again of his own years. All in that crowded church must note it Not that he felt old, or normally ever thought about his age. All that he could say was that his younger half-brother James Heriot acting groomsman, looked assuredly older than he did—which was a very doubtful consolation.

  Alison, dressed in cloth-of-silver, trimmed with white fur, with a falling ruff seeded with tiny pearls—this the gift of her bridegroom—and a long shoulder-train, whatever her age, seemed fully in command of herself and her situation, radiating happiness. When she reached Heriot's side, his doubts and concerns faded wholly in the sheer emanation of her vivid joy and so obvious affection. Her own happiness prevailed. They had waited long for this.

  They had to wait a little longer, for the minister. There had been a little difficulty over the celebrant The true incumbent of the Little Kirk was the renowned Master Robert Bruce, a man of towering stature, a former Moderator of the General Assembly and long a friend of Heriot's family. But he had fallen out with King James when he had refused to offer up public thanks from this pulpit on the occasion of the King's notable deliverance from the evils of the Gowrie Conspiracy in 1600, claiming all to have been a fraud. He had been banished, first to Dieppe and then allowed to return to Scotland, but not to venture south of Inverness by stringent royal command. His kirk-session and congregation had refused to accept this fiat, as had the General Assembly, and he was still officially the minister of the Little Kirk of St Giles. An assistant, Master James Balfour, had been appointed— and Heriot and his bride would have been well content for him to have married them. But this would not do for the King, who considered it proper to take an active interest in the matter. His Geordie was not to be married by any jumped-up assistant, and since Heriot was resolute that he was not going to have one of the monarch's bishops perform the ceremony as James would have preferred, and all but insisted on, they compromised on Master Patrick Galloway. Galloway, now an elderly man and former minister of Perth, was now for long incumbent of the High Kirk of St. Giles and Chaplain to the King, a P
resbyterian but a king's-man—who, unlike Bruce had preached enthusiastically and at great length at the Cross of Edinburgh on the wonderful delivery of their liege lord after the Gowrie business. Heriot found him little to his taste, an Old Testament prophet type of divine, who nevertheless was notably well aware on which side his bread was buttered; but he could scarcely resist again.

  Now Master Galloway delayed his arrival—as James Primrose had foretold he would, as a matter of policy, always concerned to make a dramatic entry and to show who was master in God's house. Master Balfour was in his position in front of the Communion Table, waiting patiently with the rest. The chatter from the great congregation was sufficiently loud to allow bride and groom to converse easily, without even having to lower their voices, while James Primrose frowned and puffed, and sundry of Alison's sisters, as attendants, giggled behind.

  At length Galloway appeared, sweeping in from a vestry door as though blown in by the winds of the wilderness of Sinai itself, long white locks and black Geneva gown streaming, forked beard jutting. At sight of him a suitable silence fell.

  Striding, by no means by the shortest route, to the chancel steps, unfortunate relic of Popery, he halted before the bridal pair, head up, not so much as glancing at them. He stood there, so, for moments—and then raised arm and hand high.

  "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!" he thundered. There was going to be no doubt about the Deity's involvement in this wedding.

  It was at this moment, carefully calculated evidently, that there was a diversion. The great north doors, to the High Street, closed some time before to keep out the town rabble, were suddenly and noisily flung open. All heads turned to stare, and Patrick Galloway, hand still upraised, looked both thunderstruck and ready to call down heaven's thunderbolts.

  Two uniformed members of the Town Guard stood within the doorway, and one of them thumped with the butt of his halberd on the flagstones, shouting, "Make passage and silence for His Grace's Great Commissioner, my Lord High Treasurer the Earl of Dunbar, Knight of the Garter!"

  Doddie Home came strolling in, with his curious rolling walk, half-a-dozen overdressed young gentlemen in his train. The doors were shut again.

  George Heriot did not know whether to groan or grin. This was James's doing, undoubtedly—for he and Dunbar cordially loathed each other, and the Earl would not have shown his heavy-jowled face here had he not been expressly commanded to do so. But it was turning this long-waited-for wedding into a show, another charade like the Logan trial—for some purpose, not clear, but which had nothing to do with matrimony, he had no doubt.

  The entry had a chastening effect on Master Galloway, at least. Quite put off his stride, he frowned, tugged his beard, made a sort of bow to the King's representative, and waved vaguely towards the front of the congregation—where was the only room left in this crowded place, and where the Earl would have installed himself anyway. This inevitably put Dunbar and his supercilious attendants only a foot or two behind the bridal party—to the excitement of the Primrose daughters.

  Less than amiably, Galloway swung on Master Balfour and gestured that he should proceed with the ceremony meantime. A little flustered, that youngish man made a false start or two before getting under way.

  The Presbyterian wedding ceremony was not a long one, and fairly simple. Quite soon Galloway had recovered himself and moved in to take over at the significant stage of the exchange of vows and the fitting of the ring.

  Thereafter, having with some speed declared the couple man and wife, he launched into a rousing and almost accusatory address to the pair before him on the duties and dangers of holy matrimony, laying emphasis on the pitfalls rather than the delights and sonorously warning all present of the results and damnations of the sins of the flesh, in some detail. It was at this stage, unhappily, that the noise from above began to become distracting. The old city of Edinburgh, cramped within its walls on its high spine of rock, was notoriously short of space—which was why the lands and closes were so crowded and the tenements so tall. Prison space was in short supply as all else, and at the Reformation the enormous cathedral-like church of St. Giles had seemed a godsend to the harassed magistracy. The lofty groined-vaulted ceilings soaring into dimness were obviously quite unnecessary for modest and reformed Presbyterian worship, and so timber entresol floors had been inserted above the three churches into which it was subdivided. Indeed, the Tolbooth Kirk was so named for excellent reason, since the Town Council met therein, courts were held and even parliaments had on occasion sat there. It so happened that the garret section above the Little Kirk was used for the incarceration of offending whores, prostitutes and common wantons—and these were not infrequently the most vocal and quarrelsome of the prisoners. A major engagement appeared to have broken out upstairs, and thumps, bangs and shrill invective penetrated the floorboards with ease. With the congregation—perhaps even the new husband and wife—stretching ears to catch the gist of the disagreement there rather than his own stern words of admonition, Patrick Galloway turned to glare at Balfour and sweep a pointing and commanding finger heavenwards. The younger minister hurried off to see if he could restore order aloft, either by the fear of God or of the Town Guard. Keenly interested, all save Galloway listened on his progress.

  By the time that the signing of the register was over, some quiet had been achieved above—but now the congregation itself was stirring and talking. Galloway soon put a stop to that, by striding to the pulpit, banging fist on Bible, and commencing his sermon. The proclaiming and expounding of the Word was considered to be one of the principal planks of Presbyterian worship and no services got off without a sermon—even weddings. Heriot

  had not really hoped to escape one on this occasion, when he had reconciled himself to Galloway, and now he wondered whether the noise overhead might not have been better left unchecked as a dissuading influence. At least the man was not preaching this time in Latin—as he had done once, at Leith harbour, on the first arrival from Denmark of the fourteen-year-old Queen Anne. He had gone on then for over an hour.

  In the end it was probably Dunbar's young gentlemen, rather than the street ladies above, that the congregation had to thank for obtaining their release after another half-hour, who, with their undisguised contempt for preachers so infuriated the divine by their cantrips and unabashed teasings of the bridesmaids that he could no longer continue. To the relief of all, he abruptly bellowed Amen at them, hurled a spluttering and angry benediction and stormed from the pulpit and out, an exit even more dramatic than his entry—and without a further glance at the couple he had married.

  It was ironical, thereafter, that the first to congratulate the happy pair inevitably had to be Doddie Home, who did so stiffly, formally, before marching out first from the church.

  Presently, in the High Street, where a large crowd had assembled, Heriot with an arm round his laughing bride to protect her from the crush, guided her over to the steps of the Cross, amidst cheers. Mounted there, he thanked all who had turned out so kindly to wish them well, declared that he was the most fortunate man in Scotland and announced that free wine, ale and meats would be dispensed for all comers until the evening curfew sounded—this to deafening applause. Then, aided by Alison, he splashed wine, by hand, from a broached cask, over all within range, in the traditional manner and tossed handfuls of placks and groats from a sack for the bairns—and others—to scramble for. A firework display would be held, he shouted, at dusk in the park of the Palace of Holyroodhouse, when there would be further refreshment. All were invited—and the Netherbow Port and Watergate would be kept open after the normal closing hour by special and kind permission of the new Provost, Sir John Arnot, here present.

  On that happy note a move was made by the entire wedding company, down the High Street and Canongate to Holyroodhouse, which James had insisted was to be the venue of the marriage feast and celebrations, as his royal gift—although Geordie might find it expedient to have some little rede
corating and furbishing up put in hand previously, since the place was no doubt in need of it now. Coaches had been hired to convey the bridal retinue and guests down to the palace, but Alison in her lightsome joy would have none of it. The sun shone, she pointed out, they had been cooped up in that church for too long and it was less than a mile of distance. This was the day of days and-they would take the crown of the causeway and walk. Her groom was nothing loth.

  In the end, everybody walked, in a lengthy narrow procession— for Alison's remark about the crown of the causeway was no mere figure of speech and only the raised centre of the cobbled street was passable for the lightly shod or the fastidious, the wide open gutters at either side being by no means wide enough, for all the waste matter, sewage, household soil and slops, the effluvia of stables, byres, styes and hen-runs, which the good citizens threw therein, with or without the warning cry of "Gardyloo!", in the simple faith that gravitation, evaporation, or speedy decomposition would before long remove it. Mary Gray it was who made the suggestion that a street fiddler should lead them on their way— there were always plenty of these in Edinburgh, though not always sober enough to fiddle walking, or even standing up. They were fortunate enough to find one who was, in a close-mouth; and so, to a jiggling, gay rant, they wound and tripped their way down the long, sloping street, between the canyon-walls of the tall, beetling tenements, hung with washing and folk waving from windows and balconies and shooing out of the way children, dogs, pigs and poultry—although most of the way Alison, on her husband's arm, danced rather than walked, despite her finery, her train wrapped round her like any shawlie. She even constrained the King's Goldsmith to skip a step or two, every now and again, though in highly self-conscious fashion. Once, glancing round rather guiltily after one of these indiscretions, it was to discover, not far behind, the magnificent figure of Patrick, Lord Gray, all in white satin slashed with black, Mary on one arm, Lady Marie on the other, jiggling to the lilting melody with entire elan.