Friend & Foe

by Shirley McKay

  ‘Your Majestie, he died in France, where his wife and children were. Twere more of an unkindness to have kept him from them. What cause can you have to say he was ill-used?’

  ‘You know how he was used, what harsh and bitter cruelties were inflicted on him, when they forced his flight. To what bitter diet he was put, and with such abruptness severed from our sight, that he withered, like a sapling starved of light and sun, forced to put its pale shoots out into the dark; he died of a disease contracted of displeasure, which is to say, his heart was broken. And it was the lords that broke him, sending him from me, with keen and poignant hardships. Yet, for all their sins, I can forgive that that. For that they knew no better of him, and believed in lies, so men are moved by envy to dispose of honest men. His death is to be pitied, not avenged.’

  This answer was impassioned, but no less closely reasoned, so that Andrew Wood was baffled. ‘Then what is your complaint, your Grace? What would you put to trial?’

  ‘You might hazard,’ James explained, ‘that with his death, the hurt he suffered is brought to an end, and that these hooks and slanders have been put to rest. Yet still they raise their voices, when he cannot speak against them, they accuse most freely, what may not be proved. They say that he recanted all, reverting to his faith, and that he died a Catholic. That all they said and did to him was proven by this act; that he was well disposed of, having been intent to undermine our faith, and recruit our country to his hideous cause. Esme died a Protestant, honest and beloved. I know this for the truth, because I have his heart.’

  ‘Your Grace, it is no fault in you, that you should keep a loving heart, and in your greenness seek to trust—’ the coroner began.

  James cut him short. ‘I have his heart, I mean to say, embalmit in a box. I do not speak in figures, like some lovesick girl. Our honest servant brought it to us, home with him from France. And since I have his heart, I mean to make a trial of it.’

  That waxen sliver of the flesh, taken warm from Esme’s breast, the lifeblood and the laughter sapped and withered out of it . . . It lay by James’ bedside, in a lead-lined casket. He had considered wearing it, sewn into a sleeve. But in a colder light, he found it more repellent, Frankish and effeminate, insolent and fleshly, like a papish relic. It served as a reproach to him. Once Esme was exonerated he would have it buried.

  There was silence in the house, so still the little dog looked up, on some account disturbed by it.

  ‘Am I to understand,’ Sir Andrew asked at last, ‘you mean to put the heart of Monsieur D’Aubigny on trial, as though it were a living man, and not – forgive me, Sire – a dead thing in a box? So grief may move us to strange moods. For pity, Sire, the world will say—’

  James interrupted fiercely, ‘Aye, no more than that. Were that so very strange? I mean to make a test of it in court, that no man hence may question or malign his faith. Hew Cullan shall defend it; my lord advocate shall be the pursuer. I ken well what the world will say. But surely, you must see? That when there is a trial, the world maun haud its tongue; once Esme’s faith and loyalty have been proven in the court, the rumours will be stilled. I can make a law, to stop the wagging tongues – and you may be assured that I shall make that law – but till I show them proof I cannot quell the doubts still nagging in their hearts. The trial will prove conclusive, absolute. Hew Cullan is the man that has the wit to take the case.’

  ‘As you will, then, Majestie.’ Sir Andrew bowed at last, persuaded by the force, if not the skill of argument. ‘I will sound him out, and let your Highness ken whether he be fit for it.’

  ‘Do so,’ James agreed. ‘For if he will not speak for us, his is not a voice we should like raised against us. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, your Grace.’ The coroner was anxious to be gone. And James, for his part, was pleased to see the back of him, a man who brought a chill wind to a summer’s day. He felt his spirits lift, the weight of Esme’s conscience lifting from his mind. ‘Go about your business now, of keeping the king’s peace. God willing, ye shall hear from us, when we are at liberty; and that will not be long.’

  Sir Andrew left the gaming house, and stepped into the balm of a summer’s evening light, as dusk began to close upon the sun. The coroner had not gone far before he found a courtier standing in his path, who seemed to come from nowhere, sloping through the gloom, a plump-arsed, smooth-skinned venturer.

  ‘Hola, sir! What cheer? Not leaving us so soon?’

  The coroner said, sheepishly, ‘His highness has dispatched me, sir.’ He cast his eyes low to the ground. ‘He did not tak it kindly that I missed the hunt.’

  ‘The king is sour and stomachat, and there is no pleasing him,’ the other man agreed. ‘He is out of sorts. Sometimes, he gives vent unto a passion, and a hot and trembling rage. Sometimes, he seems merry, frivolous and mirthful, snatching up at phantoms, laughing at the wind.’

  ‘I saw none of that,’ asserted Andrew Wood. ‘Yet I should say, he wants diversion, exercise, and air. You should take his highness out into the field.’

  ‘Aye, then, so we shall, when he will consent to it. He is a fickle sprite. He had you play at billiarts, I suppose?’

  Sir Andrew grimaced. ‘Aye, and to my cost. So many ways his highness has of cutting loose my purse, he might be a piker, were he not a king. My pockets are wrung out.’

  His new friend laughed at this. ‘His hand is in your pocket, or else yours is his. I feel for you; I too, have felt that sting. This afternoon, he had my hawk, a sweeter, stauncher falcon you have never seen, nor so stout a heroner, and nothing in return for her apart from his goodwill, which by this hour the morn will not be worth a pin. He has cozened us, you and me both. So, good sir crownar, where do you go now?’

  Sir Andrew knew full well that he was being pumped, by the friendly courtier’s smooth plump greasy hand. He could have blown him over in a puff of wind, or cut him to the quick with one shimmer of his sword. For a moment, he considered it, just to see the limmar squealing on a spit, kenning Crownar Wood was not a gentle man. Instead, he answered honestly, for nothing put men off the scent as simply as the truth. ‘Onward, to St Andrews on business of the Crown. There is a trouble brewed betwixt the bishop and the presbyters, a fierce unhaly fieriness that threatens all our peace.’

  ‘Is that a fact? In that I do not envy you, your dealings with the kirkmen. For I would rather settle with a thousand peevish princes, than hear one canting preacher carping at my back.’

  ‘If I had my way,’ Sir Andrew winked at him, ‘then I would hang the lot of them. But we maun bow to government, to kirkmen and to kings.’

  ‘God speed you, sir! Good luck!’

  ‘Grammercie, my lord.’ The crownar took his leave, and left the courtier satisfied, to set off at a gallop on the darkening road.

  Chapter 18

  A Bright Bird Flown

  His majeste thocht him self at liberte, with gret joy and exclamation, lyk a burd flowen out of a kaig

  Sir James Melvil of Halhil

  The king broke out at last, escaping to St Andrews at the end of June. He gave slip to his gaolers with a simple trick. His grand uncle, the earl of March, was grace and favour commendator of St Andrews priory and staying at his house in the old inns of the town. March invited James to come and sup with him. There were fresh wild meats, from a fair day’s hunting, that would all be spoiled if they were not shared. The king was bound by kinship to honour the old man, his captors had agreed to it, and James set out at once.

  Sir Andrew Wood, as asked, had made the passage safe for him, and kept at bay the brigands roaming at Garbridge, which posed less of a challenge than the king supposed, since most of them were Andrew’s men, and under his control. James was in high spirits as he passed the estuary; his spaniels swam in fearless after waterfowl, ruffling up the feathers of the bright lairds on the bank. The provost of St Andrews met the company at Dairsie, to secure his highness and escort him to the town, where he would find his friends.


  They entered through the west port of St Andrews, late that afternoon, on a note of triumph, for the bearers’ arms were heavy with the herons they had killed, and the saddles of the mares were sleek and wet with blood. They brought with them the scent of earth and iron and victory, to startle the good people who were walking in the town, the quiet south side colleges and kirk of Holy Trinity, who had not been expecting them. James went on to supper at the old inns of the priory, where he made a merry banquet of the meats they brought with them, his great uncle, as it turned out, having nothing in. James was overjoyed, and by evening overwrought. He had written to those lords in whose support he trusted, and called them to St Andrews to convene a council, while Gowrie’s privy councillors were warned to stay away. By nightfall, it was clear his plans had gone adrift.

  The news had flown from Falkland, swift as James himself; his captors took no warning from it, and were on their way. Those good lords he had counted close among his friends were either late in coming or had turned up unprepared. The full force of the provost’s men, together with Sir Andrew Wood, could not defend the king against the present threat, and so he was advised to withdraw into the castle, until his friends arrived, for fear he would be taken up, and kept in charge again. The priory was not fortified, and March could not ensure his nephew’s safety there.

  At first, the king refused. He rode out through the streets, openly and recklessly, accepting with a gracious hand the tributes of his people, who had come out from their houses with fresh lobsters, fish and fruit. The baxters brought a hundredweight of fine white wheaten flour, the vintners rolled out barrels of their sweetest wines; the king would want for nothing while he was in town. James made free with all, careless of his liberty, until his uncle March was forced to call him in.

  ‘Would ye shut me up,’ cried James, ‘and keep me in that place?’

  ‘But for the while, your Highness, till we ken your liberty and safety are assured.’

  Dark forces descended, circling the town. The lords who pursued him were heavily armed, and the king was soon persuaded that he had no choice. He entered in the castle, half against his will, with a small band of men who were loyal to him, and one or two more, who were not.

  At the castle, the archbishop was the last to hear the news. While James worked his charms on the startled crowds in South Street, while he was sampling wines and sweetmeats with the earl, Patrick Adamson consulted and consorted with his physick wife, experimenting with her underneath the sheets. This lewd and thorough industry was not to be disturbed for less than life and death, impending fire or flood, or, Tam Fairlie judged, the coming of the king.

  Patrick took a moment to distract from his endeavours, and another half a minute to deflate. ‘What, king? What, here? What, now?’ he squeaked.

  ‘At supper in the priory with the earl of March. His attendants to arrive here in under half an hour, to be followed, in due course, by a full retinue of friends.’

  The physick wife was thrilled. ‘I could hide in the closet there, an’ keek upon his face. I never saw a king.’

  ‘You never shall again.’ Tam Fairlie stripped the bed, and tipped the woman out. ‘I will scare this jack-daw back where it belongs.’

  Alison clung, like a leech to a boil that sucked at the sore to the sap. ‘You have no cause to call me that. I am a proper physick wife, and salve to Patrick’s maladies. If I do not relieve him, he will suffer more.’

  Patrick blanched and whispered, ‘Do ye mak a threat to me?’

  ‘I have not been paid.’

  Tam Fairlie grasped her arm, and marched her to the door. Her belongings bundled after, tumbled from the bridge, and were buried in the fosse. ‘Ye will get your due. Do not come again.’

  The physick wife stood whimpering, naked in her sark. ‘He will want me, you will see. He cannot keep his hands off me.’

  Tam dismissed her, ‘Damn you, whore!’ He poured out the physick from the bishop’s window, where it left a damp patch, sullen, on the stone.

  It had taken Patrick all his time to dress, shaken as he was, with fear and shame and palsy; he did not think his heart could recover from the shock, or hold out at the strain. His household staff and chamberlain were frantically dispatched.

  Tam Fairlie had departed to take stock of March’s men, who were lolling idly in the outer court. The castle could accommodate a hundred extra guests, but Tam had no idea how many might descend. Carpets, hangings, pictures, plate, gaming tables, folding beds, all were borrowed, bought or begged, from local lairds and colleges; St Salvator’s sent table napkins and a dozen cloths. The king’s equipage had remained behind at Falkland; he had come with nothing but the clothes he stood up in, horse and hounds, and hawk.

  Patrick was not certain what he should put on. It had been some while since he wore proper clothes. Should he be drab and dull, as fitting to a scholar of the true reformit kirk, or courtlier and gay, in honour of his king, and of the shift in fortune he had doubtless brought with him? At length he chose a satin doublet, cap and gown in black, set off with a tippet lined in silver fox. His deliberations were as nothing to the king, who turned up in a heightened state of tremor and perplexity. He did not wish to see the chapel with its fair Italian colonnade, the dormers in the gallery or fine view of the bay. He did not care to be confined.

  ‘Do you have strong fighting men here you can trust?’ he demanded.

  Patrick swallowed. ‘One or two.’ He made a mental note to have Tam keep the bairn and perhaps the Richan boy out of sight and sound, lest their uncanny trattle fuelled the king’s unquietness. His air of agitation soon translated to the bishop, who felt a little queasy and unsteady in the knees. The chamber had been swept and aired, but Patrick could not help but fear some relict of the physick wife might still be in the bed – a ribbon, lace or sock.

  ‘Where does this door lead?’ asked James.

  ‘To the fore tower, your Grace, and onward to the chapel, where if your Highness pleases I will preach a sermon to thank God for your safe deliverance.’

  ‘Deliverance from what? I am at no peril,’ James protested.

  ‘No, sir, ah, of course.’

  ‘Yet,’ the king conceded, ‘a sermon might be apt, in the kirk of Holy Trinity. I will give you the direction for it, presently. And what is behind this curtain?’

  ‘That is the privy closet, sir, when you may . . .’ Unusually for Patrick, he was lost for words.

  ‘Be privy?’ James supplied.

  ‘Indeed, quite so, your Grace.’

  ‘And who was that old man we saw back on the stair? A fruel and grovelling simperer.’

  ‘That is my privy clerk. His room is in the tower. I will, of course, vacate these chambers now, and have them swept and plenished as your Grace desires. The earl of March is kind enough to send in his own furniture, until such time as your possessions may be brought from Falkland.’

  James looked vexed at this. ‘I must have my bed.’

  ‘My chamberlain tells me it has been sent for, but it will not be here before the morning, Sire.’ Patrick felt a little at a loss, as to what comfort he might offer the unhappy king.

  ‘I do not, you see, sleep in a bed like this.’ The king looked helpless for a moment, frightened as a bairn. ‘I have those beds, of course. But the one that I sleep in rolls up.’

  ‘I understand, your Grace. Both the beds were sent for.’

  For it was understood that the great bed of state, though it was carried through the kingdom on to every passing place, never would be slept on.

  James had wandered to the windows that looked out upon the town. ‘What house is that?’

  ‘It belongs to Giles Locke, who is principal at St Salvator’s College. He is an anatomist, and does work for the Crown in finding out the cause of unexpected deaths.’

  ‘I saw him, once, in a play.’ The king relaxed a little. ‘In an extravagant hat. He is Hew Cullan’s brother-in-law.’

  The bishop smiled weakly. ‘Indeed.’

&n
bsp; ‘A man of most singular talents.’

  It was not clear to Patrick which man was referred to.

  ‘I will not want these chambers,’ James made up his mind. ‘There is a stench and staleness here that is far from wholesome.’

  Patrick answered, blushing, ‘I have not been well.’

  ‘How, not well?’ snapped James.

  ‘It is not the sort of sickness that will spread to other men,’ the bishop reassured him, ‘but an internal fedity, gnawing at my wam.’ He almost said, my soul. He felt the prick of tears, a sudden surge of confidence. His king was in his palm, and castle. James had been restored to him. He was overcome.

  The king returned to his inspection. ‘They are, besides,’ he reasoned, looking round the rooms, ‘too close to the entrance gate; the first place they will look if the castle defences are breached. Do you have guns here?’

  ‘Aye, your Grace, guns. But no powder or shot.’

  ‘Such things must be sent for. I saw a chamber at the head of the north west tower, that overlooks the water and is well appointed. I will quarter there. There is a gateway on the north side. Is the descent there passable?’

  ‘When the tide is out.’

  ‘I will, not, you understand, be kept a prisoner here. And I will die before I allow them to lay hands on me again.’

  Patrick was alarmed at this. ‘Majestie . . .’

  ‘I will die first, do you hear me?’

  ‘Nay, Sire, none of that! Know that I shall pray for you.’

  ‘I shall want a kirkman, Patrick.’ James was plaintive, childish now. ‘The masters of the kirk are not always kind to me, though I am most careful and devout, and attendant to the faith, as I have ever been.’

  ‘No one doubts that, Majestie,’ the archbishop assured him. He was taken aback at the hurt in his voice.

  ‘Since my mother is a Catholick, they suspect me of wrong.’

  ‘That were not reasonable, Sire. All of our mothers were Catholicks, once,’ Patrick murmured soothingly, though he felt ill-equipped to give spiritual advice.