Ignoring a lot of angry shouting from the Maxwell after the girls had fled, Carey searched the room, found some ciphered papers and, joy of joys, hiding in a cupboard with a false back, a very dull-looking man who happened to be reading a Catholic breviary.
Scotland wasn’t England but still Carey hauled him out of there by the scruff of his neck, and the Maxwell too in his shirt, hastily put on, and took them down to the cellars and locked them in separate rooms. It was immensely satisfying.
However, knowing the King of Scots’ ridiculous softness, he reckoned he only had until morning.
Carey marched into the room where the priest was sitting in irons, looking pale and lost.
“I am Sir Robert Carey, Deputy Warden of the English West March, and acting for my Lord Maitland of Thirlstane.” The man said nothing. “Your name?”
“William Crichton.”
“Are you a Jesuit priest?”
“Yes. His Highness knows this, I have disputed with him theologically several times.”
In England that would be enough to hang, draw, and quarter him, but this was Scotland where the King seemed intent on convincing the Catholics that he was a Catholic and the Protestants that he was a Protestant.
Carey showed his teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Jonathan Hepburn just made a hideous attempt against the sacred life of His Majesty, in which he might have been burned to death by oil of vitriol.”
“Oh my God.”
“What I want from you, William Crichton, is a full account of the whole thing. From start to finish, including all main actors and your part in it.”
“In exchange for?”
“I will let you go. This isn’t England.”
“And if I don’t?”
Carey leaned over Crichton and drew his finger across his throat. “I’ll do it myself,” he said conversationally, “since it is no sin for an Englishman to kill a Jesuit, as they account it no sin to make attempts against the life of Her Majesty of England.”
Crichton looked appalled. “I am a man of peace.”
“Certainly you are, William,” said Carey, still leaning, “and I am not. I know the Maxwell may protest about his house priest getting his throat cut, but probably not very much because of all the things you know about him.”
“My Lord Maxwell is a good Catholic…” began Crichton and then stopped because Carey was laughing at him. “Well he tries to be,” he finished lamely. “How is His Highness?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you will let me go.”
“Perhaps.”
Crichton swallowed. “But…”
“Do you want me to give you to my Lord Spynie?”
Crichton went ashen. “But…”
“Speak up quickly then. I should think he’s very upset at his Masque being spoilt. He’ll be here soon, I expect.”
Crichton was silent a moment and his lips moved as if he was praying. Then he tried to move his hand to the table but rediscovered the chains on his wrist.
“Hepburn refused to tell us anything of his plans,” he said, “he just guaranteed that King James would be dead or very ill…I thought poison…”
Carey said nothing.
“I was never happy about it,” Crichton said. “If the King had been excommunicated it would be legitimate although still dubious, but he hasn’t. Yet the paper came from the King of Spain saying, “Fiat!” And my Lords Maxwell and Huntly said it would be a great blow for Holy Mother Church. Besides he has no right to the throne, since his father was David Riccio…”
Carey looked nonplussed. “He inherits from his mother anyway.”
“The Salic law…”
“Is in France, not Scotland.”
“Well, anyway. Maxwell thinks that and it’s hard to gainsay him. And Huntly.”
Carey had his notebook out. “Anyone else?”
“Erroll of course, Angus, Auchinleck.”
“Any more?”
“Fintry. I was never sure what he was going to do. Another of Hepburn’s plans. And there was Sir James Chisholm of Cromlix, but that would be later when we needed to organise the supplies for the Spanish troops in Dumfries.”
“Are there any there now?”
“No, the King of Spain refused to commit any troops until he heard that King James was dead or…or incapacitated.”
Carey nodded.
“As soon as he hears that, the troops he has waiting in La Corunna will board fast ships, travel in three squadrons up the Irish Sea to Dumfries. By that time of course there would be civil war in Scotland and England and their landing would be substantially unopposed. Maxwell, Huntly, Erroll, and Angus would then march the troops south to Bristol, Oxford, and take London.”
“And the first stage in all this was killing the King?” Crichton looked away. “When he had done nothing against you and indeed treated you with favour and gentleness.”
“It was for Holy Mother Church.”
“And a cardinal’s hat for you.” Carey was disgusted and spat deliberately into the corner. Crichton looked fixedly at his hands. “Anything else?”
“Sir George Kerr is waiting in the West near Paisley for the message that the King is dead. He’ll take the papers to Spain…”
“What papers?”
Crichton hesitated.
Carey leaned towards him and said again, “What papers?”
“There are papers that…that the lords have signed…”
“What’s on them?”
“Nothing. No, really, they are blank and the King of Spain can add to them whatever he likes.”
Carey smiled. “Which lords apart from Huntly have signed these blank papers?”
“Maxwell, Erroll, Angus…”
“Has anyone sent a man?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The name of the ship?”
“The Beauty of Lennox.”
Carey showed his teeth again. “William,” he said, “I think you have just helped me. If the papers get to Spain, that is the signal to send the troops? Yes?” Crichton nodded. “You were a traitor to your King and now you are a traitor to the Catholic Church, a much better thing to be. What does Kerr look like?”
“Like most Kerrs, he’s red-headed, good-looking, one crumpled ear and corrie handed.”
“Left-handed, you mean?”
Crichton nodded. “I never thought it was right to kill the King…”he began, but Carey had already left the room and locked the door, leaving him to sit in irons and contemplate his future.
Carey found Lord Spynie was waiting for him, and the ex-favourite immediately went with a troop of men-at-arms to Lennox. There was a good road to the little town of Glasgow and they rode out of the Court at three in the morning with a warrant for Kerr’s arrest so there was every chance they would be at Lennox by noon. Carey considered riding with them but after some thought decided he needed to stay at Holyrood House and keep an eye on things there. Besides, he was due at the King’s New Year’s Day levée—Sir David Graham, one of the Grooms of the Bedchamber, had asked him personally if he would like to be there to give His Highness his cup of morning wine and wish him a Happy New Year, and of course he had agreed.
Edinburgh New Year’s Day 159(3)
Carey rose at dawn to get ready for the levée, after three hours sleep, proud in his new suit and Anricks tagged along because he said he had a petition to ask of the King. He was carrying two packages carefully wrapped in damask. They lined up outside the Kings Great Bedchamber, only to find he was in his privy bedchamber still and not to be disturbed. They waited while in the distance there came a characteristic hammering sound. Carey looked at Anricks and Anricks looked modestly at the ground.
“Is that the King and Queen…?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said Anricks and looked prim.
The King eventually moved to the Great Bedchamber and they entered in a line, Carey and Anricks last, to find him sitting up in bed looking very perky although his shirt was revolting. The ceremony began with the Napkin with which the King sketchily wiped his face and hands. Then Sir David beckoned Carey to a table at the side of the room and gave him a goblet of wine after ceremonially tasting it. Carey took the goblet and a napkin for his shoulder, bowed, and walked slowly to the King in his bed, who was smiling at him, went on one knee to him as he would have done to the Queen of England. Just as he would have done at Whitehall, in the sight of the King he took a mouthful of the wine. And froze.
It was poisoned. He knew the taste, hidden by spices and sugar. Belladonna, just as it had been at Oxford, he knew it at once and his stomach twisted in reaction. He nearly spat it straight out, looked at the King, thought of dropping the goblet, thought of many many things, knew that the King had noticed, felt the poison furring the inside of his mouth, so he spat the mouthful carefully onto the napkin on his shoulder and mouthed to the King, “It’s poisoned.”
The King grinned and said, “Och it’s nice to see ye, Sir Robert, gi’s the booze then…”
He grabbed the goblet and to Carey’s horror, tipped it up. But then he noticed the King’s Adam’s apple wasn’t moving and so he didn’t knock it out of the King’s hand as his first impulse had been. Carey immediately stood and turned, looking all round the room, while his body hid whatever the King was doing with his goblet of poisoned wine.
Eight other petitioners were waiting patiently at the other end of the chamber, Mr Anricks was nearer the bed. The other Grooms of the Bedchamber were holding a clean shirt for the King, and his waistcoat, hose and doublet, his stockings and his shoes, but one man was walking slowly and ceremonially to the door with the jug of wine.
Carey went after him, through the small door and said, “Sir David, may I check that jug, please?”
Sir David put it on a table, turned and looked at him and the fear in his eyes told Carey all he needed to know. He grabbed the man’s hand and found the little phial palmed in his left hand which was shaking.
Sir David brought up a small poinard he had hidden in his sleeve, against all James’ careful rules and Carey grabbed his right hand with his left, got a little cut, grappled, trod on his toes, brought his knee up, missed the crotch but hit his thigh, then pulled his head back and butted Sir David on the nose so he went down. Moments later two of the guards came through the door and grabbed both of them. Carey was more concerned to keep the blood from his hand off his brand new duds and insisted on wrapping the napkin round it and holding it up so the bleeding would slow. They waited as the slow process of the levée continued, for all the petitioners had to have their say.
***
Simon felt abandoned. He had counted on Carey to be there when he made his all important approach to the King—but Carey had suddenly chased out of the Great Bedchamber, in pursuit of the elderly nobleman carrying the jug of wine. The King had dribbled a lot of wine onto his already filthy shirt, had put the goblet on a small table by the bed.
Now other nobles, including Huntly, paced forwards to offer the King a clean shirt—which he refused—and then a magnificent Court suit of peach and pale tawny taffeta cannions and a doublet of equally splendid yellow and peach damask studded with diamonds and topazes. They helped him into it, with smooth practised movements, in itself a show of the King’s magnificence.
He was feeling afraid, so much was riding on this. He had done his best with the Dispute, with the help of the Almighty, and now it was his job to find out…What?
What the King of Scots thought of Jews.
He waited whilst the other petitioners went forward to speak to the King…Two portly merchants, a Highlander looking uncomfortable in hose and doublet, a scrawny man with a lot of papers, a young blond Allemayne. All had presents for the King, of course, as it was New Year’s Day. Thank the Almighty, he had remembered the necessity of gifts and taken the trouble to buy two suitable presents in Edinburgh in the week after Christmas, at a huge premium.
His hands were sweating. He held the damask-wrapped gifts with the tips of his fingers so the damask wouldn’t be marked, waited modestly until the last. Carey had been invited, but Anricks had had to pay, rather a lot, in fact, to all the Grooms of the Bedchamber. Never mind. It was worth it.
“Ay, Mr Anricks,” said the King affably, sitting in a carved chair and drinking more wine from a Venetian glass he had just been given by a merchant. “I enjoyed yer disputation last night.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Get up off yer knees, mon, this isnae the Queen’s Court. Now then. I’ve decided not tae clap ye in irons for knocking me over since ye had such a verra guid reason for it.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Ah dinna recall what happened after but my Queen says ye helped her and so Ah’m verra grateful,” said the King with a smile which did not reach his eyes.
“Ah…My memory too is deficient, but I am glad Your Majesty’s Queen is pleased with me.”
“So. Whit have ye got me for my New Year’s gift?”
Anricks presented his gift and the King unwrapped it to find a copy of Thomas Digges. He laughed. “Ye’re determined to convert me to Copernicus, then?”
“Your Majesty needs only to read the Preface,” said Anricks humbly. “I own the main part of the book is not new and in fact quite dull.”
James laughed again at that.
“This is Sir Robert Carey’s gift to you, Your Majesty,” said Anricks. “It is a book on venerie, hunting, but I am afraid I cannot say how good it is for I have not…”
“Ah…wonderful! La Vénerie de Twiti! I’ve been after this for a long weary while, ye can tell the long-shanked Deputy Warden thank ye very much for it!” And King James opened the book and started reading immediately, but then remembered himself and put it down. “Mr Anricks, have ye a petition for me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Anricks took a deep breath. “I would like to petition you to look with favour on my people.”
The King tilted his head, suddenly like a falcon. “Oh?”
“Perhaps you do not know, but I am a Jew, of the tribe and lineage of Abraham. I would like to pray you that you look with as much favour upon us as does Her Royal Majesty, your cousin of England.”
There was a pause, but Anricks knew his cause was already lost.
“Ay well,” said the King coldly. “I will, o’ course.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, that is all I ask,” said Anricks smoothly, backed three steps and then turned to follow Carey through the unremarkable door he had disappeared through. Inside he had a great yawning emptiness where before he had been afraid. For when Anricks had said he was a Jew, he had been watching King James’ face carefully and across it he had seen travel, in the blink of an eye, a look of disgust.
The Ames, Anriques, Nuñez, and Lopez families would be buying land in Constantinople.
***
Carey was checking the new napkin he had wrapped around his left hand where the cut in the web between finger and thumb was still producing blood when the King came through the door looking colder than he ever had in Carey’s experience. He was carrying his goblet, still full of wine.
“Sir Robert, ye’re wounded!”
“A cut from Sir David’s dagger, Your Majesty. You didn’t…?”
“Nay, I didna. I pretended. How did ye know..?”
“I was accidentally poisoned while I was serving the Queen on progress in the autumn. I knew the taste immediately.”
“Ay? We’ll hae this tested o’course but if Sir David had a knife…”
“And a phial to bring the poison in.”
“I hate knives, I willna have them in my presence.” He bent to Sir David and slapped his face, despite the blood and snot from the
broken nose. Carey felt his forehead which felt distinctly sore. Not as sore as a broken nose though: mentally he thanked Bangtail, who had given him lessons in head-butting.
The slapping brought Sir David round more or less. “Sir David,” said the King sadly, “ye’ve served me well all my life, I remember ye when I was a lad. Why? For God’s sake why?”
“You…you debauched my wife, you…you…”
“I what? Debauched? Your wife?”
“My poor little Marguerite, you tupped her like…”
“Me? But Sir David, ye were serving me when the Duc D’Aubigny was here, ye know I’m no’ a lover of women, or I wisnae until this morning. What made you think that?”
“The dresslength…She had a lover…Lovebites…”
“Ye’re wood. I gave a dresslength to the Lady Schevengen as well, d’ye think I’m wapping her?”
Sir David rolled his eyes. “But someone was her lover, she had lovebites and I never give lovebites…”
“Fetch the Queen,” the King said to one of the guards and the young man sprinted away.
Anricks had come through the door from the Great Bedchamber, found Carey holding up his hand with a bloody napkin round it and took him through to the antechamber where Anricks poured whishke bee on the cut until it stopped bleeding and then ripped up another napkin with his teeth to bandage Carey’s hand properly. No more blood soaked through although hand wounds are often very bloody. Anricks didn’t think it would need stanching or cauterising.
By the time they came back, the Queen had arrived and was holding the King tight while he smiled down at her. The Queen had tears in her eyes.
“What’s happened now, Your Majesty?” Carey asked.
“Poor little Marguerite,” the Queen said. “Poor poor girl. There vos no harm in her.”
“It seems Sir David killed his wife last night, throttled her in his bed,” said the King distastefully. “Dear God, man…”
A Clash of Spheres Page 29