The Gowrie Conspiracy

by Alanna Knight

  The Gowrie Conspiracy

  A Tam Eildor Mystery

  ALANNA KNIGHT

  For Barbara Wood

  with my love and admiration

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Alanna Knight

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  In the second of Tam Eildor’s time-quests through history, from the many sources of research I should like to give particular mention to The Making of a King and James VI of Scotland (both by Caroline Bingham); Anne of Denmark by E. Carleton Williams; Gold at Wolf’s Crag by Fred Douglas; The Reign of James the Sixth ed. by John Goodacre and Michael Lynch; James VI and the Gowrie Conspiracy by Andrew Lang; Alexander Ruthven and the Gowrie Mystery by Major and Mrs W. Ruthven-Finlayson; Scotland’s Last Royal Wedding, the marriage of James VI to Anne of Denmark by D. Stevenson and The Wisest Fool by the late Nigel Tranter, a greatly missed friend.

  My grateful thanks to the National Trust for Scotland at Falkland Palace and to the Scottish Library of Edinburgh Central Library, George IV Bridge, endlessly patient in providing obscure information. Finally to my husband Alistair for his tireless transporting of loads of reference books and his loyal support and encouragement.

  Prologue

  From Lord Herries Historical Memoirs of the Reign of Mary Queen of Scots and of King James the Sixth

  A contemporary account published by The Abbotsford Club, 1836.

  …the kingdom and court was at quiet and the Queen, growing great with child retreated from Holyroodhouse unto the Castle of Edinburgh where, upon the nineteenth day of June she brought forth a son, betwixt nine and ten o’clock in the morning. This which follows is worth observing.

  About two o’clock in the afternoon, the King [Darnley] came to visit the Queen and was desirous to see the child.

  ‘My Lord,’ says the Queen. ‘God has given you and me a son, begotten by none but you!’ At which words the King blushed and kissed the child.

  The Queen took the child in her arms and discovering [uncovering] his face said, ‘My Lord, here I protest to God, and as I shall answer to him at the great day of judgement, this is your son, and no other man’s son! And I am desirous that all here, both ladies [*] and others, bear witness; for he is so much your own son, that I fear it will be worse for him hereafter!’

  Then she spoke to Sir William Stanley [Darnley’s servant]. ‘This,’ says she, ‘is the son, whom, I hope, shall first unite the two kingdom’s of Scotland and England!’

  Sir William answered, ‘Why, madam? Shall he succeed before your majestie and his father?’

  ‘Because,’ says she, ‘his father has broken with me,’

  The King was by and heard all. ‘Sweet Madam,’ says he, ‘is this your promise that you made to forgive and forget all?’

  The Queen answered, ‘I have forgiven all, but will never forget! What if Fawdonside’s pistol had shot [referring to the killing of David Riccio in her presence four months earlier and Darnley’s plan to seize the throne] ‘what would have become of the child and me both? Or what estate would you have been in? God only knows, but we may suspect!’

  ‘Madam,’ answered the King, ‘these things are all past.’

  ‘Then,’ says the Queen, ‘let them go.’

  Among the ladies were those closest to the Queen who had helped to deliver the child. After a long labour, difficult and painful, she lay also like one dead and two of the midwives signed a bond that was to cost many lives…

  Chapter One

  July, 1600

  Those who witnessed the sinister incident involving the King’s runaway horse hinted at a miracle, that the presence of a humble fisherman on the bank had saved His Grace from a watery grave in the Falls of Earn.

  Even an undignified drenching would have been disagreeable to a monarch who was not partial to bodily immersion at the best of times and considered that being the Lord’s Anointed was quite enough in the way of ablutions. Warm water did not extend beyond his fingertips if he could avoid it.

  When the identity of the fisherman became known however, ‘Magic’ was another word used to describe the incident. A word whispered with extreme caution in the King’s presence, conjuring up as it did melancholy visions of His Grace’s enthusiasm for witch-burnings and for personally attending and occasionally giving a helping hand in matters involving the thumbscrew and the iron boot.

  The solitary fisherman was Tam Eildor, happy to escape the somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere of Her Grace the Queen’s Household in Falkland Palace for a pleasant day by the Falls, a favourite leaping place for salmon. The fish were known to be plentiful but it was the joy of isolation with only muted birdsong, the swirling waters and an occasional fox barking that accompanied his meditation, the feel of warm July sunshine through the fine linen shirt.

  King James had also been lured out that morning by the promise of a fine day’s hunting, although he had little hope of the sun’s rays penetrating the thick padding of his waistcoat and breeches, worn not as comfort against perfidious weather but as protection against the assassin’s steel or bullet.

  Nor did he share Tam’s affinity with nature and the tranquil beauty of his surroundings. Such feelings of peace and meditation were unknown to him. A keen sportsman, he regarded the countryside as his killing arena, his sole purpose to bring down as many creatures great and small for the sheer pleasure of their destruction. What became of his trophies did not concern him. He noted only with gleeful satisfaction the growing number of carcasses signalling the day’s success.

  At the king’s side, his retinue of fifteen courtiers included Ludovick Stewart, Duke of Lennox. Less striking in appearance and more sober in his apparel than the flamboyant young lords on whom the king bestowed fond glances and caresses, Ludovick owed his present elevation to boon companion as he was the son of King James’s first boyhood love, his French cousin Esme Stewart.

  The royal party had set out early that morning, their target the deer and wild boar. The huntsmen were not too proud to include any small creatures such as coneys and fowls unfortunate enough to be spotted going about their business in the royal forest.

  The gentle river to which the runaway horse carried its royal rider was outwith His Grace’s chosen area. The banks of its meandering course, too open for shy animals, were popular at court for rustic picnics and romantic dalliance. The only dangerous spot was a sudden rocky intrusion ten feet high where the smooth river changed course to become a reckless torrent, a picturesque waterfall popular with fishermen.

  This was the spot Tam had chosen to set up his rod. Surprise and righteous indignation followed when peaceful birdsong vanished under a loud report which speedily erupted into shouts and the sound of a galloping horse.

  Suddenly a magnificent white stallion bolted towards him from the clearing. With a yelling figure clingin
g for dear life to its flowing mane it was heading straight for the waterfall.

  Tam leaped into immediate action and without a thought for his personal safety he jumped into the path of the wild-eyed terrified animal and its even more wide-eyed terrified rider. They had reached the very brink of the Falls when Tam hurled himself into the fray and, seizing the reins with almost superhuman effort, dragged the beast to a standstill.

  As he spoke words of command which the horse seemed to understand, it stood still, sweating and snorting, but respectful of the man who held its head in a firm grip, it pawed the ground as if in apology for its outrageous behaviour.

  That matter settled, Tam went to the assistance of the rider who had lost reins and stirrups and whatever nerves he had started out with at the outset of the hunt that morning.

  Tam had no difficulty in recognising the familiar brooding hooded eyes, the long melancholy face of the man still holding tightly on to the horse’s mane. Bowing low, he said, ‘I trust Your Grace has suffered no ill.’

  And at that moment all indignation, all determination to make someone suffer for his indignity faded away from King James as he found himself staring down into the fine features and luminous dark eyes of his rescuer.

  Ludovick Stewart had also reached the scene, reined in alongside to find the king oblivious to anxious questions regarding his safety.

  James had fallen in love. Such a condition was not an unusual experience. It happened with alarming regularity over the years to the dismay of whoever occupied the enviable but tenuous position of his current favourite.

  Queen Anne had learned to put up with the peculiarity of a husband who vastly preferred young men to bedding with a woman. She had long since resigned herself to the somewhat abrupt lovemaking regarded as the breeding necessity of a royal heir for the Stuart dynasty.

  As for Ludovick Stewart, he had been around the royal court long enough to recognise the symptoms. But this was different; the young man was not of noble birth, just a simple barefoot fisherman wearing a scanty white shirt and tight breeches. Perhaps it was only the novelty of his unadorned state which had instant appeal, Vicky hoped as James, suddenly aware of his presence, demanded,

  ‘What kept ye, Vicky? Where were ye when this beast took off and almost killed your king?’ Ignoring Vicky’s spluttered reply, he raged, ‘D’ye no’ understand, ye glaikit wee mannie, we were almost drowned – dashed to bits on yon bit rocks down there,’ he gulped, jabbing a trembling hand in the direction of the waterfall.

  And then, rage abated, he bestowed a beaming smile on Tam. ‘If it hadna’ been for this gallant young gentleman –’ he said softly, and pausing raised pious eyes heavenward, ‘– sent by the Good Lord’s grace to save your king’s life.’

  Recognising his monarch’s condition in the glowing eyes and tender expression, it was Vicky’s turn to raise his eyes heavenward at the impertinence and the absurdity of the Duke of Lennox of the blood royal being described as a wee mannie and compared to a common fisherman elevated to the role of gallant gentleman.

  Now both men took stock of Tam Eildor for their different reasons. The man holding the stallion’s head was, whatever Vicky’s reservations and cold appraisal, undoubtedly comely – strange looks indeed, but comely. Too dark for a Lowland Scot, a little over six feet tall and somewhere between mid-and late thirties – the king’s own age. And cause for further caution, since this newcomer was also considerably older than the boys James chose to cuddle and coo over.

  What did this portent? The man had an air of breeding, a touch of polished steel in his bearing, the wide shoulders and bare chest visible in the open shirt. A nobleman’s bastard, perhaps.

  And Vicky regarded James narrowly, noted that moonstruck expression. It was time to break the spell.

  ‘Sire?’ That was a question, since James seemed to have no notion of getting down from the saddle which Vicky rightly interpreted as awareness that on ground level his rescuer would tower over his royal person.

  The remaining members of the retinue had halted a little distance away, an uneasy group wondering what was going and on blaming each other for the loud report that had caused such a catastrophe. Was the king at this moment considering retribution?

  None had courage to approach where Tam awaited the king’s instructions, the wild creature he had first encountered transformed into a contented animal quite happy to have its nose stroked while making several attempts to snort gently down Tam’s bare neck, a familiarity which James regarded with considerable disgust.

  Tam looked up at the king and smiled. ‘He seems quiet enough now, sire. Something must have scared him.’

  Remembering that explosion of noise, it was the king’s turn to snort angrily, and when Tam added, ‘Highly bred animals are often thus,’ he shouted,

  ‘Highly bred, did ye say? The loathsome beast almost killed me.’ And, pausing to shriek at Vicky, ‘Get me on to one of yon other beasts back there. As for this brute – we will have him destroyed. Now.’

  Tam tried not to look appalled at such a hideous waste. He need not have done so. After all this was only a horse, a dumb animal. And King James was well-known to have as little respect for the human lives of those who earned his displeasure, high born or low. All were the same to executioner’s axe or hangman’s rope.

  ‘Get ye gone, Vicky,’ said James, slobbering a little. ‘We havena’ all day to stand here gossiping.’ As Vicky continued to stare at him, he added angrily, ‘Get me another beast, ony will do.’

  Truth to tell, he was reluctant to descend from his high saddle and find his royal person reaching only – he did a quick assessment – his rescuer’s shoulder. Another thought, a crafty motive. Asudden yearning to become better acquainted without Vicky’s ill-concealed knowing look.

  Watching him depart, James smiled down at Tam, demanded, ‘Ye’re no frae hereabouts?’

  A difficult question for which Tam had no easy answer that anyone, least of all the king, could be expected to understand, so he ventured a vague, ‘The Borders, sire.’

  ‘Ye live nearby?’ said James hopefully scanning the landscape for some humble habitation where he might dally a while and they might be private together.

  ‘I am Tam Eildor, sire. A servant in Her Grace the Queen’s Household.’

  ‘H’mm.’ All tenderness vanished in a glance of extreme distaste at the mention of his queen. Any mention of her household was not the best possible news for King James. As Tam and everyone else well knew, there was a constant state of war between the two.

  One cause which united servants of both households in sympathy was that Queen Anne, by nature fastidious, found her royal husband’s insanitary manners and unclean person displeasing. But of first importance to her was the fact that the baby Prince Henry Frederick, born after four anxious childless years, had been immediately whisked away from his mother’s arms and removed to Stirling Castle to be fostered by its hereditary keepers the Erskine family.

  James had tried in vain to placate and reason with his tearful wife. This was no reflection on her excellent qualities as a mother, he explained, but Stirling Castle had long been the Royal nursery for generations of Scotland’s kings. Had not the Countess of Mar been foster-mother to himself when he was taken from his own mother, the unfortunate Queen Mary?

  Anne’s indignant snort as a reply would have clearly indicated to a less sensitive husband that this was no recommendation. That the same odious countess who now denied her access to her darling baby son had not made a very creditable job of his royal father. Anne had decided long ago that the Erskines were not very refined. They had brought up James, the future king of Scots, to speak their own barbaric Doric, a coarse dialect which she, a Danish princess, had been forced to learn.

  Now again almost six months pregnant, poor Anne’s maternal feelings required that the young prince and her daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret, aged four and two, be close to her. She rightfully objected to the role of a brood mare obliged to provide pri
nces and princesses and then fade once more into the background while James, his duty done, enjoyed a libertine’s role with a series of dashing, disreputable young men. Life was so unfair.

  ‘So yer wi’ Annie, are ye?’ James demanded. What advantage might be scored over his queen by this fortuitous meeting, he wondered, gazing down on Tam holding the stallion’s head so firmly. And so simply attired, no concession to fashion, unlike any of his court; overblown, outrageously beribboned, strutting like peacocks with their jewels and ostrich-feathered hats, their slashed and padded breeches, their codpieces…

  Why, this young mannie was almost indecently naked by comparison. The white shirt carelessly laced showed a great deal, aye, a very great deal, of warm-looking, healthily tanned naked flesh. His glance travelled downwards to the tight – aye, skin-tight – leather breeches. No need for codpieces there.

  Suddenly tongue-tied as became a virgin lad and not a well-experienced king some thirty-four years old, James was aware of a certain quickening and found himself slobbering a little at the erotic picture. He was giving careful consideration as to how best he might carry on this promising acquaintance to his mutual benefit and smite Annie in the process, when Vicky reappeared. James sighed. He had almost forgotten Vicky’s existence. But there he was leading a docile-looking brown mare, far less dashing than the white stallion which had introduced him to the infinite possibility of a rare new experience with a simple fisherman.

  It was Ludovick Stewart’s turn to study that simple fisherman again. He had been around James long enough to recognise the symptoms of royal infatuation, the challenge of sexual allurement offered by every new pretty boy’s arrival in court. He did not share his royal master’s taste for sodomy but the scene before him suggested that there was more to this young man than met the eye and that a careful scanning of his background would be enlightening. Especially in the interests of his own highly regarded position. Who was he? What had brought him into the Queen’s Household and how long had he been there? Who were his friends and – more important since a favourite has no friends – who were his enemies?