A Stake in the Kingdom

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Seventh son of the penurious Laird of Balfour, the fiercely ambitious David Beaton was determined to rise in the world - by whatever means available. Never one to be burdened by scruples, he cynically used the Church for his own ends to become one of the most able statesmen of his century and the real ruler of James V's Scotland. An astute, courageous man, an accomplished fighter, fond of women, it was inevitable that Cardinal David Beaton would make many enemies. And that one day one of those embittered men would wreak a terrible revenge. The compelling 16th century story of the rise and fall of David Beaton - the Cardinal who was no saint. Set against the background of war and Reformation, this is a thrilling story from Nigel Tranter, master of Scottish History.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 381

Sample

THE young man, slender, fine-featured, almost girlish were it not for the strength of jawline, insinuated himself skilfully through the crowd, unobtrusively working his way to the front. In only a minute or two he had gained a position of vantage, where the Market Street of St. Andrews widened out behind the constricted arched gateway of the West Port, without actually giving offence to anyone, even amongst his fellow-students, many of whom had been waiting for hours, his shy smile, murmured apologies and diffident air contributing. David Beaton was like that, a modest-seeming youth who yet knew what he wanted.

He had not attempted, of course, to drag the girl along with him. She was not the shape for insinuating effectively through crowds, protruding in such notable fashion, front and rear, as to interfere with easy passage, and drawing attention to herself by her very contours, especially amongst the male section of any company. So, after hurrying up from the hidden and sheltered nook on the beach, beneath the castle cliffs, deserted this fine sunny June forenoon because everybody was crowded here in the streets, he had abandoned Chrissie – or Katie, was it? – abandoned the giggling creature anyway, without a word, behind the packed throng. He had no doubt that she would be waiting for him afterwards, when it was all over, in the tiresome way of women.

David Beaton saw that he could do still better, latecomer as he was. A little to the right there was a small shrine, erected to Saint Regulus who allegedly had founded St. Andrews, a poor enough thing of clumsy sculpture and faded colours under a canopy. But it was mounted on a stone plinth, and no one of the waiting crowd had had sufficient initiative – or sufficient disrespect for saints – to climb up on this. Edging along inoffensively just behind the front row of watchers, with gentle regrets, the young man reached this plinth and climbed its two steps. He circled a somewhat patched and threadbare arm around Saint Regulus, to hold his position, and so stood, fair head and shoulders above all, his prepossessing smile fairly effectively countering the shocked stares and scandalised mutterings of the godly citizens of St. Andrews.

He was just in time. He knew that, of course. He had heard the trumpets down on the beach, carried on the south-west breeze, and so had regretfully disengaged himself from the person of Katie – or was it Chrissie? – who had been really extraordinarily responsive for that time of the day. Now, he could hear the slow stately chanting of the massed choristers, punctuated by the occasional clash of cymbals, against a faint background noise of many horses’ hooves on cobblestones.

The procession, evidently, was nearing this West Port gate into the walled town proper.

The throng stirred, and in the crowded street the Prior’s handsomely liveried retainers, aided by the more drab college servants, wielded sticks and staves and the flats of swords to keep the press back and the way open for the cavalcade.

Beaton watched the stress and confusion below him with amused interest, as officious authoritarians manhandled meek citizenry. He moved his position on Saint Regulus a little, so that he was directly above a plump young matron who had been pushed there, and could thus look down pleasantly into the open bosom of her bulging bodice.

There was a pause in the singing and clashing, although shod hooves continued to scuffle and clatter beyond the walls. The four gaily-clad trumpeters, two on the top of each open turret flanking the arched gateway, blew a stirring fanfare; a single singing boy, in vestments, stepped directly above the archway, and his clear, high bell-like treble fluted the Gloria Patri; while the Provost of the burgh, fumbling with his chain of office, doffed his bonnet and then put it on again, and stepped out into the cleared space before the gate – to be shooed back peremptorily by a frowning friar in the grey habit of the Franciscans.

The music resumed, fifes, shawms and singers raising the sweet chords of the Veni Creator Spiritus, and the head of the procession appeared through the gateway. First came a troop of mounted men-at-arms in helmets, breastplates and the colours of the archiepiscopal See of Glasgow, swords drawn to push aside any inconvenient and presumptuous commonality. Then emerged the sub-Dean of the Cathedral, a resplendent figure on a led palfry, flanked by two acolytes swinging smoking censers of silver, and followed by the first of the choirs, the choristers of the Cathedral, boys, youths and men to the number of four score.

As these passed, chanting melodiously, the young man on the statue raised his own not untuneful voice, to join them in the same strain and tempo – but very different words indeed, lewdly scurrilous in a high degree and no discreet note. Askance and protesting, all around who heard turned reproachful or angry glances – although a few of the younger folk and students sniggered guiltily.

But Beaton’s expression was so inoffensive, almost rapt, his beardless delicate features so at odds with the blended subtleties and crudities of his psalmody, that folk somehow had to accept the intervention as essentially harmless, mere high spirits. Even one of the Prior’s monks near by, in the white robe of the Augustinians, after eyeing the youth sharply, turned a shoulder and looked heedfully elsewhere.

After a bevy of musicians came a column of Augustin friars; then two stave-bearers, one carrying a tall brilliantly-jewelled cross and the other a heraldic banner, side by side, to lead on the magnificently vested, portly figure of Master John Hepburn, Prior of St. Andrews, Dean of the Cathedral and Lord Privy Seal of the realm of Scotland, mounted on a pure white jennet, richly caparisoned.

As the Provost stepped forward, to dip a knee to the real ruler of St. Andrews, the Prior waved him aside haughtily with a flick of sparkling beringed fingers, and the burgh’s representative and chief magistrate retired hurriedly. John Hepburn’s heavy-jowled pale face was wholly without expression. It was clear that he was displeased with the entire situation, and only there because he had little or no option.

Young Beaton eyed him thoughtfully, wondered if he should make a notably rude noise as he passed – and decided against it, on grounds of discretion.

This was because, close at the Lord Prior’s back rode his personal bodyguard of highly armed retainers, Border mosstroopers to a man and as tough and unscrupulous a company as could be found in all Scotland, despite the fine silver crosses on their breastplates. And they were led by that keen-eyed and sour-faced bastard – legitimated, of course – the sub-Prior, Patrick Hepburn, who happened to be the Prior’s natural son and designated eventually to succeed him in this the richest priory in all the land.

Behind the Prior’s array came Leslie, Earl of Rothes, who as Sheriff of Fife had to be present on this special occasion, with banner-bearer, trumpeter and men-at-arms, followed by a resounding company of the lesser lords, nobility and lairds of the county and sheriffdom – modest amongst whom rode John Beaton of Balfour, of ancient lineage and broad if not very productive acres, David Beaton’s own father.

The young man did not seek to catch his sire’s eye, but nor did he seek to hide his sweetly attractive features. As seventh son, he and the Laird of Balfour had little in common save blood and an appreciation of reproductive activities.

After the nobility and gentry rode a single proud figure carrying a great banner that streamed gallantly in the breeze, larger than any other in that cavalcade. This was Sir Andrew Learmonth, Standard-Bearer and Archiepiscopal Secretary to His Beatitude Alexander, Archbishop of St. Andrews, Primate of all Scotland, and recently appointed Chancellor and chief minister of the realm. It was understandable by all, of course, that the Archbishop himself could not be present. He was busy in Edinburgh, with the King, at the new Palace of Holyroodhouse, planning the great invasion of England, projected for this autumn of 1513, once the harvest was safely in – a most necessary activity for the Chancellor if less so for the Primate. Moreover, it would not have been entirely suitable that he should have been present today, in the circumstances; the Archbishop Alexander Stewart was, after all, younger even than David Beaton, little more than a boy, and not in holy orders. Precedence would almost certainly have reared its awkward head and created problems, for as well as being Archbishop, Primate and Chancellor, the youthful Alexander was, of course, the favourite child, albeit out-of-wedlock, of that loving and beloved monarch, James the Fourth, King of Scots. So his standards alone graced this auspicious occasion.

Finally, after a further galaxy of trumpeters, heralds and officers, lay and ecclesiastic, had clattered through the West Port arch, came an extraordinary and magnificent two-horse litter, something like a great four-poster bed borne on poles, hung and upholstered in crimson and purple velvet and with an embroidered canopy above. Lounging in this remarkable equipage was a gross, heavily-built man of middle years, with a round red face and lively black beady eyes beneath a tall archiepiscopal mitre that sat somewhat askew owing to the litter’s swaying progress, gorgeously robed in colourful vestments glittering with jewels and stiff with gold. Every now and again he raised a coped arm and two fingers that sparkled with diamonds, to sketch a limp cross, by way of benediction, right and left, upon the folk who knelt in the filth and garbage of the street at his passing, a languid gesture so much at variance with the small darting black eyes. The Archbishop of Glasgow, foremost prelate of the land, though not Primate, whatever else he might be, was not languid by disposition. Apostolic Protonotary, Abbot of Dunfermline, Arbroath and Kilwinning, Lord High Treasurer of the Kingdom, and the richest man in Scotland, but even so coveter of St. Andrews, the Primacy and a cardinal’s hat, he was James Beaton, younger brother of the Laird of Balfour, and own uncle of the youth with the arm round Saint Regulus.

David, of course, could not kneel for the apostolic blessing, as did all around him. He contended himself with smiling beatifically instead.

“Mountebank!” he murmured, as though repeating an orison. “Puffed-up toad! Bloated bladder, wind-bag, boy-ravisher, skinflint – God reward and roast you! God guide thy steps to hell! Amen!” That was said, however, entirely without a trace of malice.

The Provost edged forward again, on his knees this time, found that to be quite impracticable, rose to his feet and advanced towards the litter bent double, mumbling, there to proffer an illuminated scroll of welcome to the Archbishop, without so much as raising his eyes to the imposing conveyance. In consequence, he did not hold up the scroll sufficiently high – and the prelate was certainly not the man to bestir himself, lean over and fish for any such offering, or even to have the litter halted for the purpose. The town’s representative therefore, had to run alongside the equipage, seeking to keep his head suitably lowered, even to cross himself repeatedly, bonnet in hand, at the same time as holding the parchment, higher and higher, until at length it reached a position where James Beaton’s beringed cross-signing fingers could collect it, without his having to change his lounging position, to drop it thereafter into the well of the litter without a further glance.

From the plinth of the nearby statue a peal of silvery laughter rang out, uninhibited and clear above the muttered Aves and reverences of the kneeling crowd. The Archbishop swiftly raised those black darting eyes to meet the amused regard of his nephew. He showed no recognition, made no sign, not even a change of expression. As the litter passed on its way, the breeze off the North Sea, funnelled down between a gap in the tall houses, whisked sufficient of the archiepiscopal vestments aside to reveal to the sharp-sighted that its wearer was also clad in steel armour beneath.

The final troop of men-at-arms, in the See of Glasgow colours, rode in through the gateway. Holy Church was come, in its fullest authority, this day of Corpus Christi 1513, in accordance with the royal command, to seek divine blessing and favour on the projected English adventure, here in St. Andrews the ecclesiastical metropolis of Scotland. King James, romantic, chivalrous and headstrong, had yet an almost superstitious regard for religious niceties and anniversaries. This, the 25th anniversary of his coronation, was to be the occasion for a great ritualistic assault on the Deity, on behalf of the war plans, where He was presumably most accessible – St. Andrews. And by the Apostolic Protonotary, not the boy Alexander, who, none recognised better than his father, was unlikely as yet to have achieved any particular access to the divine ear. But it was equally typical of King James that he found himself to be too busy preparing the plans of action for the campaign to be able to attend personally.

At least, it offered James Beaton an opportunity to cast an eye over St. Andrews again, and make one or two dispositions which might expediate his speedy return here on a permanent basis.

Behind the great procession the crowd broke up, some to surge after it to the castle, some to flock to the Cathedral to await the later service of intercession and dedication, some to go home. David Beaton found the young woman beside him promptly enough, as he had anticipated.

“I hope that you are suitably blessed, hallowed and regenerated, my dear?” he said, patting her shapely bottom. “Badly you need it. For you are, of course, a most wicked, immodest and shameless baggage. An utterly fallen and wanton trollop. Are you not? Bound for hell’s fires!”

The girl, a comely and well-rounded wench from the St. Salvator’s College kitchens, flushed and giggled at the same time. “Och, Davie . . .” she protested. “What like a thing to say is that?”

“It is the stern and undeniable truth, woman!” he declared severely. “As I am in an excellent position to know! I must say, I fear for your soul. If you have a soul. Have you such a thing, Katie? Or should it be Chrissie?”

“Kathy,” she said. She had him by the arm now, and was drawing him towards an alleyway, northwards, between two of the high narrow timber-fronted houses, all overhanging gablets and dormers.

“Where are you dragging me off to, woman?”

“Back,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Back to the beach, Davie.” Her voice was low, thick and warm.

“On my soul – you are a hot quean! A very bulling heifer, I do declare! So soon, again? Does your mind, Kathy, never rise above your loins?” He shrugged, and smiled ruefully. “Mine now, at this moment, rises just a little higher! To my belly, Kathy – my belly. I am, in truth, hungry. Devilishly hungry, girl – for victual. Food and drink. Just now, I desire meat. Flesh, to put into me – not my flesh into you! And I have not a penny-piece to my name, woe’s me!”

Still she pulled him along.

He considered her urgent pulchritude. “I am not so well-filled and rounded out as you, I fear,” he observed. “Is there a moral here? A parable, perhaps? Here am I, with a mind, an intelligence above the ordinary, a soaring soul likewise. Learned in Greek and Latin, in logic and metaphysics, in philosophy and both civil and canon law. Yet my belly is empty and my bones protrude though my skin, and my skin through my clothing. Whereas you, my dear, have no mind, only a body. If you have a soul at all, it is firm anchored to your scut. You know nothing save what your natural instincts tell you. And yet you swell with fatness!”

“Och, Davie – you talk ower much . . .”

“You think so? Perhaps you are right. I vow I will from now on consider acting, rather than talking. Put my learning to some effect. Yes, indeed – I think so.” The young man’s fine eyes narrowed. “It is time, probably. But first, Katie – Kathy – I will start with you. I will make a compact with you. A bargain. You will fill up my belly, and I your . . . h’mm, your present requirements. We shall satisfy one the other. In that kitchen of yours, and then on the beach. But . . . the kitchen first. For the delights of the beach are scarce improved by an empty stomach! Take me to your larder at St. Salvator’s, Kathy. I’ll swear you can find the wherewithal there to stop my bowels rumbling!”

The girl looked doubtful. “It’s the time, Davie,” she objected. “It’s no’ the meat. Och, there’s aye plenty meat. But the manciple said we were a’ to be back by the Nones bell – a’ the maids.” She produced another of her giggles. “We’ll be needed for the castle.”

“You will, will you? Sport for the visitors! Of course – St. Salvator’s must not fail in hospitality. You are like to have a busy evening, lass – with benefit of clergy! I wonder that you are so hot for the like activity now! All day. But – save us, there’s plenty of time! The Nones bell is not until three after noon. Give me but fifteen minutes in that pantry of yours, and then I am at your service until Nones.”

“Haste, then . . .” she urged, hurrying him along North Street.

There was plenty of time, of course. Later by a couple of hours, they lay on a pocket of warm sand in a hidden corner formed by two thrusting bastions of the castle cliffs, only to be reached by scrambling. Even Kathy was sated now, flushed, lying asprawl, her ever exiguous clothing disarranged. David Beaton, beside her, idly wrapping a lock of her sweat-damp hair round his finger, mused aloud.

“Look at those terns, Kathy. Diving for sillerfish in the shallows. Bonny critturs, are they not? Their bodies white as yours – if a wee thing more slender! Black caps too – though differently sited! But . . . they could teach you a lesson, woman. For they ken where they’re going. See them. They don’t drift and sleep like the gulls and the jukes – and you! They are busy diving for the wee fishes. All the time. When they’re not doing the more intelligent thing still, and diving on one of their own kind that already has caught a fish – to make it drop it. Aye, and catching the morsel and swallowing it before it hits the water again. Now, there’s canny, diligent birds. Not like you. Who give yourself to any man today, careless of tomorrow. You’re a gull, Kathy – naught but a gull. To be gulled.”

She smiled sleepily.

“Most folk are gulls, of course,” he went on. “Content to drift through their lives, taking what the sea washes up to them, or doing without. Myself, now – I am not like that. Would you name me gull, Kathy?”

She did not answer.

“Maybe I’ve seemed something gull-like up till this, I grant you. Maybe I’ve done what the others have done, drifted with the tide. It’s not easy to do aught else when you are studying, mind. You canna go faster than your teachers and tutors. You’re tied to the pace of the rest. Aye, I’ve had to do some drifting. As a result, I have holes in my hose, scarce a sole to my shoes, and not a penny to bless you with. But . . . I am going to change all that. From this day. Aye, I am. You watch me, Kathy, my trollop. Just watch Davie Beaton!” And he tweaked her hair.

“What are you going to do, Davie?” she asked, but lazily, trickling sand over his bare legs.

“Why, I am going to go catching fish, like the terns! Siller fish. But bigger – a deal bigger fish, Kathy.”

She actually turned her head to look at him now. “Fish? You’re no’ going to turn fisher, Davie? You, that’s son to a laird? With a’ your book-learning? Would that no’ be a wicked waste? Your father wouldna have it. He’ll give you siller, will he no’? If you’re that needing it!”

“My father will not give me one siller piece, lass. I’m his seventh son, mind. And he’s not got that much siller, himself. Land, yes – but mainly stones. A castle falling down – more stones! ‘If his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?’ God, yes – if he’s Beaton o’ Balfour! With his quiver full, and eight daughters to find portions for! Na, na – I seek bigger fish than my father could give me. And not in the sea, see you!”

“Where, then?”

“In Holy Church, woman. Where else? The well-nourished body of the faithful here upon earth. The Church Militant, that was to be founded upon one Peter, Fisher of Men! Aye – that’s where I’ll do my fishing!”

“But isna that what you’ve aye been studying for, Davie? The Kirk? That’s why you’re here, is it no’?”

“Aye – in a manner of speaking, Kathy. I was destined for the Church, right enough. Like so many another needy laird’s younger son. A living somewhere, and the cure of a few souls. But, after this morning, I have decided otherwise. That the Church can do better for me than that. Mind, the idea has birled in my head for long. But today signed and sealed the matter. Today I looked upon the Ecclesia Domini, the Church as master. And lost my taste, of a sudden, for the Church as pastor! Do you not agree with me, Kathy? Master or pastor? I vow I know which you would prefer!”

“I dinna rightly take your meaning, Davie . . .”

“A pity. Here it is, then, woman. I looked upon my uncle. My father’s brother. A boorish and stupid man, my Uncle Jamie, of a low cunning if a quick eye. A hearty oaf – little more. And of a notable meanness. Sixth son of my grandfather, you’ll note. Yet there he rode, in state like any king, jewels dropping from his crass person, an earl clearing his path, lords in his train, all of St. Andrews falling at his feet. Treasurer of the realm, high on the Privy Council, he was the son of a poor laird too – and now the richest man in the kingdom, so they say. If a stupid man can achieve that, at forty-three, what might not an intelligent man achieve? And a deal earlier? Myself, for instance.”

His companion did not attempt to answer his question. Instead, her hand slid down his person, persuasively.

Gently but firmly he removed that hand, his eyes focussed far away over the sea that was no bluer than themselves. “Would you call me a fool, Kathy?” he went on in an even, almost dreamy voice, as though speaking to himself. “No? Then you would not expect me to act like a fool? Conversely, not to act, when the way lies open and clear before me, would be equally foolish? Almost you could say it was my duty. I have been given wits. It is my duty to use them, eh? To myself. To my Maker, who gave me those wits. Even – who knows? – to this realm of Scotland. For auld Scotland is going to need the wits of all her sons who have any, I think! Aye, before long. Do you love our Scotland, Kathy?”

“Eh? I . . . I dinna rightly ken, Davie. I mean, it’s no’ a thing . . .”

“Aye – you dinna rightly ken very much, wench! Save what your blood tells you. But even that should make you love the land that bore you. This fair, bonny land, scarred with a thousand wars and deeds of treachery. But still lovely. Still lovelorn. Betrayed by so many who owe it much. Menaced by that vicious English hog, Henry Tudor, who covets all. Governed by fools . . . like my Uncle Jamie! Even her King – gallant, reckless James Stewart! A fond fool too, despite his great heart. A bairn, playing at war! Against butchers, devils!”

The girl sat up now, to stare at him, open-mouthed. Never had she heard David Beaton, or any man speak so. His dreaming voice had changed suddenly to vibrant harshness, his delicately attractive features tensed and twisted.

In a moment he was as abruptly himself again, sinking back. “Folly indeed!” he said, with a little laugh. “There are more kinds than one! I must be on my guard, eh? Walk warily. Watch my steps, and tread as a cat treads. A cat – aye, that is apt. The crest of our house, see you, is an otter. As a bairn I ever thought it a cat – for I never yet saw an otter. I have ever called our heraldic otters cats. So now you shall see Davie Beaton play the cat! Only – you shall not see it for long, Kathy – no’ for long, you or St. Andrews. For this town and college will not hold him much longer – by God’s Mother, it will not!”

“You mean . . . you’re leaving the college, Davie? To become a priest? Is that it?”

“Who said aught of becoming a priest, girl?”

“You said . . . the Church?”

“The Church, yes. But did I say priest? Priests, I think, have too many . . . limitations!” And he ran his hand over her swelling bosom, smiling.

“Och, Davie – you talk that much! Siclike spate o’ words. If you’d but speak plain . . .”

“Aye, Kathy – plain talk it is, then.” He lifted to his feet, agilely, without warning, to stoop to draw up trunks and tattered hose. “It’s back to St. Salvator’s with you – for the Nones bell will be ringing any time now. Come – make yourself as decent as you may. If you would walk the streets with Davie Beaton – who is hot bound for high places in Holy Church!”

Without waiting for her, he started to scramble over the rocks.

He had to judge his timing carefully that evening – like all the rest of the operation; for all depended upon it. After the inevitable banquet, which would go on for hours, not only would the Archbishop be quite unapproachable, but he would be hopelessly drunk. On the other hand, immediately after the long service in the Cathedral he would be weary. David cared nothing for his uncle’s weariness – but being a man of gross habit, he would probably sleep for a while. And a man new woken from sleep, and dressing to preside at a banquet, was unlikely to be at his most susceptible to reason.

It had to be immediately after the service, therefore, when the weary prelate sought only peace and respite. That meant that his nephew must be waiting in the castle.

Gaining access to that great stronghold on the cliff top, one of the most secure houses in Scotland, would have been quite impossible on a normal occasion for any student, ragged or otherwise. But because of the arrival of so large a retinue and the evening’s great feast, huge quantities of food, drink, fuel and horse fodder streamed into the castle, the drawbridge was permanently down and the portcullis up, with parties and groups of carriers constantly coming and going. Many students, having been granted a holiday for this day of intercession, were lending their services as extra porters, and nothing was easier than for young Beaton to join them. He entered the fortress, past the steel-clad guards, with a column of others, bent almost double under a load of hay. Once having deposited this in the stable-court, he had no difficulty in detaching himself and finding his way to the kitchens, where many extra hands were enrolled for the occasion. There he fetched and carried willingly, learning the plan and layout of the castle’s interior. With a tray, a flagon of wine and two goblets, he diverted his steps eventually to a small garderobe in the thickness of the walling near to the Archbishop’s chambers, and, hidden there, settled himself to wait. It amused him to perceive, out of the tiny arrow-slit window, that he was in almost exactly the same position as he had been two or three hours earlier, with Kathy, but perhaps some hundred-and-fifty feet higher.

There was no question as to when the Archbishop returned to the castle, the procession’s approach being heralded once again by music. Eventually David was even able to hear his uncle’s heavy tread on the stone flags of the corridor outside his hiding-place, the clanking of the armour he habitually wore beneath his canonicals sounding clearly. The youth waited for five minutes more, and then emerged into the passage, carrying tray, wine and goblets.

Two liveried men-at-arms guarded the Archbishop’s door, but they evinced no surprise at David’s appearance, and on his announcement that he bore special wine ordered by his lordship, they let him past without demur.

The richly appointed outer room was empty, but an inner door to the bedchamber was open, and David saw therein his uncle, sitting on the great bed, being helped out of his armour by a manservant. He waited outside until the servitor was finished, and James Beaton, in shirt and trunks, lay back with a sigh. Then, as the man came out, the youth moved in.

The servant looked surprised, glanced back at his master, and then would have taken the tray from the young man. But David shook his head decidedly, and raised his voice.

“My lord Archbishop,” he said. “Uncle James – I greet you warmly. And seek your blessing.”

“Eh . . .? What’s this? What’s this? The prelate opened his eyes. “A God’s name – what’s to do?”

“Your nephew, my lord. David Beaton. From Balfour. At your service.”

The Archbishop sat up, frowning. “God’s teeth!” he complained. “You, is it! What do you want, boy? Why are you troubling me? I am weary. Another time . . .”

“I shall not detain your lordship long. The matter is urgent. And private.” And he looked at the waiting servant.

“On my soul! Here’s insolence, by the Rude! How did you win in here, boy?”

“That is not important, my lord. What is important are the tidings I have for you. For your privy ear. The sooner you hear them, the sooner I may leave you in peace, Uncle.”

James Beaton huffed and hawed, scratching at his great protruding belly. Then he waved