Lion Let Loose

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

James the First of Scots was an extraordinary man: poet, thinker warrior, athlete and statesman. And prisoner - for he was held captive for almost half his adult life. He possessed that fatal Stewart capacity to arouse both love and hatred; to attract both undying loyalty and the darkest treachery. His romance with the proud English beauty Joanna Beaufort is one of the great love stories of history, and the love for him of Catherine Douglas, one of the most poignant. In this compelling novel, Nigel Tranter vividly recreates the turbulent life of a remarkable man and the troubled times in which he lived.

Release date: December 8, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 356

Sample

In order of appearance

JAMES STEWART: Boy Earl of Carrick, 2nd son of Robert the Third, King of Scots, later James the First.

KING ROBERT THE THIRD: Weak eldest son of Robert the Second.

KING RICHARD THE SECOND: Former King of England – or, perhaps, impostor.

DAVID STEWART, DUKE OF ROTHESAY: Prince of Scotland. Elder son of King Robert. Heir to throne.

WALTER STEWART, LORD OF BRECHIN: Half-brother of the King. Later Earl of Atholl.

ROBERT STEWART, DUKE OF ALBANY: Governor of Scotland. Next brother to the King.

ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS, 4TH EARL OF DOUGLAS: Scotland’s most powerful noble, “The Tyneman”.

HENRY PERCY: Son of Hotspur, grandson of Earl of Northumberland.

HENRY WARDLAW, BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS: Primate and senior churchman of Scotland.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND: English political exile in Scotland.

HENRY ST. CLAIR, EARL OF ORKNEY: One of the few friends of King Robert.

SIR DAVID FLEMING OF CUMBERNAULD: A loyal knight.

SIR ROBERT LAUDER OF EDRINGTON: Owner of the Bass Rock.

WILLIAM AND ROBERT LAUDER: Sons of above. Later to be important men in Scotland.

WILLIAM GIFFORD: An esquire, of the Yester family.

HUGH-ATTE-FEN: English merchant-skipper and adventurer.

SIR THOMAS REMPTON: Constable of the Tower of London.

GRIFFITH GLENDOWER: Son of Owen Glendower, true Prince of Wales.

MURDOCH STEWART, EARL OF FIFE: Prisoner in England. Son of Albany. Later 2nd Duke.

KING HENRY THE FOURTH: English monarch. Formerly Bolingbroke. Successor, or usurper, of Richard.

LORD GREY DE CODNOR: James’s keeper. High Chamberlain of England.

THOMAS, DUKE OF CLARENCE: 2nd son of Henry the Fourth.

HECTOR MACLEAN OF DUART: Highland chief and envoy.

MASTER JOHN LYON: Scots priest and secretary.

HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES: Eldest son of Henry the Fourth. Later King Henry the Fifth.

EARL OF WARWICK: Great English noble.

DAVID DOUGLAS OF WHITTINGHAME: Fictional character. Scots laird, prisoner in England.

CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS: Brother of French King Charles.

LADY JOANNA BEAUFORT: Daughter of Earl of Somerset, grand-daughter of John of Gaunt.

SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS OF DRUMLANRIG: Scots baron and envoy.

HENRY BEAUFORT, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER: Chancellor of England. Uncle of Joanna. Later Cardinal.

SIR RICHARD SPICE: English knight. Former Lieutenant of the Tower.

QUEEN ISABELLA OF FRANCE: Wife of mad King Charles.

KING CHARLES THE SIXTH: Mad French monarch.

CATHERINE DE VALOIS: Princess of France, daughter of Charles and Isabella. Later Queen of England.

ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS, EARL OF WIGTOWN: Son of “The Tyneman”, later 5th Earl of Douglas.

WILLIAM DOUGLAS, 2ND EARL OF ANGUS: Nephew of King James.

LADY CATHERINE DOUGLAS: One of the Queen’s ladies.

MASTER JOHN CAMERON: Priest and secretary. Later Bishop of Glasgow and Chancellor of Scotland.

ALEXANDER STEWART, EARL OF MAR: Illegitimate cousin of James. Son of Wolf of Badenoch.

ISABELLA STEWART, DUCHESS OF ALBANY: Wife of Duke Murdoch, daughter of Earl of Lennox.

WALTER STEWART: Eldest son of Duke Murdoch. Grandson of Albany.

ALEXANDER MACDONALD OF CLANRANALD: A Highland chief.

ALEXANDER, LORD OF THE ISLES: Earl of Ross, and greatest of the Highland chiefs.

SIR ROBERT GRAHAM: Tutor of Strathearn, uncle of the demoted Earl thereof.

SIR ROBERT STEWART: Chamberlain. Grandson of Atholl.

The boy slipped past the steel-clad guards at the side-door of the Great Hall of Stirling Castle, none paying the least heed. Down the stone-flagged, stone-vaulted corridor he turned, hurrying now. At the third door down, unguarded this, he halted. He thumped briefly on the oaken planks, flung open the creaking door, and entered without further ceremony.

“He’s here. David’s here,” he announced. “He’s drunk, I think. You had better come.”

Two men occupied that small bare room. Both turned to look at the boy; one, crouched over the fire, vacantly, from strange, lack-lustre eyes; the other, standing near by, with a heavy and sorrowful stare. Neither spoke.

“Come, Sire,” the boy repeated, urgently. “There may well be trouble.”

For further moments neither man moved, the slovenly-clad croucher, wild-haired, prematurely grey, nor the tall older man, thin, sensitive-featured, white-bearded, stooping. Both, as it happened, could have acknowledged the boy’s use of the royal honorific. The standing man sighed.

“Uncle Walter is … shouting,” the boy added.

The crouching man abruptly whinnied a short high laugh, although his ravaged and saggingly-handsome features showed no trace of smile. He turned back to the fire, hunching closer. He was Richard Plantagenet, until three years before reigning King of England.

His companion moistened slack lips, motioned with his hand, and drew himself up a little, a complex gesture, part weary acceptance, part resignation.

“Aye, Jamie,” he said. He had a gentle, melodious voice, tired but well matching the nobility of mien, the great pain-filled eyes – and the tell-tale weakness of mouth and jawline which even the most venerable white beard would not disguise. “I will come.”

“Yes. Quickly, then.” The boy James hurried forward, to grasp his father’s arm, almost to pull him. “Come, Sire.” He did not so much as glance at the other man.

The tall stooping man in the undistinguished, almost threadbare clothing, suffered himself to be led out – and it was he, not his son, who heedfully closed that door on the physical and mental wreck they left behind in the over-hot little room.

James Stewart sought to hasten along the corridor, and it is to be feared that the hand which he kept on his father’s arm dragged rather than supported as it was meant to do – for the old man limped grievously. That damaged leg, kicked by a horse when its owner had been little more than a youth, had much to answer for in the troubled history of Scotland since. Significantly it had been a Douglas horse that had kicked him, that of William, Lord of Dalkeith – and loud had the Douglases laughed, then and ever since. As, from a Douglas viewpoint, they had reason. For a lamed and halting king, especially a sensitive, introspective and gentle one, was of no conceivable use to a Scotland which demanded for its rule activity and agility in body as in mind, a warrior’s frame and a stout right arm ending in a mailed fist. Robert the Third, King of Scots, second of the Stewart line and great-grandson of the The Bruce, limped his reluctant, unhappy way along the corridor of his royal Castle of Stirling as he had limped all his pitiful, disastrous reign, a man all but broken by his fate.

They came to the Hall door, ten-year-old prince leading sixty-two-year-old king, and the royal guards stationed there made some half-hearted gesture at drawing themselves up. No-one however thereafter made any public announcement as to the monarch’s arrival on the scene. King Robert was the last to expect anything of the sort.

He would, indeed, have taken a deal of announcing. A fanfare of trumpets would have been required to make any major impact on the Great Hall of Stirling Castle that autumn morning of the year of Our Lord fourteen-hundred-and-three. The vast stone-walled apartment, hazy with the blue of wood-smoke, was loud with the uproar of innumerable raised voices, ribald, excited, hilarious, angry or just plain drunken. A few women were skirling amongst it all, as well they might; but by and large it was a male company, vital, vigorous, vociferous, much of it steel-armoured, all of it aggressive. At sight and sound of it all, King Robert bit his lip, faltering. Young James tugged him forward.

Despite the noise, movement, and seeming confusion however, there were the elements of some order in that Hall – the order that acknowledged might as right. Crowded as it was, nine-tenths of the company present seethed and milled in one half of the floor-space, that part farthest from this private door – knights, pages, lesser courtiers, officers, priests, monks, serving-wenches and, outnumbering all, men-at-arms by the score, the hundred, colourful in the blazons of their various lords, most notably in the crimson-and-gold of the royal livery, the blue-and-yellow of Stewart, and the unmistakable Red Heart of Douglas. Of the remaining half, part was occupied less densely by sundry lords, bishops, abbots, envoys and chamberlains, with a breathless lady or two maintaining approximate decency with squealing but practised protest. What was left of the Hall, nearest to this doorway, with a vast fireplace of its own and raised a foot above the rest on a dais, was comparatively empty. Around a massive table set transversely across the head of the chamber, three men stood and one sprawled on a bench. One woman shared the space with them, acting indeed as a buxom and giggling prop to the youngest of the men.

As King Robert came hesitantly forward, some few there made acknowledgement of his presence by sketched bows, especially amongst the clergy – but most did not. The young woman at the dais-table flushed and sought to curtsy – but this was difficult without upsetting him who leaned upon her, for his arm was around her gleaming shoulders and his hand indeed down the opened front of her gown where it stroked and probed at will.

“St-stand still, m’dear! A pox on it – stand still, woman, I s-say!” the young man requested genially if thickly. “Would … would you have me on my back, here? Again? Before all!”

“Where we’d see the best o’ you, by the Mass!” the sprawling man hiccuped. To add, “My lord Governor – God save us!” Walter Stewart, Lord of Brechin, had some difficulty enunciating that last.

“There speaks j-jealousy, Uncle! Y’are past it, man, I swear! Too fat! Is he not, Jeannie, m’lass? Even you’d make naught of old Uncle Wattie, hot as you are …!”

“Peace!” a cold crisp voice cut in, like a whip-lash. “Peace, I say! Young man – your father.”

That brought a momentary silence to all within hearing distance, as all eyes turned towards the owner of that harsh and chilly authoritative voice, darted over in the direction of the shrinking and at the same time noble figure of the King, and then back again to the speaker.

He was a tall, spare, dark-visaged man in his mid-fifties, greying only a little, with a rat-trap mouth and small pointed beard, richly dressed in black velvet trimmed with gold. He had something of the stoop of his brother – but where the King’s was an infirmity, a physical shrivelling, Robert, Duke of Albany’s was a menace, the hunching, head-thrusting stoop of a bird of prey, an eagle no less; a resemblance to which the notable hooding of the man’s great Stewart eyes by extra large lids, gave additional point. Seldom could two brothers have been less alike – or three, indeed, for Walter of Brechin, fleshy, coarse and dissolute, was as dissimilar again.

“Ah yes, my lord Duke – peace!” the young man cried, with a laughing mockery that was a deal less unsteady than his stance – and still without abstracting his hand from its blatant fondling of the bulging breasts of his supporting young woman. “Who indeed more apt to cry peace th-than my Uncle Robert – who hasna the meaning o’ the word in him! And would have this bedevilled realm o’ Scotland no’ to know it, either! God save us – peace from you, man!”

“Silence, sir!” the Duke said, with a level chill. “You’ll speak me respectfully, boy. Or suffer for it!” Albany never raged nor shouted, any more than he ever smiled. He was as tightly contained in sober, frigid arrogance as was his unhappy brother loose and lost in self-doubt and kindly uncertainty.

“Ha – respect! For you? This is rich, i’ faith! And you would threaten, my lord! Me? Rothesay? Beware how you do that, by Christ’s Rude! Have you forgot, Uncle – I am Governor, now? Master of this realm. Not you, any more! Heed it, I say!”

That was more than any empty boast. The fair and laughing, handsomely-dashing youngster of twenty-three, richly-dressed although travel-stained beneath his gold-engraved half-armour, was indeed Governor of the Realm; had been for almost two years. David, Duke of Rothesay, elder son of the King, and heir to the throne. Whether this made him master of Scotland was another matter – for that rugged and unruly northern kingdom took a deal of mastering. None knew this better than his uncle, Albany, who had held the Governorship before him for no less than ten years – and had yielded it only reluctantly after his nephew’s majority. Grimly, the older man picked on the point.

“Master, say you? I think not. Have you forgot His Grace the King?”

Rothesay’s laughter rose almost to a hoot. “God’s eyes – this from you, Uncle! Have I forgot His Grace? Spare us, for very shame! I swear it was largely to spare my royal sire from your slights and afflictions that I assumed the Governorship!” Belatedly David Stewart turned to his waiting father, and with his free hand flourished the preamble to a bow – all but unbalancing himself in the process. “Your Grace – my lord King and noble p-progenitor!” he exclaimed.

King Robert cleared his throat. “Aye, Davie,” he said, low-voiced, troubled.

There was a pause at that dais end of the Hall – not so much on account of the King having spoken as out of awareness of the drama here enacted and now, clearly, to be brought to a head. All knew that Rothesay, his first-born, was the darling of the old King’s heart, that despite all his follies, extravagancies and mistakes, the love was still there. Nor was it all one-sided, for Rothesay was credited with having some fondness for his feckless parent, even though he showed him little respect. But then, who did? Respect was a commodity which John Stewart had had to do without, all his life – for John was the King’s true name; he had only had the name of Robert thrust upon him at his succession and coronation – for John was considered to be an unlucky name for kings, a point which his almost equally feckless father might have thought of when naming his first-born. Not that the change of name had done any good. Love there was between these two, then – and mutual hostility to brother and uncle, the Duke of Albany. Though perhaps hostility is too strong a word, as far as the King was concerned – for he hated none; fear and complete incompatibility had always been the one brother’s reaction towards the other, and undisguised contempt for Albany’s reaction. Yet today, as even the scullions of Stirling knew, young Rothesay had been summoned in the King’s name to be berated, humbled, and Albany to triumph. That the younger man knew it, with the rest, may have in some measure coloured his behaviour that morning.

It was Albany who spoke, sternly but levelly, with no hint of emotion in his rasping voice. “You are here, sir, on matters concerning the well-being of this realm. That being so, I suggest that you put that young woman from you, and behave as more befits your place and station.”

“I am here, Uncle, because as Governor of Scotland, I chose to come. For no other reason.” Rothesay was choosing his words carefully now evidently not only for the aid of his wine-thickened tongue. “I came at my father’s request, but of my own decision. And as for this lady, she at least is honest in her behaviour and function – which is more than can be said for all in this company! I brought her – and she stays!”

Young James Stewart felt the frail arm which he was still clutching stiffen a little. Surprised, he glanced up at his father.

“You’d have done better to have brought your wife, Davie, I think,” the King said, mildly enough but, for him, significantly, however sadly. “Aye, you would, lad.”

The boy was not the only one to be surprised at that. All there glanced sharply at the speaker, who did thus occasionally surprise. King Robert might be a fool, in one sense, but only the ignorant would deny him perfectly sound wits in another, however little he seemed to make use of them. Rothesay himself looked at his father quickly, and perceiving the direction of the King’s uneasy glance, followed it to where a big, still-faced, indeed utterly expressionless youngish man stood, at the other end of the long table – Archibald Douglas, The Tyneman, new and fourth Earl of Douglas and head of the greatest family, next to Stewart, in the kingdom. Rothesay had been married to Mary Douglas for a year. She was The Tyneman’s sister.

He cleared his throat. “My wife is … otherwhere, Sire,” he said, a little uncertainly. He withdrew his hand, at last from the lady’s bosom. She sniggered, with apt embarrassment, and would have stepped back and away, had not Rothesay held her firm by the arm even yet.

Albany took up his flat and toneless recital. “You are charged, Nephew, with the shameful misgovernance of this realm. With the wastage of the kingdom’s substance. With the alienation of Crown lands. With the subversion of justice …”

“Charged, is it!” the younger man interrupted hotly. “How charged, sirrah? I was appointed Governor by the King in Council. If I, the Governor, am to be charged, it can only be by the said King in Council. Is this the Privy Council of Scotland?” He gestured around him. He had sobered, quickly.

“A warning, Davie,” his father mumbled unhappily. “A warning just. No more, lad.”

“You would prefer to answer these charges, in detail, before the assembled Council, Nephew?” Albany asked, thinly.

Rothesay frowned. “These are not charges. They are but vague accusations, unfounded. Representing but the spleen of an old man, jealous!”

“You would have chapter and verse for them, then? Such can be produced, readily enough …”

“You lie! These are but wild denunciations. Stone-throwing. I cast them back in your teeth – you, who trampled on the country for ten years! Besides, you would never dare to have the Council face me. I have too many friends there – and you too few, my lord Duke! Aye, and nowhere else indeed, than in this my royal father’s Castle of Stirling, would you dare so to speak me – for you know full well that the folk of Scotland much prefer me to yourself!”

His young brother James all but exclaimed aloud his satisfaction with that – for he was nothing if not a partisan in the matter, careful, wary, thoughtful boy as he had grown to be. He greatly admired his good-looking, accomplished, exciting brother – although with certain reservations, for he hated to see him drunken and less than his brilliant best, or in the hands of these women. David was the finest swordsman in the land, the champion jouster, the best horseman and huntsman. He played lute and fiddle to break almost as many hearts as he did with his bold but haunting Stewart eyes and nimble poetic tongue; he sang tunefully, was generous beyond all telling, and scarcely knew the meaning of fear. His ready laughter alone would have earned him worship in the eyes of his brother – for there was little enough of laughter in James Stewart’s life.

But, despite hero-worship, it was all true that Rothesay had asserted to Albany. Rash, pleasure-loving, indiscreet, he might be, and lacking in the sober qualities of rule and government; but the people loved him, and forgave him anything. Whereas, like young James, they loathed the cold, efficient and ruthless Albany.

The older man was not deflected for a moment from his purpose. “You are here that the King’s will and decision shall be made known to you,” he went on, as though the other had never spoken. “The Governorship is not taken from you – but you are to be restrained in certain respects. You will accept the guidance, in pursuance of your duties, of myself, along with my lords of Brechin, Douglas, Moray and Crawford, acting in the King’s express name. And should you fail to do so, and not mend your ways, Nephew, I shall, with His Grace’s and the Council’s authority, resume the Governorship. You understand?”

“My … God!” Rothesay whispered into the hush which now gripped all that great room, staring. He turned from his uncle, to look at his father. “This … this is beyond all belief! All bearing! You, Sire – you heard? Spoken in your royal presence! To your son! To the heir to your Crown! You heard?”

Swallowing painfully, audibly, the King shook his white head. “Aye, Davie – I heard,” he got out slowly, sighing. “It must be. You have brought it on yourself, I fear – the sorrow of it. See you, the rule o’ this realm is no’ a game to be played, a sport for braw laddies! God forgive me who say it – for my failure is the greater than is yours, lad. Aye, the greater. The fault is largely mine, I do confess before all.” The King’s head sank on his breast, “But … God’s will be done,” he ended, wearily.

“God’s will, by the Rude!” Rothesay burst out. “Is that what you name your brother’s intrigues and schemings, now? The Devil’s will, rather! But … I’ll not have it! There are more wills than Albany’s in this realm, even if you have none! Aye – and more than words to count! There are such things as swords in Scotland!”

In the complete silence which followed that statement, the young Duke turned, to stare. First he looked at the Earl of Douglas.

“My lord. Good brother,” he jerked. “How says Douglas?”

The Tyneman did not move a muscle. Not so much as an eyelid flickered. Silent, impassive, as though carved out of stone, the big man stood, while everywhere in that Hall breaths were held and men awaited decision, the fall of the scales.

As well they might. This one still-faced ponderous man represented so much in the land. Not only was he the head of the fierce Douglases, the most powerful and warlike family in Scotland, possibly, things being as they were, in all Europe – they were also the most united; which was where they differed from the Stewarts. At the drop of a glove he could field three thousand armed and mounted men, a week later double that number. Give him a month, it was said, and because of bonds of manrent and support, marriage links, and the threat of reprisals, he could raise half of Lowland Scotland. He was indeed brother to Rothesay’s wife; but he was much more than that. His own wife was Rothesay’s sister, the Princess Margaret, eldest daughter of the King; his cousin, George Douglas, first Earl of Angus, was married to the next daughter, the Princess Mary; and the third princess, Elizabeth, was wife to Sir James Douglas, Lord of Dalkeith. So Douglas’s least word spoke loud indeed, anywhere – and Rothesay had reason to await it anxiously. A year before, he need not have worried; then The Tyneman’s warrior father was still alive, and Archibald the Grim had been Albany’s greatest enemy, and the strongest support of Queen Annabella Drummond – and therefore of her son Rothesay. He it was, indeed, who had forced his daughter’s marriage to the heir to the throne – when the young man was in fact affianced to another, thereby laying up great trouble for Scotland. But now both able Queen and fiery old Earl were dead, and the Duke of Rothesay awaited his brother-in-law’s verdict.

As the moments passed, painfully tense, it began to dawn upon all, not least the young Duke, that the dispassionate Douglas was not merely being more than usually slow of speech. He was not going to answer at all. Straight ahead of him he gazed, granite-eyed, wordless.

A long sigh escaped from the assembled company. A sob rose into the boy James’s throat, and all but choked him.

Walter Stewart of Brechin, the other uncle, barked an abrupt laugh, harsh and savage.

Shaken, Rothesay blinked, biting his lip. Then he drew himself up, head high. He turned, to scan the ranks of lords and prelates who stood in the space below the dais.

Not a single glance met his own. He had friends of a sort there, drinking companions, adherents, collaborators, beneficiaries; none, this morning, after Albany’s words, the King’s falterings, and Douglas’s silence, raised voice or eye.

Gripping the table-edge tightly, David of Rothesay looked farther still down the Hall, to where the press of folk was thickest, all listeners now. There, admittedly he could see not a few stout fellows dressed in his own colours – or, at least, in the royal livery, which up till now had been more or less the same thing – most of whom had come with him as the Governor’s bodyguard. But they were far outnumbered by the minions of Albany and Brechin, not to mention Douglas. Moreover, in the presence of the King, how much reliance could be placed upon the adherence of the royal guard?

Drawing a long quivering breath, Rothesay swung back to face his accusers. Without taking his eyes thereafter from Albany’s aquiline face, he groped out until his hand contacted the goblet half-filled still with wine, on the table before him. Raising it to his lips, he gulped down the contents in a single draught before them all. Then, holding it there, he spoke.

“My father’s words I have heard,” he declared strongly. “He says that the rule of this realm is no game. That I accept. As its Governor I shall see that none play it – I promise you all! Warning has been given – and taken. I add mine. Let none seek to govern save the Governor! When King, Council and the Estates of Parliament assembled command me to lay down that office, then I shall do so. Not before. His Grace says ‘God’s will be done!’ To that I say Amen – but let us not confuse Almighty God with my Uncle Albany! I charge you all to say, rather – God save the King! And, by the Holy Rude – to remember who will be King hereafter!”

With a sudden explosion of force, violent as it was unexpected, he hurled the heavy silver goblet, empty, down the littered length of the dais-table. Scattering and upsetting viands, flagons and the like in its course, it crashed at the very feet of the Duke of Albany.

In the resounding clatter, David Stewart, Prince of Scotland, flung around and, jumping from the dais, went striding down the hall without a backward glance, making for the outer door, to the main courtyard and his horses. Right and left men parted to give him room. After a little hesitation, the unfortunate young woman went hurrying after him, biting her lips.

In the uproar that succeeded, King Robert, empty open hand raised trembling after his son, dropped it, moaning useless and incoherent words. He took an uncertain step forward, to pluck at Albany’s velvet sleeve.

That man turned stooping shoulder on his brother, ignoring him entirely. “Walter – come with me,” he snapped. “My lord of Douglas – your attendance, if you please. Where is my son Murdoch? The young fool should have been here. Fetch him, I say …”

The boy James took his father’s arm again. “Come, Sire,” he said. “Better away. Aye, come you …”

Together, none hindering or indeed considering, the boy and the old man went unheeded through the side-door and back down the stone passage, the noise fading away behind them.

At the third door down, where Richard Plantagenet was kept, when James paused, the King shook his head. “No’ in there, Jamie,” he said. “I couldna bear His Grace o’ England in this pass. I’ll … I’ll away up to my own chalmer. Aye, I want my bed, lad – my bed.”

Saying nothing, the boy moved on, his open young face set. He was a well-built, sturdy lad, though not tall, with good regular features firm enough to balance the softness of the great Stewart eyes, his sensitive mouth offset by an already pronounced jawline. But there was an imposed stillness about his habitual expression which was hardly natural. For one so young, he was perhaps over-quiet, reserved, thoughtful. Though his mother had once said that he would out-sing his brother David.

Slowly they climbed the winding turnpike stair at the end of the long corridor, towards the royal bedchamber in the square flanking-tower, the lame King having to take one step at a time, the boy patient, silent, heedful yet withdrawn.

Half-way up, the man who looked so much older than his years, paused, panting. “Yon was ill done,” he muttered. “Ill done. Wae-sucks, that it should have come to this!”

“It was ill done,” James agreed flatly.

“It wasna how it should have been. I know it well. But … Davie was ower hasty. Stubborn. Prideful. And he shouldna have brought the woman. Yon was unseemly. But I grieve for him.”

“You grieve for him, Sire – but you spurned him! You threw Davie aside. For Uncle Albany.”

“No, no! Not that. I but warned him. What could I do, Jamie? They were at me. They are aye at me. Davie can be foolish. Head-strong. I had to warn him. You hear me? I had to.”

“Yes, Sire.”

They moved on.

Soon the King had stopped again. “What could I do, Jamie? Your mother … dear God, your mother would have known what to do!” His voice trembled. “But she is gone. My Anna is gone. Left me. Archie Douglas, too. He aye knew what to do.”

“You could have spoken him alone, Father. Not before all. Not before Albany.”

“Aye. But your Uncle said it must be so. Robert was fell fierce on that. He’d have it no other way – no’ have believed that I’d spoken. He’s a hard, unbelieving man, Robert! What could I do …?”

Tight-lipped the boy opened the bedroom-door for his father.

“I’ll to my bed,” the King of Scots said. “I didna sleep well, last night. I’m no’ well, Jamie. I … I wish I was with my Anna.”

“Yes, Sire.”

The monarch sat down heavily on the great canopied bed, its gold tarni