Right Royal Friend

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When James the Sixth, His Grace of Scotland, also becomes His Majesty of England, far-reaching changes take place in the two realms. David Murray, the young son of Sir Andrew, a Perthshire laird, has no aspirations to greatness. Then a chance encounter with King James the Sixth leads to him becoming Cup Bearer and Master of the Horse to his young liege. Together with James's foster brother John Erskine, Master of Mar, the three men enter a new era of political intrigue and dynastic manoeuvring.

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 288

Sample

1

David Murray looked glum. Why was his brother always so pleased with himself, so superior, knowing it all, ever correcting him? He was barely two years older than himself, after all. Heir to their father, yes; but that did not make him a genius, any sort of hero and marvel to be looked up to. Why must he preach to him about the deer, as over so much else? Andrew might choose to ride, chasing the creatures on horseback, with the servants. But he preferred to stalk the stags alone, afoot, even on his belly, up on the heathery heights, creep up to them, using every inch of cover to get within range of his crossbow, keeping the wind in his favour. Admittedly the chances were usually in the deer’s favour, with more often than not the creatures drifting off unharmed. But this of contest was good, and great the satisfaction when he won. Even though somehow he had to get the carcase back down to the castle, taking a garron part of the way beforehand, to drag it. All part of the challenge.

But Dand declared that it was not playing the laird, unsuitable. Who did he think he was? Playing the laird! They might be lairds in some fashion, although their father was the real laird, Sir Andrew Murray of Arngask and Kippo and Conland. He did not need to play the laird – he was one, as all recognised, a baron indeed. Dand and himself could be termed that he supposed, if they so desired, Andrew of this Balvaird, he of Gospertie, however small a lairdship that might be, really only a large farm. But who were they seeking to impress? Everybody knew who and what they were. Dand was daft in all this, as in much else.

David Murray, as he grumbled thus to himself, was sitting in a stable within the forecourt of Balvaird Castle, feathering his crossbow arrows preparatory to having an attempt at stags on the Binn Hills. Balvaird was the main seat of the barony of Arngask in Glen Farg, none so far south-east of Perth, on the southern edge of great Strathearn, a good place in which to live, with the fishing in the Farg and the Earn, the stalking and hunting in its hills and woodlands, the fertile ground around between them and the village of Abernethy, and Scone, with its abbey and coronation-place just to the north of St John’s Town of Perth. None the less Dand envied their Tullibardine Murray kin’s territory a dozen miles or so to the west, never failing to remind friends and neighbours of that illustrious connection, although it was four generations back since their line sprang from that lofty family, a younger son wedding the Barclay heiress of Arngask and winning this barony and lands. Moreover, their own mother, Lady Janet, was the daughter of the Graham Earl of Montrose, which was surely every bit as notable as was Tullibardine.

David, it was to be feared, had a concern about his brother Dand, however well he got on with his two younger brothers Robert and Patrick.

His feathering, like his musings, was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the said Rob and Pat, aged seventeen and fifteen respectively, who had managed to net four brown trout down where the Binn Burn joined the River Farg, which they deemed a feat indeed, netting trout no easy matter. David was much appreciative, even though he preferred angling with line and hook. They discussed the pros and cons of this fishing sport. It was in fact rather similar to the question of stalking as distinct from hunting and driving deer, a matter of challenge rather than of quantity of gain and catch obtained, angling more of a test.

They were still arguing when a servitor came to inform them that the midday meal was ready, and they trooped up to the lesser hall of the castle.

Sir Andrew was away visiting his property of Conland. The Lady Janet, a handsome woman, shook her fair head over her sons and their arguments, anxious not to seem to take sides but, David imagined, favouring his attitude rather than Dand’s.

The elder brother was heavily built, taller than David and of a confident carriage symbolising his assured view of life, aged twenty-three years. As they sat down to eat, he began to declaim against the folly of creeping about on hands and knees in the heather after single deer. But his mother halted him with her quiet authority. They had more vital matters to talk on than the killing of deer, she said.

“Your father is much concerned. There is dispute in the governance of the realm, with our young King James only in his fourteenth year. And much of the trouble is centred near enough to Balvaird to be all but on our doorstep, with Esme´, Duke of Lennox, the king’s cousin and closest minister, at odds with William, Lord Ruthven, the High Treasurer. And the duke lives at Methven Castle, only six miles from Perth on the west, and Ruthven Castle is still nearer, just over two. They mislike each other. It was Lord Ruthven who all but forced our poor Queen Mary, while imprisoned by his Lords of the Congregation in Lochleven Castle, also none so far from here, to sign a declaration of her abdication of the throne, and the succession of her infant son James, so that he became monarch at the age of one year. And now she is a prisoner in England, where she went seeking Elizabeth Tudor’s aid––”

“We know all this, Mother,” Dand interrupted. “At least, I do. What is new?”

“It is this of money. Siller. The treasury of the realm is empty. Has been for long, with this of warfare between the Protestant lords and the Catholic queen. And Ruthven is the treasurer. To gain influence over King Jamie he has been putting his own money into the coffers, for he is very rich. And now he accuses the Duke of Lennox of using it for his own advantage. Your father does not believe this. Lennox is using the money to pay for men and arms, to be in a position to threaten England at the border, this to gain the release of poor Queen Mary, a worthy cause your father holds. Lennox, made High Chamberlain, was a Catholic when he came from France, but has declared himself Protestant now, while Ruthven is fiercely Presbyterian. It is a grievous situation.”

“Need it greatly concern us?” Dand demanded.

“Could it result in war?” David wondered. “I mean, not war with England necessarily, but warfare nearer home? Between these two, Lennox and Ruthven?”

“Perhaps not outright war. But fighting, yes. The Protestant Lords of the Congregation are very ready to draw sword. My own father, your grandsire, has discovered that! He and your father fear something of the sort. Control of the young king is, of course, the vital matter. Lennox holds the youth’s affections. But Ruthven holds the purse-strings.”

The two younger brothers were bored with all this talk of power and influence, and were eager to recount their success with the netting of the trout. Their mother, patient, heeded them, although Dand scoffed.

The meal over, David was anxious to be off on his deer-stalking. It was mid-October, and the sun was beginning to set early. So although he had no great distance to go, time was important. He left the others, and hurried off to the stable for his crossbow and arrows, and out through the gatehouse arch for the paddock where the horses grazed, to collect his garron.

The Binn Hill and its subsidiary, Castle Law, lay just a mile north of Balvaird. Mounting, he rode over the gently rising ground to reach the hillfoots, crossing the Binn Burn. It was open woodland here, birches and occasional gnarled pine. There was an empty herd’s cottage at Cattochill, where he left the garron, tethered, and climbed to a slight knoll nearby where he could scan the heights ahead.

The Binn Hill was no great mountain, rising to under a thousand feet, but it was quite a favoured haunt of the red deer, especially the stags, the females, the hinds, usually preferring the lower ground and woodlands with their calves at this season. The hills, heather-clad, rose in the shape of a rough crescent, the Binn Hill itself at the southern end, overlooking Glen Farg, with the escarpment curving round to the Castle Law, somewhat lower at the north, so called because of an ancient Pictish fort’s ramparts sited on it. Between, there was a great corrie, or hollow, divided by a slight rocky ridge; and it was in these two dips that the deer were apt to be found.

Gazing up, David could see no sign of life, other than a buzzard hovering – but from here he could survey only one flank of the nearest corrie, and not at all into the further one. So there was no call for disappointment yet.

He was testing the breeze. It was light and from almost due west. That was fairly satisfactory, and important, for the deer had the keenest of nostrils, and could scent a man, downwind, at half a mile. So he must keep well to the east, which meant the lower ground, and use every possible scrap of cover, bluff, fold in the surface, burn channel and outcrop to hide his ascent. He was seeking to reach that rocky ridge between the two corries, from which he ought to be able to spy out the prospects.

But he spotted a group of three stags up near the top of the southernmost corrie before ever he reached his ridge, half a mile up. No doubt they could see him; but it was their noses that the creatures relied upon more than their eyes, and his movement down on the lower ground would not necessarily distract them. At any rate, they were still there when he gained the rocks of the dividing broken bank where the cover became ample.

Now he was in a position to survey the other northern corrie. And there, higher, a single stag grazed.

Panting a little with his crouching climbing, David calculated and assessed. Best, almost certainly, to go for the one rather than the trio, for three noses and six eyes were probably more effective at warning. His route, then, to that lone creature? It was fully four hundred yards away. And sure range for a crossbow arrow, to kill not just to wound, was no more than seventy yards. So, much manoeuvring, crawling and dodging.

As far as he could, from this position, he worked out his route. He decided that, by continuing on up this ridge for quite some way, he could reach a point where another, lesser rising in the corrie side would give him quite a lot of cover for some one hundred and fifty yards. After that, it would just be hands and knees, or even belly progress. He would have to watch, however, that climbing this ridge, out of sight of the lone stag, he did not alarm the three in the other corrie. These might flee in a northerly direction and give his quarry warning.

It demanded a very careful ascent further. Fortunately there was much outcropping rock to hide behind and among; but he had to ensure that all this covered his progress from both sides.

When he got as far as he reckoned to be advantageous, he started the really taxing part of his endeavour. Although it was only some one hundred and fifty yards further to the animal, to get within range unseen would demand fully three times that amount of ground to keep out of sight, by using any and every hollow and dip and obstacle of the intervening area. Fastening his arrows securely to his person and holding his bow carefully so that its taut string did not catch on protuberances, even heather stems, he took a deep breath and started off on his zigzag approach. At this stage he could see only the antlers of his quarry, and was pleased to note that they were very fine ones. There was great pride in winning the best stag’s antlers, twelve points or tines being the very height of achievement. These seemed to be scarcely that, but he thought ten points, which was sufficiently notable. He must win this one.

The last crawl took much time, and David was worried that the stag might well move off meantime, even though not alarmed by his approach. But when, at length, he got to an outcrop from which he had thought he might be within range, it was to find that the beast had actually moved somewhat nearer. Clearly it was totally unaware of his presence.

Hiding behind his rock, he fitted an arrow to his bow and, flat on his stomach, wriggled half round. He had to raise himself on his elbows to take aim. Fortunately there was heather high enough to hide him. But even so the stag sensed movement, lifted its head high from its grazing, to gaze. That stance, momentary as it was, provided the marksman with just what he needed. A hand’s-breadth behind the shoulder he aimed. His finger released the bowstring catch. The arrow flew and struck, plunging deep.

The deer reared, snorting, staggered and its hindquarters collapsed. It rolled over and lay twitching, shot through the heart.

David rose, much gratified that his eye had not failed him. A hand’s-breadth behind the shoulder usually reached the heart. Merely to wound a beast was to be deplored, for the creature could possibly still run for miles, and ought to be pursued and finished off, if at all possible. But there was no question of that here. This animal was dead. And, yes, it had ten white-tipped points projecting from its antlers.

David drew his dirk and, kneeling, proceeded to slit open the stag’s belly, to perform the necessary if unpleasant task of disembowelling, and pulling out the steaming and bubbling entrails, all part of the ritual. A great heap they made, still moving. But their weight had to be got rid of, for he was eventually going to have to lift that carcase on to his garron’s back, no easy accomplishment for a single man. But David was a practised hand at it, and knew the routine. He extracted that arrow.

Now, down for the garron. He would wash his hands and wrists at the first burn he came to.

It was none so far to the tethered horse, however lengthy had seemed his so cautious ascent. He loosed it, and led it back up the hill, no need for cover now.

Hoisting that stag up on to the garron’s back demanded not only muscular strength but care and indeed knowledge; for a beast of this size could weigh as much as twelve stone. David had a rope hitched to the horse’s saddle, and taking this, he tied the stag’s hind legs together at the hooves, then threw the other end up over the garron’s back, to go round and pull mightily, this to raise the hindquarters of the carcase up so far, the horse sidling and tossing its head. He tied that rope taut to the saddle.

Now for the really difficult part. He had to go and hoist the heavy forequarters and the dangling antlered head of his kill up, to get it all on to the horse, so that the forelegs could be placed beside the hind, and there tied together, leaving the head and horns hanging over on the other side. It took all David’s strength to achieve this; but he had done it frequently before, and despite the side-stepping of the garron he managed it. That animal had been through all this before also, to be sure.

Panting but thankful, he began to lead the laden beast downhill. This all was why brother Dand scoffed at stalking deer as suitable only for peasants and servitors.

Down David went, with his ten-pointer, well pleased with himself.

With that burden to carry, which must not fall off the garron and have to be lifted on again, he chose a different route for his homeward journey, one somewhat longer but offering easier ground to cover, heading further eastwards and into the Abernethy Glen, where there was a track for herding cattle down to the Earn and the Perth markets. A couple of miles of this and he would swing off for Balvaird.

He was halfway along this, and in open woodland, when he heard the noises, shoutings and calls and the jingle of harness. And rounding a bend of the track, he came on the cause of it, quite a large company of horsemen and led pack-horses, these last laden with the carcases of many deer, headed by more sportsmen but of a different sort, his brother Dand’s sort.

Or not quite that, for these were very differently clad from the laird of Arngask’s sons, clearly high and mighty folk, with many followers. David eyed them wonderingly. He had never seen the like, and on Balvaird land. These were going in the opposite direction from his own, and they had to pass each other.

It was only when they came near that he realised that, at the head of this column, riding beside a handsome man of middle years on a fine horse was a mere youth, little more than a boy indeed – and if the man was good-looking the youth was not, however richly if untidily he was clad. And this youngster was staring and pointing, not at David but at the stag on the garron’s back, with its dangling head and antlers.

“See!” he cried thickly. “See yon heid! The tines o’ it! Is it ten? Aye, ten, Esme´.”

“So it is, Sire,” the older man agreed. “A fine beast. Where from, I wonder?”

“A deal finer than ocht we hae!” the youth declared, pressing forward for a closer look, quite ignoring David. “Johnnie! Johnnie Mar – see it. We’ve no’ seen the like this whilie.”

“Aye, and gralloched,” another youth, slightly older than the first, pointed out. “Gralloched a’ready. And just the yin, Sire. Some hunter’s done richt weel.”

It was that double use of the word sire that had David blinking and the more alert. Only monarchs, so far as he knew, were entitled to be so styled. Could it be so? Could this gangling youth with his slobbery speech be really James Stewart, King of Scots? David knew that he was young, yes, but . . .

The said youth now dismounted, to come up and inspect the stag’s head, actually touching the points projecting from the main horns. He seemed to be knock-kneed and dribbled as he spoke, but his eyes were keen enough. He turned these on David now.

“Whae’s kill is this?” he demanded.

“Mine,” he was told simply.

“Hech – yours? How, where?”

David turned to point. “Up there. On the Binn Hill. On the north corrie.”

“You? Alone?”

“Alone, yes. One can only stalk deer alone or in small numbers.”

“Stalk? You mean creep and crawl? Like some brute-beast?”

That certainly reminded David of Dand’s remarks, almost identical. But he was not going to accept it, even from a monarch, if so this one was. “Like a man who sets out to win stags on the high tops!” he amended.

“Eh? And who are you?”

“I am David Murray.” And shrugging, he added, “Of Gospertie.” That last a little doubtfully. He did not often use the style.

The handsome man and the other youth had dismounted now also. “Are you related to Murray of Arngask?” the former asked. “I know him. We are near his land here, Sire.”

“You are on it,” David told them. “He is my father.”

“Ah. So that is it. And you hunt thus, afoot?”

“If you can call it hunting, sir. I name it otherwise. Stalking.”

“We hae only won beasts wi’ but puir heids this day,” the youth declared. “In Pitmedden Forest.”

“Only the younger and lesser stags go down to the low ground, with the hinds and calves. The older and better ones stay on the high ground, see you.”

“Address His Grace as Sire, Murray,” the older man instructed, but not haughtily. “I am Lennox. And this is the Master of Mar. We have come from the hunting palace of Falkland. And go to my house of Methven.”

James Stewart was still admiring the stag’s head. “I havena done the like,” he said. “Sought the beasts afoot. And high. It’s no’ the way it’s done by us.”

“Perhaps not, Sire. But if you seek fine heads . . .” David wondered at the way the young monarch spoke, in the broad Scots tongue.

“Aye. Stalk, you name it? Creeping? Hae you heard o’ this stalking, Johnnie?”

“No. Not o’ deer. Stalk is to step oot right stiffly, is it no’?” The Master of Mar spoke in the same fashion as the young monarch.

“Could you teach us the way o’ it?”

Swallowing, David eyed them all. “If, if so you wished, Sire. But . . .”

“No’ the noo. Murray, is it? No’ the noo. We’re for Methven the noo. But, come you to Falkland. I’m aye at Falkland when I’m no’ at Stirling. Come you there and teach us, Murray man.”

“If so you wish, Sire.” David, astonished at it all as he was, could not bring himself to refer to the youth as Your Grace. Anything less graceful than James Stewart would be hard to imagine.

“Aye. You can teach us on yon Lomond Hills. There’ll be beasts there? On the tops?”

“I would think so, Sire.” A thought struck him. “Would you wish to have this head, Sire? I could give you it, if so you wished.”

“You’d dae that? Gie it to me? It’s a bonny heid.”

“I shall bring it to Falkland, Sire.”

“I’ll be at Methven for twa nichts, mind. After that . . .”

The king mounted his fine horse, the duke and the Master of Mar nodded, and the cavalcade moved off northwards, leaving David to go in the other direction.

His father was back from Conland when he reached Balvaird with his booty, and his exciting tale to tell, Dand frowning and seeking to play it all down as of no account. But Sir Andrew was quite impressed, seeing it as a notable introduction to their young monarch, especially this of going to Falkland and teaching the king to stalk deer. Who knew whither this might lead? Lady Janet was equally complimentary.

Falkland, with its royal hunting-seat, lay to the east some seven miles, in Fothriff, the western section of Fife, beneath the twin Lomond Hills known as the Paps of Fife. Their Balvaird was in fact placed all but on the border of the shires of Fife, Perth and not far from that of Stirling, a quite useful situation in the centre of Lowland Scotland, and quite close to the Highland Line. But it did mean that the Murrays could be pulled in various directions in their allegiances and alliances.

Before skinning and handing over the stag as venison for the pot, David cut off the head. He would boil this in a cauldron of water to get the flesh off the bone, and then saw the skull with the antlers into a shield-shaped trophy to present to the king.

2

David waited a week before he set off for Falkland. Presumably the king would still be there. If not, it was only an hour’s ride each way. Whether, of course, the royal youth would remember the incident in Abernethy Glen and still wanted to be taught to stalk remained to be seen.

He went by the low hills of Kincraigie over into Fife, to reach the community of Strathmiglo and Cash, and so south by east, with the green Lomond Hills, much higher, rising before him, two rounded breast-shaped summits a full mile apart. Falkland lay at the foot of the eastern hill, among woodland.

When he arrived, it was to be told by the keeper of the establishment that the king was out hunting, this his favourite pastime. Whether, when he returned, he would be too tired to do any stalking training was questionable.

As he waited, David inspected the lower slopes of that East Lomond Hill, climbing as far up as the first of the heather, the bracken lower not being apt for stalking, and not the haunt of stags. He kept his eye on the approaches to Falkland and, after an hour or so, he saw the hunting-party coming riding out of the woodland. He turned back.

He found King James watching the dead deer being unloaded from the garrons’ backs, and shaking his head over the short and unspiked antlers of the one staggie they seemed to have slain, however many hinds and ca. . .