Rough Wooing

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The final volume in the trilogy spanning the turbulent reign of King James V of Scotland. The young James, King of Scots is a beleaguered man. Still grief stricken at the untimely death of his queen, Madeleine, the king is without an heir. Both he and his throne are vulnerable. All around him he sees conspiracies. Some may lie in his imagination but all too many are real, for there are many who would supplant him or control him. Even his own mother, Margaret Tudor, plots against him. But then, she is the sister of the English King Henry VIII who sprawls like a bloated spider south of the border, his greedy eyes ever on the realm of Scotland, hungry to bring it within his grasp. The young king's advisors, the two David's, Beaton and Lindsay, have preserved him so far but the threats to James and his country seem to grow by the year... 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: December 20, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Three men stood looking out of a window of the royal quarters of Stirling Castle, gazing down on the forecourt area where there was considerable stir, dismounting from horses and shouting for grooms. Of the trio, one was in his mid-twenties, and two of an age, in their forties. The young man was tall, red-headed, high-coloured and good-looking, and named James Stewart. But despite the fact that he was King of Scots, fifth of that name, and in the strongest fortress of his kingdom, he looked the least at ease, almost agitated in fact, for one who was normally rather too carefree, not to say irresponsible, as a monarch, for some of his advisers. Of the two said advisers who were with him now, one was notably handsome in a smooth and almost delicate way, splendidly elegant, dressed all in scarlet; the other was much more rugged of feature and person but with a strong, plain face and keen eyes, plainly clad. They were respectively Davie Beaton, Abbot of Arbroath, Bishop of Mirepoix in France, Coadjutor and nephew to the Primate of Holy Church in Scotland, and Lord Privy Seal of the realm; and Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, Lord Lyon King of Arms, chief Usher to the King and Poet Laureate. These two eyed each other and their liege-lord significantly, as much as they considered what went on below.

“See you – you are to bide, both of you. Even though she bids you begone,” James said. “I want you to be present. To note. And, and to support me. If necessary. She will be difficult. She, she always is. You understand?”

“Have no fear, Sire,” Beaton told him, easily. “The situation is entirely clear, and all in your favour. We shall . . .”

“Who speaks of fear, man? Sakes – I do not fear her! It is but . . . awkward.”

The other shrugged eloquent, red-velvet shoulders.

Lindsay said nothing. Despite being the poet and playwright, the man of words, he was a deal less prompt of speech than was his friend.

Presently they heard voices from the stairway. Then, without the usual preliminary knocking, the door was thrown violently open so that it banged to the wall, and a woman swept in, followed by an overdressed young man of almost beautiful appearance but looking distinctly unhappy, not to say dishevelled, just then, hand out, seeking to restrain her, members of the royal guard behind.

The lady, notably small eyes blazing, paused after a couple of paces into the chamber, then swinging round on the young man who was in the act of making a hasty bow towards the King, actually pushed at his chest, thrusting him back through the doorway with no little force, into the arms of the guard. Then she grabbed at the door again and slammed it shut in his face, before turning to confront the waiting trio.

“God’s mercy – the insolence of that cub!” she exclaimed. “It is not to be borne! I will not be treated like some serving wench – I, Margaret, I tell you! Do you hear? Dragged here by that fopling and his ruffians!”

“I sent Oliver Sinclair to bring you, Madam,” James said. “I, I desire words with you.”

“The more you are to blame, then, James!” she snapped back. She was a stocky, short woman of thick waist and middle years, sallow of complexion and unbeautiful, but with a very distinct presence and an inborn authority which by no means required her over-aggressive speech and manner to be effective. Dowdily dressed, she was nevertheless overloaded with jewellery for horseback-travel.

“Blame! You to speak of blame! You, who would betray me to my enemies! Who plot my downfall and scheme against me. You talk of blame to me! I’d have you to know, Madam, that your treasonable doings are revealed, your letters intercepted . . .”

“Ha! Spying, is it? Creeping and peeping and prying? As well as subjecting me, me, to indignities! I will not have it, James – do you hear? You go too far!”

“No! I will go further. I am the King . . .!” But James’s need to assert the fact implied a certain lack of the authority so evident in the woman. After all, it is difficult, unnatural, for a son openly to controvert his mother.

Her glance slid over towards the two others standing there listening; as indeed did the King’s.

It was in answer to the young man’s unspoken appeal for help that there was reaction, the churchman seeking to provide it.

“Lady Methven – Madam – His Grace, in this, has the rights of it. The matter is serious, grievous, the safety of the realm involved. This must be dealt with in due and decent fashion. For the sake of all . . .”

“Silence, sirrah! Speak when you are spoken to, not before! And do not name me Methven – never that! Highness, from you, Beaton. Remember it.”

He inclined his head, but only slightly. It was not easy to put down Davie Beaton, as many a great one had discovered. “As the Lord Methven’s wife, lady, I but address you in that style.”

“I have no further part nor concern with Methven. He is a scoundrel and a deceiver. I shall divorce him. He has stolen my rents and taken a mistress. When I am finished with him, he will regret deceiving Margaret Tudor!”

Her son cleared his throat. “This is why I required to see you,” he declared. “This of divorce. And . . . remarriage. I will not have it, Madam – I will not!”

“You will not? My marriage has naught to do with you, James.”

“I say that it has. Since, of all follies, you are proposing to rewed my greatest enemy, Angus. I tell you, we have read your letters. It shall not be.”

“You cannot stop me. I shall wed whom I please.”

“Angus is your brother Henry’s tool, lackey, lickspittle! Has sworn him fealty and become an Englishman – a Scots earl! Henry wants him only to try to unseat me and so gain Scotland. You, Henry’s sister, will not aid him, I say, against my realm. You will not remarry Angus.”

“And I say again, you cannot stop me.”

“You cannot rewed lacking a divorce from Henry Stewart of Methven.”

“The Pope will grant me that divorce. With Methven in open adultery.”

“Not if I urge him not to. And if Holy Church in Scotland requests Rome otherwise. There will be no divorce.”

She glared, first at her son and then at Beaton. “This, then, is your doing, you clerkly snake, you viper! I might have known it. You have ever hated me – both of you.” And she turned on Lindsay also. “From the first you have wrought me only ill, poisoned my son against me, as a child and as a grown man. You, Lindsay, first; then this upstart priest. Always you have been my enemy.”

“Not your enemy, Madam – only the King’s friend, however humble.”

“Liar! I have watched you . . .”

“Madam – instead of miscalling my friends, answer me this,” the King intervened. “John, Master of Forbes, is your friend. Married to Angus’s sister. Can you deny being close to him? Sending secret messages? We have your courier. And Forbes plotting my death.”

“I know naught of such. Scurrilous tales. John Forbes is an honest man.”

“Yet he plots to slay me. With gunfire. A culverin, no less. When I go to Aberdeen, on justice-eyres. And you are his friend.”

“Lies – all lies.”

“And lies also that Angus’s other sister, the Lady Glamis, likewise your friend, threatens to poison me? As she poisoned her first husband? And now you plan to marry Angus again!”

“You believe such fables, James? Are you fool enough for that? Tales devised to cozen you against me. No doubt by such as these two here!”

“They have served me long and well . . .”

“They have served themselves well! A versifying small laird and an upjumped clerk! Who now dare to insult me, a queen and princess. And would rule you, the King. If we are to have further privy talk together, James, have them out of here.”

“No. They stay. This is not privy talk. It is the realm’s business. Henry is ever plotting against me. He would reign in Scotland, as well as in England and Wales and Ireland. And you, his sister, would aid him. It may be that you think to be his viceroy, with Angus? It will not be, I tell you! You will not wed Angus again. You will remain wedded to Methven. That is my will, my, my royal command. Seek a divorce, from Rome, and you will be imprisoned. For the remainder of your days.”

That silenced even Margaret Tudor for a space. Her mouth worked but no words came. Then she got it out. “You, you would not dare . . .!”

“Dare? I need not to dare, Madam. I am the King. My word is sufficient. For too long you have intrigued against me, your brother’s accomplice in this my kingdom. You talk of snakes and vipers. What are you but Henry’s viper here at my very throat? No more, I say. You will plot no more on Henry’s behalf.”

“It is not true. You haver, you wander in your mind! I have not worked against you. I know nothing of Henry’s plottings.”

“Your letters belie you. You should be more careful, Madam, of what you pen on paper. You accept Henry’s gold. Why, when I have given you sufficient lands, properties? Aye, and your friends get more, as you know well. Four hundred pensioners Henry keeps, in my Scotland. Four hundred! Why? Not out of love for them, or for me, I swear! This Master of Forbes, no doubt amongst them. And Angus’s kin and other Douglases. But – no more, I say. It is to stop.”

“This is crazy-mad! You have been fed lies, falsehoods, I tell you. By these, these creatures.” And her beringed finger jabbed venomously towards the two Davids. “You cannot do this to me, your father’s queen, a princess of England. Halt my divorce.”

“You think not? I could do more. I could summon you before my courts. Both as prisoner and as witness. John Forbes is arrested and will be tried, in Edinburgh, in a few days. The Lady Glamis likewise. Shall I summon you? To compear there? For them. Or against them? There, before all. How say you to that, Madam?”

She actually stepped back, as though she had been struck. “No! No – never that! You would not, could not . . .”

“I could, and would. If need be. So consider well. You will plot no more, with Henry and Angus and the Douglases. You hear? I have been patient overlong. You will go back, under escort, to Methven Castle. And remain there, married to Henry Stewart. Applying for no divorce. Or you will come to court, accused of art and part in treason. That is my royal word.”

There was silence in that room, for a space.

James resumed. “Now, Madam – you have my leave to retire. Oliver Sinclair will conduct you to your quarters, and tomorrow, back to Methven. Go.”

Tense, without a word spoken, Margaret Tudor went, and closed that door quietly behind her.

“I did it! I did it!” James exclaimed then, his voice quivering a little. “I told you that I would. She, she knows now who is master!”

“Yes, Sire – that was admirable,” Beaton said. “You are greatly to be congratulated. The lady will now know her true position, I think. Not before time.”

Later, in Lindsay’s more modest quarters of the fortress, the two so strangely different and often differing friends, exchanged impressions.

“I am surprised that James was able to be so firm with that dangerous woman,” Beaton admitted. “When I first spoke with him, after coming from St. Andrews, I feared that it would be merely myself and you who would have to confront her, on his behalf. As in the past. What has changed him? He has ever been afraid of her – and not without cause. Could it be the death of Madeleine?”

“I think that may have had much to do with it, yes. His wife’s death has greatly affected him. He is altered in some ways. It has much sobered him, to be sure. But he is more readily angered. He was always hot-tempered, but now he angers more deeply and frequently. It is as though the loss of his new queen and love is to be worked off in wrath, hitting at what offends. Perhaps his own hurt seeking easement in the hurt of others? Or that may be but a fancy. But this of the Master of Forbes and the Lady Glamis – he is hot against them. With what true cause I am not sure. He has had them both taken into custody. He would have had them both condemned out-of-hand, I believe, but we persuaded him to bring them to open trial, at least. Any with Douglas connection are now endangered. Always he has had reason to fear and resent Angus and the Douglases. But now it is sheerest hate. As though they were in some way responsible for Madeleine’s death.”

“This trial? In Edinburgh, he said? And threatened to hale his mother before it?”

“Two trials. Separate. One, of Forbes, for conspiring to shoot him. And the other of Lady Glamis, Forbes’s good-sister. Since mere talk of threatening to poison the King would be difficult to prove, as treason, she is to be tried for practising witchcraft – which is a deal simpler! I mislike it, for I fear, whatever the justiciars find, that James will have these two guilty and condemned. Because of their connection with Angus. Perhaps, Davie, if you could be there, attend the trial, be with James, even if only to plead mercy? He much respects your judgement. And you speak with the voice of Holy Church . . .”

“I do not think that will be possible, my friend. When are these trials, do you know? Two weeks hence? Then, no, I cannot be there. I shall be in France. Or on my way there.”

“France? You – again? What is this?”

“It is necessary. That is why I have come here, now. To convince James. And have convinced him, I think. This morning. I had much talk with him, alone. See you, Queen Madeleine has died, yes. And James is shattered. But the realm’s need is not altered. An heir to the throne is necessary, all-important. Or Scotland will be on the road to disaster. You know that. With the creature Arran as next in line, and his brother the Bastard steering him, James must produce a true heir. That he ever wed Madeleine is, in fact, the tragedy, brief joy as it brought them both. I blame myself that I did not seek more strongly to stop it . . .”

“You, man – even you could not have damped down that sudden fire! That flame of love was beyond all quenching.”

“Perhaps. But I believe that I could have persuaded King Francis to have forbidden the marriage. He was loth, as it was, recognising his daughter’s weakness. And, I flatter myself, he heeds me in not a little. My wits told me that it was all a mistake, as did her father’s. I knew that, frail and sickly as she was, she could never bear James the child he needed, his kingdom needed. Even though she had not died thus soon.”

“Aye. But it is too late to repine.”

“Too late for Madeleine. But not for James. He must marry again. It will not be the same, no hot love-match. But that is not necessary. Most monarchs do not wed for love. For this realm, nothing is altered from one year ago. The succession must be assured. Or Henry will have us, one way or another. He, or the Bastard of Arran – or both, in concert. France is still the key to Henry’s postern-door. We need France’s aid, and not just in the Auld Alliance, but in her active support. So it must be a French princess again.”

“But – so soon! It is but weeks since Madeleine died.”

“Aye – but these things take time to arrange. And much time we have not got. Henry is busy, always. And the Douglases readying. James is not wholly mistaken in this hatred of his for that house. And the Hamiltons but bide their time. The Bastard is building a great new castle, a fortress indeed, at Craignethan – have you heard? He is vastly extending the old tower of Draffane, a former Douglas place. And on the very edge of the Douglas territories. Why, think you? Well away from the rest of Hamilton land. I have heard that he intends to make common cause with Angus, he who has always been that earl’s enemy – this since James has dispensed with his services. No doubt, he hopes to gain Douglas support, for his half-brother Arran as king. Should James happen to die! And James could die so easily, and without heir. This of shooting by Forbes, or poison by Janet of Glamis – they but represent a continuing and wider threat. Then there is this new reforming heresy, in the Church. The reformers are the supporters of Henry, now that he has parted with the Vatican – and Henry supports them, for his own purposes. They see James as a stumbling-block to their aims. So James needs France and Rome for his active support. I have convinced him of the urgency of it. So, I sail, with his authority, in but a few days.”

“Authority to do what?”

“To find him another wife – and quickly.”

“But . . . six months after his wedding to Madeleine? This is indecent! Too soon.”

“It will be a year before all is arranged. We cannot wait. And, fortunately, I have something to start from. There were three French ladies offered, in the first place. Madeleine, Marie de Bourbon of Vendôme, and Marie de Guise, Duchess de Longueville. Poor Marie de Bourbon is not to be considered now – James would not have her, for her looks; and forby she is now wed to Holy Church and become a nun, in her disappointment. But the de Guise – that is different. Until he met Madeleine, James was well pleased with her. She is handsome, lusty, able, and she liked him well, clearly. He should have wed her. She is a widow and has proved herself fertile. Unless she has wed someone else in these last months, it is not too late. And she would, I swear, make an excellent Queen of Scotland – better than the fragile, beauteous Madeleine ever could.”

“So, that is it! Marie de Guise. And James – he agrees to this?”

“He is scarce fervent, admittedly. But, yes – he accepts the need. And would find her . . . bed-worthy! You know him – that is mighty important with him. And since he is not in love with her, only admired her person and spirit, it need not too much restrict his adventures otherwhere!”

“Lord, Davie – I sometimes think that you are a devil, rather than any churchman!”

“I am but a practical man, my Lord Lyon King of Arms – as I have told you before. And since the Church is in this sorry world, and must deal with it, the Church needs practical men, as well as saints!”

Lindsay shook his head. “And Francis? And the Duchess Marie herself? How will they consider this? So soon after the other marriage? Doting on his daughter as he did, will Francis not hate the very name of Scotland?”

“I think not. He is a king as well as a father. He will be concerned still to have a Frenchwoman as queen here. He must seek ever to contain Henry of England. He would have Scotland an ever-present threat at England’s back. As for Marie de Guise, that one made it clear that she did not mislike James Stewart! And she would be a queen, I have no doubt, if she might. Forby, her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, whose word counts for much in France, is my friend.”

“So you have it all thought through. As ever! But, would James go to France a second time? Leave his realm again, for weeks, months. That would be dangerous, in these circumstances. We took sufficient risks before.”

“No, not that. It will have to be a proxy wedding. In France. James to send someone as representative. Then the full ceremony here, when the bride arrives. That will have to be understood. It might be unacceptable in some case. As it would have been for Madeleine. But the de Guise is different. She is not a king’s daughter. And has already been wed. I think that she will be prepared for such arrangement.”

“Will you be away for long? You are needed here, more than in France, I think.”

“For so short a time as is possible to contrive it all. I shall not linger, I promise you. My uncle is all but senile, and I cannot afford to leave him, and Church affairs, for long. Even though I have good deputies. In the present state of both kingdom and Church I need to be back quickly.”

“Must it be you that goes, then?”

“I fear so. Both Francis and the Cardinal are friendly towards me, from previous years. I shall need their aid, probably.”

“Your Marion will see but little of you, at Ethie, these days.”

“To my sorrow, yes. She has the bairns, of course – three now. I miss her damnably. But . . .”

“But you are David Beaton. And Church and state stand or fall by your efforts! And Marion is only . . . Marion!”

“Damn you . . .!” For a moment that normally so imperturbable individual lost his calm control, eyes flashing quite as hot as Margaret Tudor’s had done earlier. But swiftly he recovered himself. “That is scarcely just, my friend. I must seem to neglect her grievously, yes. But it cannot be otherwise, placed as I am. Marion understands. She has known, from the first, that it would be this way. She knows that she has my love and devotion. And I get to Ethie oftener than you may think, even if only for brief visits. I have a small ship constantly ready at St. Andrews haven, which in any passable weather can win me up to Ethiehaven in three hours. It is but a score of miles, by sea. I must needs fail Marion much – but never in my love. You are more happily placed. You can have your Janet here at court. I can by no means do the like.”

“No. I am sorry, Davie. It is easier for me. But – we often grieve for Marion Ogilvy. We are fond of her.”

“I know it. If you could contrive to visit her at Ethie, perhaps, while I am in France, it would be kind.”

“We shall try, yes.”

“Good. Now – I must back to St. Andrews, if indeed I am to see her before I sail. Wish me well . . .”

The trial of John, Master of Forbes, in the great hall of Edinburgh Castle on 16th July 1537, was a show and demonstration as much as an impeachment – and by the same token, the verdict was scarcely in doubt, from the first. This was to be a counter-stroke against Angus, the Douglases and Henry Tudor, and at the same time some sort of strange salve for James Stewart’s hurt and sorrow. Both kingdoms were to know it, so the hall was full, great numbers of the most influential of the land summoned to attend, almost as though it had been a parliament. Since the charge was high treason, this was not a matter for the new-founded Court of Session, but for the Privy Council itself. James, although very much present, was not to take active part. And the Lord Privy Seal, Beaton, being off to France, the Chancellor of the realm, Gavin Dunbar, Archbishop of Glasgow, deputised for him; the other members of the court, all privy councillors, being the Earls of Atholl and Cassillis, the Lord Maxwell and the Master of Glencairn, carefully chosen. David Lindsay was there, as Lyon, but only formally to open the proceedings in the King’s name.

On the stroke of noon, splendidly attired in the vivid red-and-gold Lion Rampant tabard of his office, and flanked by his heralds and trumpeters, he paced into the crowded hall, on to the dais at the west end, and after a fanfare by the instrumentalists, announced the arrival of James, by God’s grace High King of Scots.

To another blare of trumpets James came in, carelessly dressed as usual, all men bowed and, as the monarch seated himself on the throne, Lindsay declared that His Grace’s Privy Council was hereby commanded to hear the lord Earl of Huntly’s charge of high treason against two of His Grace’s subjects. In the absence overseas of the Lord Privy Seal, the Lord Archbishop of Glasgow, Chancellor, to proceed, with His Grace’s royal permission.

Gavin Dunbar, who had once been James’s tutor, looked unhappy in this situation. He was a mild, studious man, no proud prelate despite his lofty position, who had been appointed Chancellor, or chief minister, when his predecessor, Archbishop James Beaton of St. Andrews, had become incapable of continuing as such, in order to maintain Holy Church’s power in the state. In fact, of course, Davie Beaton, his uncle’s secretary and coadjutor, wielded the true power, with Dunbar more or less a figurehead. His discomfort on this occasion was obvious to all. Without preamble, he called for George Gordon, Earl of Huntly.

Huntly, chief of the great north-east clan of Gordon, who rejoiced in the hereditary appellation of Cock o’ the North, a dark, spare, lantern-jawed young man of twenty-four years, stood forward. His mother had been an illegitimate daughter of the King’s father, James the Fourth. This being that highly unusual occurrence, a public meeting of the Privy or Secret Council, the normal trial procedure was not used. There was no crown prosecutor, as such, no judge and jury in name, merely this panel of councillors at a hearing. But none doubted their ability to pronounce and impose due judgement.

Huntly, bowing to his uncle by blood, announced that in his country and sheriffdom of Strathdon, Strathdee and Strathbogie, there had long been a general belief that certain highly placed persons were less than leal subjects of the King’s Grace, supporters of the renegade Earl of Angus and in frequent communication with the King of England. As Justiciar he, Huntly, had been concerned and perturbed, but had no proofs or certainties on which to take action. And in view of the status and rank of the persons involved, this much distressed him. Then, a month or so past, he was approached by one, a man of some substance in Strathdon, a laird by name Thomas Strachan of Lynturk, a vassal of the Lord Forbes, who informed him, as a leal subject of His Grace, that there was a plot to murder and slay the King’s Grace, the instigator of which was none other than John, Master of Forbes, son and heir of the said Lord Forbes, one of those long suspected of treasonable correspondence with Angus and England. The said Lynturk’s declarations and assertions were so specific and grievous that he, Huntly, had conceived it to be his bounden duty, as Justiciar, forthwith to apprehend the Master of Forbes and his father, the Lord Forbes, since His Grace’s royal person could be endangered, and have the matter enquired into by His Grace’s Privy Council, the Lord Forbes himself being of that Council and so entitled to go beyond the justiciary court. Hence this sitting and hearing.

Archbishop Dunbar nodded and murmured something about it being most correct and duteous of the lord Earl. Were the accuser and the accused here present for the Council to question? Then let them be produced.

Officers thereupon escorted in two men, one elderly and the other in his thirties. Both were tall and good-looking in a florid way, clearly father and son, although they held themselves very differently, the Lord Forbes distressed and apprehensive, the Master defiant and with a sort of inborn arrogance. They bowed towards the throne, low and less low. From another door, a third man was led in, of an age with the Master but short, stocky and ill-at-ease, the Laird of Lynturk.

The Chancellor looked uncertain as to how to proceed, this all being a new experience for those present, the trial of a privy councillor and his son by a committee of that Privy Council at the instance of another privy councillor, the accuser being merely a nobody, but the instigation undoubtedly coming from the monarch himself. Dunbar waved a hand towards Huntly.

The Earl turned to the King. “Sire – is it your royal will that this Strachan of Lynturk should here repeat, before all, what he revealed to me of this matter?”

James shrugged. “Address your questions and remarks, my lord, to the Chancellor. He presides. I but observe.”

Looking more uneasy than ever, the Archbishop said, to no one in particular, “Proceed.”

Another voice spoke up, and strongly. “Before anything further is said, my lord Archbishop, I would have all present to know that I, and my father, protest, most strongly protest.” That was John Forbes, glaring around him. “Protest that we should have been brought here like felons, and held imprisoned. The Lord and Master of Forbes! Of a line more ancient, honourable and illustrious, I dare to say, than any, any soever in this hall today, MacFirbis, a power in this land when it was still Celtic Alba, and when the forebears of most here were still horse-holders and scullions in Normandy-France!” At the growls that produced, he merely raised his voice the higher. “And this treatment at the hands of one who is our house’s enemy, our recent enemy, since this man’s Lowland ancestors, Normans, only came into our north but two centuries ago, there to crow like any cock on its midden, and be sufficient proud to name himself so. Worse, this man’s grandsire only changed his name from Seton to Gordon a few years back! And he dares to accuse Forbes! On the trumped-up testimony of a forsworn small tacksman of ours, who holds a grudge against me over a wench!” He did not deign to glance over at Strachan, reserving his ire for Huntly. “This, I say, you should all know, before proceeding further.”

There was uproar in the hall, unprecedented at a Privy Council meeting, Lowland lords of Norman pedigree shouting, the Chancellor flapping his hands, and Huntly shaking his fist, bony features contorted, at this attack on the Gordon origins – Gordon in fact being a place in the Berwickshire Merse, and the family only marrying into the Highland polity two centuries before, and another century later a Sir William Seton, another Norman-line Lowlander, wedding the Gordon heiress and taking the name. Even James Stewart sat forward on his throne scowling; for after all, the Stewarts got their name from being Stewards of Dol, in Normandy, before ever they became High Stewards of Scotland.

The Chancellor, unable to obtain silence, looked appealingly at David Li