Wisest Fool

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Son of the doomed Mary Queen of Scots, raised to rule two countries, James was one of the oddest kings ever to ascent any throne. Neither noble nor heroic, he confounded those who despised him by being shrewd enough to reign for fifty-eight years, survive countless plots and never go to war. 'A vastly entertaining addition to the historical novels of Scots author Nigel Tranter.' Glasgow Sunday Mail

Release date: August 30, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 480

Sample

THE THUNDER OF the cannon from Berwick’s castle and walls stopped abruptly—presumably these having run out of powder after nearly two hours of gleeful banging such as the old grey town had not heard since Edward Longshanks’ days. In the sudden hush, the chatter of hundreds of tongues, necessarily unpraised previously to counter the din, as hurriedly dropped away, abashed, and only the wailing of the gulls, wheeling everlastingly above the Tweed’s estuary, sounded over all the brilliant and colourful throng.

Men and women might stare, even though chatter would probably be considered unseemly—and certain unseemlinesses were frowned upon in no uncertain fashion, though others were not; one could never be quite sure, majesty being an unpredictable quantity and quality. Stare the great company did, then, with varying expressions—and to the keen eye it could have been noteworthy that the variations might be classed under two main heads, the amused and the shaken. Moreover, these categories themselves could be allotted to the two constituent groups, almost exactly. The Scots mainly tittered, and the English looked astonished, alarmed, even appalled. It was as simple as that, on the Spittal shore of Tweed, at the southern end of Berwick Bridge.

One Scot there, watching, neither tittered nor looked shaken, however. A man in his late thirties, dressed richly but not with the extravagance of padding, dashing colour and ornamentation which was prevalent around him, he was stockily built, sandy-haired, with no very distinguished features but shrewd alert eyes which missed nothing, a quietly watching, assessing, steady man whose expression was nevertheless redeemed from anything of stern self-interest by the upturning corners of a firm mouth above a small beard, which hinted at humour never far away. George Heriot was apt to see the amusing side of life, without necessarily bursting into laughter over it all, and sought not to be mocking about it—difficult as this frequently was in his circumstances. But he did not smile now, whatever the attitude of most of his compatriots present, for his sympathies were engaged, strangely enough.

Not that the scene lacked anything to make a cat laugh. To see a knock-kneed, over-dressed, slobbering little man down on the said knees kissing the beaten ground amongst the horse-droppings at the bridge-end, and mumbling wetly, high beribboned hat tipped forward over his nose, was a sight seldom to be seen. And when the individual so engaged was Christ’s Vicar here on earth—or so he confidently asserted—the Lord’s Anointed, James, by the grace of God King, not only of Scots but, since exactly two weeks previously, of England also, the 5rst ever so to be, the thing became the more extraordinary. What added to the general Scots appreciation, of course, was the evident upset and confusion of the English notables most dose to the monarch, who, unused to the ways of their new liege lord, did not know whether to get down on the earth with him, pray with him—if that was what he was doing—seek to raise him up, look the other way, or merely wring their hands and look unhappy. When the King stands, all men stand—in England certainly, and presumably in Scotland also. And they were in England now—just. But did it also apply to kneeling, kissing and mumbling? The Earl of Northumberland, representing the Privy Council and both Houses of Parliament, looked at the Bishop of Durham, representing the Archbishops of Canterbury and York before the new Head of the Church of England, but got no help there, and turned to his brother, Sir Charles Percy, who had been escorting their sovereign lord all the way from Edinburgh and ought to know the form. Sir Charles spread his delicate hands helplessly, looking pained in dignified fashion. He had been a courtier of Elizabeth’s for thirty years, and never had had to face a problem such as this before.

George Heriot still did not smile, but he scratched his small beard in anticipation.

James Stewart solved the problem in his own way. As abruptly as he had collapsed on his spindly, knobbly knees when he had tottered off the bridge, he stopped his prayers and praise for safe delivery, tipped his very odd and high hat to the back of his head, to look up and around him. And those great lachrymose but lustrous eyes, possibly the only inheritance he had, other than a kingdom, from his beauteous mother Mary Queen of Scots, were searching and shrewd as Heriot’s own. The Wisest Fool in Christendom missed little of what went on around him.

“Man—have me up, can you no’?” he demanded, at Northumberland. “Standing there gawping like a great gowk I Aye, and you, my lord Bishop—what way’s that to bide? Have you no’ a word o’ thanks to your Maker for winning us ower this Jordan?”

Even as Earl and Bishop burst into comprehensive apology for any seeming neglect, either of their liege lord or their Maker, a score of eager hands hastened to raise Majesty to its feet, each jostling all others in the process.

A voice spoke quietly at Heriot’s shoulder. “I swear I am sorry for these English, Master Heriot—tears that I had never thought to shed I” That was Ludovick Stewart, Duke of Lennox, at present the only duke in two kingdoms, the King’s far-out cousin and intermittent friend if not favourite. “Their education commences, I think!”

The other shrugged slightly. “Ours also, perhaps, my lord Duke. Who knows? There is change in the air.”

“Change, aye. But . . . for the better?”

“We must make it so. If we can. And we at least have this advantage—His Grace will not change, whatever else may!”

King James had turned round to face the bridge again, and was pointing, arm and finger still trembling from his alarm and emotion. He spoke thickly—always he spoke thickly, wetly, for his tongue was too large for his mouth and the spittle ran constantly down his straggly beard, as adequate an excuse for a permanent thirst as might be devised. To steady himself, he grabbed Sir Charles Percy’s richly padded sleeve, with the other hand.

“Yon’s a right shameful brig,” he declared. “Your brother, this Northumberland, should have done better for me, man. It’s no’ right and proper, I tell you. I . . . we are much disappointed. Yon’s a disgrace. We might have been submerged in the cruel waters—aye, submerged. It wabbles, sirs—it quakes. It’ll no’ do, I say.”

“To be sure, Sire. As Your Majesty says. But I assure Your Majesty that it is safe. Entirely safe.” Northumberland, still dutching the as yet undelivered address of welcome from the Privy Council in London, was earnestly placatory. “It has always been thus. I have ridden across it a hundred times . . .”

“It shoogles, sir—it shoogles. And creaks. Are you contesting my royal word, Englishman?”

“No, Sire—no! I swear! But . . . but . . .”

The Bishop gallantly, if rashly, came to the rescue. “Your Majesty, old wooden bridges do creak. In especial long ones. And, er, quiver somewhat. But it has survived a thousand storms . . .”

“Each more weakening it, man—weakening it. Guidsakes, you came here, to bide this side, waiting on me, mc your prince, to take his life in his two hands, and cross yon death-trap to you! What like a people and nation is this I’ve come amongst?”

“But, Highness—this is the English side. Where it was our duty, our joyful duty, to wait and greet you. On setting your royal foot on our, h’m, on your English soil. For the first time. Berwick Bridge, therefore, is only half in this realm of England. Your Majesty will not hold us responsible for, for the Scots end . . .?”

“Na, na, mannie—you’ll no’ win awa’ with that sort o’ talk, see you. Yon ill Richard Plantagenet stole Berwick from us lang-syne; 1427 to be precise—aye, 1427, nigh on two centuries past. You’ve sat snug in our Berwick since then, have you no’? Complain as we would. North o’ the brig. So you’ll no can jouk your responsibilities. Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitarc Charybdim. You, a churchman, will ken what that means?”

“Er, yes, Sire.” Tobias Mathew was as unused to a monarch as quoted Latin at him, as he was to one who gabbled in almost incomprehensible dialect, dribbled and prayed to his Maker in the public highway. He sought to change the subject. “We have letters for Your Majesty. From the Convocation of Canterbury and York, and from the High Court of Parliament. And, of course, Your Majesty’s Privy Council . . .”

“Aye. But this brig,” the King said. “It’ll no’ do. You’ll just hae to build a new one. D’you hear? My command—aye, our first royal command on this our English ground. A guid new stout brig o’ stone, see you. That’ll no’ wabble. Forthwith. See you to it, my lords. My . . . my Treasury in London will pay for it.”

There was a moment of utter silence. Then a peal of silvery, musical laughter rang out, from the Master of Gray, sheer enjoyment, appreciation; and everywhere the Scots broke into grins and chuckles, while their brand-new fellow-subjects of England, until so recently such proud Elizabethans, exchanged ominous glances.

But James Stewart frowned. He was always suspicious of laughter provoked by himself, even though it came from the Master of his royal Wardrobe and the handsomest man in Europe.

“Hud your wheesht, Patrick Gray!” he commanded. “Every dog his day, aye—but your day’s done!”

“Oh, I pray not, Sire,” the gallant and debonair Master said, easily. “Who knows—it may just be beginning. Like, h’m, some others!”

“Na, na, Patrick man—no’ so like some others!” The King whinnied a laugh of his own, and licked those slobbering lips. “I’m thinking this is where we part company, see you.”

Suddenly blank-faced, the brilliant ornament of the Scottish Court stood as though stunned. For once the most eloquent man in two kingdoms found no words—and none other thought to raise his voice.

“I . . . I do not understand, Your Grace,” he got out, at length.

“No? Do you no’, Patrick? And you sharp o’ the wits! Yet it’s simple, man—fell simple. I go on to this London-town—and you do not. You turn back. You understand now, my mannie?”

“Your Grace means that you wish me to return to Edinburgh? Meantime. To complete some business of state there, before coming to London?”

“My Grace doesna mean any such thing, no. We left a’ things well arranged in Edinburgh, mind. Ooh, aye—Edinburgh’ll manage fine.”

“Then, Sire, I repeat—I do not understand you.”

“It’s no’ like you, Patrick, to be so dull in the uptak! Most times you’re quick enough—aye, ower quick, by far! But since you’ll have it so, I needs must discover you the matter. You are a rogue, Master o’ Gray—and I’ve aye kenned you were a rogue! But I needed a rogue, see you. A great rogue, to berogue the lesser rogues around me.” James paused, mouthing, his strange glowing glance making a slow half-circuit of all around him, the entire gorgeous throng, English and Scots. “Ooh, aye—it’s a great place for rogues, is Scotland. But I intend to leave them there, Patrick man—no’ to take them with me. Like a dog shakes off its fleas! The English are honester folk, they tell me—eh, my lord Bishop? Save maybe where Berwick and brigs are concerned! And if they have a rogue or two in London—waesucks, I’ll find one o’ their ain breed to berogue them! I’ll no’ need the likes o’ you in London, Patrick, Master o’ Gray. Now, you understand?”

The handsome elegant with the flashing eyes said nothing. For a long moment he stared his monarch in the eye. Then he bowed, stiffly for so agile and courtly a man, and turning, pushed his way quickly through the throng, to his horse.

The King’s laughter was not nearly so musical as the Master of the Wardrobe’s and one-time acting-Chancellor’s had been.

“Change, my God I” the Duke of Lennox gasped. “This, this is beyond all! The man who put him where he is, no less. Cast aside like a done nag!”

“Quietly, my lord Duke!” George Heriot murmured. “English ears, they say, are long! And they learn quickly.”

“But . . . Patrick Gray jettisoned. A rogue, perhaps—but the cleverest head in Scotland. Or in England either, for a wager! I swear my cousin can ill afford to be so nice! And look whom he does take with him! The Kerrs. John Bothwell. George Home. Erskine. Ramsay. Hay. The scum of Scotland!”

“Our liege lord has been waiting for this for long, I think. For Queen Elizabeth’s death, and all it would mean. A new life. He knows what he is doing, I do believe—having had long enough to consider it. I urge you, my lord Duke, to walk warily—like lesser men, who are wise.”

“Like you, Master Heriot?”

“Like me, sir. A tradesman—but with not a little to lose, nevertheless.”

There was a diversion. The King was pushing away the Earl of Northumberland’s handsome parchment address from the Council with one hand, and shaking off the Lord Henry Howard, Norfolk’s brother, with the other, when the drumming of hooves turned all eyes. Three horsemen came beating down from the higher ground of Spittal and the south road, a young man in fine if travel-stained clothing, and two armed grooms. The newcomers pulled up in a great slithering of hooves and spattering of spume from the horses, to the major alarm of the monarch, who was ready to see dastardly assault and danger in every unannounced development. The young man stared around him, at a less.

“The King?” he demanded. “Is the King not here?”

Innumerable hands gestured towards the uninspiring if overdressed person of the shrinking monarch.

Doubtfully the visitor looked, his face grey with dust and lined with fatigue. Then, evidently, deciding that they could not all be wrong or conspiring to hoodwink him, he flung himself down from his mount and sank on one knee before the equally doubtful sovereign.

“Your Majesty—Sire I” he panted, tugging out something metallic from his slashed and padded doublet—and which James Stewart immediately took to be a dagger, and staggered precipitately back into the arms of Northumberland and Howard in consequence, in choking panic.

It proved to be only a great iron key, however, and the young man, licking dusty lips, began again.

“Your most gracious Majesty, serene exemplar of learning, humanity and piety . . .” His voice trailed away.

“Aye, man—aye?” James suddenly was interested, at these indications of percipience.

The other clearly made a major effort to rally his tired wits and remember the rest of his prepared speech. “. . . piety, Sire. The, the hearts’ desire of all true Englishmen. Your . . . your devoted subjects. Majesty—I am John Peyton. Son to the Lieutenant of the Tower of London, and the most humble of all your subjects. He, my father, has sent me here hot-foot. Here is the key to the said dread Tower, Majesty—England’s citadel. I have ridden without sleep to present it to you. As you set foot on England’s devoted soil.”

The Scots around the King coughed and looked embarrassed at such unseemly and magniloquent language and behaviour; but James himself appeared to find nothing amiss with it. Smirking and nodding, he took the key.

“Heavy,” he commented. “Right weighty. But, then—so is yon Tower. Parvis camponere magna! Eh, Northumberland, man?”

“Er, no doubt, Your Majesty,” the Earl said, blankly.

The young man was commencing to rise, stiffly, from his kneeling posture when, abruptly, the King leaned forward and pushed him back, quite roughly indeed so that the other all but fell over.

“Bide you, laddie,” he was commanded, thickly. “Bide where you’re at, a wee. Son o’ the Lieutenant, eh?” James looked around him. “Vicky? Where’s Vicky? I want Vicky Stewart and his bit sword.”

“Here, Sire,” the Duke of Lennox called, stepping forward.

“Gie’s your whinger, man.” The King made it a stern rule that no one carried a sword or dirk in his royal presence—but he made an exception in the case of his cousin Ludovick, a strong, loyal and comparatively simple young man, unambitious to a degree, whom the monarch could hardly distrust and whom he tended to look on as a sort of bodyguard and watchdog. “Out with it.”

Lennox unsheathed his sword and held it out by the tip. Gingerly his cousin took it, as though it had been red-hot. Of all the royal dreads, cold steel was the sharpest—a legacy no doubt of the stabbing to death before his pregnant mother’s eyes of her Italian secretary, David Rizzio, whom so many believed indeed to be the King’s true father.

Having to take two hands to the business, for his wrists were less than strong, and having difficulty with the heavy key he was already clutching, James swung the weapon in a highly dangerous swipe at the kneeling man’s shoulder, only just hitting it as the other ducked hurriedly.

“Bide still, man!” the King cried. “I canna knight you, jouking about!” He gave another jab. “Arise, good Sir John . . . John . . . eh, what’s the laddie’s name?” the monarch demanded in a stage whisper, peering round.

“Peyton, Sire—Peyton,” Northumberland said hurriedly.

“Aye, well. Arise, Sir John Peyton. Get up, man. Here, Vicky—take it. Aye, and take this key, forby—it’s ower heavy. Do something with it . . .”

Young Peyton rose, flushed, blinking, stammering embarrassed thanks, appreciation, his own utter unworthiness for so high and unexpected an honour. He was quite overcome.

James eyed him askance for a moment or two, as though wondering whether he had been wise. Then he cocked an eyebrow eloquently in the direction of George Heriot.

“Geordie—here man. Here, Jinglin’ Geordie Heriot. You ken what’s what See to it.” And he turned his grotesquely padded royal back on the new knight, Duke of Lennox and most others, to demand of the Mayor of Berwick how long it would be before all his royal train of five hundred would be across his satanic, squeaky and wabbly brig—if indeed the Devil did not have them all in the wicked waters of Tweed in the process.

George Heriot went up to the bewildered and bemused Peyton, took him aside a little, and spoke quietly. “May I be the first to congratulate you, Sir John? A well-deserved honour, I am sure.” He leaned forward, and spoke more quietly still. “That will be one thousand pounds, if you please. Sterling, of course.”

“E-e-eh!” Like a rabbit startled, the new knight stared at him.

“A thousand sterling, yes. Pounds. It is, h’m, customary.”

“But . . . but . . .” The other gobbled. “I do not . . . I cannot . . . A thousand pounds! It is . . . it is not possible, sir. I . . .”

“Hush, you,” Heriot urged, but gently, mildly, almost with sympathy. “Not so loud, Sir John. Not in the presence of the King’s Grace! His Grace mislikes scenes. Besides, what is a thousand sterling to a son of the Lieutenant of the Tower?”

“I have not got it, sir. I assure you, I do not have so much money. I came but on my father’s orders. With the key . . .”

‘Your note of hand will serve very well, Sir John. A simple matter.” As though by sleight of hand, the Scot produced a paper from within his cloak and from the richly-chased silver cylinder which hung from his belt in place of a dirk, a neat quill-pen already wet from the ink-horn within.

Unhappily Peyton wagged his tired head, looking from his monarch’s back to Heriot.

“Sir,” the latter reminded, with a slight smile. “You have just received an honour without price. Are you, and your father, of insufficient means and gentility to support it? No? This fee but assures his Grace that you are, as is suitable. See, I will write it for you my own self.” Using his padded sleeve as a board, he penned, in a firm hand: “At Berwick, 23rd day of Aprile 1603. Promised to the King’s Grace One thousand pounds Sterling.” He dipped the pen again into the encased ink-horn. “Sign, Sir John. The Duke of Lennox here, will act witness, I have no doubt.”

Swallowing, the young man scratched some sort of signature.

Ludovick Stewart, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, a mixture of commiseration and amusement on his blunt features, took the pen and initialled the paper, and George Heriot did the same, and coughed.

Almost immediately King James broke off his converse with the others, and turned round. “Aye, well,” he said. “Time we werena here, or we’ll no’ win to yon place—what was it? Widdrington, aye Widdrington, this night. It’s a long gait to London. Johnnie Ramsay—my horse. We’ll no’ waste more o’ our royal time at Berwick Brig . . .”

“Would you say that His Grace had wasted his time here?” Lennox asked his tradesman friend, as they mounted, after the King.

“Does His Grace ever waste his time?” the King’s goldsmith, jeweller, banker and creditor, gave back in response.

“WEALTH, MAN,” JAMES said, low-voiced. “Riches. Beyond telling. More than ever I believed. This England is fat, Vicky—fat I” The King glanced around him in the saddle, warily, those great liquid eyes rolling, to see that none of the English notable riding behind heard him. “Being king o’ a’ this will serve me right well, I think!”

“Do you think to spoil the English as well as reign over them. Cousin?” the Duke of Lennox asked, grimly.

“Not so, Vicky—not so. Hold your tongue, man. But . . . a monarch in a rich land can do more than, than in a poor place, see you. For the folk, you ken—the good o’ the folk. Look at those beasts. Have you ever seen cattle the like o’ that?”

“They are fat and sleek, Sire. And the folk grow like them, I think! How do you esteem your new subjects, then? Apart from their so evident wealth?”

James eyed the .speaker sharply. He never could be quite sure whether or not his cousin was cozening him, mocking—and he was very averse to being mocked. He stood more from Vicky Stewart than he would stand from others only because he knew him to be honest, utterly reliable and quite without ambition—and moreover was the only son of the first man he had ever loved, Esmé Stewart of Aubigny in France, first cousin of his father, Darnley. But that did not mean that he could twit him, the Lord’s anointed, with impunity.

“They are . . . civil, right civil,” he said, cautiously.

“I thought that you must like them passing well.”

“Eh? Why?”

“You see fit to honour them, Cousin, in a fashion that you never did at home! I have already lost count of all the gold rings you have bestowed and all the knighthoods created, in seven days, all the offices you have given away, the promises you have made and prisoners freed . . .”

“Houts—knights cost nothing, man. Or, only to themselves!” James tee-heed a whinny of laughter—and then looked round again quickly, in case he had been overheard. “Offices can be taken away, forby. And we’ll soon fill the jails again! But, d’you no’ see, man—it behoves a liege lord to bind his new subjects to his sacred person wi’ stout bonds o’ love and gratitude. That he may rule them the easier. Use your wits, Vicky.”

“That is not a policy Your Grace made great efforts to follow in Scotland, I think!”

“Scotland? Guidsakes—Scotland’s a different kettle o’ fish. You ken that—you who acted Viceroy for me when I was off in yon Denmark. The Scots are a crabbit, contrary race, man—aye at each others’ throats. The only way to rule them is to keep them that way, to set one lord against another, one faction against the next. Waesucks—I learned that in a fell hard school!”

“And you think that the English lords and squires are so different? That they have no factions here?”

“They are softer, Vicky. Fatter. Richer. Smoother. Aye, softer. Or that auld besom Elizabeth couldna have kept them in order a’ yon time. And frae a sick-bedchamber, these last years.”

“She had a nimble and strong mind . . .”

“She was a woman! A weathercock. Like the rest o’ them. She blew hot and cauld Women have no minds to speak of. Reason is the attribute o’ men—or some men! Logic, logomachy, enthymeme—o’ such she kenned nothing, the creature. If she could rule these English . . .”

“At least she did not make knights by the score!”

“She had no right to make them, at all, man! A woman canna be a knight. As sovereign, she could appoint, but no’ make. But—what’s a’ this havering about knighthoods? A plague on you, Vicky—what’s to do?”

“It is that I have always respected the standing and status of knighthood, James. It is a noble order and estate. You made me knight once, and I esteem it a higher honour than this dukedom which I but inherited like a house or goods and chattels. But now, you make knights of any and all who come thronging.”

“Not all man—only those who can pay for it!”

“Which, I say, is worse. Selling what should be a cherished honour for base gold and silver!”

“Vicky Stewart—will you hold your ill tongue! I’ll no’ be preached at by you or any man. I will not.”

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon.”

“Aye—well you may!” James looked at his cousin sidelong from those soulful eyes. “See you—what’s the harm in dubbing a wheen knights, man? These English like it fine—for they havena proper lairds and barons like we have. And what for should they no’ pay for it? They have the siller—and I need it. Man, each o’ these high-nebbit lords has more siller than have I, their liege lord! You ken the state o’ the Scots Treasury—empty, man, empty! Would you have me penniless, when I get to London? D’you ken how much I owe Geordie Heriot? Eh . . . some sixty thousand pounds Scots.”

“So much?”

“Aye. Or I did, when we set out frae Edinburgh! But we’re cutting down the score, man—as is only right and proper. Geordie gets half, you see. He keeps the account—he’s good at that. Have him up, Vicky—we’ll see how it goes. Send for Jinglin’ Geordie.”

Lennox reined round to call for one of the royal pages to go fetch Master Heriot, His Grace’s jeweller—and immediately the Earl of Northumberland and the Lord Henry Howard pressed forward, one on either side of the King, from the rank just behind, both speaking at once in the clipped, authoritative English fashion.

James, slumped like a sack of chaff in his saddle—though, oddly enough he rode well if not handsomely—eyed them unfavourably. “My lords,” he said, “you’re fine chiels both, I’ve no doubt. But when I’m needing your lordships’ company, I’ll ask for it.”

Abashed, mumbling hasty apologies, the two proud noblemen fell back.

Lennox returned to say that it might be some time before Heriot could be located and brought forward—for the royal train had swollen to well over a thousand and spread back along the road northwards for well over a mile. He had sent Sir Thomas Erskine to go find him. The Duke announced that with a barely smothered grin; the pampered favourite Erskine would certainly not appreciate being sent to look for a mere Edinburgh burgess like George Heriot. Lennox did not like Erskine, the man who had taken the leading part in the murky Gowrie conspiracy of three years before—any more than he liked most of the King’s beautiful young men.

James tut-tutted testily. “A mile you say? De’il take them! I mislike crowds,” he complained. “Folk thronging me. Where have they a’ come frae? Guidsakes—I never asked all these!”

“Your loyal English subjects, Sire. Coming to bind themselves to your sacred person in love and gratitude, perhaps? And probably seeking knighthoods!”

“Now see here, Vicky Stewart—enough o’ this! What’s come ower you, man? You’re as crabbit as one o’ thae Kirk divines. If you canna keep a respectful tongue in your head in my royal presence, you’ve my royal permission to leave it! Aye.”

“I am only concerned for Your Grace’s royal dignity,” his cousin assured, earnestly now, low-voiced. “On this your first visit to England. It is entirely necessary for you to make a good impression, before your new people. To cast honours about too freely, to seem to sell them, will but lower your knightly dignity in their regard . . .”

“You leave my royal dignity to me, impertinent! What right have you to hector me so?”

“Not hector, Sire—advise. I do so out of love for you. As for right, I am of Your Highness’s Privy Council . . .”

“In Scotland, Vicky—in Scotland. And we’re no’ in Scotland, now. Mind it. And, meantime, I have no Privy Council in England—until I choose it. Aye—and I’d advise you, and others, no’ to forget it!”

Lennox bit his lip. He was a pleasantly plain-faced young man, almost boyish-looking for his thirty years, with as little of the great lord about him as his master and kinsman had of regality. But at least he was not laughably overdressed in grossly padded and clashing-coloured magnificence.

The King stole another glance at his friend and sucked in saliva wetly—for he slobbered especially copiously when under any sort of emotion. He spoke more placatingly—for he was a man who required approval of his policies, however little he cared in the matter of personal behaviour.

“As to making an impression, Vicky, I’d remind you that’s no’ necessary. No’ for me. I am the Lord’s Anointed, Vicar o’ Christ on this earth. Forby I am their master, these all my servants now—as are you, Duke Vicky Stewart! Keep it in mind, I s