The Wisest Fool mog-4 Read online

  The Wisest Fool

  ( Master of Gray - 4 )

  Nigel Tranter

  Nigel Tranter

  The Wisest Fool

  PART ONE

  1

  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, clashing 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 first 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 close 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! 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!" 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 clutching 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, me 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 incomprehens
ible 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!" 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 varily-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!" 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?" fames 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 componere 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 stem 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 jus
t 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?"