Unicorn Rampant

  Unicorn Rampant

  Published: 1995

  Tags: Historical Novel

  Historical Novelttt

  * * *

  UNICORN RAMPANT

  John rode down into the haugh and on to the winding path which followed the bends of the river. The young woman heard his horse's hooves and turned to wait, smiling. And her smile was a joy. 'Janet!' he said.

  'John! Or did I hear aright, back there? Should it now be Sir John?'

  'Not to you.' He dismounted and stood before her, looking doubtful.

  'What... how did it come about? This knighting? You must tell me.' She sounded eager to know.

  'It was nothing. Or my part in it was. Little worth the telling. It was all a foolish mistake. At Edinburgh. They had arrested the King, and ...'

  'Arrested? The King! Surely not—that cannot be so? You cozen me ...!'

  'It is true. They did not know it was the King. A mistake, as I say. I was able to put the matter to rights. Then later I was able to do him some other small service. And when he was knighting Provost Nisbet he called me to him and knighted me also. That is all.'

  She stared at him. 'I cannot believe that it was all so simple as that, John.' She had a warm, throaty voice which affected him not a little. 'You are not telling me the half of it! What really did you do?'

  Also by the same author,

  and available in Coronet Books:

  The Clansman David The Prince Lord Of The Isles MacGregor's Gathering Margaret The Queen Montrose: The Captain General Montrose: The Young Montrose

  Robert The Bruce Trilogy:

  Book 1—The Steps To The Empty Throne Book 2—The Path Of The Hero King Book 3—The Price Of The King's Peace

  The Wallace

  The Stewart Trilogy:

  Book 1—Lords Of Misrule Book 2—A Folly Of Princes Book 3—The Captive Crown

  Unicorn Rampant

  Nigel Tranter

  CORONET BOOKS Hodder and Stoughton

  Copyright © 1984 by Nigel Tranter

  First published in Great Britain in 1984 by Hodder and Stoughton Limited

  Coronet edition 1986

  British Library C.I.P.

  Tranter, Nigel Unicorn rampant. I. Title

  823'.912[F] PR6070.R34 ISBN 0-340-38635-5

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain for Hodder and Stoughton Paperbacks, a division of Hodder and Stoughton Ltd., Mill Road, Dunton Green, Sevenoaks, Kent (Editorial Office: 47 Bedford Square, London, WC1 3DP) by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk

  Principal Characters

  IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

  JOHN STEWART OF METHVEN: Illegitimate son of Ludovick,

  Duke of Lennox, and Mary Gray.

  MARY GRAY: Mother of above. Illegitimate daughter of the

  late Master of Gray.

  MARY, COUNTESS OF MAR: Sister of the Duke of Lennox and

  wife of John, Earl of Mar, Lord High Treasurer of

  Scotland.

  KING JAMES THE SIXTH AND FIRST

  GEORGE VILLIERS, EARL OF BUCKINGHAM: Current favourite

  Of James, who called him Steenie.

  THOMAS HAMILTON, LORD BINNING AND BYRES: Secretary of

  State, Lord Advocate and Lord President of Session.

  LUDOVICK STEWART, DUKE OF LENNOX: Lord High Admiral

  of Scotland and the King's cousin.

  SIR GIDEON MURRAY OF ELIBANK: Treasurer-Depute of

  Scotland.

  ALEXANDER SETON, LORD FYVIE: Chancellor of Scotland.

  Later Earl of Dunfermline.

  JAMES DRUMMOND, LORD MADDERTY: Strathearn landowner.

  JANET DRUMMOND: Daughter of above.

  QUEEN ANNE OF DENMARK: Consort of King James.

  MARGARET HAMILTON: Extra Maid-in-Waiting to the Queen.

  CHARLES, PRINCE OF WALES: Later King Charles the First.

  SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER OF MENSTRIE: Master of Requests.

  Later Earl of Stirling.

  ELIAS WOOLCOMBE: London merchant.

  WILL COCKAYNE: Master of Merchant Venturers of London.

  Sheriff of the city and later Lord Mayor.

  WILLIAM MIDDLEMAS: Deputy-Keeper of Dumbarton Castle.

  WILLIAM VANDERVYK: Dutch papermaker.

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM: Friend ofjohn Stewart.

  ROBERT NAPIER OF KILMAHEW: Sheriff-Depute of Dunbartonshire.

  JAMES PRIMROSE: Secretary to the Scots Privy Council.

  JOHN OF THE DALE: A tinker.

  THE LORD ERSKINE: Deputy-Keeper of Stirling Castle. Heir

  to Earl of Mar.

  SIR FRANCIS BACON: Lawyer, Lord Chancellor of England, , later Viscount St Albans.

  PART ONE

  There were crowds of people puffing and panting up that grassy hill, many seeming already to be in various stages of exhaustion. John Stewart had not realised that so many would be smitten with the same idea as himself, although perhaps he ought to have thought of it. However, he did not fear that there would be any lack of room at the top, for most of these looked as though they would never reach there, feeble townsfolk unused to employing the muscles God had given them, unlike a country-bred stalwart in his twenty-fourth year such as John Stewart of Methven. Not that he was actually making for the top of the hill himself—no point in that when the eastern shoulder above Duddingston village and loch would give the better view in the required direction.

  So, at the level of the high tarn of Dunsappie, cradled darkly in a fold of the hill, he swung away from most of the crowd, right-handed, to contour along a subsidiary ridge, steep on the south, whin-grown and blazing yellow in the May sunshine.

  Here there were only two or three others and no gasping chatter, so that he could hear the cuckoos calling from the Prestonfield woodland far below.

  He did not have to go so far as the shoulder before he saw all that he had come for. Before him, eastwards by south, the coastal plain was a sight to behold, a rippling carpet of colour and glitter, from no more than a mile or so off to almost as far as he could see, spreading over the fair Lothian countryside like a vast army. The young man had looked for a fine and stately cavalcade; what he saw was a mighty sprawling host of thousands. Small wonder that the King was late.

  The question was where was the King in all that multitude—or rather, where was his father, for it was not so much James as Ludovick Stewart whom John had come looking for. But his father would be with the King, almost certainly. Would they be at the front of this vast concourse, or in the midst? It could make a difference of almost hours as to when they would reach the gates of Edinburgh.

  He waited, staring, trying to distinguish details at a distance, a good-looking young man, not handsome but with pleasant open features, regular if on the blunt side, a little above medium height with wide shoulders tapering to slender, muscular hips and long legs, plainly dressed but in good quality clothing; not one who would be apt to stand out in a crowd but who might attract a second and third glance from the discerning. His own glances still failed to distinguish where the King and his close entourage might ride in all that far-flung array. Not being a warlike host there were no banners to identify the leadership. Eventually, still no wiser, he decided that the chances were that James would be at or near the front, and if so it was time that he himself got ba
ck to the city streets and his mother, if they were to gain a good viewpoint to watch the forthcoming proceedings.

  So he all but ran back whence he had come and down the steep hill below the red-stone crags, to where the grass gave way to the first buildings—mainly byres, stables and pig-styes—reaching out towards Arthur's Seat from the tall tenement wynds on the south side of the Cowgate.

  Now he was into more crowds, thronging the fairly narrow street, all heading westwards, like himself, and much slowing him down. Naturally all sought the middle of the cobblestoned thoroughfare, the crown of the causeway as it was called—for the sides were no more than wide gutters abrim with filth and sewage, to be avoided at all costs. So there was much jostling and pushing, much shouting and reviling, although in the main the mood was good-natured, as befitted the atmosphere of holiday. Occasionally, however, there was cursing and fist shaking as some belated great one rode up behind mounted grooms or men-at-arms with cracking whips or even the flats of swords, forcing a way through, and now and again a lumbering coach, heraldically painted, with bawling outriders and horn-blowing postillions—and then all on foot were forced into the swills and stinks of the kennels in furious profanity, with even some of the ordure itself scooped up and hurled at the gleaming paintwork.

  John Stewart, being nimbler and fitter than most, managed to avoid any major contact with the excrement, and pushed ahead with fair success. At what was still called the French Ambassador's House, the lodging of the present Secretary of State—known to his master and most others as Tam o' the Cowgate, Sir Thomas Hamilton—John turned off up another steep and narrow lane, little more than a stairway, called Libberton's Wynd, which brought him out on to the main spine of that extraordinary climbing city, Scotland's capital, the High Street and Canongate conjoined. Here, quite close to the new Tolbooth, were the lodgings which he and his mother rented for the occasion in the house of a decayed gentlewoman, widow of a former Perthshire laird of their acquaintance.

  Hurrying upstairs he found Mary Gray at the window of their room, looking down on the teeming excitement of the High Street below.

  "They come," he announced, a little breathlessly. "A great legion of them—thousands. Spreading over the land. I have never seen such a host."

  "Then His Grace will be in an ill mood. He does not like large numbers in his tail—since they have to be fed and that costs siller!"

  The woman turned to smile at him—and she was a joy to behold. Now in her forty-first year, she retained the figure and stance of a girl. Darkly lovely, she was of slender build, with delicate features and great lustrous eyes and an expression which seemed to combine quiet gravity with ready humour. It seemed ridiculous that she should be the mother of the well-built young man before her. Like him she was simply but well dressed and carried herself with grace and an air of unassumed assurance. John Stewart was very proud of his mother, even though her name was not his.

  "We had better hurry," he said, "or we shall not be in time to get a good position with all these going."

  "How near were they? The King and his close company?"

  "I could not tell, there were so many. But the foremost were across the Figgate Burn, I could see."

  "Then we have plenty of time. James never hurries, save when hunting. And they have quite some distance to ride around the city walls to reach the West Port."

  "The West Port? But they come from the east."

  "Yes. But the Chancellor and the Secretary know their sovereign-lord, Johnnie. After much travelling, James would be apt to go straight to his palace of Holyroodhouse, to eat and drink and sleep, and never enter the city at all. And so would miss all their fine welcome and speeches—which the good city fathers love and their liege loathes. So the King is to be met by Chancellor Seton and Secretary Tam and cunningly led round the south walls, to see the site where his good friend, and ours, Geordie Heriot's fine new hospital is to be built—and so, in at the West Port. Thus he has all the town to pass through before he can win back to Holyroodhouse. Endless opportunities for speeches and spectacles and mummery. Is not that clever? I am told that Tam o' the Cowgate himself devised it all—Geordie Heriot was his cousin, of course. So there is no hurry at all, at all."

  Nevertheless John Stewart was impatient, and Mary Gray allowed herself to be conducted downstairs and out into the smelly street to join the crowd; she laughing, but not unkindly, at all the excitement. That woman had had long and comprehensive experience of such occasions.

  They pushed and inserted their way up the High Street, past the High Kirk of St Giles, to the entrance of the Lawn-market, having to squeeze under two decorative arches of scaffolding and painted canvas on the way. On the arches cupids and angels perched precariously, the street and close-mouths were strewn with flowers and evergreens, largely becoming sadly trampled, and tapestries and hangings draped from many of the tenement windows. Down the West Bow, they and the crowd turned and surged, and at the foot there was another and more elaborate arch over-sailing a stage, this all hung with cloth-of-gold which flapped and fluttered in the breeze, for Edinburgh is ever a windy city. The wide space of the Grassmarket beyond under the towering cliffs of the castle-rock, had been cleared of its usual clutter of booths and stalls and was now crammed with the horses and coaches, the grooms and retainers, of the rich and noble. The West Port of the city wall opened at the far end of this Grassmarket.

  The approach to the great gateway was by a narrow canyon of a street beneath more high tenements, and this was so choked with humanity that there was no passage for even the most agile or aggressive. Mary Gray declared that this was of no matter, that there was no need to go further anyway, that they would see all they would want to see in the Grassmarket itself; but the young man was eager to be where the King, and therefore his father, would first halt and be welcomed. He had not seen Ludovick Stewart for almost two years and he was very much his father's son, as well as his mother's.

  However, the problem was solved for them by the noisy arrival of a handsome canopied double-chair, painted black-and-white and blue-and-white, in the Erskine of Mar colours, and carried by four liveried chairmen with a bodyguard of stave-wielding servitors who chanted: "Way for the Countess of Mar! Way for the Countess!" and bored through the crowds like a bull at a gate. Held up for only moments at the choked throat of the street, it was long enough for the sole occupant of the chair, peering out, to recognise Mary Gray and to halt the equipage by slapping on the front panel.

  "Mary! Mary Gray, my dear—and John. I did not know that you were in town," she called. "Are you for this reception? Vicky comes?"

  "Yes, praise God! He is back from France."

  "We can get no further, Countess," John declared.

  "Then come with me. Mary—in beside me here. There is room. John—walk between the shafts, behind. You will do very well there."

  This was another Mary and another royalish Stewart at that, the Lady Mary Stewart, a daughter of the late Esme, Duke of Lennox, first cousin of the King, and sister of the present Duke. She and Mary Gray were old friends.

  "Where are you lodging, Mary?" she asked. "You should be biding with me in the Cowgate."

  "We are at old Lady Tippermuir's, near the Tolbooth. She can always do with a merk or two of lodging-siller . .."

  So they were carried in fits and starts up that constricted gully of a street, through the close-peering faces and thronging bodies—but here there were fewer catcalls and shaken fists, for these were mainly gentlefolk and suitably impressed by the Countess of Mar's position. Getting through the West Port gateway itself taxed even the Mar retainers; but beyond it was blessed relief, for here, just outside the city wall, was a wide open space known as the Barras, renowned as the scene of many trials of chivalry between noble jousters, and in more humdrum necessity as a place for the country folk to wait, with their carts and garrons, bringing produce to sell on market-days, until the city gates were opened. In this wide arena today the aristocracy of Scotland and the luminarie
s of her capital city strolled and chattered around a great erection of planks and poles, flags and bunting, comprising a platform with steps up, backed by rising tiers of benches for the more important spectators.

  To this the Countess directed her chairmen and, secure in her cousinship to the monarch as well as her husband's appointment as Keeper of Stirling Castle, the greatest fortress of the kingdom, she quite courteously ordered lofty-looking folk already seated on the lowermost but most prestigious bench to move aside for her and her companions. John was embarrassed by this unsought-for privilege and prominence; they would go and stand in some less kenspeckle place he said. But his mother, after brief comment that this was not necessary, accepted it all as quite appropriate, with her usual calm assurance, and sat down beside her friend. John could not do otherwise.

  Two of the city officers came along and looked at them doubtfully, but the two ladies ignored them and they went away.

  Much was going on all around, last minute adjustments, re-arrangings, even some hammering, where a purple canopy was being erected in the centre of the stage, on poles. A succession of notables came up to pay their respects to the Countess, not all of whom knew Mary Gray. It was noteworthy, however, that most of those who did paid her almost as much respect as they did to the Lady Mar.

  Presently a horseman came cantering from the south, shouting that His Grace was near, no further than the High Riggs area. He would be here in a few minutes, just.

  Great was the excitement. The panoply of purple velvet was hastily secured against the breeze—this presumably had been kept under cover hitherto in case it rained. The city magistrates and councillors, led by the Provost, came bustling up on to the platform, to be formed up in a row by the city officers. The Lord Lyon King of Arms and his heralds placed themselves to one side, a colourful crew, and a group of Privy Councillors and Lords of Session took stance opposite. Musicians were beckoned forward to a lower, subsidiary platform nearby, and started to tune up.