The Gowrie Conspiracy Read online

  These were the questions he longed to ask while helping the king transfer from one horse and quickly remount upon another. In the process, however, James could not resist getting a little closer to Tam. He held out a gloved hand and felt quite thrilled when Tam bowed, kissed it as he must.

  After all, the grotesquely padded figure before him belonged to the King of Scotland who would within a few years, when the old harridan queen Elizabeth of England obligingly passed away, unite the two crowns of Scotland and England.

  In the short time since his unexplained arrival in Falkland Palace, Tam had learned that kingship was the central fact of James’s life. The obedience owed to it and the obligations which it imposed on him, were his deepest concerns. His lack of personal cleanliness, his slobbering, bad manners and vulgarity, his crude speech all hinted at the buffoon and disguised the “wisest fool in Christendom”, scholar and poet who had already written two books on the practice of government and the divine right of kings.

  Even the unhappy condition of his mother Queen Mary’s long imprisonment and eventual execution had failed to weaken his resolve to be the future King of both Scotland and England. He had played his cards well when he indicated in a letter to the Earl of Leicester that he would be a fool to prefer his mother’s life to a throne.

  His godmother, Queen Elizabeth, not known to be overburdened with sensitivity, was nonetheless appalled by such a response, having expected him to put up a fierce and vigorous battle to save his mother’s life. That he did not raise a finger in protest, this cold lack of filial emotion and affection, branded him forever in her eyes as “that false Scotch urchin”.

  There were, however, extenuating circumstances. When Mary died beneath the executioner’s axe at Fotheringay in February 1587, James was twenty years old and, in his defence, she was a stranger, not a mother, to him.

  They had met only once since his birth for a few hours in the royal nursery at Stirling Castle before Mary’s exile and imprisonment in England. James was ten months old. Subsequently he heard no good things of the late queen from anyone. In his early years the taunts of his tutor George Buchanan’s description of his mother as a murderess and whore were consistent with sinister and ugly whispers concerning his birth.

  Seeing the king settled on the brown mare, Tam bowed and waited to be dismissed.

  James leaned down. ‘No’ so fast, ma mannie. Your king must give ye due reward. Aye, due reward,’ he added rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘I wish for nothing, sire. Only to serve you.’

  It was a lie but James was delighted, he glowed. ‘Aye, aye, ipsa quidium pretium virtis sibi.’

  The Latin tag belonged to a civilisation long lost to Tam’s world. His blank stare, however, was not lost on the Duke of Lennox.

  So the simple fisherman was not so well-bred after all if he did not recognise virtue as its own reward, a quotation known to every schoolboy.

  James held out his hand and, without a glance in his royal cousin’s direction, snapped his fingers in that singularly irritating fashion.

  ‘You there, Vicky lad, have ye a purse on ye?’

  Ludovick was shocked. ‘Not on me, sire. Not at this moment.’

  James glared, bit his lower lip and tut-tutted, as if carrying a weighty bag of coins for all occasions was a necessity at the royal hunt, where runaway horses were a daily occurrence with rescuers to be rewarded.

  ‘Yer sword then, Vicky man.’

  James had a phobia about naked steel and did not permit anyone in his court except the Duke of Lennox to carry a sword. For ceremonial purposes only, it was reassuringly blunt.

  Vicky stared at him in alarm. ‘Sire?’

  James snorted impatiently. ‘Aye, Vicky – yer sword.’ And, pausing to beam at Tam, ‘We are pleased to give our rescuer here a token of our gratitude.’

  Vicky stared at him. A knighthood. Was that what James had in mind? But knighthoods cost money. A thousand pounds Scots was the usual price demanded of the grateful and favoured recipient.

  So Vicky looked at Tam, did a quick calculation and was completely unable to imagine a poor serving man being able to produce, at most, more than a few hard-earned coins.

  As for Tam, he had no such ambitions. The situation before him was poignant with future danger and he said quickly, ‘Sire, I am grateful to Your Grace but I desire no such honour.’ (Did he hear a small gasp of relief from the Duke of Lennox?)

  Bowing, he continued, ‘Sire, I would be well satisfied if I could be allowed to keep the horse here,’ he said, patting the stallion’s nose. No natural horseman, Tam had no wish to see the beast condemned to death and such a magnificent animal would be a very welcome addition to the Queen’s stables.

  James frowned, biting his lip, then he nodded enthusiastically. ‘Aye, weel, laddie. Yer lack o’ perspicacity does ye proud. A wee thing some men could tak a lesson by. Aye, it sits well on ye,’ he added with a note of satisfaction and a sharp glance in the Duke’s direction. ‘Are we no right, Vicky?’

  ‘Truly, sire,’ said Lennox, his chilly bow managing to cancel his dutiful response.

  At that moment, the situation was saved by the intervention of a sudden change in the weather. The hot summer day vanished under the menace of thundery clouds, unleashing what promised to be a deluge.

  The king shuddered and sent a baleful glance heavenward. How he hated water, an abomination in any or all of its forms. If only his Divine Right included a clause to abolish rain…

  Aware of lesser mortals, in the form of his retinue, regarding the approaching downpour with apprehension on account of fine feathers about to be ruined, James said to Tam,

  ‘We are pleased to let ye have the beast as ye desire.’ And turning the mare’s head, he glanced back over his shoulder and repeated, ‘So ye’re wi’ Annie, Master Eildor?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Aye, aye, nae doot then we will become better acquainted by and by.’ Then James, with a final leer, spurred his horse leaving Tam to briefly acknowledge Lennox’s cold glance.

  Watching the two speedily join the waiting huntsmen who were trying in vain to avail themselves of the little shelter a thin copse of trees offered, Tam observed that the king had no trouble with the brown mare. His looks belied superb horsemanship; slumped in the saddle in his thickly padded clothes, the king closely resembled a badly packed parcel.

  Angered by the rain, increasingly heavy as though in derision of the Lord’s Anointed, James rode fast back to Falkland. Once in the royal stables, the grooms rushed forward while Lennox waited patiently to escort him to the royal apartments.

  ‘Nay, Vicky. No’ the day. We’re awa’ to see Annie.’

  ‘Sire?’ This was, again, a question. Unheard of that James should wish to rush straight from the stables to see his Queen. In the middle of the day, without even taking time to remove his wet clothes. Without the due ceremony of announcement, like some hot-blooded lover unable to contain his lust rather than the jaded husband who regarded occasional consummation as a tedious necessity to beget the steady flow of princes and princesses required for a royal dynasty.

  This new departure from customary procedure was vaguely threatening and Vicky repeated. ‘That is your wish, sire?’

  ‘Did ye no hear us the first time, Vicky? Are ye getting a wee bittee deaf,’ was the irritable response.

  Vicky bowed in mute apology as James continued, ‘We have the notion for a cupbearer.’

  As there was nothing wrong with the latest cupbearer, a pretty fifteen-year-old page who had recently taken the king’s fancy, Vicky bowed mutely and waited, his lack of response taken for assent.

  ‘Aye, Vicky,’ James crowed. ‘We thocht that mannie –’ he jabbed a finger in the direction of the river and his rescuer, ‘– might be right suitable.’

  Vicky said nothing. In truth he could think of no suitable reply, since the fisherman was at least twenty years too old for what was in time-honoured tradition, a page’s appointment.

>   ‘Aye, Vicky,’ James continued with increasing enthusiasm for the idea. ‘A cupbearer. Seeing the mannie wasna all that keen on a knighthood for rescuing us. Traicit et fati litora magnus amor – What d’ye think, eh, Vicky?’

  Vicky was speechless, taken aback. James’s tag regarding a great love that can cross even the bounds of fate clearly indicated the direction of his intentions regarding Tam Eildor.

  ‘Well, then. Let’s hear from ye, Vicky.’

  Again Vicky took refuge in something uniting a bow and a nod which James accepted, with a happy sigh, as “yes”.

  Vicky, however, was busy mulling over that fortuitous meeting with an apparently well-bred fisherman who knew no Latin. A fellow who was going to need very close investigation and his own thoughts about James’s plans for Tam Eildor were forming themselves in very large capital letters –

  ‘NOT IF I CAN HELP IT!’

  Chapter Two

  Queen Anne was enjoying a gossip with her midwife, Margaret Agnew, a gossip that was more in the way of a regular consultation since Agnew would be present at her lying-in, for which event, in three months time, she was already making anxious preparations.

  The queen had great faith in Agnew and trusted her implicitly; her practical advice and her knowledge of herbs were both helpful and soothing. Their conversation was limited to such matters.

  That Agnew’s mother had been one of the midwives present at James’s birth in Edinburgh Castle had come as high recommendation to Anne. Any details of Margaret Agnew’s private life were non-existent.

  This was no drawback. One was not required to be on intimate terms with one’s servants. Indeed, out of the royal presence they were obliged to fade into the woodwork and remain there until required.

  Anne believed she knew all that was of use to her concerning Agnew. That she lodged close by, near the quarters of Tansy Scott, the Queen’s Broiderer, who was in charge of robes for the new prince or princess whose christening, God willing, would take place in November or early December.

  ‘Such a distance away,’ the queen said wearily, her heavy body already something of a trial in this hot summer weather; she was a martyr to digestive upsets which only the midwife’s potions could keep at bay.

  Agnew’s attention to her royal mistress’s distress was interrupted by sounds from below the window. The clatter of horses’ hooves indicated that the huntsmen had returned and the two women watched them, riding in at the gallop, with the day’s trophies slung across the sumpter-horses.

  Even at this distance, the king’s angry countenance was visible under the drenched hat with its drooping feathers.

  Anne sighed happily. Her husband’s discomforts both great and small gave her immense pleasure. She was delighted that the weather had rained off the hunt and spared a few wild creatures to live and run until the next occasion.

  A soft-hearted woman surrounded by her pet dogs, she had long since decided that she preferred animals with four feet to the men in her husband’s court who had only two, but whose crude and lascivious behaviour was little better than the beasts they hunted.

  Anne avoided bear-baiting which she considered a cruel and wicked sport, outraged by James’s temerity to demand the pick of her larger dogs to supplement his own kennels. He explained that they were no longer able to breed fighting dogs fast enough to keep up with the rapid decrease in numbers. It appeared that the bear, even blind in one eye and chained to a post, took a hideous slaughter of up to four or five dogs each afternoon session.

  The rain was heavier now. The royal party had hardly splashed across the cobbled courtyard for shelter when a page appeared and announced,

  ‘His Grace the King.’

  Anne was not pleased. She was not prepared for this, still in her nightrobe in the late afternoon. These days she rarely dressed apart from state occasions. Advanced pregnancy made formal robes a very tight squeeze and the tight corslet demanded by court fashion was cruelly uncomfortable and gave her another of those crippling digestive upsets which only Agnew’s herbs made bearable.

  Not that James would notice her lack of formality. However, since he was so slovenly in his attire, she disliked missing the opportunity of setting a fine example.

  No matter. The sound of approaching footsteps indicated that it was too late now and she handed Agnew some pieces of satin and reels of silk.

  ‘Take these across to Mistress Scott. Tell her these I have chosen.’

  At the sight of the rain and Agnew’s thin dress, she said, ‘Here, take her cloak. She left it yesterday. Go along, wear it. That will keep you dry as you cross the courtyard.’

  With her ladies-in-waiting clustered around her like a protective barrier, she firmly resolved that once again all her efforts would be devoted to a single-minded onslaught on her husband’s conscience to restore their son and heir Prince Henry Frederick to his mother’s side.

  Weeping prayers did little, now she had only the hope that unrelenting nagging, like constant rain, would wear away even a royal stone.

  Agnew’s exit coincided with James’s entrance. As she curtseyed briefly, he paused, looked after her thoughtfully and approaching Anne said abruptly,

  ‘That lassie – Mistress Scott, is she no’?’

  Anne curtseyed awkwardly. ‘Nay, James. She is Margaret Agnew, bides with Mistress Tansy Scott of Ruthven.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ The king’s frown delighted Anne as another small barb had found its mark. Any mention of Tansy Scott displeased James, since the girl was the granddaughter of Lady Janet Beaton of Buccleuch, whose unnatural powers in his mother’s reign had earned her the title of the Wizard Lady of Branxton.

  Early orphaned, Tansy had been adopted into the Ruthven family and as a child was living at Ruthven Castle near Perth when the Lords Enterprisers, led by the Earl of Gowrie, had kidnapped the boy king, sixteen-year-old James. There they held him captive until he would agree to suppress any suspected leanings towards Catholicism and secure the downfall and exile of his influential and adored cousin, Esme Stewart, of whom James later wrote, ‘No winter’s frost nor summer’s heat can end Or stay the course of constant love in me.’

  James had been very displeased to recognise Tansy once again as a close friend and adopted sister of Beatrix Ruthven, the Queen’s Lady of the Bedchamber.

  ‘It wasna’ the Scott woman?’ he demanded suspiciously.

  Anne smiled. ‘They are somewhat similar in looks.’ So much was true. Both had striking red-gold hair but Agnes was stouter than Tansy. Now, regarding her husband’s disgruntled expression with some satisfaction, Anne had another barb at hand. ‘Perhaps you would care to meet Agnew, James,’ she said sweetly.

  James scowled. ‘Would we now? And what makes ye think that the lassie would be of ony interest to us?’

  ‘She is my midwife, sire. And what is more, she has a very personal link with your Grace,’ she added with a sly glance at his dour expression.

  James’s frown deepened. ‘And what would we be doing wi’ such a craiter?’

  Anne laughed lightly. ‘Why, sire, her granddam helped bring you into the world. She was present at your birth.’

  The royal frown became a scowl accompanied by some gnawing of his lower lip as James glared out of the window as though at a loss for words.

  Anne, immensely pleased, knew she had won a small victory. For some odd reason she had never been able to discover, James hated any mention or reference to his birth.

  ‘One would imagine he wished it to be considered as an Immaculate Conception,’ she once confided in Tansy Scott in a moment of indiscretion when they had taken a little too much wine at Beatrix’s birthday celebration.

  The two ladies had laughed and shrugged off any significance, suggesting that perhaps it was his late lamented mother’s improper behaviour with the Earl of Bothwell afterwards, followed by her exile and imprisonment, that angered the king so.

  Beatrix and Tansy had exchanged glances. Court gossip had long since decreed that James’s strange
reactions to any mention of his mother were more from guilt than sorrow.

  Such were Anne’s thoughts as the unexpected meeting with the woman Agnew had temporarily put out of James’s mind his reason for this visit.

  ‘You have business to discuss with us, sire?’ she asked, restraining a yawn.

  James withdrew his brooding glance from the window. ‘Aye, madam. We have decided to… er, that is, it is our wish to have one of your servants – Tam – Master Tam Eildor, as our cupbearer.’

  It was Anne’s turn to be astonished. ‘Surely there is some mistake, sire.’

  ‘We dinna mak mistakes, Annie,’ the king reminded her firmly.

  ‘But Master Eildor is – is quite unsuitable –’

  ‘And by what measure d’ye come to that reasoning, eh?’

  ‘He is – he is – well, far too old,’ Anne said in bewilderment as James smiled almost tenderly, she thought, at some elusive memory. ‘Where … how did this come about?’ she added, knowing as had Lennox that the honoured role of cupbearer belonged to a noble boy, not a mature man of James’s own age.

  Again James smiled. ‘Ah weel, Annie. It was like this. Our horse, that damned stallion your brother Christian was pleased to send us from Denmark, bolted wi’ us. This – Eildor – was fishing at the time. He saved us, by God’s Grace, from a watery grave and being dashed to pieces by yon waterfall at the river.’

  He paused expectantly and was surprised to observe that her expression had not changed. Nothing of wifely concern, no cries or tearful expressions of horror at her royal husband’s narrow escape from death. No pious exclamation thanking the Good Lord for his mercy.

  James looked away from her in distaste. Never a beauty at the best of times, pregnancy ill-became her. He averted his eyes from the long thin face and pale hair that seemed to shrink into oblivion above the monstrous huge belly and blue-veined breasts hardly concealed by her nightrobe.