P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“Och no, to be sure, they’ll have been auctioned all over the Debateable Land by now,” said King James. “The surnames might well be a wee bit concerned with myself in the district to do justice and the hanging trees all ready with ropes. It’s not to be wondered at that they might try a thing like that to arm themselves better against me. Not that it will do any good.”

“And then there was the rumour of a Spanish agent at Your Majesty’s court.”

“Never,” said King James very positively. “Now why would we do a silly thing like that, harbouring an enemy of England, considering the manifold kindnesses and generosities to us of our most beloved cousin, the Queen of England.”

“Not, of course, with Your Majesty’s knowledge,” said Carey, managing to sound very shocked, slipping from his stool to go on one knee again. “Such a thought had never crossed my mind. It struck me, however, that some among your nobles might have…designs and desires to change the religion of this land, or something worse, and the Spanish agent might be a part of it.”

“Och, never look so sad, man, and get off yer poor worn out knee again. That’s better. Have some more wine. Nay, any Spaniard at the court, and I’d have had word of him from my lords here all at daggers drawn, quarrelling for his gold.” He smiled wisely at Carey who smiled back.

“Of course, Your Majesty, I was a poor fool to think otherwise.”

“Ay, well, we’ll say no more on it. And when I go into the Debateable Land to winkle out Bothwell, that black-hearted witch of a man, I’ll keep a good eye out for your weapons, never fear.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. If I might venture a little more on the subject: for God’s sake, do not try any that you might capture, for they are all faulty and burst on firing. You may tell one of the faulty guns by a cross scratched on the underside of the stock.”

King James nodded. “I shall bear it in mind,” he said. “But personally I do not care for the crack and report of firearms no more than for the clash of knives or swords. Ye may have noted how most of the beasts we hunted this morning were slain by arrows or bolts or the action of dogs. So I’ll be in no danger from yer badly-welded pistols, have nae fear.”

“I am very happy to hear it,” said Carey after a tiny pause. “Your Majesty’s life is, of course, infinitely precious, not only in Scotland, but also in England.”

Hm, thought King James, is this some message from the Cecils, I wonder? Do they see danger somewhere? I wonder where?

Gently he probed Carey, but thought that in fact the man was as he seemed: concerned at the lost guns from Carlisle and with the rumoured Spanish agent, but he had left London in the middle of June and was already a little behind with the court news. Also it transpired that he was one of the Earl of Essex’s faction, rather than with the Cecils, which showed he was disappointingly short-sighted.

Surely it couldn’t be much longer to wait, thought James as they discussed the merits of hunting par force de chiens as opposed to using beaters; surely the old battle axe would die soon. But it seemed that she was like the Sphinx: full of riddles and immortal, her health depressingly good apart from being occasionally troubled by a sore on her leg.

King James was sinking the wine as quickly as he usually did, with Rob already gone down to the butler for a refill. One of the clerks would be in soon with administrative papers for him to sign and letters to write: he knew he was getting a little tipsy when he slopped some of the wine down his doublet and laughed. Ever the courtier, Sir Robert fetched one of the linen towels off the rack by the fireplace and proffered the end to wipe up the spillage-something that would never even have occurred to Rob or the Earl of Mar or any one of his overdressed hangers-on.

James was full of goodwill and caught Carey’s wrist with his hand as he came close.

“Will ye speak French to me?” he asked. “I dinna speak it well mesen, but the sound of it always thrills my heart.”

“Avec grand plaisir. Alas, Your Majesty, my accent is not what it once was and I have forgotten much,” said Carey in that language. On an affectionate impulse, James kissed his cheek which was so near and so inviting. Only a kiss.

It was a mistake. Carey permitted the familiarity but no more. James felt the tension in him: damn the cold-hearted bloody English, they all bridled at a touch from him as if he was diseased.

“Ye used to remind me so much of d’Aubigny, ye know,” James said thickly, hoping as he looked into Carey’s handsome face that the man was either easily overawed or as sophisticated as he seemed. “Ye still have very much his style, Robin.”

Carey smiled carefully. “Perhaps from the French court,” he said, in Scottish this time. “My father wanted me to learn Latin as well as French, but alas I was a bad student and spent most of my time pursuing sinful women.” Yes, there was a distinct, if tactful accent on the ‘women’. Another man still in thrall to the she-serpent then. “My ignorance is entirely my own fault.”

James let go of Carey’s arm and drank down what was left of his wine. “My tutor George Buchanan warned me that the wages of sin is death,” he said, wondering whether to be angry at the rebuff or simply sad, and also whether it would be worth having Carey to supper privately and filling him full of aqua vitae. He had known it work sometimes, with the ambitious, although that of course also contained the seed of heartache, in that the love could never be pure. How he longed for the clarity of the love and partnership between Achilles and Patroclus, or Alexander and Hephaistion. And David and Jonathan: it had been a revelation to him when he read how their love surpassed that of women, for how could the ancestor of Christ be guilty? Their love was never condemned in the Bible as was David’s adultery with Bathsheba.

“Mr Buchanan was right, of course,” said Carey softly, not looking at James, his face impossible to read. “We are all sinners and all of us die.”

“Even godlike kings?” sneered King James.

“Your Majesty knows the answer to that better than I do.”

“And queens? What about queens, eh? When do they die?” I am getting drunk, thought King James. That was a tactless question. Carey bridled only a little.

“When Death comes for them.”

“Has she bribed him, or what?”

Carey smiled, the blue eyes intense as chips of aquamarine. “If that were possible, she surely would, but as you know, she would prefer to hold him rather with the promise of a bribe and a flood of sweet words.”

King James laughed at the satire. Carey was sitting down on his stool again, meekly, as if James had never touched his hand, nor kissed his face. It was a pity, a pity: he had lovely shoulders and although his hair was odd, most of the curls black but the roots reddish brown, he had the long Boleyn face and the Tudor hooded bright blue eyes, and he had the smoothness and culture that d’Aubigny had shown King James when he was a raw lad of sixteen. The King’s face clouded: affection and sophistication had been heady things to discover for the first time in his hard-driven scholarly life. He looked on the time he had spent with d’Aubigny as a brief respite in Paradise, before the bastard nobles had kidnapped their King in the Ruthven Raid, with their usual lack of respect, and forced him to send d’Aubigny away. Not content with that they had then almost certainly poisoned the Frenchman. One day, thought King James, one day I’ll have satisfaction on all of them for it.

“Speak some French to me again,” he said, watching Rob refill his goblet and Carey’s. But it wasn’t boys he wanted, unlike Spynie and his friends, it was men with good bodies and good minds: true companions as the Greeks had been, without the mucky dim-witted clinginess and greedy softness of women. Lord God, how Queen Anne his wife bored him with her pawing and treble complaints.