Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

Bothwell was scarcely to be blamed if he stared, so unlike James Stewart was this.

'Strike, man!' the King went on, warming to his part. 'I am ready to die. Better to die with honour than to live in captivity and shame. Aye, better. Stay… stay not your steel, Francis.'

That this was sheerest play-acting all knew well, for James's horror of cold steel was common knowledge.

But the performer had met as keen a play-actor as himself. Bothwell, recovering from his surprise, glanced round at his supporters. Then he drew his sword with a dramatic flourish, and as James involuntarily cowered back at the sight of it, he threw himself forward. But somehow he had his sword whipped round now, and he sank to his knees before the other, presenting the hilt to his monarch.

'Here is my sword, Sire,' he cried, to the shrinking King. 'Take it and use it on me, if you truly believe me traitor! See -I bare my neck.' He bent his head and pushed up his sandy hair with his left hand. 'Strike shrewd and fair, Your Grace, if you deem me ever to have harboured a thought against your royal person.'

James gobbled and blinked and wagged his head, hoist with his own petard. He could no more have used sword on Both-well, or on any man, than he could have flown in the air. On the other hand, to do nothing, to indicate that Bothwell did not deserve death, was to condone all, besides displaying the greatest weakness. He temporised.

'False!' he mumbled. 'Nay, kneel not, man – and add hypocrisy to treason. You ha' plotted my death. I… I call upon you now to execute your purpose. Aye, your purpose. For I'll no' live a prisoner and dishonoured.' That was declared with rather less conviction than before.

'Nor will I, Highness,' Bothwell assured, straightening up a little. He kissed the hilt of his sword theatrically, and thrust it almost into the King's hand once more. 'Here shall be the end of your distrust of Francis Stewart! Us it now – or trust me hereafter.'

'Waesucks! I… I… ' In his predicament, James looked appealingly at the others, especially at Lennox.

That young man, in some measure, answered the appeal. Nodding, he spoke, if stiffly. 'Your Grace, I counsel you to raise up my lord of Bothwell. We are convinced that he intends no treason. If his manner of entry here offends you, how else could he have gained your face? He can serve you well in this pass, we are assured. Heed him, Sire.'

Something like a growl of agreement came from the assembled Stewarts.

James, thankful no longer to have to look at the kneeling Earl and his outstretched sword, released a flood of disjointed eloquence. 'It's no' right. It's no' suitable. This violent repair to me. To our royal presence. Is it no' dishonourable to me? Aye, and disgraceful to my servants who allowed it? It was ill done. Am I no' your anointed King? I am twenty-seven years of age, mind. I am no' a laddie any mair, when every faction could think to make me their ain property. You hear me? It is ill done.'

All eyed him steadily. None spoke. Bothwell had risen to his feet again. He returned his sword to its scabbard, with a noticeable screak and click. Play-acting was over.

The King did not fail to perceive it, and drooped puny shoulders, drawing his robe around him again. 'What… what would you have, my lords?' he muttered, almost whispered.

'Your goodwill and trust, Sire – what else?' Bothwell declared, briskly now. 'Your realm is in poor state. We shall order it better for you. These are true and leal men, of your own house. Trust them, if you still do not trust me.' 'Aye,' James sighed.

'Much must be done, and swiftly. Now. Before this Parliament breaks. That it may show the consent of the realm. And of the Kirk.' Bothwell paused, and waved a hand to Colville. 'But we can consider this while Your Grace dresses. Tom Erskine shall attend you forthwith. I would advise that you attend the morning session in person, Sire. To announce certain concessions. And decrees. We shall support you.'

'This morning? Aye.' There was a hint of eagerness in that. James darted a glance towards the window. 'Aye. This morning.'

Bothwell read his thoughts. 'Your Highness will be entirely secure, rest assured,' he said, with a thin smile. 'I have five score horsemen to escort you thither. And a thousand men in the city. All will be well.'

The King all but groaned.

Mar led the way into the royal bedchamber, taking care however to resume his stance at the window. James looked from him to Lennox.

'Vicky…?' he began. 'Och man, Vicky!'

Ludovick inclined his head, but kept his boyish features stern, unrelenting.

'Where… where is Patrick? Where is the Master o' Gray, my lords?'

'In his bed no doubt, Sire,' Ludovick answered. 'We have not concerned him in this matter.'

Once more Bothwell smiled, briefly. But he made no comment.

Thus, simply, quietly, without a drop of blood shed, the fearsome, devil-possessed and unpredictable Earl of Bothwell took major if temporary control of the realm of Scotland, after more spectacular attempts innumerable. There was no clash, no active opposition. A deputation of the citizens of Edinburgh, hearing rumours from the palace, did present themselves at the gates, and by the mouth of Provost Home asked if the King required their aid, perchance? James, only too vividly able to imagine his fate during the period of waiting for any such succour, sadly dismissed them. Thereafter, he rode in the midst of a strong escort of mosstroopers, Bothwell on one side, and happily the Master of Gray on the other, to the Parliament Hall, where he made a short and largely unintelligible speech conceding practically all that the Kirk party demanded, removing episcopal and prelatical seats from the legislature, and promising compensation for Moray's family, preferment for his young son and heir, and vengeance on his killers. More ringing and heartfelt cheering than he had ever known followed the monarch out into the High Street, with Bothwell doffing his bonnet right and left, and Patrick Gray singing gently beneath his breath.

A special court of the Privy Council, consisting of Bothwell's peers, the Earls of Atholl, Argyll, Mar, Orkney, Glencairn, and the Marischal, considered formally whether he could be said to be guilty of treason or conspiracy. The accused tactfully absented himself from the proceedings, but his men surrounded the court in serried ranks. After a fairly brief deliberation their lordships acquitted Francis Hepburn Stewart on both counts, and commended him to the King's grace and assured benevolence. The next day, therefore Bothwell's peace was proclaimed by the heralds at the Cross of Edinburgh, amidst much jollification and free liquor for the citizenry. The matter of the witchcraft charges, which came into a different legal category altogether, were sensibly postponed until some suitable future date.

The Earl of Bothwell invented a new title for himself – Lord Lieutenant of Scotland – with Patrick's acclaim, though Lennox and others tended to look askance at it. The Kirk set up a Committee of Security to assist in the governance of the realm. Along with a number of others, Sir Robert Cockburn of Clerkington, the Secretary of State and Chancellor Maitland's son-in-law, was summarily dismissed. Patrick Gray, with typical sense of duty, made himself responsible for his office, meantime – this despite the fact that an ungrateful Parliament had not wholly accepted his claim for the?20,000 Scots, but had feebly passed it on to a special committee to consider.

On the subject of tides and offices, the Duke of Lennox found himself relieved of that of Lord High Admiral, in favour of its previous holder. He was allowed to remain Chamberlain, however.

The Earl of Moray remained unburied. His mother, as well as being a Campbell, was a woman of distinctly sceptical and disbelieving character.