Nigel Tranter - The Wisest Fool

"Have her here I Under my feet 1 That that…" Looking at the Primrose girl, Lady Mar all but choked. "No, sir!" she croaked.

"Could you deny her? If she asked. You will not deny that this is a royal castle-not an Erskine one? You but keep it for the Crown. If the Queen were to demand to stay in one of her husband's houses-as distinct from you yielding up the Prince-could you refuse?"

"Share the same house wi' me? God's death, young man-hae you taken leave o' your wits?"

"That was not my question, Countess. Could you deny admission?"

The other gulped in her scrawny throat. "I'll answer that, goldsmith, when I see Anne o' Holstein come chapping at my door seeking lodging! No' before." 'That means you would, and must, admit her, I think." "She'd never come."

"Perhaps not But it would solve some problems. And the King would be relieved, I swear, to have both wife and son-and possibly the other bairns also-under the eye of one whom he can trust absolutely. Yourself."

"Do not seek to cozen me with such syrup, man. I'm ower auld for that!"

"It would also save His Grace the cost of keeping another palace open. Linlithgow. For the lying-in. And he might prefer to have his fourth child borne in his major Scots citadel."

At these shrewd thrusts the other glowered. Then adruptly she rose to her feet, small but imperious. "We have other matters to attend to, goldsmith. You shall be conducted to your horses."

'To be sure. We thank you for your courtesy of this meeting. But-would it be possible for us to see the Prince? For but a moment. That we may inform his royal mother as to how he seemed." "The laddie's well. Nothing wrong wi' him."

"We do not doubt that you cherish him well, Countess. But no harm in seeing him. To reassure Her Grace."

Muttering something, the old woman stalked stiffly to the door and out. Exchanging glances, the visitors followed.

They did not have far to go. At only the third doorway along the vaulted corridor the Countess turned in, and there was a nine year-old boy sitting at a table with a young man, at books and papers. The Prince was tall for his age, well-formed and good-looking, delicately featured and mtelhgent-seeming. Getting down, from his chair he ran to the old woman, remembered his manners sufficiently to halt and bow gravely to the two strangers, and then went to take the Countess's hand.

"Here is Master Heriot, the King your father's jeweller, Henry," she said. "And one o' the Queen's ladies." There was something of a sniff about that. "Make your duties to them, lad."

"A good day to you, sir. A good day to you, Mistress. I hope that I see you well." And, in a different voice: "Master Andrew says that my Latin is better today."

"Aye, that'll please your royal father, lad. Master Heriot left him but a day or two agone." "My royal father is well, sir?"

"Indeed yes, Highness. He sent you his affectionate greetings." That was not precisely a fact, but would bear saying.

"Your royal mother the Queen also sends her fond greetings," Alison Primrose added.

‘I thank you, Mistress. And my royal mother. Is she also well?" He still clutched the Countess's hand. "Well, Highness. And… and not far away."

"I do not like Latin much. But Master Andrew says that it is important" "Yes. The King is a great Latin scholar."

"Greek also, sir. And French. And Spanish. Hebrew also. But… he does not know Danish, I think." "H'rr'mm. Perhaps not…" "Back to your lessons, then, lad." Annabel of Mar gave him a little pat on the head before pushing him gently towards the table. The visitors bowed themselves out

"I thank you, Countess, for your help," Heriot asknowledged. "He is a fine lad. His parents have reason to be proud of him, I think. We shall tell the Queen how well he does." "And how content he is? " "Well-that he does not pine, at least. Also that he is safe here. And will in nowise be given up. To any." "By me. So long as I command here." "You mean…?"

"I told you, young man I am but my son's deputy. He is the Prince's keeper, not myself. Remember it."

George Heriot opened his mouth to speak-and then thought better of it.

They took their leave of the old lady rather less stiffly than when they had greeted each other.

That evening, George Heriot sought to convince the Queen that it was to her advantage to swallow her pride and go to be with her son at Stirling, assured that Lady Mar could not refuse her, however reluctant she might be. Anne maintained a posture of outrage and shock at the very suggestion. Alison Primrose came to announce that Master Heriot's groom had just ridden in from Edinburgh, and brought this letter.

The man took the paper, and seeking the Queen's permission to scan it, opened the sealed folds. It was only a brief note, obviously hastily penned. "Have just overheard the Master of Gray telling the Lord Sinclair that E. of Mar has left King and on his way back to Scotland. This may be important. M.G." "So-o-o!" Heriot breathed out. "Is it news?" Anne demanded. "Ill news? What it is?"

"I cannot think it good news, Highness. The Earl of Mar is on his way back to Scotland." He caught the Primrose girl's eye.

"A coarse oaf of a man 1 Scotland was sweeter without him! But does it concern us?"

"I think it may. The Countess his mother was at pains to inform us that he was the Prince's lawful guardian, not she. He, the Keeper of Stirling Castle. She gave no assurance that the Earl would not deliver up the Prince. And Mary Gray, when she told me of this plot, believed that the Earl might be in it. Such was the rumour she had heard. It seemed unlikely, with Mar in England with the King. But now…!"

'The King may be sending him. As he sent you," Lady Huntly suggested. "For some reason of his own." "Our letters cannot have reached him yet?" the Queen asked. "No, Highness. It cannot be that"

"Mar comes to destroy m I know it He has hated me from the first. Ah, God-have mercy upon me!" Anne cried, and burst into tears.

Troubled, the man sought to soothe and console her, but with no avail. The Queen's women hustled him out of the bedchamber. She had been weeping like this for most of the day, fretting herself into a fever, hysterics. It was that Countess of Mar's fault, insulting Her Grace. In the night, Queen Anne miscarried for the second time.

"MY LORD OF MAR," the Chancellor said, "I regret it-but it is not possible for you to see the Queen. Her Grace is very ill, and weak…"

"I know that, man! God-all Scotland knows it! The more reason that I see her. I have a letter from her from her lord the King." "I will see that Her Grace gets it at once…"

"No, sir! I will see her. The letter I will give into her ain hands -none other. His Majesty's instructions. And I've messages for her, forby. Frae the King. Take me to her, man." "I fear not, my lord. Her Grace's own royal commands."

"What! She'll no' see me, Mar! Is that what you're after telling me, Seton?" A red-faced, gobbling turkey-cock of a man, John of Mar advanced a threatening step. Only in his early forties, he looked much older, harsh, overbearing, arrogant. 'The likes o' Sandy Seton'll no' keep me frae the woman!"

"I must my lord. I cannot but obey the Queen's direct commands. She said that she would not see you." The Chancellor's voice quavered a little. Sir Alexander Seton of Pluscarden, recently created Lord Fyvie, was a dozen years the other's junior and scarcely a dominant character, slight, slender, modish, good-looking, with the face of an intellectual.

"Christ's Wounds, she did! Well-I have the King's commands, Seton, d'you hear? Whose do you obey-heh? The King's Majesty's ain-or his silly bit puling wife's? Tell me that-you that ca's yourself Chancellor, King's Chancellor-no' his consort's!"