Nigel Tranter: The Wisest Fool

Lennox unsheathed his sword and held it out by the tip. Gingerly his cousin took it, as though it had been red-hot Of all the royal dreads, cold steel was the sharpest-a legacy no doubt of the stabbing to death before his pregnant mother's eyes of her Italian secretary, David Rizzio, whom so many believed indeed to be the King's true father.

Having to take two hands to the business, for his wrists were less than strong, and having difficulty with the heavy key he was already clutching, James swung the weapon in a highly dangerous swipe at the kneeling man's shoulder, only just hitting it as the other ducked hurriedly.

"Bide still, man!" the King cried. "I canna knight you, jouking about!" He gave another jab. "Arise, good Sir John.., John… eh, what's the laddie's name?" the monarch demanded in a stage whisper, peering round. "Peyton, Sire-Peyton," Northumberland said hurriedly.

"Aye, well. Arise, Sir John Peyton. Get up, man. Here, Vicky- take it. Aye, and take this key, forby-it's ower heavy. Do something with it…" Young Peyton rose, flushed, blinking, stammering embarrassed thanks, appreciation, his own utter unworthiness for so high and unexpected an honour. He was quite overcome. James eyed him askance for a moment or two, as though wondering whether he had been wise. Then he cocked an eyebrow eloquently in the direction of George Heriot

"Geordie-here man. Here, Jinglin' Geordie Heriot. You ken what's what See to it" And he turned his grotesquely padded royal back on the new knight, Duke of Lennox and most others, to demand of the Mayor of Berwick how long it would be before all his royal train of five hundred would be across his satanic, squeaky and wabbly brig-if indeed the Devil did not have them all in the wicked waters of Tweed in the process.

George Heriot went up to the bewildered and bemused Peyton, took him aside a little, and spoke quietly. "May I be the first to congratulate you, Sir John? A well-deserved honour, I am sure." He leaned forward, and spoke more quietly still. 'That Will be one thousand pounds, if you please. Sterling, of course." "E-e-eh!" Like a rabbit startled, the new knight stared at him. "A thousand sterling, yes. Pounds. It is, h'm, customary."

"But… but…" The other gobbled. "I do not… I cannot… A thousand pounds! It is… it is not possible, sir. I…"

"Hush, you," Heriot urged, but gently, mildly, almost with sympathy. "Not so loud, Sir John. Not in the presence of the King's Grace! His Grace mislikes scenes. Besides, what is a thousand sterling to a son of the Lieutenant of the Tower?"

"I have not got it, sir. I assure you, I do not have so much money. I came but on my father's orders. With the key…"

'Your note of hand will serve very well, Sir John. A simple matter." As though by sleight of hand, the Scot produced a paper from within his cloak and from the richly-chased silver cylinder which hung from his belt in place of a dirk, a neat quill-pen already wet from the ink-hom within.

Unhappily Peyton wagged his tired head, looking from his monarch's back to Heriot.

"Sir," the latter reminded, with a slight smile. 'You have just received an honour without price. Are you, and your father, of insufficient means and gentility to support it? No? This fee but assures his Grace that you are, as is suitable. See, I will write it for you my own self." Using his padded sleeve as a board, he penned, in a firm hand: "At Berwick, 23rd day of Aprile 1603. Promised to the King's Grace One thousand pounds Sterling." He dipped the pen again into the encased ink-hom. "Sign, Sir John. The Duke of Lennox here, will act witness, I have no doubt." Swallowing, the young man scratched some sort of signature.

Ludovick Stewart, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, a mixture of commiseration and amusement on his blunt features, took the pen and initialled the paper, and George Heriot did the same, and coughed.

Almost immediately King James broke off his converse with the others, and turned round. "Aye, well," he said. 'Time we werena here, or we'll no' win to yon place-what was it? Widdrington, aye Widdrington, this night. It's a long gait to London. Johnnie Ramsay-my horse. We'll no' waste more o' our royal time at Berwick Brig…"

"Would you say that His Grace had wasted his time here?" Lennox asked his tradesman friend, as they mounted, after the King.

"Does His Grace ever waste his time?" the King's goldsmith, jeweller, banker and creditor, gave back in response.

"WEALTH, MAN," JAMES said, low-voiced. "Riches. Beyond telling. More than ever I believed. This England is fat, Vicky-fat!" The King glanced around him in the saddle, warily, those great liquid eyes rolling, to see that none of the English notable riding behind heard him. "Being king o' a' this will serve me right well, I think!"

"Do you think to spoil the English as well as reign over them, Cousin?" the Duke of Lennox asked, grimly.

"Not so, Vicky-not so. Hold your tongue, man. But… a monarch in a rich land can do more than, than in a poor place, see you. For the folk, you ken-the good o' the folk. Look at those beasts. Have you ever seen cattle the like o' that?"

"They are fat and sleek, Sire. And the folk grow like them, I think! How do you esteem your new subjects, then? Apart from their so evident wealth?"

James eyed the speaker sharply. He never could be quite sure whether or not his cousin was cozening him, mocking-and he was very averse to being mocked. He stood more from Vicky Stewart than he would stand from others only because he knew him to be honest, utterly reliable and quite without ambition- and moreover was the only son of the first man he had ever loved, Esme Stewart of Aubigny in France, first cousin of his father, Darnley. But that did not mean that he could twit him, the Lord's anointed, with impunity. 'They are… civil, right civil," he said, cautiously. "I thought that you must like them passing well." "Eh? Why?"

"You see fit to honour them, Cousin, in a fashion that you never did at home! I have already lost count of all the gold rings you have bestowed and all the knighthoods created, in seven days, all the offices you have given away, the promises you have made and prisoners freed…"

"Houts-knights cost nothing, man. Or, only to themselves!" James tee-heed a whinny of laughter-and then looked round again quickly, in case he had been overheard. "Offices can be taken away, forby. And we'll soon fill the jails again 1 But, d'you no' see, man-it behoves a liege lord to bind his new subjects to his sacred person wi' stout bonds o' love and gratitude. That he may rule them the easier. Use your wits, Vicky."

'That is not a policy Your Grace made great efforts to follow in Scotland, I think!"

"Scotland? Guidsakes-Scotland's a different kettle o' fish. You ken that-you who acted Viceroy for me when I was off in yon Denmark The Scots are a crabbit, contrary race, man-aye at each others' throats. The only way to rule them is to keep them that way, to set one lord against another, one faction against the next Waesucks-I learned that in a fell hard school!"

"And you think that the English lords and squires are so different? That they have no factions here?"

"They are softer, Vicky. Fatter. Richer. Smoother. Aye, softer. Or that auld besom Elizabeth couldna have kept them in order a' yon time. And frae a sick-bedchamber, these last years." "She had a nimble and strong mind…"

"She was a woman! A weathercock. Like the rest o' them. She blew hot and cauld. Women have no minds to speak of. Reason is the attribute o' men-or some men! Logic, logomachy, enthymeme -o' such she kenned nothing, the creature. If she could rule these English…" "At least she did not make knights by the score!"

"She had no right to make them, at all, man I A woman canna be a knight. As sovereign, she could appoint, but no' make. But- what's a' this havering about knighthoods? A plague on you, Vicky-what's to do?"