Nigel Tranter: The Wisest Fool

"But, Sire-how can I influence the likes of him? A man with more real power than the Chancellor…"

'The same way as you do the Queen-wi' your wits, man. And he'll no' have any power much longer, I promise you! You'll no' can pull him down-but you'll can frustrate his tricks, belike. And keep me informed. I'd send Vicky here wi' you but I'll need him in London, to act for me whiles. Till I can find others I can trust. So you'll off back to Edinburgh, Geordie." "Very good, Sire. I shall leave in the morning."

"You'll no'. You'll leave the night. Now, man. Have you forgot? The morn's the Sabbath. We'll start the way we mean to go on. Elizabeth may have little heeded the Sabbath. But my Court will. I'll no' have you leaving for Scotland on the Sabbath day. So go now. Or you'll waste a whole day."

"But of course Master Heriot will have to rest for the Sabbath tomorrow somewhere?" Lennox wondered innocently.

"Dinna be impertinent, Vicky Stewart I" the King reproved. "Geordie kens fine what's what You'll be in Edinburgh on Monday's morn, eh man?"

"If you wish it so, Sire. I will do my best on Your Grace's behalf, as in all things. As always. Though this is a, h'm, difficult mission Have I Your Grace's permission to retire?"

"Aye. Off wi' you. Though-bide a wee. It comes to me that I prefer the one English custom to our Scots usage. Aye, prefer it This o' Majesty instead o' Grace. It's mair… suitable, maybe. I'll be Majesty now, no' Grace. Let it be known-both o' you." "To be sure, Your Majesty…"

"WEARY, STIFF, DUSTY and travel-stained, George Heriot and his two armed grooms trotted round the grassy base of Arthur's Seat in the dusk of the Monday evening, 18th April, two hundred and twenty miles in forty-four hours hard riding. The city gates would be closed for the night-but that did not matter. He had his own apartment in the Palace of Holyroodhouse, outwith the walls, which went with his appointment of Court Jeweller and the Crown's Banker. His private house, in Beith's Wynd above the shop and opposite St Giles, could wait. Only servants and a stepbrother had waited for him there since his wife's death some years before.

Rounding a minor shoulder of the hill his eyes narrowed. The palace, lying under the shadowy heights, had come into view. And it was ablaze with lights. Every window of the great pile seemed to glow and sparkle, almost as thought it was afire. Never had Heriot seen it like this. King James was apt to be careful of lights and fuel.

As they neared Holyroodhouse and its ruined abbey, the sounds of music, shouting and laughter seemed to throb through the old grey stonework and set the evening ah aquiver. Heriot and his men rode in at the rear gateway from the park. There were no guards on duty. The outer court was full of people and horses, men-at-arms, servitors, kitchen-wenches and women of the town, in loud-tongued, skhling pandemonium, barrels of ale open and spilling, victuals on benches, boxes, even on the flagstones. Horseplay, fisticuffs, near-rape prevailed.

Dismounting with aching bones, and staring about him grimly, George Heriot left the grooms to take the horses to the stables and pushed his way through the noisy throng to the lower north wing of the palace, part of the original conventual buildings of the Abbey of the Holy Rood, where were his quarters. The door thereto stood open and a couple were grappling on the floor of the vestibule. There was no sign of his servant.

Tight-lipped, he went up the winding turnpike stair and opened the door-to find a large and handsome pair of female breasts as it were staring him in the face from his bed, the owner's head back and laughing, so that only her throat and chin seemed to top them. A hand and arm, somewhat hairy, coming out from the bedclothes, pulled her long fair hair and a dark head was just visible on a pillow. George Heriot swallowed, and then cleared his throat loudly. Two heads rose in indignation and alarm. "God flay you-how dare you!" an authoritative voice cried. "I dare for the best of reasons, sir. You are in my bed." "Damnation! Out with you, fellow Begone-or I'll have you flogged!" "For entering my own chamber? I think not, my Lord Lindores."

"Eh…? You know me? So much the worse for you, then! Leave at once, d'you hear?"

"I shall leave this room, yes. But only for sufficiently long for you and this lady to clothe yourselves and leave my house. If you are not gone then, I will call the palace guard and have you thrown out. My lord!"

The other man all but choked, while his paramour clutched her bosom and gasped. "How… how… who in God's name are you?"

Standing in the doorway, Heriot had been in the shadow. Now he moved forward. "You ought to know, sir-you owe me sufficient! I am George Heriot, and these are my quarters. From the King."

"Christ God!" Lindores swore-and his companion promptly leapt out of bed in a flouncing of plump flesh and white limbs, to flee into the dressing-room next door.

"I will leave you, my lord. But when you are, h'm, yourself, I would wish for an explanation."

"But… dammit, man-you went away I You should be in London, with the King. How are you here?"

"I am here on my own business. And the King's. It is you who should say what you do here. In my bed."

"I was given these quarters. You were gone with the King. No longer needed them…" "Who gave them to you, my lord? Not the Queen, I swear."

"Why, my good-brother. The Master of Gray. He is Master of the King's Wardrobe. Holyroodhouse comes under his authority." Lord Lindores and the Master of Gray had married sisters, the Ladies Jean and Marie Stewart, daughters of the King's illegitimate uncle, the Earl of Orkney. The lady who had jumped from the bed, however, was not one of these.

"Ha-I see! The Master of Gray." Heriot looked thoughtful. "I must needs have a word with the Master, then." He nodded. "My clothing and gear, my lord? Where are they? You have not, h'm inherited all these also? " I

"No, no. All are in your garret. On the floor above. All your property. Safe enough…"

"All that you did not require, shall we say?" Heriot gestured round at the fully furnished bedroom, all therein his own. Then he shrugged. "I suggest that you dress, my lord. You may take a chill. No doubt we shall meet later." Bowing ironically to the naked man, he left him.

Upstairs, amongst a great clutter of his belongings thrust anyhow into the attic room, he found clothing and changed out of his travel-worn riding garb, cleaning himself as best he could. Then he descended and made his way across the outer court to the main building of the palace.

The place was as lively as a fair, and as noisy. Half of the Scotland that mattered seemed to be present, variously enjoying the night. Up in the long throne Gallery, seething with splendid folk in the blaze of a thousand candles in glittering candelabra, Heriot looked for the Queen-and saw no sign of her. There were women in plenty, many of whom he knew, many holding court in their own way; but none on the scale of a Queen-Consort. A masque was in progress, involving satyrs, shepherdesses, fauns and even a few sheep from the park-but the Queen could not be taking part in that, being seven months pregnant-one reason why she had not travelled south with the King.

The masque's theme seemed to demand great expanses of bare flesh, male and female, and the lady in his late bed might have strayed therefrom, Arcadian shepherdesses presumably being a hardy breed. The satyrs wore realistic goat's-hair trews, with rather inadequate and flimsy cod-pieces; also very effective small horns, with their faces painted. In this very active charade, it was not difficult to tell the sheep from the goats.

Despite paint and additions, there was no mistaking the most handsome of the satyrs. Patrick, Master of Gray himself. Only in his mid-thirties, despite being a grandfather, and still a year or two younger than Heriot, he had a superb body, beautifully proportioned and kept in perfect condition. Of all the male actors he was the most striking, gracefully vigorous and danced with the most elan and brilliance-all with the consequence that the shepherdesses seemed to compete to swoon into his arms, each expertly handled before being abandoned for the next Undoubtedly the Master of Gray was enjoying himself.