The Border Lord

by Jan Westcott

 

Chapter 1

It was the night of June twenty-first, 1591. All day long a thick mist had enveloped the walled city of Edinburgh in gray folds, but at sunset the wind had changed, and a pale moon had begun its rise in the ragged sky. The night was fine, the air sharp, but a certain John Fian, lying in the dungeon of the Tolbooth, couldn't know it. In the bowels of the earth the air is dank and noisome, and besides that, a merciful nature had finally lulled him deep into sleep. Still, the weather and the hurt body of the man to be executed the following day were the immediate causes of the events of that particular night in the Scottish capital. Two apparently irrelevant facts combined, and on the stage that they created other figures moved and talked until the very hour when the climax of the drama occurred. Tomorrow, another misty morning would arrive, and John Fian would meet death, but tonight the condemned man slept fitfully, the moon shone on his turreted prison, and the spring night was cold but clear.

It was cold enough for Sir Patrick Galbraith to draw his cloak around him closely as he came down the steps of the tall front stoop of a house on High Street. His coach was waiting, its lanterns burning, and the horses as nervous as the coachman, who did not dare to show his own impatience. The door banged behind the coach's owner, a footman climbed up beside the driver, the whip cracked and the sound of horses' hoofs rang out sharply on the big paving blocks as the journey down the hill toward the royal palace began. It was just ten o'clock.

The coach body swayed gently on the leather straps on which it was hung. On the soft seat inside, Sir Patrick stretched out comfortably, even though his mind was far from his own comfort. Beside him, his secretary Edwin Chalmers sat silent and rather erect, clutching his bag of papers and thinking with some regret that he had still a good deal of work ahead of him tonight. At their next stop, his services would not be required; it would be necessary again for him to wait while Sir Patrick was occupied. But Edwin Chalmers was so accustomed to have his waking hours planned far in advance, and without regard to his own desires, that he accepted his lot with resignation. After all, he was highly paid, and he was a most discreet man; not for extra hours of work would he abandon a position many men envied. He shot a sidelong glance at his silent companion and wondered briefly what had caused the black look on his face. He knew well enough that he would wonder in vain; enlightenment might come many days later — or not at all. He dismissed the thought with a shrug, unaware that his lack of curiosity was one of the traits that endeared his services to Patrick Galbraith.

The coach moved on down the hill; only a mile separated it from its destination of Holyrood Palace, and its coachman hadn't needed orders. He had received them early in the day, as usual. But the coachman knew too that he had yet another stop tonight: after his master had seen His Majesty, James of Scotland, he had a rendezvous for supper at Ainslee's Tavern. The coachman was not so resigned as Edwin Chalmers; the only thing that compensated him for his extra and long hours was the fact that he drove a coach-and-four — a mark of distinction in Edinburgh, for there were few coaches. Only the very wealthy could afford them. From his perch the driver caught the envious eye of many a pretty girl, but there was little use in being envied from such a distance. He wished he had courage enough to use the coach himself when his master didn't require it, but fear of the awful wrath that would follow discovery held him well in leash. At least, he had one visit behind him tonight; two more, and he could claim his hard bed with relief.

Sir Patrick said not a word as the journey downhill continued. The rooms he had just quitted had seen him suffer a defeat, a defeat to plans that had occupied him a great deal during the last month. He was angry, he was chagrined, and a bit incredulous, and if he regretted the bitter words which had followed the realization of his defeat, he would not as yet admit it. He tried to push the thought of the interview aside; he had two other important affairs to attend to tonight, and there was no use worrying over what was past. Even though he had just had his suit for marriage turned down, the present must be looked to first.

It was quite typical of him that he had presented his marriage proposal in the interval between matters of state and business. His days were rigidly allotted; the very hours fell neatly into the pattern that he himself had set sometimes weeks in advance. He was most meticulous and he did nothing from impulse, for he firmly believed that, as making money necessitated orderliness, so must the life of one who used his days in that pursuit be orderly. Certainly his methods had justified themselves to him, for at the age of twenty-eight he was probably the wealthiest man in Scotland. Where other nobles intrigued and flattered their monarch, Patrick Galbraith bought his favors, and the very simplicity of his dealings had never failed to amuse him. Patrick liked to lay his money on the counter; it enabled him to dress as he pleased, act as he pleased, and do as he pleased.

Men said that he affected his humor, and yet no one was really sure, because he himself was so very casual about it. He wore his blond hair cut short, and contrary to fashion he was clean-shaven. He wore no jewelry, rich as he was, except one heavy, carved gold ring, and he never carried a sword, being content with a gold-hiked dagger. He managed to violate most of the customs of his times, even to his preference for raw Scotch whiskey and his abhorrence of French wines, and it was said there wasn't a man in Scotland who liked him, except the King. It was further said, cynically, that this peculiarity the two shared.

The coach rumbled into the outer courts of the palace and drew to a stop with much shouting and flourishing of the driver's whip. The horses danced for a minute, then stood quiet; the footman jumped down and flung open the door, and the tall figure of the master stepped out indolently. The whole ride had been completed in silence.

Patrick stood for a moment in the dark of the spring night, drinking in the smell of the sea so near. This time he had not come to buy a favor, but to discover what potion the King and the Chancellor, Maitland, were brewing. He had come to weigh the gravity of the charges of treason which hung over the head of a certain peer of the realm. Looking away from the bulk of the palace toward the city he had left, he studied the way it stretched up the hill. More than a mile away, on the summit of Castle Rock, stood the huge pile of Edinburgh Castle, no longer a royal residence, but a prison, a fortress, an armory. In one room of that castle lay a prisoner whose fate Patrick wanted to learn, and with a last backward glance at the city, he turned, his scarlet-lined cloak swinging behind him, and made his familiar way into the palace. His personal servant trailed behind.

It was an odd hour of night to arrive. When he entered the ground floors, he could smell the odors of food cooking, as the kitchens of the resident nobles prepared a late supper for their lords. He made his way up a large staircase, passed by the galleries, the audience chambers. He walked past the chambers of the Queen, past the turret room which was the Queen's bedroom. In this wing lay also the apartments of the King. He entered a small cabinet, a door was opened, and a lackey announced his name. He was admitted to the presence of the King with very little ceremony; in fact, when he removed his brimmed hat, the servants were slightly surprised. They were waiting for the day when both monarch and subject should sit covered and neither notice it.

James Stewart was standing to the right of his heavy oaken table. A hunting hound lay at his slippered feet; behind him an embossed screen protected him from the drafts of the window embrasure. One hand rested on his table, in the other he held a half-finished glass of wine. His furred robe was open, revealing his plump stocky figure, for James was short for a Stewart. He was twenty-five years old.

"Patrick," he said, surprised. He set down his wine and waved Patrick toward him, eying the elegant figure in its rich dress. Patrick dropped to one knee, and James looked down on the shoulders covered with gleaming black satin, and at Patrick's blond head, where the unruly curls at the top had escaped the barber's shears. Affectionately James put one hand on his shoulder.

"Apologize, sir, for your tardiness. Why did you not come sooner?" A tug on Patrick's suit told him to rise.

Patrick stood; he smiled ruefully.

"To be truthful, Sire, a stubborn wench. But you know the old saying, 'The fort that parleys and the woman who listens — surrender.' "

James laughed, and for the first time Patrick seemed to become aware that there was another man in the room. He acknowledged Lord Morton with a brief bow.

"My lord," he said. "A pleasant evening, is it not?"

Lord Morton smiled. His eyes glittered, matching the jewels that enriched his person and his small ears. "A very pleasant evening, sir, after so poor a day."

"Aye," said James thoughtfully. "No hunting today." He finished off his wine and set the cup down. "But tomorrow I expect to be gone at dawn. Don't I?" He touched the hound at his feet with the toe of one thin-soled slipper, and the animal nuzzled the royal foot as if in agreement. "By God, he understands me," James added, with a sigh.

Patrick kept the frown off his face. Stewarts were temperamental, and James's mood tonight was evidently not a good one. Patrick had encountered these moods before; so had everyone at court. He wondered whether a good bawdy joke might bring laughter to his monarch's face; he looked around the room, only half-seeing the heavy tapestries, the carved furniture. Then his eye lit on His Majesty's table, which was covered with the evidence of James's industry that day. "You have been writing, Sire?"

James's eyes lighted. "I was so engrossed, I forgot my nap," he admitted. This seemed to remind him that he was tired. "I am a horse with little staying power," he announced, sinking back again into his mood of dissatisfaction. "Yet my subjects — as my good gossips have it — would complain that I am slothful." He frowned heavily.

Patrick kept a wise silence. James's subjects said that if the King wasn't hunting or drinking he was asleep, but it was not altogether true. His interests were many and varied; they ranged from languages, at which he was expert, to witchcraft, on which he considered himself an authority. Today he had delved into that horrid black magic; he, the King, had gone down into the evil-smelling, badly lighted dungeons of the Tolbooth to watch a man questioned. It was easy to remember with vividness the thud of the mallet as it descended into the iron boot, the whimpered pleas for mercy, and James remembered too the name that had been wrung from John Fian's pain-twisted mouth.

The King turned to the other man. "How was Lord Bothwell today, Morton?" he asked.

He had been alternately standing and pacing the room; now he sank into his own chair and waved Patrick to another. For a brief second the three men contemplated each other, and Morton glanced from his monarch to the newcomer whose presence he had neither wanted nor bargained for.

Morton clasped his beringed hands on his stomach, fat hands over a fat stomach; then he realized that James was waiting and hurried into speech. "Lord Bothwell is most insolent, Sire," he began, trying to collect his thoughts and remember exactly where he had been in his narrative to the King when Patrick had entered.

"So you said." James was visibly annoyed, whether at Morton's repetitiveness, or the insolence of the prisoner.

Patrick smiled lazily. "Do tell us, Morton, what behavior you expected from Bothwell?"

Morton's eyes met Patrick's in a long look which said, "And why are you interested, sir? Is Bothwell the reason for this call?" However, he only murmured, "I had expected, sir, that Lord Bothwell would not be insensible to the gravity of the charges he faces."

"And you infer that because he insults you, he is unaware that he is in danger?" Patrick turned to James. "Bothwell is reported to have said today that Morton's fat belly is the result of his own undigested lies." Patrick smiled. "After all, Morton, insulting you may be his chief pleasure in his last days."

The King laughed. "You must remember, Morton, that he is half Stewart, and in love with sport. You present his only target. You and Maitland."

Patrick heard these words with concealed pleasure. So His Majesty had not forgot, even temporarily (for he had a convenient memory, as most kings did) that the man under charges of treason was a blood relation.

"He's more Hepburn than Stewart," said Morton, "and hunts women more than the stag." He snorted.

"That I would not say." James had a passion for contradicting. "I would say that the wenches chase him like a pack of badly bred bitches, and he beds them at his own pleasure. When I recalled him from Venice, the Venetian harlots sighed so heavily you could hear them in London."

Morton remarked pontifically, "You recalled him, to heap honors on him. Think well, Sire, how he has repaid you!" Morton shook his head and shut his mouth tightly, as if both in anger and pity for his young and easily deluded monarch. "Why do you forget how he has repaid you?"

James's face set, and Patrick watched him carefully, searching for the right rejoinder to Morton. He found it. "Morton, you would be loved more if you presumed less. I can think of no adequate reason that you should assume the royal prerogatives."

"Aye!" James snapped. "D'ye question the punishment already meted out? God's son, Morton, you weary me!"

Patrick nodded understandingly at James. There were no servants in the room, and he rose to fill James's wineglass. "If you'll allow me, Sire," he said to James, turning his back to Morton.

"Won't you have some?" asked James, absently watching the yellow Rhine wine.

Patrick replied, "It's a physic. No, thank you, Sire."

James smiled; he felt the better for this exchange. He picked up his wine and tasted it. "Now you may tell me, Morton, what Bothwell was doing today."

Morton hesitated for only a second. "Bothwell, Sire, is as always. Maitland and I saw him this afternoon; we endeavored to question him. He lies on the floor playing chess, his right hand against his left. He carved the figures out of tallow; he told us he was raising a beard for lack of a razor; he said did we know the weather would be fine for golf soon, and the next time we came he would like some dice. Aye," said Morton, warming to his theme, "he lies on the floor, taking up most of the room, and talks about golf, beards and strawberries. And he did tell us a jest; I've been trying all evening to remember it."

Patrick burst out laughing.

"At least tell us about the strawberries, if you can't remember the jest."

Morton spoke reluctantly. "He asked us to tell Your Majesty that he is desolated he cannot bring you strawberries from Crichton this year, but his inability is due to circumstances he cannot control."

James sighed; whether for his stomach Patrick did not know. "Sir, he raises the best strawberries in Scotland. I swear they are this big." He held up one hand with the thumb and index finger making a circle.

Patrick regarded the royal fingers with proper respect. "So big?" he inquired wonderingly.

"I like them with uncrudded cream," said Morton, since they must talk about strawberries.

James shook his head in dismissal. "They are far better dipped in sugar. You take them by the stem," he illustrated as if he were the possessor of a fat strawberry with deep green leaves, "and dust it in the sugar. They are the best strawberries in Scotland," he added plaintively.

Morton made his promise suavely. "I shall certainly see that Your Grace receives berries as fine as his."

James looked vastly annoyed; hadn't he just said that there were none in the country to match those from Crichton Castle? He decided to be offended; he picked up the pen lying on the table and pretended to read the last line he had written.

His attitude told Patrick that the interview had come to a close. Patrick rose, but he had one more question he wanted answered: he knew that Fian had implicated Bothwell in a treason plot. "What did you think of Fian, Sire?" he asked.

James frowned; he studied his writing, and his face was inscrutable. "I think the Devil has devious ways, sir." He paused. "I would be pleased to discuss it with you anon."

Patrick bowed. "Your servant, Sire," he said, backing to the door. When it closed behind him, he turned, clapping his plumed hat onto his head. He was fairly well satisfied with what he had learned, but he was still late, and abandoning his indolence, he strode rapidly in the direction from which he had come.

Inside the room, Morton was almost at the door. He was far from satisfied, for tonight he had failed in his intention to arouse the King's anger. Morton gave a last look around the room. The candles were burning low, and the tapestries stirred in the spring drafts. It was cold, and Morton shivered suddenly; the wind sighed outside, rustled softly through the palace, its ancient abbey and its crypts, whispered through the graveyard. In one of the tombs lay the strangled body of Darnley, James's father; in the cemetery lay the body of the murdered Rizzio, secretary to the late Queen — Rizzio, whose blood could not be scrubbed from the oak flooring of a room nearby. And in England, in her grave, were the pitiful remains of Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, the grizzled head completely severed from the trunk. Violence and blood stained the walls of the palace; violence and blood made a trail from the battlefields of Flodden, of Solway Moss, to the murder of James's father at Kirk o' Field and the executioner's platform at Fotheringay, where his mother had died. Now in a room at Edinburgh Castle, another of the clan faced a bloody death, a death by hanging, drawing and quartering, so that the spikes of Tolbooth could display the severed limbs and head. What had the house of Stewart done that heaven should follow it with such mighty wrath?

On the threshold of the room, Morton, remembering the present, bowed deeply. "Your humble servant, Sire," he said. James didn't answer, and as Morton closed the door, he grimaced and thought his King must really enjoy rudeness more than aught else.

Underneath the rooms that Patrick and Morton had just quitted lay Morton's own chambers. The suite was large, boasting bedrooms, diningroom, kitchen and receiving rooms, but at this hour all were dark and silent save his study, which itself opened off the corridor outside his apartments. On this door Morton gave one sharp knock and entered without preamble, for he was expected. He closed the door behind him carefully, and shot the bolt; then he faced his guest.

John Maitland had been writing; the tall candelabra on the table gave out the only light in the room and threw long shadows into the corners. He looked up as Morton entered. His face was very pale, his eyes deeply shadowed, and Morton thought he looked ghostly. Morton's hand left the big bolt, and he said irritably, "Why don't you use more light?"

Maitland laid down his pen and leaned his head on his hand. "I can see perfectly," he said.

Morton tiptoed into the room, and seated himself in a chair by the bare fireplace. He glanced at it wistfully. The leaping flames would be comforting on a night like this; he felt strangely ill at ease.

"Well, there is not enough light," he said petulantly.

Maitland raised one slender eyebrow. "On the contrary, my lord, there is ample light." His voice was louder than Morton's whispered tones. "There is no need to waste candles."

"Nor wood either, I see," said Morton, thinking that Maitland was as penurious as his enemies said.

"No, nor wood," said Maitland equably, and he waited.

"God's wound, John, I shall not contest the point with you!"

Maitland was unperturbed. "Just so, my lord. But there is no need to lock doors, and to run about, casting glances over your shoulder."

Morton threw him a look of disgust. Whether Maitland knew it or not, there were plots and counterplots going on in the palace, and Scottish lords were most addicted to settling their quarrels with bare steel, feeling that it satisfactorily put an end to political uncertainty, Morton said, "Tonight Patrick Galbraith showed extreme interest in your prisoner." Perchance that would remind Maitland that his enemies were not inactive.

Maitland ran his tongue over his lips. "So?" he murmured, considering this information. "So he wishes to meddle, does he? That's strange." Morton nodded, as if to say it was exceeding strange, and boded no good. Patrick Galbraith wielded tremendous influence, and Morton did not understand why he suddenly entered this intrigue. "I had not thought we must fight him," he said.

Maitland spoke frankly. "Nor did I. But I have been among politicos long enough to know that everything is uncertain. Still, you say he showed interest. It does not necessarily follow that we shall have him for opponent."

Morton shrugged. "I do not like it. Or him."

Maitland understood well enough that Morton liked none of this affair now that he was involved in it. Two months ago it had seemed like a gift from heaven when two wretches accused of witchcraft had implicated the peer whom both Morton and Maitland wished so heartily out of their way. Maitland remembered the joy with which he had drawn up the accusation: "For treasonable conspiracy against His Majesty's own person, Francis, Earl of Bothwell, had consulted with necromancers, witches, and other wicked and ungodly persons, both within and without this country — some already executed for the deed and some others lie ready to be executed for the same crime."

Maitland thought of the charges. "John Fian dies tomorrow. Then his accusers will all be dead."

Morton wasn't listening; he scarcely cared what happened to Fian. "I never thought it would turn out this way. I never thought there was a chance of acquittal." He fell silent, and glanced nervously around the shadowed room.

"You are afraid, my lord." Maitland smiled. He seemed bored; he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink.

Morton did not resent the accusation. What he did resent was Maitland's apparent inability to realize that he too should be afraid. Only fools overlooked a coming storm. "I suppose you think you'd be safe if Bothwell is freed?" As Morton said it he recalled only too well the powerful lounging figure of the man he had talked to in prison this afternoon.

Maitland had already begun to write; he looked up absently. "I shan't allow an acquittal, Morton."

Morton studied his face in the gloom. The words and their calm reassured him somewhat; Maitland was very capable. "But," he began, "you certainly wouldn't dare use the boot — " He broke off suddenly, and his eyes darted to the door. Then he sprang up and was across the room as quickly as his slippered feet would permit. For a second he stood motionless; then he slipped the bolt, impatient of the noise it made, and flung the door wide.

In the long black corridor there was the sound of light footsteps, a hurrying in the air, and then there was silence. Morton started after the sounds. "Bring light," he whispered, and his voice echoed in the room and into the hall.

But Maitland hadn't moved. He still sat behind his table and he shook his head at Morton. "If someone were listening, what odds, sir? Close the door. It is eleven o'clock and naught will occur tonight."

 

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