Unicorn Rampant (45 page)

Next afternoon, then, John presented himself at St James's Palace in no very happy frame of mind. He found not only Margaret Hamilton but Will Alexander with her, and two others of the Prince's gentlemen, playing cards and drinking wine, a scene of pleasant relaxation into which it is to be feared he intruded a somewhat souring note, however warm the young woman's greeting. He sought not to eye her lower person too directly—but to him she seemed no different from normal.

Will got rid of the other card-players presently, and then gave John some account of his activities since returning from Scotland. He had given the King and the Duke a report of the situation there. He had seen the Merchant Venturers at St Paul's, not Cockayne himself but Elias Woolcombe, and they were eager for the paper deliveries to commence. The ship from Leith had brought the first cargo into the Thames and the paper was now stored in a warehouse, Bertram's, at the Blackfriars Wharf. Woolcombe had been very urgent to get a price for it, from him; but he had said that was not for him to state. Had John heard about parliament's act ending the monopolies . . . ?

John told him that he intended to visit St Paul's immediately hereafter. Meantime, he desired a word with Margaret.

Alexander took the hint and withdrew.

The young woman, laughing, came to throw her arms around him again and to rub herself against his person. "You are good at getting rid of folk, John!" she said. "So long since we were together. I have missed you."

He stirred uncomfortably in her embrace. "You are . . . well? Or . . . well enough? In the circumstances
..."

"Oh, yes—never been better. And the more so, now that you are back."

"But
..."
He glanced downwards, where her belly was continuing with a sort of rotation motion against his groin, distinctly disturbing. "Should you be doing this?"

"Why not? Oh—I see. You mean—that? No difficulties there—yet!" "I am sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry for what, John?"

"This . . . trouble. The child."

"It is scarce a trouble. That is no way to speak."

"Perhaps not. When is it to be?"

"Oh, that? I, I cannot be sure. In the spring-time, it will be."

"You must have some notion, less vague than that?"

"Such matters are not so simple. We were . . . together, many times. Over a period."

"Yes—but you must know when, when
..
."

"John—I cannot tell you the exact time. Is it so important to you? One month, or the next?"

He shook his head. "I suppose not." He paused, and then blurted out, "You know that we are to marry? The King commands it."

"Marry, yes. But not only because the King commands, surely? We talked of marriage before
..."

"You
did!"

"You are less than gallant, John, I think! What is wrong with us marrying? You . . . enjoy me, sufficiently, do you not? And I you. We have much in common. The royal service, our Scots blood
..."

"There is the matter of love."

"Love? What is love, John? We
make
love very well, do we not? We suit each other. We can be sufficiently close in other ways also
..."

"There is more to love than that."

"How do
you
know? Are you in love with somebody else, John Stewart?"

He looked at her for moments on end. "I am, yes," he said at length.

"So-o-o! Why have you not married
her,
then?" "I cannot," he said, shrugging.

"Because she will not? Or because she is already wed?" He did not answer.

"Married, then. Who is this woman? Do I know her?"

"No. Nor shall you! That is my business, only."

"I see. So you are having an affair with a married woman—but it must be kept secret! In Scotland? Is that why you have been away so long?"

"No. Nothing to do with that. And there is no affair— none. I loved her before she married. A marriage forced on her by her father. She is entirely virtuous."

"Virtuous! Yet keeps you dangling! I know the sort
..."

"You know nothing of it! And knowing nothing, will kindly say no more. It is no concern of yours."

"If I am to be your wife—as the King commands—and you are in thrall with another woman, it does seem to be of concern to me."

"Do you wish, then, to abandon the notion of wedding me?"

"Oh, no, John—oh, no! It is me that you have got with child, not this virtuous wife of another! I need a husband and father for my bairn, and she does not. I also need a place at court. So we shall be wed, as His Majesty decrees. But
...
so long as you remember this other, so shall I!"

He eyed her with the negation of love.

"When shall we have the wedding, then?" she asked, brightly again. "It had, probably, better be soon."

Curtly he nodded.

"Have
you
any preferred day? We are near to November. Yuletide would be best avoided. Do you agree? Then, say, in a month? St Margaret's Day sounds well. Whom I am named for. November the sixteenth. Have you anything against St Margaret? No? Good. But try to sound something more eager as a bridegroom. Sir John Stewart and his lady must keep up appearances, no? Where shall we be wed?"

"I care not. Since it is you and the King who are so keen, you can settle that between you."

"Very well. There will be much to se
e to before then— and no doubt I
shall have to see to it!"

"As you say.
I
have to go now, to St Paul's. On the King's business."

"So soon? After so long a parting? You do not desire some little
...
enjoyment? Of, shall we say, a bridegroom's privileges? It might be contrived
..."

"I thank you, no," he said stiffly. "I must go, if I am to catch these merchants, at St Paul's."

She nodded. "It is that way, is it? As you will." Then, she reached out a hand to his arm. "John—it will not be so ill—being married. You will see. With an understanding of each other, we will fare well enough. We need not be
...
difficult with one another."

"I hope so—indeed I do . . ."

In consequence of all this, John was not in his most accommodating frame of mind when he reached St Paul's. He could not find any of the Merchant Venturers whom he knew in the throng and was directed to a tavern in Seething Lane, a poor place for such influential traders, but full to overflowing. Woolcombe was there and the man Cardell. When they perceived John they did not delay in detaching themselves from others, and approached him as though he was a long-lost relative. Where had he been? Why the long delay? They had looked for him. His paper was waiting at the Blackfriars.

John told them briefly that he had been detained in Scotland. Had they examined the paper?

Yes, they had. The quality was about right for their requirements. How much?

"How much do you require?"

"We can take all that you can send us. If the price is right. How much money is what I meant."

John shrugged. "Three hundred shillings for the 1,000 sheets," he answered flatly.

The two merchants glanced at each other.

"Three hundred. That is £15 sterling. For 1,000 sheets." Woolcombe gazed into his tankard. "That is, delivered here, to London River? Fifteen pounds the 1,000. Ummm."

"Fifteen pounds
..."
Cardell repeated, examining the ceiling.

"Yes."

"Is there any reduction for quantity? A continuing purchase?" Woolcombe wondered. "We could make it a steady order. For regular deliveries. Some small reduction, sir?"

John could scarcely believe his ears. The price suggested in Scotland had been not much more than a third of that sum—120 shillings per 1,000. He had named 300 merely as an opening bargaining figure, prepared to chaffer. But they seemed to be taking it seriously. This monopolies ban must be hitting these people hard, that they were so eager. He would have thought that prices would be coming down, not going up. He took a chance.

"No, sir—no reduction. That is our price. Take it or leave it. We would have no difficulty in selling the paper elsewhere."

"This price will stand for further shipments?"

"In the meantime, yes."

"How many? How much in each cargo? And how often?"

"There are 30,000 sheets in this first consignment. We could send more, at a time. How often would you wish deliveries? Monthly?"

"We could take more."

"Fifty thousand sheets monthly, then? At 300 shillings per 1,000. Present quality."

"So be it. If that is the best that you can do for us. But, see you, Master Methven—there is one matter more. We would not wish you to sell to others also."

"I understood that monopolies were now to be unlawful?"

"No doubt, sir—but this is scarce a monopoly. But a private arrangement between buyer and seller. As all trade must be."

"Very well. Let us say that we shall consider no other sale in England without first informing you."

"It is agreed, then?" Woolcombe held out his great paw. "We'll shake on that, Master Methven. It's a bargain. We will seal it with the best ale. When can we have delivery?"

"When you have payment to hand."

"The morrow, then? At Bertram's, in Blackfriars. At twelve noon? Thirty thousand sheets. At £15 the thousand.

That is £450 sterling. You will have the Merchant Venturers' note-of-hand for the sum, then. Made out to whom? Yourself, Master Methven?"

"No, sir. Made out to Sir John Stewart, Knight."

"Sir
John? A knight. . . ?"

"Yes, In Scotland we do such things differently. You have the name? Stewart."

"Stewart it is, yes. Four hundred and fifty pounds. Tomorrow noon. Yes, Master Methven. Now—ale!"

Sir John Stewart, Knight, returned westwards with mixed feelings again. Kingjames would be happy, at least. Even at 120 shillings there would have been a fair profit. But at 300, if he calculated aright, there would be no less than £270 profit. In sterling. For this load. And at 50,000 sheets a load, £450 profit. Each month. Surely the King would not grasp it all, thirled to money as he was? Some ought to come to himself—to help pay off Middlemas. And him soon with a wife to keep . .
.!

16

They were married on St Margaret's Day in the private chapel of St James's Palace, a small and rather shabby sanctuary, now but little-used, and cold on a chilly mid-November day. Nor was there any large crowd to fill and warm the place, only a handful of guests, however distinguished some of them. One of the King's favourite chaplains, Valentine Cary, Dean of St Paul's, officiated, and made fairly short work of it. Will Alexander was groomsman and one of Margaret's cousins, another Margaret Hamilton, coltish, plump and plain, was bridesmaid. Another cousin gave her away, in the absence of his brother, the new Earl of Abercorn—the old one had died, in Ireland. He seemed almost glad to be rid of her. Ludovick was there and one or two of his friends at court. Otherwise most of the congregation appeared to be grinning young men, who were presumably friends of Margaret's, since John did not know any of them.

Margaret herself was certainly looking at her best, high-coloured, bold-eyed, smiling, scarcely a demure bride but clearly pleased with life—and no sign of pregnancy was evident. John, having taken himself in hand, put the best face on it all of which he was capable, and sought to look reasonably cheerful even if less than ebullient.

The King did not grace the occasion; perhaps that could hardly have been expected, however much of it all was of his engineering. His contribution was the wedding-feast at Whitehall, to which the court had returned for the winter, the Ralegh furore having died down. This proved to be a fairly modest affair of no great munificence, over which Ludovick presided and which fairly quickly became noisy, with the liquor flowing and only the two females present, neither of whom were shrinki
ng violets. Presently, possibly
attracted by the noise, James himself turned up, with Steenie Villiers, and, after proposing a toast to Sir John and Lady Stewart, settled down to some steady drinking.