Unicorn Rampant (7 page)

The ideal was for two hawks to aim at the same quarry, so that their owners could wager against which would make the kill, in which case the riders tended to be in pairs. But that by no means always happened and frequently, with sufficient game put up by the dogs, as here, the hawks all went after different fowl—in which case the wagering had to become more complicated. A further complication now was the reluctance of the others to wager against the King— who liked to win, and moreover kept notably good and well-trained hawks. Reigning favourites, such as Steenie Villiers, usually prudently saw to it that they flew inferior birds so that the monarch was unlikely to be offended by losing to them.

John had no difficulty in spotting James, whose extraordinary sacklike posture in the saddle was unique. He was with two others, Steenie—who presumably was forgiven for yesterday's failure—and the rubicund Bishop of Ely, who of course came from splendid wildfowl country in the Cambridgeshire fens. The young favourite looked bored.

Boredom took on an added sourness at sight of John riding up. The King spared only a glance from his hawk's assault on a great, lazily-flapping heron.

"Ha—Johnnie Stewart, come a-hawking! You're late, man—right dilatory. Long abed, nae doubt. Lying in after your knightly vigil, eh? Or after chambering and wantonness, mair like!"

"No, Sire, neither. My lord Duke sent me. We
...
he knew nothing of this hunting and hawking. He sent me for Your Majesty's instructions."

"Aye, well—no' the noo, laddie. Can you no' see I'm busy? I. . . ha—a strike! An excellent strike. Feathers! Aye, a notable stoop. Yon heron will no' survive another, I say. It'll no' survive another stoop. Ten gold nobles, Bishop, that it comes doon on the next strike."

"Taken, Your Majesty," the prelate said, if without enthusiasm.

"Aye—at him, Hippogryph! At him, my bonny bird! He's big, but nae spunk, the great muckle brute! My Hippogryph's mair'n a match for him, Bishop. Hippogryph—you catch the allusion, John Stewart, eh?" A quick look at the younger man. "The winged hero, mind! Ha—there he goes again! A kill
...
och, well, no'just. Yon was no' really a strike at a', Bishop, mind. A miss, just. No' to be counted
..."

"But feathers, Sire! Look—see them fluttering down. That is ten gold nobles . . . !"

"Na, na—those are loose feathers frae the last strike, man. It was no' a hit, I say. Was it, Steenie?"

"I . . . ah, did not notice, Sire," the beautiful youth said.

"You should keep your bit mind on the sport, boy. Dreaming, eh? Och—maybe dreaming o' your auld gossip

Jamie, belike? Aye, maybe! You, John Stewart—you've got guid eyes, I warrant.
You
saw it was nae strike?"

As has been said, John was an honest young man. He coughed. "It
...
it seemed to me to hit, Your Majesty. At the base of the neck. A fair stroke. But—see! It is coming down, I think. The heron. Yes, it loses height. .
.!"

James, who had turned to glare at his new knight, looked back. "Guidsake—aye, so it does, lad! It comes doon. See—there it fa's. I was right, Bishop man. Yon great waffling fowl hasna survived a second strike. Ten gold nobles . .
.!"

The heron's deliberate flapping had changed to an ungainly aerial floundering, and in an untidy bundle of long wings, neck and sticklike legs it fell with a splash into the reeds. Majesty spurred in after it in triumph.

He did not get far, of course—his horse had more sense, swinging round and back as it sank up to its knees. The dogs retrieved the heron, and James began to coax down his hawk with wheedling cries.

John tried again. "Sire—the Duke of Lennox requires your instructions. There is much, much concern at the palace. Matters have been arranged for Your Majesty. For this day. Many wait, not knowing what
..
."

"Aye, lad, folk are ay arranging matters for my Majesty! No' always to my taste, see you. Whiles, I prefer my ain arranging."

"Yes, Sire. But the Duke my father requires to know Your Highness's will. In especial in this of the banquet in the City Chambers. It is due to start within the hour, I think
..."

"Then it will hae to wait. It will do them a' good. They're ower fond o' belly-pandering, these folk." James had retrieved his hawk and hooded it, stroking its feathers gently. "Is my Hippogryph no' a bonny bird?"

"Undoubtedly, Majesty. Shall I go tell the Duke then that Your Highness will not be attending the banquet?"

"No' so fast, Sir Johnnie—no' so fast! I didna say that, did I? I said they'd hae to wait. You'll need to listen mair needfully to my royal words if you're going to serve me, mind. Eh, Steenie? Bishop—your doited bird is after a shelduck, see. Shelduck are nae guid—you should ken that. Even you Englishry'll no' eat shelduck,
I
warrant!"

"It is a passage-hawk, Sire, and may have fed on them wild. . ."

"And what of the cannon-fire?" John asked, getting desperate.

"Eh? Eh—cannon-fire, did you say? What's this?" He had the royal attention now.

"The salutation, Sire. From the Castle. The Constable is to fire cannon there, in your honour."

"When? When is this, man?"

"It was to be forenoon, Sire, I think. About now
..."

"Sakes—they'll no' fire them and me no' there, will they? This Constable man—he canna dae that!"

"I do not know. If it is but a salutation to mark Your Majesty's return to your Scots capital city, it could be fired at any time, for all would hear it.
.."

"Hech, hech—that would be a wicked waste! He'll no' hae done it? Already? Would we hear it, here?"

"Oh, I think so. With the Castle set so high. It ca
^-
not be more than two miles."

"Aye. Then off wi' you, John Stewart. To Edinburgh Castle. Tell yon Constable, whoever he may be, that he's no' to fire a si
ngle cannon until I come. I’ll f
ire thae cannon! You have it? You go tell him."

"Now, Sire?
Before
I go back to Holyrood?"

"Aye, now. Instanter. In case the fool starts up. Nae time to lose."

"But—what of the banquet?"

"Deil tak their banquet! It can wait. Off wi' you."

"Yes, Sire. I am to tell the Constable to wait until you come? When will that be?"

"Hoo can I ken that? So soon as I can get there, man. What think you?"

"Before the banquet. . . ?"

"Guidsakes—hud your wheesht aboot this banquet! What's one banquet mair or less?"

"It is just that the Duke said I was to find out, Your Majesty. If Your Majesty wishes to go to it
..."

"My wishes are that there is to be nae cannon-fire until
I come. See you to it—and nae mair havering aboot. Go, John Stewart—or you'll no' be knight for muckle longer, I promise you!"

John bowed from the saddle and reined round his borrowed horse.

He rode, fast, round the south-western flanks of Arthur's Seat, in past the hospice and hamlet of St Leonards, with the suicides' graveyard, and through the Greyfriars Port into the city. Thereafter, down Candlemaker Row, up the West Bow again, scene of yesterday's heroics, and into the Lawnmarket. Thereafter it was merely a straight canter up the causeway to the castle gatehouse and drawbridge.

Today the bridge was down and John was able to ride in unchallenged, a highly unusual state of affairs. He found the various wards and terraced-courts of the great fortress on the crest of the rock thronged with folk, mostly looking bemused and worried. None asked a single young horseman what he was about.

He rode up to the Constable's quarters in one of the topmost towers, to be dismissed briefly with the information that that luminary was not there, and whereabouts unknown. Deciding that the actual battery, where the main armament of cannon were ranged, high above the gatehouse and moat, to protect the only approach not guarded by precipices, was the likeliest place, in the circumstances, he hurried thither. This great semi-circular fortification, built forty years earlier, had no fewer than fourteen cannon-ports, pointing to east, north-east and south-east, and was known as the Half Moon Battery. Here, although there were plenty of people surrounding the ranked cannon, enquiries brought him to, not the Constable but the Master of the Royal Ordnance, John, eighth Lord Borthwick, who appeared to be in charge, a cheerful, burly character in his early thirties, who was whiling away the time of waiting by eating an alfresco meal and emptying a flagon of wine. When John had explained-his identity and mission, Borthwick informed that the Constable had gone down to Holyroodhouse to discover what had happened to the King. But he added that it was he who would actually order the cannon to be fired, as Hereditary Master-Gunner. He was in no hurry and no fret, he assured, prepared to wait all day— unlike that Constable, who was something of an old wife. He suggested that Methven—John was bashful about informing others that he was now Sir John—join him in refreshments.

The pressure being thus eased, the visitor was in three minds whether to return to the King, go back to his father at the palace, or to remain where he was. However, he decided that the monarch might be anywhere by now, on his way here, or returned to Holyrood first; so the best course was probably to wait.

It was as well that he did, for Lord Borthwick, who seemed glad of his company, was showing him the various pieces of artillery, rhapsodising over the mighty Mons Meg, its virtues and vices and odd name, when there sounded a great clattering of hooves from the approach-causeway below. Hurrying to the parapet, they peered over. About a dozen horsemen were pounding up fast, strung out; but well to the fore was a rider whose jouncing, sacklike seat and high hat were unmistakeable.

"It's the King!"John cried.
"He has come right away. ‘I
t is James himself."

"You say so? Then—the guns should be firing. Quick . .
.!"

"No, no—do not fire. He said that
he
would fire them. None to be fired until he came. He was strong on that. . ."

"James? Fire them himself? The King .
..
?"

"Yes. My father says that he likes cannonading."

Borthwick shrugged. "He could blow himself up! Like James Second, at Roxburgh yon time!" He shouted to the gun-teams at each of the nine c
annon in use, to stand to and
await orders.

James came beating up, swaying in the saddle, hat askew, horse foaming, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. John ran to help the monarch down.

"You were in time, Johnnie man," Majesty gasped. "As well, mind. Whae's this? The Constable, is it—or Keeper, or whatever he ca's himsel'?"

"I am the Lord Bort
hwick, Sire—Your Majesty's Master of the Ordnance."

"You tell me that? Och, I kent your faither, then. A right lecherous auld rogue, too! But leal enough. Noo—whaur do we start? You got plenty powder and shot?"

"Plenty of powder, yes. We'll not need shot, Sire. Or we could be killing folk and bringing down chimneys!"

"Och, there's surely some bit open space where we could aim withoot hurting folk? Just a ball or two. Firing a cannon withoot a ball's like trying to mow a woman lacking the same gear, eh?"

"It is dangerous, Majesty. If the ball falls short. . ."

"If you're a guid cannoneer it
shouldna
fa' short, man. That's the art o' it—you, my Maister Gunner, should ken that. Yon bit ayont the High Riggs, where Geordie Heriot's new hospital's to be—yon's fine and open. A ball there'd dae nae harm. Noo—this muckle great brute's auld Mons Meg—I ken her fine. We'll start wi' her. Is she a' primed and loaded?"

"Primed, Highness—not loaded. None are loaded. Meg throws a seventy-pound ball over two thousand of paces
..."

"What of it? We'll gie her a bit bang, anyway. You'll hae some wool, man?"

"Wool? No, I never use it, Sire. Some of the gunners have
it..."

James peered at the master-gunner beside Mons Meg, saw the white lamb's wool plug stopping his ear, tweaked it out and put it in his own ear. He dodged round behind the man to extract the other one. "Noo—gie's your bit lucifer, laddie." Taking the flaring match-rope, he went to the cannon, bent to gaze along the line of the huge barrel, clucking his tongue at the fact that it was lined up on nothing in particular, and applied the flame to the touch-hole.

The explosion was shattering, tremendous, shaking the surrounding buildings, however substantial—as well it might, for the charge contained no less than seventy pounds of gunpowder. John put hands to ears, head seeming to split open. Everywhere people gasped and reeled. A ball of smoke rolled out from the muzzle towards the Lawnmarket.