11. Phoebe

P HOEBE The Middle Shires of the Scottish Borders, 5th May 1613

W E WEREN ' T BEING FOLLOWED.

The first day, I'd caught the contagion that seemed to have Logan and Hector and even my father held fast in its grip. Three times Hector called out to warn he'd seen motion behind on the road that might be a pursuer, and thrice we'd moved into the trees at the roadside, to wait in the shadows, not daring to breathe lest we make a betraying sound.

Each time, my heart raced with the fear every hunted thing feels.

And each time, we'd watched innocent merchants or wayfarers pass on the road, unaware and in no degree threatening.

When, in the evening, we came to a village called Stow, Logan hadn't allowed us to stop there. Instead he had taken us off the road up a long lane to a farmhouse where we'd taken lodgings that, if I were kind, might have suited a fieldworker. I had been careful, though, not to complain.

Partly because I knew Logan expected me to, and I'd not give him that satisfaction. And partly because I knew it was the best that the farmwife, our hostess, could offer, and she was a good woman, cheerful and welcoming, and to repay her by being ungrateful would have been unspeakably rude.

But I was stiff from riding sideways all day on the horse, adjusting to its constant motion, trying not to fall. And I was stiffer still this morning, after sleeping on the thin pallet bed with its uneven stuffing of straw that made lumps in some places and let me feel through to the floor in some others.

When Logan had lifted me onto the pillion this morning, I'd flinched, even though I'd tried not to. I'd brushed off his hands.

As his grey eyes met mine, I'd explained, ‘My back hurts.'

He said nothing at first, merely swung himself into the saddle, fitting his long legs behind the pistol holsters that hung down at either side from hooks by the front pommel. Valentine's pistol holsters, like his saddle, were covered in velvet, ornately embroidered in silver thread, and edged with silver braid and gilt brass nails. Logan's were workmanlike, of unembellished leather made to match his saddle, capped below with plain brass as a guard. His sword hung just before the near one, in its scabbard, and if we were being followed, any villain would have found it hard to come through him.

But we weren't being followed.

The whole of this second day we had been looking behind us for whatever Logan imagined was there, and again there'd been nothing to see but the road, on which we were most often the only ones travelling.

That was understandable. The way was narrow, closely pressed by forests, and in some spots crossed by rivulets and streams that had no bridge, so we were forced to urge the horses through them at a fording-place.

In fairness, we passed farmhouses from time to time, and even villages, and at midday we came upon a market town with huddled roofs, a steeple, and the scent of woodsmoke hanging in the air. I heard the sound of children laughing at a game, and clanging iron from what might have been a forge, but Logan did not let us pause.

He drew his cloak about his doublet, hiding any trace of scarlet, and he spoke a word to his great horse and led our party onwards, and we did not stop until the town was far enough behind us that we could no longer hear the sounds of people, only birdsong. There, in the shelter of the trees beside another stream that chased over smooth stones, we ate our dinner – a cold meal of oaten cakes and eggs cooked in their shells, wrapped up in packets for us by the farmwife who last night had been our hostess, and washed down with ale. I was thankful my father, who'd travelled like this before, had thought to bring us two small wooden tumblers from home, for it saved me the indignity of swilling ale from the communal jug.

My father marked a note into the pages of his almanac. ‘I have not seen that bird before.' He stood to see it better, and then quickly sat again, as though his legs had lost their strength and failed him.

I forgot my food. ‘Are you unwell?'

My father shook his head. ‘I stood with too much haste, is all. My muscles were not ready.' But his face was pale.

The bird, as if in understanding, flew to perch upon a lower branch. My father took his notes. His face regained its colour. And the bird at last came fluttering to hunt the crumbs we'd left upon the ground, to Hector's great delight.

Hector faced our day as though it were a grand adventure. I wished I could do the same, but it was difficult while trying not to topple from the pillion or lean too close to Logan's broad, unyielding back for what seemed endless hours of discomfort.

In the waning hours of the afternoon we came upon another town, and Logan drew his cloak about him once again as we approached a crossroads that would lead us off away along the riverbank, and I could no more bear it.

‘Logan?' Without letting go of his belt, I nudged my hand into the small of his back.

His head angled sideways. ‘Aye?'

‘We should stop here for the night.'

‘The horses can go further.'

‘I cannot,' I said. ‘Nor can my father.'

Logan glanced back at the others, and I thought perhaps he might be feeling the effects of our day's ride more deeply than he would admit, for his gaze lost its focus a moment. He said, ‘Very well. But say nothing to anyone, understand? Not without looking to me. I will speak for us.'

His head stayed half turned when I did not reply, and he asked, ‘What, no arguments?'

Had we been friends, I'd have said he was teasing me, but we weren't friends, so his comment could only be mocking.

In truth, I'd been forming the words of debate in my mind, but discarded them now. I'd not give him that victory. I'd happily hold my tongue if it meant I could get down from his horse, and away from him . Archly, I told him, ‘No arguments.'

‘Well.' Logan sounded amused. ‘There's a first time for everything.'

Reining the horse to a halt, he lifted his arm to gather the others around us on the road. My father did look tired, but otherwise was bearing up well, and gave me a small smile of encouragement. Sir David made a stoic figure, all in black upon the black mare, with his red hair hidden by the hooded cloak whose folds he kept around his wrists to hide the chains and manacles so no one passing on the road would notice them. A man with pride, then. Younger than my father, perhaps in his middle forties, he still had an air of weariness about him, though he sat upright and easy in the saddle. Last came Hector, on his Highland pony, still looking like a miniature Logan, his cloak drawn around him to hide any trace of his red shirt, his young face determined. He only wanted the boots and the arrogance.

Logan told them, as if it had been his own idea, ‘We'll be stopping here. Heads up, mouths shut, eyes open. And keep close. We are not out of danger.'

We started on again, and though I was still unconvinced, I cast one furtive look behind, to reassure myself the road was truly empty.

It was a pretty town. The broader river met a smaller, brighter, dancing stream here, and there was a mill, and all the houses' roofs were freshly thatched. The bustle of activity around the well and market cross led me to hope the town might have a tavern or an inn that offered rooms and meals to travellers, but such things seemed a rarity in Scotland.

Instead, Logan asked a man, ‘Where would we find the bailie?'

What a bailie was I did not know and could not ask, since I was bound to silence, but from having seen how closely some Scots words resembled English ones, I guessed it might be something like a bailiff, so a person of authority.

My guess was proved right when we were directed to the man himself – the bailie of the town, who introduced himself as Robert Scott, and was warden of a tower house set near the banks of the swift-flowing stream, beside an ancient bridge whose arches seemed as fixed and timeless as the old church on the other side, its steeple rising from the hill like an all-seeing guardian.

This tower house was very like the King's Wark, both outside and in – its sturdy, square walls built of stone to keep out all intruders – yet Logan clearly questioned its security.

He stationed Hector in the stables, with instructions to observe the care the tower's groom gave to the horses. ‘See that they're fed and watered well, and not handled by strangers.'

When the rest of us were shown upstairs, he left us sitting in the parlour and strode through the few rooms of our lodgings, making an inspection, while the bailie sought to reassure him, ‘You're as safe here as you would be at my own estate at Alton. Why, this tower stood when all the town was burnt, in our king's mother's time, and it will stand a good while longer, mark my words, against whatever comes.'

Logan said, ‘That may be so, but I would have ye set a man to watch at every entry to the town. And post another in the steeple of the kirk. Tell them to shout if they see riders.'

The bailie nodded, but he also glanced towards Sir David, who had chosen not to sit and was now making his own circuit of the parlour, pausing now and then to look out of a window or examine some small item on a table.

As discreetly as he could, the bailie leaned in close to Logan. ‘Is that not Sir David Moray?'

From the far side of the room, the answer came directly from Sir David, who without turning his head or pausing in his study of the room, replied, ‘It is indeed.'

The bailie coughed, and begged his pardon. He himself, from what I gathered, was a member of the local gentry, not unlike Sir David's father in his social standing. From his expression I could see that dealing with such men as prisoners made him feel uncomfortable.

I sympathized.

Since leaving Leith, Sir David had behaved in every way towards us as a perfect gentleman. That Logan made him wear those wretched manacles was not only unnecessary, but an insult to his station.

I'd have said as much, but I had promised Logan I would hold my tongue, so I said nothing, keeping to my corner in my chair beside a tapestry that smelled of heavy dust no years of beating could dislodge.

The bailie, though, could speak his mind. ‘Our doors here all have sturdy locks, you'll find them quite secure, so you'll have no need for those manacles while you're within our tower.'

Logan's grey eyes narrowed slightly in a look I'd seen so many times before I could have told the bailie he could save his breath, for he would never win the argument, but once again it was Sir David who replied.

He lightly said, ‘I thank you, but in truth I find them useful. I have taken little exercise of late, and my arms sorely needed strengthening.' He demonstrated, raising his arms on a level before him, his wrists held by the two iron bracelets and connected by the iron chain between. ‘You see? I shall be lifting all manner of heavy things by the time we reach London.' He started to smile, but it froze on his features, then fell away altogether.

His eyes were fixed upon a point beside the bailie's head. The bailie twisted round to look, and in a tone of understanding said, ‘It is a faithful likeness, is it not?'

I looked, as well. I'd somehow missed the portrait earlier – it was not large, and hung beside one of the windows where a shadow slanted over half its frame. But even from my corner, I could recognize the serious and watchful eyes of the painting's subject.

‘Yes,' Sir David said. ‘A faithful likeness.'

‘That was painted when Prince Henry was not yet two years of age,' the bailie told him. ‘And you see how nobly he does hold himself.'

I saw an infant weighted down with coronet and heavy robes, a rattle clutched within his hand as though it were a sceptre. And his face was far too grave for one so small.

The bailie said, ‘It is a copy, naturally. The original was a gift from good Queen Anna to Sir Walter Scott, my kinsman. She fought hard, the queen did, for Sir Walter to be made the governor of the young prince, but the king, as always, had his way.'

My father could not bear to hear the king be criticized. He asked, ‘You think that is unnatural, sir, that the king should rule his wife?'

The bailie looked suddenly uncertain. ‘No, of course not.' His gaze flashed to Logan. ‘I meant no disrespect, you understand. I'd be most grateful if you would not mention—'

This time Logan reacted as though the suggestion offended him. ‘I serve the king,' he reminded the bailie. ‘I'm not his spy.'

The bailie, nodding understanding, deftly switched the subject. ‘You'll be wanting supper. I will have a meal sent up for you, and see that food is sent out to the stables for your lad.'

‘The lad will eat with us,' said Logan. ‘I'd be grateful if ye'd post one of your men to guard our horses in his place.'

‘It shall be done. If there is nothing else…'

‘Fresh water, if ye have it.' Logan's gaze brushed me impassively. ‘I've no doubt Mistress Westaway would thank ye for the chance to wash. Our ride has been a long one.'

It was thoughtful of him, asking that, and I'd not learned the way to deal with Logan when he did things that were thoughtful.

It wasn't until we had finished our meal and dispersed to our various evening activities that I worked up enough courage to try to approach him. He'd taken a chair by the hearth and was cleaning his boots. Somehow, when he was focused on such a small, everyday task, with his head bent, relaxed, it was harder to know what to say.

I strolled past him three times before stopping. He glanced up.

I said, ‘Asking the bailie for water was very kind. Thank you.'

‘Aye, well. I'll try not to make a habit of it. I'd not wish to ruin your ill opinion of me.' But he was smiling slightly as he said it, and his eyes held an almost friendly warmth, and I might have ventured to say something further if my father, who had settled at the table to write his official record of our day, hadn't asked, ‘What is the name of this town?'

Logan replied, but I couldn't decide whether I had heard HAW-eek or HOY-eek or something between the two, spoken so quickly it all but slid into one syllable.

‘How is it spelled?' I asked.

Logan said, ‘As it sounds.'

My father's pen hovered uncertainly over the paper.

Sir David took pity upon him. ‘'Tis H-a-w-i-c-k.' He had taken the tall chair at the other side of the hearth, not far from where I stood beside Logan, and was leaning back into it, his own booted feet stretched out before him as he watched the flames of the fire dance across the coals.

Since supper he had held himself apart from us, remaining quiet.

Logan studied him a moment, then half turned and called to Hector, who had been exploring in the room.

The boy was frowning at the portrait of Prince Henry. ‘Aye?'

‘Ye wanted to learn how to be a good Messenger. This would be part of it,' he said, and lifted the boot he was polishing. ‘My appearance must always reflect well upon my king. Since ye've no boots of your own, ye might come clean Sir David's, for the practice.'

Sir David said, ‘He need not be my servant.'

Logan countered, ‘I'm but teaching him a skill that any man might find of use, and if the lesson does ye service, where's the harm?'

Hector was willing, but he had a question of his own, first. ‘Who would put a bairn in clothes like these?' he asked, still looking at the portrait of the infant prince. ‘He's weighted down so much with frills and finery he cannae move.'

My father looked up sharply from his writing. ‘Hector, Logan asked you to—'

‘See his face, though?' Hector carried on, oblivious to our discomfort, or to how we were all stealing glances at Sir David. ‘This wee man looks like he's telling ayebody exactly what he thinks of them, as well he should. That hat's too tall for him, it's pure ridiculous.'

Logan's mouth tightened. ‘The boots, lad.'

Hector dutifully came and pulled a stool beside the hearth and sat upon it between Logan and Sir David, who, no longer sombre, sat smiling faintly as though at a joke that the rest of us couldn't share.

Relinquishing his boots to Hector, Sir David told the boy, ‘You're right. He hated to be overdressed, and always let us know it.'

Hector looked up, wide-eyed. ‘Ye kent him, then? The bairn who's in the painting?'

‘Aye.' Sir David's voice grew soft. ‘For nearly all his life, I knew him. And if you think what he wears in that portrait is ridiculous, you should have been there on the day of his baptism.'

My father, always keen for any bit of royal news, asked, ‘You were present when the king's son was baptized?'

‘Oh, aye,' Sir David said. ‘Most of my family had that honour.'

Hector frowned. ‘The king's son?' Then his face changed as he grasped the truth. ‘That bairn – is that Prince Henry?'

The awe in his voice clearly touched Sir David, who answered him, ‘Aye, lad.'

‘And ye actually kent him?'

My father said, ‘Sir David served the prince twelve years, my boy, as his closest companion. No man knew him better.'

To think any man knew the prince was intriguing. Prince Henry had always seemed more like a myth than a living young man, shifting shape to become what the people expected to see. Some loved him for his handsome face, while others praised him for his faith, or for his bold, adventure-seeking nature that set ships upon the sea. But for younger boys, like Hector, the prince stood for all the manly skills they prized and wished to master.

Hitching his stool round to face Sir David more completely, Hector took up a boot and polished it with newfound care. ‘They say that none could ever best the prince when he was jousting.'

‘He was very good,' Sir David owned. ‘And there was jousting, now I think of it, upon the field at Stirling Castle, in the days that led up to his baptism – although the prince was only six months old and very likely slept through most of it.' Again the small smile, such as men got when they were remembering. ‘Sir Walter Scott, the Laird of Buccleuch – the kinsman of our host – he took part in those jousts, to help to entertain all the ambassadors who'd come from foreign lands, while they were waiting.'

‘Waiting for what?' Hector wanted to know.

‘For the English ambassador to arrive. He took his time,' Sir David said, ‘and came last of all, to be sure we'd all know he was very important.'

I'd heard that dry humour before in his tone, but this time it was gentler, as though Hector sitting in front of him stirred memories of when another young boy had once sat with him, wanting a tale to be told.

‘Then what happened?' asked Hector.

‘Well, this was in August, mind, so it was very warm, and every kingdom on the continent had sent its representatives to join our Scottish noblemen and gentry in the chapel that the king had newly built at Stirling Castle, meaning there was scarcely room to move. Which was just as well, for had I not been pressed between my brothers, I'd have fallen on my face from standing in that heat.'

Hector accused him of exaggerating.

‘Aye, mayhap I am. It may not have been from the heat, but from the boredom of the Bishop's preaching, which he gave twice over, first in ordinary speech and then a second time in Latin – for the benefit, presumably, of any ancient Romans in our midst.'

My father laughed. ‘Come now, Sir David. Surely you understand Latin.'

‘Aye, but I regret the prince at that young age did not. He was then fast asleep, and who could blame him, being wrapped in robes even more stifling than those—' He nodded at the portrait. ‘They were styled of purple velvet, weighted down with pearls, and fashioned with a train so long it took two noble lords to hold it and carry it between them.'Tis most fortunate the prince but slept, and was not suffocated.' His mouth quirked. ‘But he wakened when they blew the trumpets, and he gave us all that same look as ye see there in that portrait, lad, and aye, he let us know exactly what he thought then of his situation.'

Logan kept his head bent to his work, but asked, ‘And were ye at the banquet also?'

‘Aye.'

‘Then ye would have seen the ship they wheeled into the great hall. My father telt us how he saw them building it, although he was not there for the festivities. He said it was a full-sized ship, with sails of silk, a silver anchor, galleries of blue and gold, and thirty-six brass guns.'

Sir David nodded. ‘Aye, and bearing Neptune and his minions and a party of musicians, sailing on an artificial sea. It made a great impression when it entered, I recall, although my own attention was elsewhere.'

Hector could not imagine anything that would distract someone's attention from a sight like that.

Sir David said, ‘One day you'll find, lad, that a woman's face does oft have that effect. And I was seated with the most fair woman in the room, which has, I fear, blurred all my memories of the details of the banquet.' Sir David settled his shoulders against the chair, fixing his gaze on the changeable flames of the fire. ‘Or perhaps what happened later drove all other memories from my mind as being less important.'

It surprised me that my father had kept writing through this storytelling. I could hear his pen still scratching as he asked Sir David, ‘Why is that?'

Sir David paused, and faintly smiled.

I didn't think he'd answer.

I was wrong.