12. David

D AVID Hawick, Roxburghshire, Scotland, the same day

T HE OLDER MAN, WESTAWAY, was taking notes. David knew what that meant, he was nobody's fool. They'd be taking down all that he told them, to use it against him in trial, if what King James was planning could be called a trial.

His brother had given him warning. ‘For God's sake,' he'd written to David from London, ‘do not come home. Nor should you linger in Paris. They know where you are. Travel anywhere else, but stay safely abroad, for your life is in danger.'

And yet, that was no way to live – being hunted. He'd not found the peace that he'd hoped for in France, and he doubted he'd find it by travelling farther.

Besides, his brother's letter had enclosed another, sealed by the queen's hand, and in her writing, echoing his brother's warnings, finishing with, Come not now, but when the way is safe, come speak with me, for there are questions I must ask you.

David wasn't sure he had the answers. He had questions, too. But he'd burned both letters, packed his things, and headed home.

Dead must to dead, the living to the living,

The grave cannot be capable of love,

It ill beseems thy youth to be thus grieving;

Must thou a mourner restless ever prove?

He'd written those words bravely once within a poem and published them, but that had been before… They were but words now, without meaning. Hollow. Written by a man he barely recognized.

In front of him, the young lad, Hector, sat and waited hopefully for David to explain what happened on the night the prince was christened that could have been more important than the banquet and its spectacle. The knowledge of Westaway's writing gave David pause, but then he knew he need not tell them everything. He could decide what to share, and how, and what he wished to keep private.

But for himself, he could remember everything. As David gazed now at the fire, he saw the shapes of people move within it, dancing back to life. And always, always, he saw her.

Stirling Castle, Scotland, 30th August 1594

He did not know the hour, but they'd left midnight long behind. The banquet would be drawing to an end and all the guests departing, and he'd lose this time to talk with her. That knowledge should have made him speak more clearly of the way he felt. Instead, it made him silent.

Celia did not seem to mind. She'd been the one who'd looked around at all the frenzy of the banquet, met his eyes, and smiled, and told him, ‘Take me somewhere there is peace.'

And here they were.

In all his twenty-seven years, he'd found no place where he felt more relaxed than on this narrow terrace sheltered midway up the castle's southern face.

The stonemasons who worked upon this terrace had outdone themselves and wrought a fantasy of twisting columns, arches, tangled leaves and vines, and painted gargoyles. Of all these, David's favourite was the little dragon, perched above one window with its gilded wings furled tightly to its back, still shining even by the moonlight.

Celia had not seen the dragon. She appeared to be absorbing what he'd told her about why this place was special to him, because when she finally spoke, her voice, with its faintly French accent, was incredulous.

‘But surely, they could not have let you play up here as children?'

‘'Tis the perfect place for play.' The terrace ended at a strong, square tower, standing guardian, backed securely by the tall windows and elaborate stonework of the limewashed castle walls. At its front, a crenellated, waist-high wall allowed young boys to make believe they stood upon the battlements, and gave a view across the valley of imagined armies and invaders.

David said, ‘By daylight, you can see the battlefield of Bannockburn, just there.' He pointed to the place, framed by the blacker rise of the Touch and Gargunnock hills. He knew each crag and contour of those hills, and knew the green depths of the forests that swept down the valley folds between. ‘And over there's the battlefield of Sauchieburn, with noble deeds and tragedy enough in that one scene to keep a schoolboy from his studies.'

‘You were sent to school here, then, at Stirling?'

‘On occasion, aye. The king and William had their classroom there, within the tower. There were other lads as well who came and went, as I did. We did share good times, at play upon this terrace.'

High above them rode the half-moon on its field of stars, and all around the landscape lay in shadows, with the huddled rooftops of the town of Stirling sleeping now beneath them. The view he loved was masked by darkness, but Celia came to look anyway, over the low wall. ‘You might have fallen to your deaths.'

‘We'd not have dared. My aunt ran a very strict household, and falling to one's death was not allowed.'

He liked to hear her laugh. It turned the head of the fierce guardsman who stood further down the terrace, and who, recognizing David, had allowed them up here, grudgingly.

‘Your aunt is very frightening. I would not guess she was your mother's sister, for your mother is so sweet.'

He smiled. ‘My aunt's been forced by life to shield her softer side in order to survive. The court can be a jealous place, and dangerous to those who rise too high, and when my uncle was made Earl of Mar and keeper of this castle by Queen Mary, it brought out the sharpened knives. So aye, she shows her frightening side more often than her friendly one, but not without good reason.'

Celia watched his face with eyes that by now had learned all his expressions. ‘You're fond of her.'

‘I am. And she is tolerant of me.'

She laughed again. ‘You give yourself too little credit.'

‘Some would say I give myself too much.' He strove to make a joke of it, but she looked unconvinced, so David said, ‘'Tis true. My brothers have set their course in life, while I'm adrift in Edinburgh with nothing but my wits to steer by.'

As second born, his wits would be his sole inheritance. The family estate would go to William, as the eldest, which was why his other brothers had secured their own support – one in the army in the Low Countries, one in a study of the law, one in the church. A life of service to the church held definite appeal to him, as well. A quiet living, perhaps somewhere in the country, with a wife, and bairns, and books.

But something deep within him warned him that was not his path, and so he waited.

‘Anyway,' he told her, ‘William is the charming one.'

‘I'd rather be steered by your wits than by your brother's charm.' Her hand seemed closer to his own, unless he had imagined it. ‘And were you not in Edinburgh, I never would have met you. That would be a loss indeed.'

He smiled. ‘Your parents would think otherwise.'

‘They like you.'

He knew better, but he held his tongue.

Her sleeve now brushed his own. She wore a gown he had not seen before, of pale blue silk embroidered with small fleurs-de-lis in golden thread that matched the colour of her hair, with a lace ruff so fine and delicate about her neck it seemed the work of faeries. In the great hall, in the light, her gown had sparkled. Here it caught the softer moonbeams and became a thing of beauty.

He thought then that she was right. This place held dangers. He could fall so far and fast it might prove fatal.

‘David?'

‘Aye?'

‘They wish to see me wed, my parents. I have heard them speaking. I am three and twenty now, they think it is past time.'

He looked to where the woods lay, out there in the darkness of the night. ‘And what do you think?'

‘I think I would have to love the man who asked me. But for such a man,' she said, ‘I do believe I might be ready.'

David wanted to reply, You could love me. But the words failed him. If she spurned him, he would lose her, and the thought of losing Celia brought an emptiness he did not want to contemplate.

Still, he was unprepared for the warm clasp of Celia's hand upon his own.

He turned his head and met her upturned gaze, and while he realized that the moon gave an uncertain light, he thought her eyes looked hopeful.

He took a deep breath and was about to speak when he became aware of someone's footsteps drawing near them on the terrace, at his back.

His brother William's voice said, ‘How can you see anything out here?'Tis dark as Hades.'

And he knew that, once again, he'd lost his chance.

Celia turned, lifting her hand clear of David's so gracefully that the small motion might have gone unnoticed. Except David knew, from the shuttered concern in his brother's expression, that William had seen and missed nothing.

Elder brothers seemed designed to torment and protect in equal measure, and just at the moment William's whole demeanour was protective.

Celia seemed to sense it, too, and lightly said, ‘He was showing me where you played your games.'

‘Ah.'

David said, ‘She thinks it was a miracle we did not plummet to our deaths.'

His brother's grin flashed briefly in the dim light. ‘Aye, well, there was never any fear of that, not with me here to guard your back. I'd never let you fall.'

The hand he clapped on David's shoulder was intended both as reassurance and a soft reminder that it was not fitting to bring Celia here alone unless he wished to ruin both their reputations.

But however disapproving William was of David, he showed only charm to Celia. ‘I would catch you, too, of course, though I suspect you'd not be fool enough to venture near the edge. You're like my wife, you're far too practical.' Then, in a tone that held a faint apology, he said, ‘Your father asks for you.'

‘Oh.' Celia's face fell, only slightly, but enough that David noticed.

Turning from the wall he offered her his hand, for here on these uneven stones and in the dark, that much would be permitted – nay, expected of a gentleman. ‘I'll take you back.'

But William said, ‘He isn't with the other guests. He's here, within the palace. Follow me.'

The king and queen each had their own suite of rooms in this part of the castle of Stirling. The windows of the queen's apartment overlooked the terrace and the schoolroom tower to the south, while to the north the king's rooms had a fine view of the chapel and great hall. Their bedchambers connected with each other in the east wing, though of course most people entering the palace never made it that far, since the palace itself – built on a square plan around an inner courtyard called the Lyon's Den – was laid out in the formal manner of most royal residences.

Those wishing to see queen or king were first admitted into that monarch's outer hall, and in that great room with its soaring ceiling they must wait, admiring the tapestries and painted decorations, passing time until they were allowed to pass into the presence chamber. Here, the monarch came to take their seat of estate and speak with any who'd been granted an audience.

The king's presence chamber, where William had brought them, was an impressive room, not only from its size but from its ceiling, which had been completely covered by some forty or so fair-sized roundels of wood with the carved heads and shoulders of various people made famous by history or by their relation to the kings of Scots. These heads, in profile, painted in bright colours, drew the eye upwards.

The room was empty but for them and for the guards who stood discreetly placed along the walls. Their purpose was to shield the king from any threat, though David thought they might have missed their moment, since the sound of voices raised in bitter argument – the king's among them – could not be contained by the closed door of the king's bedchamber.

William met his eyes, and said, ‘There's some discussion still, I gather, about where the prince will live.' He turned to Celia and included her with, ‘That is why your father has been called upon, to serve as an interpreter.'

A little furrow drove between her brows the way it always did when she found anything incomprehensible. ‘My father is in there ?'

They all three looked across the presence chamber to the closed door that seemed sure to break and fall beneath the angry battery of words within.

A shrug from William. ‘That's where I delivered him, as ordered, after fetching him from the Great Hall.' Drily, he added, ‘I must be uncommonly gifted at seeking out people and bringing them back, because everyone wants me to do it this evening.'

Celia asked, ‘But why summon my father?'

‘They needed someone who speaks French.' With his head slightly tipped to one side, William said, ‘There, you can hear him if you listen closely. He's the only one not shouting.'

David frowned. ‘The king and queen speak French.' It was, in fact, the language they had largely used these few years since they'd married, while the Danish-born Queen Anna gained more use of Scots and English. David knew his brother, being close to King James, would know this, but he felt the need to add, ‘They speak it perfectly.'

‘Aye,' William said, ‘but you can't say the same of all those in the chamber with them. And although the king could translate what the queen says for the others,'tis my understanding that the queen is not inclined to trust the king to speak for her. Not in this matter.'

David glanced with what he hoped was nonchalance towards the nearest guards, to see if they had overheard, and warned his brother, ‘You should mind your tongue.'

But William grinned. ‘It is no secret. Faith, these very walls ken that the queen would rather leave her right arm here at Stirling than the prince.' He looked directly at the nearest of the guards and asked him, ‘Am I wrong?'

Exasperated, David said to William, ‘Tread with care.'

‘You worry overmuch. We are not ruled by tyrants. I'm the Master of the Queen's Horse, and the king's lifelong companion. I do pledge them both my loyalty and love, as well they know. Though in this instance, I confess I take the king's part.'

Celia took the queen's. ‘You cannot blame her, that she wants to keep her own child near. Why should she not?'

‘Because it's a tradition,' William said, ‘for royal children to be raised at Stirling Castle.'

He might well have said more, but from inside the king's bedchamber the sharply sudden wailing of the infant prince rose over all the voices, and almost immediately the door to the chamber opened and the Dowager Countess of Mar burst out, the crying bairn held in her arms, her face a storm about to break.

No one meeting her at that moment would have guessed she was approaching sixty years of age. Her face was firm, her back was straight, her eyes held fire. ‘Impossible,' she said, addressing all of them. ‘God save me from a stubborn woman.'

David had to work to hold his face straight at the irony of that, but his aunt's gaze had focused onto Celia.

‘Good, they found you. Here.' She thrust the bawling prince, wrapped in his blanket, into Celia's arms. ‘Stay here, and give him comfort. William, come with me. We have to find my son, the earl. Perhaps he can persuade the queen where I cannot.'

The gold of William's earring flashed as he tossed back his head. ‘Why me?' he asked, the way a lad resists a chore. ‘Why not ask David?'

Celia said sweetly, ‘Because you're uncommonly gifted at seeking out people and bringing them back.'

William glanced at her drily. ‘That's very good.'

‘Thank you.'

To David, he said, ‘Tread with care.' But he smiled as he left them.

Celia did her very best to soothe the prince. She joggled him and sang to him, but nothing stopped his sobs.

‘Here,' David offered, stretching out his own arms. ‘Let me try.'

She looked at him with doubt. ‘You'll drop him.'

‘I will not. I've held a fair few bairns.' Then, second-thinking how that might sound to her, he added, ‘The advantage of being an uncle. William's eldest lad thought sleep was for the faint-hearted. We all took turns walking him.'

Softening, Celia allowed him to gather the prince into his arms.

There was no weight at all to him, really – this lad who would one day be king. David shifted him carefully into the curve of his left arm and shoulder, and with his right hand started freeing the bairn from his tangle of blankets.

‘There, now,' David said, looking down at the miserable, red, tear-stained face, ‘you've had too long a day, and with too many people, aye? But now I've got you, so you can stop weeping. You're safe.'

As if a spell had just been cast, the prince stopped crying. There was no way that a bairn of seven months could have caught all the sense of David's words, but little Henry seemed distracted by the deeper tones of David's voice, and calmer now the blankets weren't confining him.

The sobs subsided into tiny hiccups, and the prince's gaze – too serious – locked onto David's.

Nothing had prepared him for the fierce rush of protectiveness.

It overcame him so completely that he briefly lost awareness of the others in the room. It took the touch of Celia's hand upon his sleeve to make him notice that Queen Anna had now entered from the bedchamber, and was approaching.

David turned to face her, bowing, and the infant prince in protest scrambled round to clutch his doublet, clinging to him tightly with his small face pressed to David's shoulder. David held him close, aware of Celia in a deep, respectful curtsey at his side.

Queen Anna bid them rise. She was a stately woman for her young age – tall and slender, very fair, and only twenty, but with eyes that showed intelligence and, usually, a lively humour. Now, they were red-rimmed, the tracks of tears still visible upon her too-thin face, as though she had been under strain of late.

But she had been a princess of Denmark from birth, and so was accustomed to showing a braver face to the world, and putting protocol ahead of all things personal. She spoke to Celia first, in French, and recognized her as the daughter of the man translating for them in the bedchamber. ‘I'm grateful for his help, and for your patience,' said the queen. ‘We will not keep you waiting too much longer.'

Turning then to David, she looked at her son and frowned faintly. Still in French, she said, ‘You stopped him from crying. How did you manage it?'

‘He wished to be free of his blankets, Your Grace.'

‘But it's more than that, surely. He cried in the king's chamber when there were no blankets yet wrapped around him.'

‘Then I cannot say,' David truthfully told her. ‘Perhaps he was weary of crying.'

Queen Anna stepped closer and studied him as if they'd met in the mist of a battlefield and she was unsure if he were a friend or a foe. ‘I was raised in Denmark for my first years by my grandparents,' she said, ‘and then by my own mother. Who raised you?'

He could not lie. ‘My mother.'

The queen nodded. ‘That is as it should be.' She took in their surroundings, all the grandeur of the presence chamber with its great stone fireplace, and the carved heads on the ceiling, looking down and watching. ‘The king rarely speaks of his mother. He cannot remember her. Your aunt has taken that place in his heart.'

David, with his eyes upon Queen Anna's face, saw the betraying tremble of her lip before she stilled it, and he knew the thing she feared.

He said, ‘Those circumstances were unique. The king could not have seen his mother, for she was in England, and in prison. And his regents were all ruthless men.'Twas natural he would prefer my aunt. What other softness was he offered?' David saw the queen's attention had refocused on the prince, who, from the soft weight of his head on David's shoulder and the warmly rapid rhythm of his breaths on David's neck seemed to have drifted off to sleep. ‘But you will be at Edinburgh,' David told the queen, ‘and close enough to visit often.'

‘She will not allow it. He will not allow it. You will see.' Queen Anna's eyes were deeply sad. ‘If I permit this, I will lose my son.' She lifted one hand and reached out to stroke the prince's hair.

He was not sleeping after all, for at her touch he turned away and burrowed deeper into David's shoulder.

‘There, you see?' Queen Anna said. ‘Already he does take your part.'

She sounded so forlorn that David sought to reassure her in the only way he could, by giving back the bairn – except the prince resisted, and the more that David tried to gently prise the tiny fingers from his doublet, the more tightly they took hold.

He looked to Celia for assistance, but she shook her head once, slowly, as if saying that she would not interfere. He could not fault her for it. No matter what William believed, there was danger in catching the wrath of a king or a queen.

But Queen Anna, to David, did not appear wrathful. Her eyes, when they met his, were bright with emotion. She glanced one last time at Prince Henry, contentedly curled against David and holding him fast, then she tearfully said, ‘Keep him, then.'

And in one regal swirl of silk she turned and left them, her back very straight and her head very high, and whatever her face looked like just at that moment, none saw but the carved heads above on the ceiling, and they – like the guards standing silent along the walls – spoke not a word.

In the end, all David told the others sitting in the tower house at Hawick was what happened in the presence chamber, and he did not tell them all of that. He'd thought of leaving Celia out of it, but found she crept in anyways, however much he tried to keep her hidden.

Gone and lost, those days. The grave cannot be capable of love…

He watched the fire, and knew he'd never written words more false.