18. David

D AVID Brancepeth Castle, County Durham, 11th May 1613

O NE NEVER GOT USED to the cold. While the wind outdoors had a raw bite to it, still when he ducked through the door of the castle and entered the stone world beyond, the chill cut through him instantly, straight to his bones.

Phoebe Westaway was evidently feeling the effects of it that evening when they gathered downstairs for their meal. She wore her plaid wrapped round her – she had learned to fold it properly, he noticed – and in spite of that, she shivered. She wasn't a creature of court, he recalled. She was used to more homely surroundings. He sent her a brief smile of sympathy.

‘Old walls,' he explained. ‘They do keep out invaders, but also the sunlight.'

If her chamber was like theirs upstairs, it very likely had high ceilings and tall windows but a most indifferent fire, which hardly helped. The Messenger watched her in silence for a moment before rising from his seat to heap more coals upon the fire at the far end of this dining room. It would have no effect but was a gallant gesture, all the same. David wondered if she noticed.

They were waiting for the constable who kept this castle for the king. His servants made apologies. He'd been delayed, they said, but he had ordered that his guests be given every comfort in his absence. No, they couldn't say exactly when he might appear… but, just upon the bye, how long did David and his friends intend to stay?

It amused him, while they spoke, to watch the Messenger. The big man was no fool, though either from his time at court or simply from his nature he had learned the way to keep his thoughts well shuttered while he took the details that he needed and gave none away.

To that last question, the Messenger merely said, ‘I cannot speak of the king's business.'

And the servant who had asked retreated with, ‘Of course not, no,'twould not be proper. Do forgive me.'

‘But,' the Messenger said, lowering his voice, ‘my orders are to take the time I need.'

The servant, looking troubled, nearly dropped the plate he carried, and the Messenger took note of this before returning calmly to his meal. He must have felt David's gaze upon him for he met it, all in innocence.

David let him know he knew his game, and turned instead to Phoebe Westaway. ‘My dear, you're looking every inch a Highland lass this evening, in your plaid.'

She smiled ruefully. ‘I fear that it is not the height of fashion.'

‘Nonsense. It becomes you well. And anyway, what use is fashion if it lets you freeze?' He helped himself to bread and passed the plate. ‘My grandmother was the daughter of the Earl of Montrose, and even she wasn't too proud to wear her plaid when she felt cold. She'd certainly have worn it in here.'

Phoebe thought that very wise. ‘I do not envy those who live their lives in castles.'

In surprise, her father looked up from his food. ‘But one day, you will live in one yourself. You'll learn to like it, I assure you.'

Hector said, ‘ I like it. If I lived in such a place, I'd never leave.'

He'll never let me leave .

In David's memory those words rang as clearly as they had the day the prince first spoke them, and the boy seemed to be facing him again, if briefly, with that stubborn stance, his chin held high, the sadness in his eyes a thing that pierced the heart. Prince Henry had been younger, on that day, than Hector – barely nine years old, but already grown used to disappointment.

You'll see. He'll find a way to keep me here for ever.

David angled his gaze down so he'd not have to hold those phantom eyes, and answered Hector in an idle tone, ‘You may feel differently, in time. Would not you wish to see the world?'

‘I see it every day,' said Hector.

‘Ah, but if you never left this castle, then you'd have to be content to view things only through your window, and not live them for yourself,' he pointed out. ‘You'd nevermore be free to wander through the hills, nor ride your horse along the road, nor see the ships sail out of Leith to places far beyond the sea.'

He clearly hadn't thought of that. He frowned. ‘Well,' Hector said, ‘I'd leave the castle sometimes .'

Westaway, across the table, looked at David keenly. ‘Did Prince Henry ever feel the castles he was living in were cages?'

He was careful with his answer, mindful always of the fact that all he said was being written down. ‘I could not tell you.'

‘But it must have been a grand adventure for him to leave Stirling, finally, when the Queen of England died and King James brought his family south to claim the throne.'

‘A great adventure, aye.'

Undaunted, Westaway tried prodding David into telling more. ‘His mother came to fetch him for the journey, did she not?'

That detail was no secret. In some circles, it was infamous. ‘She did.'

He might have carried on indefinitely in this manner, had not Hector asked, ‘Did ye travel with him?'

Because then it was a simple thing to tell him truthfully, ‘Aye, lad, I did.' And David found that he could steer the conversation to the rush of preparations for that royal progress south ten years ago, and find the small and funny things to tell him, and the grand ones, and he didn't have to mention all the tense and bitter days of conflict leading to the moment of their leaving.

Those were private memories, not for sharing. Of the people who'd been party to them, two were in their graves. And one would hold their conversations secret till she was in hers. So he could do no less.

But he remembered, every word.

Stirling Castle, Scotland, 7th May 1603

The hazards of having his pallet bed placed on the floor at the foot of the prince's bed were sharply brought into focus at first light when two energetic feet landed in a running leap close beside his head.

‘David!' Prince Henry was already past him and pressed to the window that looked to the east. ‘Do you hear that?'

Fully awake, David rolled to his back. Rubbed his eyes with one hand in an effort to focus. He heard nothing, but, ‘Is it a choir of angels? Have I died?'

‘No.'

‘Ah. Did Master Newton finally fire a cannon so you'd not sleep late and miss your lessons?'

‘No, David, come and see .' A lad nine years of age could have surprising strength, he'd learned. While the prince didn't exactly haul him upright, he did make it impossible for David to remain abed. Obligingly, David stood and joined the prince at the window. He did hear it now, far off as yet, but growing nearer, sounding very like…

Prince Henry said, excited, ‘It's my mother.'

David thought that most unlikely, since the queen had not been here for… was it four years, now, or five? Not only had she been denied the keeping of her son but the king's rules for how she might have access to him, even for brief visits, made her feel unwelcome here, and even a queen's pride had limits.

Still, the sound he heard now of a multitude of wheels and riders on the road did have the chaos – and the grandeur – of a royal progress.

From the door that gave into the presence chamber came an urgent knock, and the prince's tutor, Adam Newton, slipped into the room and closed the door with care behind him. He looked agitated. ‘It's the queen.'

Prince Henry sent David such a look of royal vindication, even standing in nightclothes, that David could not keep from smiling through his worry.

‘Aye,' David told him, ‘you were right, you're very clever.'

Newton glanced from one face to the other, and a light of understanding crossed his features as he focused on his pupil. ‘Pray, what did you tell your mother in your letter?'

This was news to David. He asked the prince, ‘You wrote to her?'

‘He did indeed,' said Newton. ‘To congratulate her, so he claimed, and I allowed it, since he'd also written such a letter to his father.'

That letter David had read, just as he'd read the letter the prince had received from the king. A month ago, this had been – at the beginning of April, not long after news had come north of the death of the English queen, and with it an invitation from the English parliament for King James to come south to sit upon the English throne and rule the whole of Britain.

It had fair broken David's heart to watch the prince's face then as he'd read his father's letter and discovered that the king had gone, and had not even come to say farewell.

King James had enclosed a book he'd written, entitled the Basilikon Doron – meaning ‘royal gift', in Greek – and styled as a letter instructing his son how to best be a king. The fact that he'd just had it printed, and in common English, not Latin, inclined David to think the king was aiming his words at a much wider audience, hoping to gain the approval of his newest subjects.

Adam Newton was including it with Henry's lessons, else it might have gone unread on Henry's shelves.

The young prince faced them both now with defiance. ‘I may write to whom I please.'

His tutor said, ‘'Tis true, you may. But when you are a prince of Scotland, you must mind the company you keep, for your own safety. In the past two hundred years, this country hasn't crowned a king – or queen – who wasn't still a child, and then those children lived in constant danger. Ask your father,' he suggested. ‘He was one of them. He suffered through the intrigues and the kidnappings by men who'd stop at nothing for a chance to be the regent and to rule the country till he came of age. The king would spare you that.'

‘By keeping me a prisoner.'

The tutor sighed. ‘Your Highness, you are not—'

‘I know the history of my country, Master Newton,' said the prince. ‘You've taught me well. How many of those children gained the throne because their fathers died by violence?' Newton did not give the answer, so the prince supplied it. ‘All but one. My father knows this, too, I can assure you.' Looking from the tutor's face to David's, he asked, ‘And in that book of kind advice he sent me, do you think he warns that when a king has children, they should be locked up so that they can't be used by those who seek to overthrow the father?'

He was speaking wisdom far beyond his tender years, and yet the pain that David saw within his eyes was still a young lad's pain – the loneliness of one who craved a parent's love, and family.

David could not fill that void, but neither could he stand and watch the prince in pain and not give comfort. Reaching out, he placed his hand upon the prince's shoulder, reassuring.

‘He does love you,' David said.

‘Perhaps,' the prince said. ‘But he'll never let me leave. You'll see. He'll find a way to keep me here.'

And then he crumpled altogether, no longer the prince, but just a lad with all the world against him, and screwed his eyes tight shut and briefly leaned his head on David's heart, as he had done when he was small, before he straightened once again.

‘I must get dressed,' he said, ‘to greet my mother.'

They'd reached an impasse. Outside Stirling Castle's walls, the queen and her attendants held their ground and waited and would not retreat, while David's cousin's wife and her supporters, who'd been left to guard the castle, kept their own position just as firmly.

Since the death of David's aunt at the beginning of the year, his cousin's wife was now the sole Countess of Mar, and she'd assumed that mantle with its full authority. Her husband, being earl, was riding south now with the king to London, but he'd left her strict instructions.

‘You were there,' the countess said to David. ‘He was very clear. The prince must bide here and must not be given to his mother. That is what the king decrees. We cannot disobey the king.' She looked to David for agreement. David, walking at her side in the small gallery that joined the prince's presence chamber to the great hall, answered with a noncommittal noise that seemed to satisfy her, for she told him, ‘Yet the queen demands that we deliver her the prince, and she will not stir until we bring him to her.' With a sigh, the countess held a pale hand to her forehead. ‘She's with child, you know. This makes me seem the villain.'

David offered, ‘Shall I speak to her? I realize I have not your rank, but she has sometimes shown me favour.'

‘At this point, I'm ready to send out the gardener,' the countess admitted. ‘I'm weary of playing the diplomat.'

David was not sure his efforts would yield any greater return than the gardener's might have, but he had his own reasons for wishing to see the queen.

She looked more tired than he remembered, which might simply have been from her ride, or from the fact she was with child, or from the sheer frustration of her present situation. While the queen was younger than he was by seven years, today she looked a good deal older, and David felt sorry for her. Even so, she held herself with dignity and grace upon the high seat of her coach as he approached across the grass.

He bowed. ‘Your Majesty.'

She didn't miss the significance of his black serge doublet. ‘It suits you,' she said, ‘this… you'll forgive me, I forget the word you Scots use for your mourning clothes.'

‘A dulle.'

‘Just so. Black does become you.'

David faintly smiled. ‘I'm told I have a melancholy face.'

‘But not around the eyes,' the queen said, almost absently. Then, ‘This is for your aunt, yes? The old countess.'

‘Aye, Your Majesty.' He didn't expect the queen to offer condolences. Her dislike for his aunt had been open and mutual.

‘You are well bound by blood to these people here at Stirling,' she remarked. Not wasting words, she added, ‘They refuse to give my son to me.'

‘So I am told, Your Majesty. I'm also told he wrote to you.'

‘He did.' Her downward gaze was keen. ‘You didn't know.'

He shook his head. ‘He kept it secret.'

‘I'm surprised,' Queen Anna said. ‘I thought you knew his inner heart.'

‘There are some corners of the prince's heart that he keeps private,' David said.

‘Good.' Anna looked away. ‘Let's hope he manages to shield them well. It takes a little piece of you, this life.'

How many pieces of the queen had been surrendered to her royal duties, David couldn't know. She'd borne the king four other children since Prince Henry, all of whom had been removed from her and placed in separate households in the care of others. Two had lived but short lives, breathed their last breaths and been buried. Henry often worried for the health of his surviving brother, Charles, who was reportedly not strong, and of Elizabeth, his sister, whom he longed to know.

The queen was studying him, silently, and seemed to come to a decision. ‘Shall I tell you what Prince Henry wrote to me?' Meeting David's eyes, she said, ‘He told me, since the king would not be coming any more to see him, he hoped I'd supply that lack with visits of my own, which he did greatly crave because he'd wanted them so long. And that he hoped perhaps by seeing him, I might have greater cause,' she added, quietly, ‘to love him.'

David, looking at her, saw her eyes begin to fill. She blinked, and cleared them, and concluded with, ‘As if I needed any further reason.'

David took a moment to control his own emotions.

The queen asked him, ‘Is he happy?'

David couldn't lie. He simply could not do it. Drawing breath, he told the queen, ‘They will not bring Prince Henry out to you, because the king forbids it. They will never disobey the king. But neither can they disobey their queen.'

She frowned. ‘You speak in riddles. Be plain.'

‘They may not agree to deliver the prince to your keeping, but they can't deny you if you should demand they allow you to enter the castle.'

She stared at him, and he could see hope beginning to chase away some of the weary lines marking her features. She drew herself up straighter on the coach seat, and looked down at him.

‘The Earl of Mar is your cousin.'

It wasn't a question, but David replied, ‘Aye, Your Majesty.'

‘And on whose side are your loyalties?'

Of all the questions the queen could ask David, he found that the simplest to answer. ‘I serve your son, Your Majesty.'

Queen Anna looked at him long, then she gave a brief nod and she turned from him, and he was thus dismissed.

What happened after that was widely known, though rarely told without embellishment. Queen Anna had demanded entry to the castle, and of course they'd had to let her in, and once within its walls, she had refused to leave without her son.

There had been arguments, and tears. It had been terrible. The queen had lost the child she carried. Many claimed she played some part in that, as though the strain of the conflict itself were not lethal enough to a bairn in the womb. The king had sent the Earl of Mar himself back north to deal with things. Queen Anna would not treat with him, and in the end, after a flock of letters had flown back and forth by express between queen, king and earl, the whole matter was settled. The prince was by a convoluted chain of hands surrendered to the queen, and they prepared to head to Edinburgh, together with their entourage.

‘Everything that happens, happens as it should,' Prince Henry said, the morning they made ready to depart. ‘That's what the Emperor Marcus Aurelius says.'

Climbing gingerly onto her seat beside him in the coach, the queen smiled. ‘You are studying Marcus Aurelius?'

‘Not in the classroom,' he told her. ‘But David did find me this book.' From his pocket, he drew the small, leather-bound book that he treasured. ‘He says it's a good way to study my Latin, and also to learn ways of living a purposeful life.'

David, working to hold his horse quietly in position beside the coach while they waited for the whole procession to assemble, felt the queen's gaze fall upon him, and he turned his head to meet it, saying, ‘He also has the king's book of instruction, Your Majesty.'

‘Yes, of course,' Queen Anna said. ‘Though this does seem a very special book.'

The prince told her, ‘It's very plain. Not like the one that David carries. That one's exceedingly fine. You must see it.'

The queen looked at David expectantly. ‘May I?'

There was no refusing the queen, as he'd said. David reached with reluctance into his own pocket and held out the book to her. It was a small volume, tightly bound in red Morocco with gilt decoration, but its true value lay within.

Queen Anna turned the pages with delight, and marvelled at the book's perfection – the Quatrains of Guy de Faur, in French, but written all by hand, in diverse lettering that rivalled any printer's press. ‘Amazing,' she proclaimed it. ‘Such a work of art.'

Prince Henry proudly said, ‘It is by Esther Inglis. David knows her. He did meet her when he lived in Edinburgh. She came here once, to visit us at Stirling, and she showed me how she shaped her letters so small and so finely, but I could not do them half so well. She said it does take patience.'

With her eyes upon her son, the queen said gently, ‘Most things do.' She held the book within her hands and looked at David. ‘I would keep this.'

There was nothing he could say to that but, ‘It would be my honour.' But he felt the twist of losing something he had valued.

They were nearly ready to depart. All up and down the line of riders there was more activity. The wind caught at an edge of David's cloak and made his horse dance with impatience.

‘David!' From the coach, Prince Henry looked at him with glee. ‘We're truly going.'

David found a smile. ‘Aye, we are.'

Queen Anna turned her head and studied David once again, and he felt sure she knew all the thoughts he was seeking to hide. She said, ‘This Esther Inglis, she still lives in Edinburgh?'

David replied, ‘Aye, Your Majesty.'

‘Such a woman would be welcome at my court in London. I shall see that she does join us there.' She made it clear, from how she spoke, that she did not expect an answer. But as they began their progress, setting Stirling Castle at their backs, Queen Anna, who had lost an unborn bairn and gained a living son, caught David's eyes one final time. ‘It takes a little piece of you, this life,' was her reminder. ‘Take what happiness you can.'