22. David

D AVID Newark-upon-Trent, Nottinghamshire, still 25th May 1613

N EWARK ' S CASTLE, FRONTING ON the river, was of warmly golden stone with glittering, large windows that the bishop of a bygone age had built to bring light to his dining hall, amongst the other chambers.

Hector had not let go of the prize they'd won at quoits – a hollow toy horse cast in pewter. Being silver grey, he'd named it Brutus after Logan's horse, and to be honest, it did hold an echo of that great beast's haughty curve of neck and noble head. As they passed the castle wall now, Hector held the toy horse up so that the sun would throw its shadow larger on the stones, and asked David, ‘Are ye certain we'll not get in trouble?'

‘Very certain,' David said. ‘I know the owner well. He would not mind us walking through the castle grounds.' It was perhaps as well the owner was just then abroad, for it would not have been an easy thing explaining Logan's presence, nor the reason they were travelling to London.

‘It's a bonny castle,' Hector gave it his approval. ‘Did ye come here often with the prince?'

‘Not often, no. We stopped here on that first procession south from Edinburgh, to join the king at his new English court. And then again…' The sunlight on the river seemed too bright. He looked away from it, and cleared his throat. ‘And then again in summer, when the prince was some years older.'

Hector raced his shadow horse across the glowing stones. ‘Look, Logan! Look at Brutus running!' With the brief attention of the young, he ran ahead across the grass and down towards the smoothly gliding water, eager to explore.

David saw a different shadow running with him, looking back and beckoning. A taller lad, with hair of reddish gold and eyes that could by turns be full of wit or fire or watchfulness.

That August, though, they'd been impatient.

‘If it will not stop,' the prince had said, ‘I'm going to cut it off, and that will be the end of it.'

David had supplied the prince with yet another handkerchief and pointed out that noses were essential to the face.

‘Not mine,' Prince Henry said. ‘Not when it bleeds. It never used to do this, David.'

That was true. The nosebleeds had not started until earlier that year. ‘The doctors will take care of it.'

‘The doctors tell me I should stop my swimming, and not ride so often in the heat. I fear to think what they'd prescribe to cure my headaches.'

David had glanced up. ‘You're having headaches?'

‘Only sometimes. Why?' Prince Henry knew his tones of voice, and frowned. ‘You are concerned. You do not think that it could be the new disease?'

He'd meant the fever that had suddenly seemed everywhere that summer, creeping into people's homes and stealing lives.

‘I do not,' David had assured him, though he hadn't told the prince what he did fear that it might be, because those fears of poison seemed too terrible to think of, then.

Too terrible to bear the weight of, now.

The river idled by, and David pushed the memories back with firmness, for he did not want to think about that final summer. It was still too hard, a wound unhealed.

But still, that shadow ran ahead of him, and summoned him back with it to another stately residence, beside another river, in another time.

Whitehall Palace, London, New Year's, 1608

Celia's husband was a good man and not easy to dislike, but David tried. They'd been standing in a weighted silence now for several minutes beside one of the long windows that looked out towards the frozen Thames.

Not far away, the prince was still receiving those who wished to give him presents. Celia, lovely in a gown of midnight blue, was fifth in line.

For her sake, David tried to think of something neutral and polite that he could raise in conversation, but before he managed it, a figure all in black slipped from the milling crowd of guests to stand between them.

Celia's husband looked relieved. ‘My lord Northampton. Happy New Year.'

David didn't trust Northampton, who seemed always on the cusp of being genuine, but never quite achieving it – the end result, no doubt, of a long life spent navigating the uncertain tides of court on a ship rigged with sails of ever-changing fortune.

With a smile, Northampton shook their hands and said, ‘I've not seen such a violent frost upon the Thames since I was young. The bargemen will be out of business soon if there is not a thaw.' He turned to Celia's husband. ‘How are you enjoying life in your new parish?'

‘Very well, my lord, I thank you.'

‘And your wife? Does she miss being here at court?'

The glance at David might have been imagined. Celia's husband said, ‘A little, I expect.'

Northampton nodded understanding. ‘Women are more social creatures, by their natures. Consider my niece, for example.'

They all looked at the vibrant young woman – no more than a girl, really – holding a very small court of her own near the end of the room. Frances Howard, Northampton's niece, was still in essence a newlywed, having not long ago married the young Earl of Essex, one of Prince Henry's best friends.

‘She belongs here at court,' said Northampton. ‘She'd wither away in the countryside.'

David privately agreed that Frances Howard was not withering. She'd collected a string of admirers, from what he could see.

‘It is a pity,' said Northampton, ‘that her husband is so serious.'

‘He's young,' was all that David could say in the boy's defence while still remaining diplomatic, though he wished to add that families like the Howards would perhaps do better not to marry off their children young for their own profit. But he knew the words were pointless, for Northampton, like the others of his family, could not help but keep manoeuvring his chair a little closer to the king's in an attempt to regain influence and power.

Celia's husband looked more closely at the group. ‘But surely that is not her husband who does hold her hand?'

‘No,' David told him. ‘That is Robert Carr. Sir Robert Carr, I ought to call him, for the king did knight him Christmas Eve. He is a gentleman of the king's bedchamber.'

A woman's voice, familiar to them all, joined in. ‘His Majesty's most valued friend, of late.' Queen Anna, passing by, had caught them unawares. She paused and waited while they bowed and wished her a good New Year.

Northampton said, ‘I hear we are to have a wondrous masque from you and all your ladies for Twelfth Night, Your Majesty.'

The queen confirmed this. ‘Master Jonson has created something special, I'll not spoil it.'

Celia joined them, with a low and perfect curtsey, and the queen remarked, ‘If you were still at court, my dear, I'd find a role for you within my masque.'

‘I would be honoured,' Celia told her. ‘But we must return home.' She was standing near David. She turned to him. ‘I have a gift for you, also,' she said.

He could feel what it was, through the wrapping: a small book.

Celia smiled. ‘To take the place of that which you… mislaid.'

She knew full well the first one had been taken from him by the queen, but it would be impolitic to say so. David closed his hand around the gift without unwrapping it, and slipped it deep into his pocket.

‘'Tis a thoughtful present. I shall treasure it,' he told her.

She looked pleased. Her husband said, ‘I do not wish to interrupt, but it is time that we were on the road. We will be two days in our journey as it is.'

She nodded. Looked at David. ‘It was good to see you.'

‘Aye. And you.' He smiled, but kept his guard raised so she would not see his feelings. She was happy in her life, he knew, and he would not upset her, though his own heart had remained unchanged. He'd written sonnets to that upturned face.

Dear, once you told me that you dream'd my death

Was past, and that your eyes beheld my grave…

Ah'twas no dream! If you will but perceive

How in effect for you I hourly die…

‘A happy New Year,' Celia wished him.

Then her husband took her arm, and then they were gone.

Northampton followed in their wake, with some excuse. But not the queen.

‘She loves you still,' Queen Anna said to David, standing there beside the window, while the gathering moved on around them.

David said, ‘She loves her husband. He's a good man.'

The queen did not dispute this. But, ‘They say you wished to marry her. Why did you not?'

‘He asked her first, Your Majesty.'

‘So then you are a fool.'

‘I'll not deny it.' David looked again across the room at Frances Howard, with her minor court of men, Sir Robert Carr their favoured leader, and her husband not among them. ‘But then marriage does not always make men happy.'

‘No,' the queen agreed. And then she asked, ‘Is my son happy?' It was something she asked often. David always tried to give an honest answer.

‘I believe he is, Your Majesty.'

‘I worry for him. I have but three children left,' Queen Anna said. She'd lost another daughter a few months ago, the little Princess Mary, who had suffered from a devastating fever and been taken by it. David had seen firsthand the effects that loss had wrought upon the queen, who had sent men to view the opening of the child's body, demanding she be told the certain cause of death. ‘I'm not allowed to grieve,' she'd told him once, when she had come to pay a visit to the prince in the days afterwards, ‘but this would not have happened if my daughter had been in my care.' For, like the other children, at the king's insistence Princess Mary was removed at birth and placed within a different household to be raised.

Queen Anna followed David's gaze across the room of revellers, and said, ‘My son should take care not to make an enemy of Robert Carr.'

He said, ‘It is an easy thing to do.'

He noticed she'd not called the king's new favourite ‘Sir'. Perhaps it had not yet become a habit, for the knighthood was a new one, though he'd never known the queen to do a thing that had not been intentional.

She smiled. ‘I'll grant you that. But he does have the king's whole trust. And worse, he will do all he must,' she said, ‘to hold the king's affection.' A pause. ‘I will be blunt with you, Sir David, for I know you are a man of honour and will not repeat my words.'

He waited.

After what appeared to be a brief attempt to frame the words, she simply said, ‘The king has never been a trusting man.'

‘That is a product of his childhood, I'd expect,' said David.

‘Yes, I know. He often was betrayed by those who should have loved him more. But that was long ago. These are his children. I'm his wife.' She did not state what duties they were owed by him, but merely said, ‘In his view we're no more than weapons that another hand might wield against him. That is sad,' she said, ‘and dangerous.'

The prince had seen them, and was crossing now towards them with a broad smile.

‘Guard him well, Sir David,' was Queen Anna's final comment, before turning to embrace her son.

She wasn't wrong, thought David as he stood and watched them talk. The king did look upon his family with distrust. And since the failed treasonous powder-plot, three winters past, which had been aimed at killing both the princes and the king and setting wee Princess Elizabeth upon the throne to rule as a new, Catholic queen, the king had grown yet more suspicious of those who might use his children as pawns in a game against him.

Not that anyone could use Prince Henry as a pawn, thought David. Henry was becoming more and more his own man, every day. But that, too, held its dangers.

There were already some within the kingdom – and among their foreign allies on the continent – who made no secret of their view that this bold, energetic prince, with his modern ideas, would make an exceptional king, and that his time to rule could not come soon enough.

‘Hide your New Year's present well, David,' the prince advised him, laughing, ‘for my mother has just tried to steal mine.'

‘Slander,' claimed Queen Anna, with a smile. ‘I but admired it. Esther Inglis does such rare and lovely work.'

‘It is inscribed to me,' Prince Henry told her, holding up the little book bound in red velvet and embroidered in both gold and silver threads, adorned exquisitely with seed pearls so the whole effect was of a jewel. He said, ‘You shall not have it.'

‘I have you,' she told him. ‘You are all the New Year's gift I need.' And with a kiss upon his cheek, she took her leave of them and moved on to attend to other guests.

Prince Henry squared his shoulders. ‘We should find my father,' he told David. ‘I've not given him my present.'

‘Very well.'

As they drew near to Frances Howard and her entourage, the prince frowned. ‘She is shameless. She forgets that she is married, to so disrespect my friend.' He glanced at David. ‘They are sending him on tour, were you aware of that?'

‘I heard a rumour.'

‘Two years on the continent. I argued with my father, but of course he didn't listen. No doubt Carr put the idea in his head.' Prince Henry aimed his frown this time at the sleek Scotsman holding Frances Howard's hand. ‘Just as King David in the Bible sent Bathsheba's husband off to war in hopes he might be killed, because he wanted her himself.'

David sought to reassure him. ‘I don't think Sir Robert hopes young Essex will be killed while on his tour.'

But as they passed the little group, Sir Robert Carr looked up.

Marcus Aurelius had written that you could tell a man's character by looking in his eyes, and David saw more than he cared to see when his gaze met Sir Robert's.

The crowd shifted, making room as King James came towards them. Outwardly, he made a great show of affection, folding the prince into a warm, fatherly embrace, though David knew that it was partly for their audience of onlookers. There were many new faces here at court this evening, come from Scotland and elsewhere to celebrate. The king was doing what he loved best – putting on a show.

‘My son! A happy New Year.'

‘Father. And to you.' Prince Henry had been diligently working on his father's gift for weeks. He looked to David now, who drew it safely from his pocket and passed it across so that the prince could properly present it. This, too, was a small, bound book, handwritten. ‘I've been giving you these literary offerings at New Year's these past seven years,' the prince explained, ‘and now that I am older, I did think it fitting to attempt one more important.'Tis a thesis on a sentence of the ancient Greek poet Menander, writ in Latin.'

The king's eyebrows rose. ‘My clever son.' He took the book and turned the first page, curious. ‘What sentence did ye choose?'

Prince Henry spoke so that his voice would carry clearly to the party sitting but a mere stone's throw away, and knowing all who heard him would place their interpretation on the reason for his choice.

He told his father, evenly, ‘Evil companions corrupt good manners.'

The king looked up. Sir Robert stood, as though he had been challenged, but the king glanced sharply at him and he sat again, if restlessly.

As with Sir Robert, David read the king's whole character within his eyes, and wished that he had not.

‘My clever son,' the king said, for a second time, and leaning close, he brushed the prince's cheek with a light kiss, although to David, both the king's tone and the kiss were colder than the ice upon the Thames. ‘A thoughtful gift. I thank you.'

Then he passed from them, with all his train in tow, and Frances Howard and Sir Robert and their clique fell in behind.

‘Well,' said David, seeking to make light of things, ‘you always had a rare, fine gift for making friends.'

The prince had laughed.

His laughter was one thing about Prince Henry that did not change as he grew. Another was his sense of justice.

A year passed.

New Year's came, and went, and February brought a thaw, and David tallied the accounts and made an inventory of the prince's holdings. In the wardrobe, he discovered a fine saddle, richly made and beautifully embroidered, that had been a present to the prince from King James some eighteen months earlier. ‘What would you do with this?' he asked.

Prince Henry told him, ‘Nothing, till my father pays the man who made it.'

David sighed. ‘Your Highness…'

‘It is not right, David. I'll not use a thing that's not been paid for. Write again and tell my father that the saddler must be paid. And put that back into my wardrobe.'

That the prince was resolute made David proud, but he did not imagine that the king approved of his son's moral views, nor of his growing independence.

One more year passed.

And Prince Henry turned sixteen, and came to manhood. His creation as the Prince of Wales, a formal grand event, was a rare spectacle that bridged the final days of May and the first days of June. In London, people swarmed to see the prince's barge upon the Thames, flanked by two fanciful sea monsters that bobbed floating on the water. There were trumpeters and oboe-players making lively music, and processions of all sorts of dignitaries. Later came the solemn ceremony that was held in Parliament, and the grand dinner afterwards at which the prince was served together with his beloved sister, Elizabeth, and younger brother, Charles, in Westminster Hall, shoulder to shoulder with the greatest and most influential lords in all of Parliament.

Had David been Prince Henry's father, he could not have been more proud. The prince had gone through all the day in perfect step, and shown himself to be the very image of a king in waiting.

But while that delighted all the common people watching, and most of the men in Parliament, it had not pleased all. David had been quick to note those men who felt the threat of young Prince Henry's popularity.

And he had watched the king.

He'd watched the king as well, the New Year's night that followed. They had been at Whitehall once again, this time in the grand banqueting house that the king had lately built, and David had been one of twelve men taking part in a new masque Ben Jonson had created for the prince, in which the prince had played the leading role of Oberon.

David always wondered how these things went off as well as they did, for it was pure chaos in the sidewings. The wrong men wore the wrong hats, and the scenery threatened to collapse, and the two tame arctic white bears who'd been hired to pull the chariot for the prince's grand entrance proved to be a challenge for their keeper, and required constant treats to keep them well contented.

‘Have some faith,' Ben Jonson murmured, standing next to David in the darkness as the masque began. ‘It always works.'

The two were friends, and David knew that Ben was right. And yet, ‘I wish you had not praised him quite so fervently within this play,' he said.

‘How could I not?' asked Ben, and both men looked together at the prince, who stood across from them, the candlelight reflecting on the armour of his costume – a bold recreation by Inigo Jones of the battle dress of ancient Roman emperors, complete with cape and feathered helmet. ‘Just look at him, and answer me. How could I not praise such a prince?'

Of course, there was no answer to be given. Henry had been made to shine.

And when he finally made his entrance in his chariot, drawn by the bears, the song that Ben had written for the other players to sing had seemed fitting:

‘Seek you Majesty, to strike?

Bid the World produce his like.

Seek you glory, to amaze?

Here, let all Eyes stand at gaze.

Seek you Wisdom, to inspire?

Touch, then, at no other's Fire.

Seek you knowledge, to direct?

Trust to his without suspect.

Seek you Piety, to lead?

In his Footsteps, only, tread.

Every Virtue of a King,

And of all, in him, we sing.'

The final two lines had been turned into a chorus and some in the audience had joined the players in the bright refrain, and the men had danced, and then Prince Henry held his hand out to the queen and drew her into a fine dance, the pair of them together. David thought he'd never seen Queen Anna look so happy.

But one member of the audience had not been pleased. And at King James's side, Sir Robert Carr had taken note of that, and turned it to his own advantage.

Within a few months, he was no longer simply the knight Sir Robert Carr, but had been raised with honours to be Viscount Rochester, a man with even greater powers than before, and more entrenched in his position at the king's right hand.

And there would nevermore be room there for Prince Henry.

Hector had Logan running races in the grounds of Newark Castle. It was not a fair match, at first glance, but David noted with a small smile how Logan checked his speed so that the lad could run alongside without making it appear that he was holding himself back. Towards the end, Logan most artfully lost energy, allowing Hector to surge forwards in that all-or-nothing and determined way that young lads had when they still held some innocence. And hope.

Falling in feigned exhaustion on the grass, Logan exclaimed, ‘Ye beat me fairly, lad. Ye could outrun a greyhound, so ye could.'

The sound of Hector's laughter twisted David's heart a little. He was seeing shadows, still.

Another time. Another lad, who had been born to shine as brightly as the sun.

It took a certain kind of man to stand aside and let another shine. And David knew – he'd always known – King James could never be that man.