Chapter 2
“But what of Yvette?” Tom tugged at his coat, clinging tight from perspiration, and shuffled quickly to keep up with his companion’s long strides. “She was a lovely, porcelain-complected lass.”
“Aye,” James agreed merrily. He eyed his friend’s state and slowed down. “A lovely lass indeed, were I in want of a wife.”
“And ze French accent, James, ooh la la!” Tom patted at his flushed cheeks with a handkerchief. “Would that I had family eager to find me a titled young maiden. Och, man,” he added, “slow . . . down.”
James Graham came to an abrupt halt along the edge of Parliament Square.
In a habitual gesture, he flipped the hem of his overcoat to reveal fully the basket hilt of the broadsword at his side.
He stood taller than most, and the morning sun cast sharp shadows on his face as his eyes roved over the mob that was rapidly forming.
“And with that French coat on your back”—Tom, chest heaving, caught up to James’s side—“how could you not want a bonny French bride?”
“If you’re so enamored, you should wed her yourself.” A mischievous light danced in James’s eyes as he focused on his friend. “Yvette is a blooming flower, but I’m not yet done smelling the roses, aye?”
“James!” he howled. “You scoundrel!”
“You find me indelicate?” James beamed, and the force of his presence crackled through his open, handsome features. “Just wait until you hear what I’ve to say to the king’s man.”
He abruptly pushed into the growing mob, now chanting and shrieking its fury. It had become a single shuddering organism, crushing in on the center of the square, drowning the blare of royal trumpets that began to trill over the din.
Tom’s hand caught at his friend’s sleeve. “Mind your words, James,” he warned. “This isn’t your parlor and these are not your friends. Speak the wrong words to unsympathetic ears and you seal your fate.”
“I’m but a Scotsman.” James was suddenly serious, his intensity like a flash fire.
“And my Scottish king has fashioned himself England’s king.
So tell me, Tom”— his blithe expression hardened to match the vehemence of his words— “to whom do I give my loyalty when my ruler sits on a fat London throne and changes the religion of Scotland?”
“Oyez, oyez,” the town crier shouted, ringing his bell from a platform atop the Mercat Cross. Clapping his hand onto his feathered tricorn hat, the man leaned over the elaborate stone parapet, visibly relieved to be so high above the throngs pressing in around its stepped base.
The Mercat Cross was a hub of merchant activity halfway down the Royal Mile from Edinburgh Castle, and was named for the pillared cross jutting high above the structure.
The main attraction was its scalloped balcony resting atop a stout, two-story octagonal tower, from which royal proclamations were made and royal enemies executed.
The crier leaned back and, with one last clang of his brass bell, intoned in a mannered and resonant voice, “Charles, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith . . .”
The crowd’s anger kindled anew, and over outraged shouts, he persisted, “Hereby proclaims supreme the new Book of Common Prayer. His Majesty decrees the Church of Scotland will minister from this book alone, to the exclusion of all others. Henceforth, no prayer shall be said without royal sanction.”
With a final peal of his bell, he announced, “Clergy found in defiance will be punished for high treason. As decreed by His Majesty King Charles the First, on this day, February twentieth, in the year of our Lord, sixteen hundred and thirty-eight.”
The crowd raged, pelting the crier with rotten vegetables and shouting, “Popery!”
James kicked over a nearby barrel. The velvet of his brandy-colored overcoat couldn’t conceal the flex of his lean muscles, and the fabric pulled tight at his biceps and shoulders as he leapt nimbly atop it. He unsheathed his sword and rapped the base of the Mercat Cross.
The hiss of whispered voices swept like a wave over the crowd, and their cries dulled to a low hum.
“Good sir!” Feigning confusion, James shouted louder, “I beg your pardon? Yes, down here, my good fellow.”
He flashed the frightened crier a dazzling smile.
Despite the strong carry of his voice, James’s tone was equable as he continued, “So, to clarify, my good servant of His Majesty, is it that Charles, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, etcetera, would have ministers read to their flocks from behind pistols cocked upon red velvet pillows?”
The crowd, which had for a moment been mesmerized by the cavalier Scots nobleman, surged into renewed outrage.
Shouts of “Popery!” and “A papist plot!” resounded through the square.
A drunken voice cried, “Keep your bloody English . . . popish . . . mass service book away from the Scots Kirk!”
“Aye,” another slurred, “dinna fash the Scots Church!”
Laughing, James resheathed his sword. “There’s the spirit, lads!”
“James!” Tom scolded, grinning despite his shaking head and furrowed brow. He jabbed an elbow in his friend’s calves and pleaded, “James, get down from there. I swear, you’ll not be at rest till you yourself be lifted above us in three fathom of rope.”
“Why, Tom!” He hopped down from his perch. “Dear man, you flatter me! But you are the thespian, not I. Do you think it possible that I could play the hero in the court’s next spectacle of public humiliation and shame?” His friend grimaced, but James only laughed.
“Come now, Tom.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Fear not. You’re of brisker stuff than that, I know.” Tom was sweating mightily in the press of people, and a stripe of perspiration ran down his back, darkening the fabric between the shoulders of his tightly buttoned coat.
Market sounds gradually replaced the hum of the crowd as the mob began to thin and merchants resumed their daily business. “It looks like you could use some refreshment, my good man. I’d spot you a pint. Or,” James added, “think you that the king has outlawed ale in Scotland as well?”
“Wheesht.” Tom silenced him, looking around nervously. “You’ll be the death of me, James Graham. If you manage to keep your own self alive so long.”
“Nerves, man,” James exclaimed. “I’m a Scotsman in the middle of Edinburgh. My king cannot hear me when he’s nowhere to be found.”
“Hush, I say. The king’s men are everywhere, and I’ll not join you on the gallows.” Fleshy cheeks blotching crimson, Tom pursed his lips in thought, his normally jovial demeanor turned solemn.
James barked a quick laugh. “But I’ve upset you!” He hugged his friend to his side. “Let’s see to that pint, aye? I’d have a spot of refreshment before we go.”
“And pray, where are we going?” Tom asked with exaggerated dread.
“Back to my home in Montrose.” James walked them briskly to a public house on the edge of High Street. “I need some time by the sea before we fight.”
“Alright, James.” Tom stopped in his tracks, and the apprehension in his voice belied the lightness of his words. “You have my attention. Before we fight whom?”
“And who else?” James cocked a single brow as a rakish smile split his face. “Before we fight our king, of course.”