Chapter 31
‘WHO ARE YOU?’
Elspet is pinned to the spot by the suspicious gaze of the King of Scotland, face to face at the door to the Queen’s bedchamber.
The King wears a coat of black silk tabinet that reaches below his knees, a chain of diamonds around his neck and a large diamond in his hat.
Next to him stands the Earl of Mar, his most trusted advisor, a tall watchful man, eyes darting, his arm poised to support the King.
King James looks directly at Elspet and her eyes move from his eyes to the diamond in his hat – Lady Jean wasn’t wrong about the importance of jewels in this court, she thinks, distracted for a moment by the light refracted in the stone’s many facets.
Margaret breaks the awkward silence. ‘This is Lady Alvah Gordon. A new lady to attend to the Queen.’
The King’s eyebrows rise up his forehead. ‘The Gordon?’ he stutters. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’ His face moves closer, peering at her like she’s a curiosity in a cabinet. She smells wine on his breath.
‘I haven’t had the pleasure, Your Majesty. Thank you for welcoming me into your court.’ She’s painfully aware of every syllable that passes her lips, every movement in her face. But she forces herself to relax as much as possible.
‘I hope the Countess of Sutherland and her family are pleased,’ the King says. ‘The Catholic Earls cause me great grief. The Queen of England is furious I do not clamp down harder on their rebellious behaviour.’
What on earth is Elspet supposed to say to this? She remembers Lady Jean’s advice: defer to his great wisdom and tell him he’s right about everything.
She makes herself stand up tall; she is the Countess of Sutherland’s ward and should act accordingly. ‘Your Majesty has been most wise and kind.’ She meets his eyes for long enough to seem trustworthy, not so long she might seem bold. Of course, she can only guess what the right balance might be.
The King nods. ‘I was brought up among a company of mutinous knave ministers, you know. All my life, I’ve lived with treachery and villainy. It is the lot of a King.’ He slurs his words, leaning towards the Earl of Mar at his side.
Jean was right, of course: he’s not actually interested in anything Elspet has to say.
She forgets to be afraid for a moment and really looks at him, the way he stands, his weight shifted unevenly onto his right leg, away from the pain in his left.
She has to stop herself from reaching for the cloth bag secreted inside Lady Alvah’s gown – some sea mayweed and juniper perhaps, infused in oil and massaged on the painful areas, might relieve his discomfort.
‘It will be different when I’m the King of England, of course. The knaves and bastards won’t be able to touch me then.’ He’s muttering now as well as slurring, talking to himself more than to her.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Elspet replies simply.
The Earl of Mar looks at the King, his forehead furrowed. ‘We should get on, Your Majesty, there are letters to write . . .’
The King ignores him. ‘As a sign of your gratitude for my allowing you into court,’ he says, his eyes sliding back onto Elspet, ‘perhaps you might persuade my wife to show more civility and gratitude herself. She’s barely spoken a word to me in months.’
Here, surely, are politics even more fraught with risk than relations between the King, the Catholic Earls, and the Queen of England.
Elspet may not have been at court for long, but she doesn’t need anyone to tell her that expressing a view on the dispute between the King and Queen is a terrible idea.
‘We live to bring any comfort we can to both your Majesties,’ Margaret says, rescuing the situation once again. Elspet stifles a sigh of relief and nods in agreement.
‘Very good. I shall let you go to her.’ The King stumbles to his left, where the Earl of Mar waits with a supportive arm, then puffs up his chest. ‘Come along, Jocky, Elizabeth’s last correspondence was vexing.’
He walks unsteadily along the corridor, flanked by Mar, who subtly offers the King his arm.