Turn of the Tide (35 page)

‘Are you bid to Robert? Or was that a pretty fiction to make my escape the easier?’

Alexander didn’t slow his pace. ‘I am bid, to a late supper, and the thought of missing out on the best of it doesn’t appeal, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t
lag.’

Robert turned at their entrance, his smile, warm for Alexander, was absent for Hugh. ‘I had thought,’ he said, ‘that we might be spared your company tonight.
The talk was all of how thick you were with Cunninghame and like to spend the evening in debate with him and others of his kin, rather than your own. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t
James make an especial decree that feuds were to be avoided. Or is it that your idea of living peaceably is to spark with William for all to see?

Hugh was defensive. ‘I didn’t seek the confrontation.’

Alexander supported him, ‘In all fairness, it was William’s doing and though there is no doubt that the intention was to bait Hugh, we escaped with little said on either side that
would bear repeating.’

The edge left Robert’s voice. ‘Steer clear of them, Hugh. It is a chancy thing to cross swords, however lightly, with anyone, far less with William. And in the present circumstance
would be folly indeed.’

Elizabeth was seated in a window reveal, jiggling the baby on her hip, and opposite her, Kate Munro, her legs curled underneath her like a bairn. She straightened as Robert spoke and her hands,
which until then had lain still in her lap, began to crumple at her skirt.

Alexander came towards them. ‘Elizabeth is to be presented to the King and Queen.’ He touched the babe’s cheek. ‘And the bairn. It is an honour that many would wish
for.’ He turned back to Robert, drawing him away. ‘The plan for the procession is set, and your place in it.’

Elizabeth placed her hand on Hugh’s sleeve. ‘I know that you court James for our benefit, but take care the price is not too high.’

Robert and his lady had retired to their chamber, Hugh and Elizabeth ready to follow by the time Munro arrived to collect Kate. She had nearly given up on him, and was ready to
accept Patrick’s offer to walk her back to Merlyon’s Wynd, when he appeared in the doorway. That he hadn’t had the best of days was evident from his expression, so she
wasn’t surprised when he refused the invitation to join the Montgomeries the following morning.

‘Glencairn has prior claim. We are both bid to lunch at his lodgings, and inclination or not, we have no choice.’

Elizabeth didn’t press, perhaps thinking of the rollicking that Hugh had received from Robert and the consequent coolness that had marred the atmosphere all evening. She toyed with the
ribbons that trimmed her sleeve. ‘And Wednesday? Can you meet with us then? Robert is to be part of the procession, but we have debated at length where to stand, and have made a goodly
choice.’

There was a weariness in Munro. ‘It is perhaps an over public occasion on which to flaunt new friendships, however much we might wish it.’ He steered Kate towards the door. ‘I
trust you will excuse us. Old obligations are aye the difficult ones. We should take our leave now, for we can’t bide past Thursday.’

Patrick bowed over Kate’s hand. ‘No need to be maudlin. If we meet in the press on Wednesday, well. If not, our friendship can stand the strain. Renfrew is not far from Ayrshire; you
will all no doubt have opportunity to meet again. I am the loser here, for I make for France next week and heaven knows when I’ll be back. Unless there is a wedding to attend. I might,’
he tapped Grizel’s shoulder, ‘only might mind, be able to take leave for that.’

The lunch with the Cunninghames was all that Kate expected it to be: long and tedious. The conversation, if so it could be called, a recital of Glencairn’s frustrations:
his inability to get the King’s ear, his concern that Maitland, newly created earl, rode high, his annoyance that in the Queen’s procession his place would be twelfth to Robert
Montgomerie’s eleventh.

She was seated between Munro and John Cunninghame, concentrating on matching her expressions to the mood of the moment, careful to hide her increasing irritation at Glencairn’s
self-indulgent grumblings and William’s petty complaints. In this she did better than Munro, on more than one occasion having cause to lean heavily on his foot. She suspected that John was
aware of her efforts and approved them, a feeling confirmed when he handed her to a seat in a window alcove.

‘Your husband is fortunate indeed: a wife who watches his well-being.’ Then, as Glencairn approached, an abrupt change, ‘I have contracted Mistress Munro to join us on
Wednesday and have assured her that the position we have gained from which to watch the entry will be second to none.’

He had left her no room to manoeuvre, but recognizing the underlying goodwill, she expressed her pleasure and excitement at the prospect of seeing the new Queen, which was the truth; and her
thanks that they be included in the Cunninghame party, which was not.

Maxwell joined them and William, who until then had confined himself to minor gripes: the weakness of the ale, the discomfort of the beds, the inadequacies of the servants; turned to an airing
of greater grievances: chief among them Braidstane’s standing.

‘I was well placed yesterday to get the King’s ear until Braidstane appeared with some message from London: trumped up and exaggerated, no doubt, yet James listens to him as if it
came from Cecil himself. Who is this brother George anyway?’

‘Dean of Norwich, and with higher prospects.’ Glencairn descended into sarcasm. ‘But no doubt your offer of a hunt will weigh more heavily with James than a few meagre rumours
from the English court.’

William flushed.

‘I grant you one advantage over Braidstane. You get drunk quicker and more often, a condition in courtiers that James has apparently become used to at the Danish court and may
prize.’

The tension palpable, Kate studied the floor, searching for some excuse to leave.

At her shoulder, John. ‘I believe you make for Broomelaw on Thursday?’

‘Yes, though I wish we could stay longer . . .’

‘You have gifts bought?’

‘Not yet for the bairns.’ With a rush of gratitude for the thought, she said, ‘I planned this afternoon . . .’

‘No doubt we can excuse you then.’

Glencairn half turned as John spoke. ‘Indeed. I leave early on Wednesday to join the procession at Leith. But John will see to you.’ Then, a final barb, ‘Or William, if he is
capable.’

Music came first. A cacophony of sound: lutes and tambors, pipes and drums, viols and flutes and whistles; as the good citizens of Edinburgh lined the route from Leith and
played, skillfully or otherwise, but with undoubted enthusiasm. The whole, however discordant, somehow glorious. And suddenly it no longer mattered to Kate that she was sandwiched with the
Cunninghames just inside the main entrance to the palace of Holyrood. That in the wait she had been forced to bear with William’s intermittent gaze stripping her as efficiently as if he
dissolved her clothes in vitriol. That she had endured for two hours or more the barbed comments that sparked between William and Maxwell as they dissected the reputations, the character, the
appearance of those, noble or otherwise, who surrounded them. Or that she held fast to Munro’s arm, not for her own safety, but so that she could exert whatever warning pressure was
neccessary to keep his reactions to the conversation within bounds.

Caught up in the excitement, she forgot her disappointment that they didn’t spend this day with the Montgomeries, whom she had glimpsed by the inner yett. Her senses re-tuned, she revelled
in the heat and the crush and the colour; in the flapping of tapestries hanging from balconies and forestairs; the fluttering of flags and pennants; the brilliance of the liveries and coats of
arms. The swell of sounds: tune piled on tune, instrument on instrument, singing and cheers that rose and fell in waves; from which she tried to unpick individual melodies. And failing, gave up the
unequal struggle, abandoning herself to the growing frenzy as the procession neared.

There was a shift in atmosphere: whispers become a murmur, the murmur an anticipation that rose to a roar with the first sight of the Whifflers: bright in cloth of silver and white taffeta,
strewn with gold chains. They criss-crossed the roadway, white staffs flashing, laying about them with cheerful good humour to clear any who threatened to encroach upon the path.

Behind them, the nobles: Danish and Scottish side by side. In satin and velvet, in cloth of gold, in burgundy and blue, vermillion and yellow and the deepest of blacks. Pleated and ruffed and
feathered and plumed, ablaze with jewels. At the front the Danish envoys and the earls attached to them. Then others of the nobles in order of precedence. Beside her a stiffening as Robert
Montgomerie appeared: young, handsome, assured. His doublet was of deep blue slashed with silver, his matching short cape fashionably slung from one shoulder, silver buttons trimming his
tall-crowned hat and winking on his shoes. To his left, Glencairn, in gold and bronze, a match for his chestnut stallion, its Arab blood evident in the high stepping gait, the arrrogance of the
long nose.

The cheering rose to a crescendo. And with the cheers, a collective indrawing of breath as the Queen’s coach came into view, flanked on one side by James and the Duke of Lennox and on the
other by the Earl of Bothwell and Lord John Hamilton. Knowing what to expect from Sigurd’s description, Kate was nevertheless unprepared for the magnificance of the reality: the eight
perfectly matched white horses coroneted with plumes of peacock feathers, twisted cords of purple woven into their manes and tails. The silver coach, its bodywork dazzling, so that it almost hurt
to look at it. The velvet upholstery: a fitting contrast to Anne, pale as an Ice Queen in white bliant, her corn-coloured hair piled on her forehead like curls of spun gold.

‘No wonder she wished to bring her own coach.’ Kate’s fingers tightened on Munro’s arm, as the coach and outriders approached. ‘Bonny indeed and regal with it, for
all she’s young.’

The lines of loyal subjects bent in a sweeping wave of curtsey and bow. Kate sank in her turn, and rising had time to note the brilliance of the Queen’s retinue. A brilliance that, to
judge by William’s quickened interest, he also noted.

The foremost riders had reached the inner yett and were dismounting, peeling off to each side to form a guard of honour. The coach drew to a halt, James reaching up to hand the Queen down. Kate,
craning her neck, saw that Patrick and Hugh were stationed behind Robert Montgomerie, Elizabeth and the babe at Hugh’s side. The King and Queen paused in their slow passageway through the
ranks of nobles, James bending his head towards Robert. He edged sideways allowing Hugh and Elizabeth to step forward. Hugh’s bow was timed to a nicety, Elizabeth’s curtesy deep and
fluid despite the child on her arm, so that Kate dipped her head to hide her involuntary smile.

‘Practice made perfect, I’d say.’ Munro’s comment, intended as a whisper for Kate, fell in a lull in the surrounding chatter, so that his voice carried.

‘No doubt needed.’ William was acidic.