“Aye,” he agreed, not denying it.
“I will think on it,” the queen told him.
“Convince our dear lord, and the new marquis will be his devoted servant forever,” Viscount Villiers cleverly pointed out.
At that point in their conversation Barclay returned and presented the king with a document to sign. George Villiers was at once on the alert. The king read the parchment slowly, carefully, and then, taking the quill from his secretary, signed it. Barclay then spread it firmly, and the king dripped the dark red wax upon it, and then pressed first the royal seal, and secondly his own signet ring into the cooling wax. Waiting a moment for the wax to harden, Barclay then rolled the parchment up upon the table and sealed it a second time with wax. The royal seal was again imprinted upon it, and the secretary, looking up, handed the document to Viscount Villiers.
“There’s time to ride out yet today,” the earl of BrocCairn said to the young Englishman, “if yer up to it, laddie.”
Villiers nodded. “Just give me a half of an hour to get ready,” he said. Then he knelt and kissed the king’s hand.
James Stuart reached out and stroked the young man’s silky hair. “Ahh, Steenie,” he said, “must ye go? Can my cousin of BrocCairn nae take it alone? What will I do wi’out my bonnie laddie?”
“I promised the Leslies my friendship,” George Villiers said. “It would be a poor promise if I did not help them now when I could, my dearest lord. I will not linger in your Scotland, and I will return to you as soon as I can.” He kissed the royal hand again and, rising, departed the king’s privy chamber.
“He’s a wee bit too pretty for my taste,” BrocCairn said bluntly, “but Jasmine and Jemmie say he’s a good man. Now tellme, cousin, how is young Charles? Is there a chance I might pay my respects before I leave ye today?”
“Are ye thinking of the future, Alex?” the king teased him.
Alex Gordon looked startled at the king’s comment, then he laughed. “I suppose I am,” he said. “Sandy’s married, ye know, but my own Charlie is going to need some kind of living eventually. A place wi yer son might be just the thing for him. Besides, now that ye Stuarts are in England, I fear our great and extended family will begin to separate. We share a grandfather, Jamie, though my name be Gordon. For my family’s sake I dinna want to lose our wee prestige wi the royal Stuarts. I need a son in England, and God knows there is little for Charlie in Scotland. His brother’s wife hae already birthed an heir for us.”
“Honest as ever,” the king replied with a smile. “There’s time for ye to renew yer acquaintance wi royal Charles before ye must set out for Edinburgh. Annie, will ye take our cousin to the prince? And dinna worry, Alex. We’ll find something for yer laddie before the summer’s end. Farewell now, and God bless ye.” The king extended his hand.
The earl of BrocCairn took it and kissed it fervently. “Farewell, cousin,” he told the king, “and God bless ye! Hae it not been for yer timely intervention, a great injustice would hae been done in yer name.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clan Bruce was hosting a small summer games on the other side of the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh. As late summer approached the weather had turned sunny and warm.
“We’ll go,” Jemmie Leslie decided. “You’ve seen all that Edinburgh has to offer, darling Jasmine. You’ve seen the castle, and blessed Queen Margaret’s chapel. You’ve visited the markets, and the King’s Cross, where my stepfather, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, Lord Bothwell, was sadly ‘put to the horn,’ outlawed by his cousin, our own King James. We’ll go across the water to the Bruce games, then return to Edinburgh to pack up and go back to Glenkirk.”
“But what about St.Denis?” Jasmine asked him. “We have had no word from England yet, Jemmie. Is it wise for us to go home yet?”
“St. Denis is in the north, chasing shadows,” her husband said. “We have naught to fear from him, sweetheart. As for our messenger, he will more than likely go to Glenkirk when he finds we are not here.”
They sailed across the Forth with the earl’s aunt and uncle.
“Adam still loves the games,” Fiona said. “‘Tis he who taught Jemmie how to toss the caber. He generally wins, despite his age, when he competes. You’ll enjoy the games. They’ll run about four or five days.”
The servants had already gone ahead to prepare the tents that would house them. The Leslie griffin flew from their tops and made their lodging easily visible. Fiona had instructed Jasmine how to dress so she would not appear unusual to the clannish Scots who were gathered. All the men wore lengths of plaid wrapped about them, and linen shirts, knit hose, and wide leather belts along with leather shoes upon their feet. The women wore ankle-length skirts and white shirts with plaid shawls, their clan badges in full view, and knitted stockings and leather shoes upon their legs and their feet. It was simple, comfortable clothing.
Their lodging was equally modest, but comfortable. There were wood and leather camp beds set up, covered with feather mattresses, and comforters. There were braziers to heat each tent. Outside the tent beneath the awning were two chairs. The servants had pallets which were placed at their lord’s discretion, either inside or outside the tents. The earl of Glenkirk did not think it wise that his wife’s female servant sleep out-of-doors, where she would be prey to lechers and drunkards. Maggie would be inside while Fergus and Red Hugh would be just outside the tent’s entry, where they might also serve to guard their master and their mistress.
Jasmine had never experienced anything like the games, and the only time in her entire life she had slept in a tent was during the weeks in which she made her way from her father’s court to Cambay on the coast. It had been a dangerous adventure then. Now, she decided, it was fun. Their hosts, the Bruces, were providing both food and drink for their guests. Great cook fires burned night and day. The fare was simple. Hot oat stirabout, oatcakes, and cider in the morning. Mutton, oatcakes, and ale in the afternoon. Many of the guests at the games supplemented this rather spartan fare. The Leslies had brought a half a wheel of cheese, fresh bread, a fat, cooked capon, wine, apples, and pears.
“All those oats give me the wind,” Adam Leslie complained. “After five days if we all turn our arses to the sea, we’ll create enough of a blow to send the French fleet back to Normandy.”
Jasmine had never seen anything like the games. There were footraces. The men stripped off their shirts and ran the different courses. There was wrestling. The man to beat was the Erskine champion, a tall, bare-chested beefy fellow in his red-and-green tartan. Young men of the Bruce, MacDuff, and Lindsay clans tried, but failed. Black Ewen Erskine remained champion for these games. There was the stone pitch, in which heavy, smooth round stones were pitched with one hand down the length of a field. Happily the host clan won that contest. Then came the tossing of the caber. Logs of even length had been hewn, and now each contestant lifted up his log in turn, ran a few steps, and heaved the heavy timber as far as he could. Adam Leslie, considered almost an old man by the young clansmen, pitched his caber farther than any of the younger men. There was one contestant left. His nephew, the earl of Glenkirk. His dark hairy chest straining and wet with his effort, James Leslie launched his caber with a fierce grunt. It soared through the clear air with what seemed exquisite grace, passing the log thrown only moments earlier by Adam Leslie.
“I declare James Leslie winner of tossing the caber,” said Jock Bruce, the master of the games.
The earl grinned. “At least it’s still in the family,” he teased his uncle.
“Ye’ll hae to beat me three times running, laddie, before I’ll gie over to ye,” Adam said, laughing. “‘Twas a lucky throw, I’ll vow, Jemmie. There are games at Sithean next month. We’ll see then.”
“One of these days yer going to pull something important if ye keep on like this,” Fiona muttered ominously.
Adam Leslie slid his arm about his wife. “Naught for ye to worry about, darlin’,” he said gallantly.
