But although, as I say, I shared Albany’s impatience, my faith in the Duke of Gloucester’s military ability remained unshaken. Here was a man who, at eleven years old, had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine, while I, born on the same day, had still been trying to kick an inflated pig’s bladder between two upright sticks stuck in the ground (unsuccessfully, I regret to say). And eight years later, at nineteen, he had helped his brother, Edward, to regain his throne at the battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury, where he had fought with the skill and precision of a man twice his age. My trust was in Prince Richard.
This did not mean, however, that I was not suffering from all the prickles of boredom that afflict those with too little to do and too much time in which to do it. The result was not only bad temper but a fatigue that had more to do with the mind than the body. I would lie down at night on my pallet feeling worn to the bone, only to find sleep elusive. I would doze and wake, doze and wake throughout the night, but at the same time, I had trained myself to lie as still as possible so as not to disturb the duke, who, on his camp bed with its swansdown mattress, passed his nights in comparative comfort and who resented being aroused by my tossing and turning.
But that afternoon, after his return from the council of war, Albany re-entered the pavilion in a particularly restless mood, and, when night fell, spurned his bed in order to sit up and read in an attempt to tire himself out. He had pulled his camp stool and table close to the brazier which gave the tent both light and warmth. Lozenges of incense gave off a sickly sweet smell that at first irritated my nose, but then had a soporific effect, lulling me into slumber.
A slight commotion as the tent flap was opened and Davey announced, ‘My lord of Gloucester!’ brought me, however, wide awake. I lay perfectly still, unnoticed in my pool of shadow.
‘Cousin!’ Albany rose to his feet, although with a lack of urgency that plainly indicated this was merely a social gesture from one prince to another.
‘Cousin.’ Gloucester’s deep voice acknowledged the courtesy. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ve interrupted your reading.’ I sensed rather than saw that he was turning over the folios spread out on the table, and his next words confirmed it. ‘Let me see. Richard Rolle. “Meditations on the Passions.” Saint Thomas Aquinas. Thomas à Kempis. “Imitation of Christ.” You favour the mystics, cousin?’
‘As you do, yourself, I believe.’
‘True.’
Davey reappeared with a second camp stool, then discreetly made himself scarce again. I lay doggo, hardly daring to breathe in case I attracted attention to my own presence. That nosiness, so frequently deplored by my nearest and dearest, had me agog with anticipation as to what I might overhear.
‘What can I do for Your Grace?’ Albany enquired, evidently sensing that this visit had a purpose and was not simply the desire on Gloucester’s part for a friendly chat.
There was a momentary hesitation before the duke said abruptly, ‘You have three nephews.’
Albany waited for a second or two, obviously expecting his companion to continue. But when nothing more was said, Albany replied, ‘Yes. The eldest, the Duke of Rothesay is nine, his two brothers six and three.’
‘What … What do you plan to … to do with them when you become king?’
‘Why … nothing.’ Albany sounded startled, as well he might. It was not the question either of us had been expecting.
‘Nothing? Won’t they prove a menace to you?’
‘A menace?’ Suddenly Albany seemed to grasp the meaning behind the query. ‘Ah! You mean as my brother’s rightful heirs? No, no! Scotland, like other Celtic countries, has always adhered to the law of tanistry, not to the rule of primogeniture, as you do in England.’
(At that moment, I had no idea what the law of tanistry was, but I discovered its meaning later. The heir (the tanist) of a Celtic prince or chieftain is not necessarily his eldest son, but can be elected from a whole circle of his male kinfolk, thus ensuring that the strongest or the wisest or the most talented member of the royal family is chosen as leader of the nation. Of course, it doesn’t always work that way; people make foolish mistakes or they grow lazy and accept the next in line as a matter of course, as had happened with the present Scottish king. I imagine that one danger tanistry is intended to obviate is the child ruler with all the attendant jockeying for power amongst the nobles. ‘Woe to thee, O Land, when thy king is a child.’)
The Duke of Gloucester made no immediate answer, but sat drumming his fingers on the table top, lost in thought. Then he rose abruptly.
‘Thank you, Cousin. You’ve … er … you’ve relieved my mind of a worry about … ah … about the position of your … your nephews.’
He spoke almost at random as though he were thinking of something else altogether and I guessed Albany must be as puzzled by this little episode as I was. Indeed, I heard him clear his throat preparatory to making some remark or other, but before he could say anything, the tent-flap was once again flung back, but this time with some force, and Timothy Plummer made an unceremonious entrance.
‘Your Grace! My lord Albany! Forgive me butting in like this, but you must both come at once. A messenger — a scout — has just ridden in to camp with the most momentous news!’
Nine
Within a few hours, the entire camp, from the highest to the lowest, knew that the Scots were in full retreat, taking their king with them — as a captive!
Albany was jubilant and could scarcely contain his excitement.
‘All of them, Cochrane, Scheves, Rogers and the rest, hanged from Lauder Bridge like common criminals and James forced to watch! And now he’s the prisoner of my half-uncles!’ The duke so far forgot himself as to fling his arms around me and kiss me on both cheeks as if I had been a prince of the blood instead of a menial hired to do his bidding. He was almost incoherent in his joy, and inclined to lapse into broad Scots with every other word, but, gradually, I pieced together what had happened.
The advancing Scots’ army had reached the little town of Lauder, a mere thirty miles or so distant from Berwick, when the Earls of Atholl and Buchan — two of the three sons of Joan Beaufort by her second marriage and descendants of that fiery old warhorse, John of Gaunt — together with the impetuous young Archibald, Earl of Angus, had finally become so incensed by the arrogant behaviour of the king’s favourites that they had led a wholly unexpected and, seemingly, totally unplanned coup d’etat, rousing the other nobles to mutiny, seizing the king’s minions and hanging them from the parapet of the bridge which spanned the Leader Water. It was believed — or, at least, Albany had been told — that this drastic measure had been provoked by the appearance of the hated Thomas Cochrane, in a suit of gilded armour with a gold chain worth five hundred crowns or more around his neck, to announce that King James had appointed him Head of Artillery. The Earl of Angus had apparently snatched off the chain with the remark that a rope would suit the favourite better and matters had just developed from there.