‘You can kill the King!’
The words were softly spoken but Douglas’ face was hard.
‘He might not be my king,’ Matthias replied, ‘but remember, my lord, he is the Lord’s anointed.’
Douglas ignored Matthias’ mimicry of his own words.
‘But the Lord has taken His hand away from him, as He did from Saul and bestowed His favour on David.’
‘And, of course, you have this new David?’ Matthias taunted. ‘The King’s young son?’
‘The boy is a bonny lad. He has great favour, is well liked and respected by the lords spiritual and temporal, not to mention our many bonnet lairds. James III is mad. The Exchequer’s empty, the kingdom’s weak. He pours good gold and silver into one madcap scheme after another. We have tried to teach him the true paths. We hanged six of his favourites but still he hasn’t learnt.’
‘So, you organised a foray into England?’ Matthias replied. ‘To collect arms and munitions as well as an Englishman whom the King might be interested in?’
‘You’ll be given many an opportunity.’
Matthias rubbed his face. Was there no end to this? To be the tool and instrument of power-hungry men?
‘Do it as you wish,’ Douglas continued. ‘The knife, a cup of poison.’
‘And if I do?’ Matthias spat the words out. ‘If I do this for you, Lord George Douglas, who destroyed my life and brought me here, an exile amongst strangers?’
‘You’ll be loaded with honours and returned to the border,’ Douglas replied.
Aye, Matthias thought, pigs will fly and fish will walk on dry land.
‘Think about it.’ Douglas forced a smile. He stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Matthias sat staring at the wall. He didn’t really care about what Douglas had said. He searched his mind. What did he feel? A deep anger at Rosamund’s death? Yes, and a growing hatred for the men who had caused it. He stayed in the chamber until Archibald Kennedy came back.
‘The King’s waiting for ye. He wishes you to sup with him.’
Matthias followed the soldier back to the chamber where he had first met the King. James was more relaxed: one of the shutters had been opened. The King waved him to a stool on the other side of a small table which was covered with trenchers and bowls full of meat, bread and fruit. The King blessed himself and, chattering about how he would like to develop the Abbey of Holyrood, invited Matthias to eat. The King watched Matthias put food on his trencher and begin to eat. He had hardly done so when the King stretched across, knocked his hand away and took the trencher for himself whilst Matthias was given his plate. The same occurred when the wine was poured. Matthias realised that, whether he liked it or not, he was the King’s food-taster. James watched him, narrow-eyed.
‘Why did Douglas bring you here, Englishman?’
‘Oh, it’s quite simple, Your Grace. He wishes me to kill you.’
James threw his head back in a loud neighing laugh, spitting food from his mouth.
‘Englishman, you jest!’
‘Your Grace, I do not.’
‘Och aye!’ The King sighed, wiping his fingers on his gown. ‘I could have you hanged for that.’ He sighed again. ‘But you are telling the truth, aren’t you?’
Matthias stared into those hard, cunning eyes full of madness. He stretched across to take a small manchet loaf but the King knocked his hand away.
‘Don’t eat that!’ he whispered. ‘It’s poisoned!’
Matthias swallowed hard. His appetite abruptly died.
‘I poisoned that myself,’ the King continued. ‘I heard your conversation with the Douglas. The chamber you were given has a false wall. In one of the beams there are two holes. You can look through or put your ear to them.’
‘Archibald Kennedy was there all the time, wasn’t he?’ Matthias asked.
‘Och aye.’ James smiled. ‘Douglas wants me dead.’
‘Why don’t you kill him? It is treason to plot against you, the King.’
The King rubbed his hand together. ‘I’d love to,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I’d love to see that arrogant red head on the end of a pike but not here, not now. If I kill the Douglas his clan would be swarming through Edinburgh. They’d burn the abbey and the palace to the ground and I would disappear into some dark pit.’ He smiled again. ‘If ye hadn’t told me the truth, I would have let you eat that poison. But come on, have some more wine. Tell me about Oxford!’
So began Matthias’ bizarre life at the Scottish court. Sometimes the King would forget him and Matthias would wander the dusty galleries or go into the great abbey. He’d sit at the base of a pillar and listen to the rhythmic chant of the monks in their stalls or stare up at the stained-glass windows, where angels blew golden trumpets to raise the dead and demons danced on an ocean of fire. The abbey walls, too, were decorated with gorgeous multi-coloured scenes from the Bible. Matthias got to know each and every one of them, and the memories of those paintings at Tewkesbury flooded back: the golden summer day, the hermit staring at a painting, tears streaming down his face.
Matthias did try to escape. One morning he slipped out of a small postern gate and crossed the great meadow which ran down to one of the curtain walls round the abbey. He thought no one would notice. He was halfway across when he heard the whirr of arrows and two long shafts smacked into the soft earth on either side of him. Matthias turned round. Kennedy stood at the top of the hilclass="underline" the master bowman beside him was notching another arrow to his string. Matthias shrugged and walked slowly back.
On other occasions he was closeted with the King; James was a madcap, seething with rage at the humiliation foisted upon him by his great barons. He was superstitious and, at other times, deeply religious. Matthias would sometimes sleep in the same chamber or sit at his right at banquets in the great refectory. He would taste every morsel of food and cup of wine placed before the King.
Matthias was also invited into the royal chapel where Cochrane, the King’s long-dead favourite, lay embalmed in an open casket. James had a special chair placed at the head of this. He would sit for hours stroking his dead favourite’s face, playing with the tendrils of the hair, cooing softly or talking about affairs of state. James would then quietly listen, as he put it, ‘for Cochrane’s good counsel’.
Douglas had left the court. When he returned, he never approached Matthias but just stared angry-eyed, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger. Matthias would shrug and glance away. He felt safe enough and, after his walk through the long meadow, never again attempted to escape. He didn’t pray or put his trust in God. He simply reached a decision that, if an opportunity to escape presented itself, he would seize it.
The months passed, a wet winter turned into a glorious spring. James spent more hours closeted in the royal chapel crooning and murmuring over Cochrane’s corpse. When he returned to his private chambers, he became immersed in letters, all written in a secret hand, to his ‘friends and trusted counsellors throughout Scotland’.
One day, at the beginning of May, Matthias found the King beside himself with excitement.
‘It’s war!’ he whispered across the table. ‘It’s now or never, Englishman! Cochrane has given me his advice! I am to take the field. Do you agree?’
‘Your Grace knows best,’ Matthias replied.
‘I have got to look for a cause,’ the King replied.
A few days later he was given this. A group of Douglas’ allies, the Humes, wild, border bonnet lairds, arrived in a clatter of hooves and clash of armour at the palace demanding an immediate audience with the King. James, dressed in his finest regal robes, met them in the throne room, his royal guards all about him, Matthias being relegated to a shadowy corner. At first Matthias couldn’t understand what was happening. The Humes, dressed in half-armour, their long, red hair falling down to their waists, stood arrogantly before the King and shouted for their rights.
‘The revenues of Coldingham Priory,’ their leader insisted, ‘belong to the Humes. They are ours by right and ancient privilege!’