And so, after that digression, I have lost my thread, and serve me right. Where was I? Ah, yes! Approaching Fotheringay Castle in those early June days of the year 1482 when I was still a young man — well, comparatively young — of twenty-nine, although a little more than three months off my thirtieth birthday; an unhappy man, desperately missing his wife and children.
Fotheringay was as gloomy inside as it was out.
The Duke of Albany and his retinue were assigned a number of rooms on the ground floor, close to the king’s own suite, which were, as I soon discovered, somewhat more luxurious than those of even such highly placed lords as Earl Rivers and Sir Edward Woodville, two of the king’s brothers-in-law, the Marquis of Dorset, his elder stepson, Lord Hastings, his particular, life-long friend, Lord Stanley and many others. These flowers of the English court were definitely not pleased by Albany’s preferential treatment, and made their annoyance plain, at least to us, his servants, if not to the prince himself. Not that he was unaware of it, but he was not in the least discomposed by their disapproval.
‘After all, I am a future king of Scotland,’ he said to me, as we tumbled into bed that first night, adding with a grin, ‘And you will see tomorrow, or whenever my lords of Gloucester and Northumberland arrive from the north, that I shall be given pride of place when His Highness receives them.’ His voice sharpened. ‘And don’t you move far from my side, Roger! There’s something about this place. I don’t like it. I have a premonition of danger.’
I sighed, not caring if he heard me. What use to me were his feelings and premonitions? What I needed were reasons for them. If I could have talked to any one of my fellow servants — for there was little doubt in my mind that the status of servant was what I had been reduced to — it might have helped. But James Petrie, John Tullo, Davey Gray and the two squires all seemed unable to speak in anything but the broad Scots dialect whenever they found themselves in my company. (I wondered how they had fared in France.) The five of them made their contempt for me, as a Sassenach, perfectly plain; yet, in spite of derision and occasional insolence, they tolerated my presence with far less resentment than I would have expected in the circumstances; a fact that made me wonder if they knew of their master’s suspicions concerning at least one of their number.
I asked Albany.
‘God’s Nightgown, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘I want to flush the bastard out, not put him on his guard.’
‘So what explanation has Your Highness given them for my inclusion in your retinue?’
He laughed. ‘What else but that you are guarding my sacred person from the possible machinations of the English? They know the part you played in my escape from Bristol to Ireland three years ago and that, as a consequence, I trust you. And to tell you the truth, Roger,’ he added, clapping me on the shoulder, ‘that’s not just an All Fools’ Day story. These forebodings that possess me, warning me of danger, might well apply to my English hosts and have nothing to do with my brother’s men. Or-’ At that ‘or’ I heaved another sigh, deeper than before, but Albany ignored me. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘I could have enemies in both camps.’
‘Or in neither,’ I suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I’m a sensitive soul, Roger. I don’t have the “sight”, I admit that. I cannot “see” things that are about to happen, but I can feel them. Oh, yes! Definitely I can feel them. And I have known for some weeks now that danger threatens me from some quarter or another. I racked my brains for someone disinterested enough to guard me without the possibility of his being in the pay of either my brother, King James, or King Edward, who might secretly have decided to make peace, after all, thus reducing me to an embarrassing encumbrance.’ He gave me a radiant smile. ‘And suddenly, I remembered you, my dear friend and saviour. I knew, at that juncture, that Cousin Edward would deny me nothing. So, here you are!’
‘Just sitting on my arse and doing nothing.’
Albany put an arm about my shoulders and grinned at me. ‘Don’t sound so bitter! I’m paying you well, aren’t I? What I mean is that I will be paying you well as soon as I get my hands on the allowance dear Edward has promised me. Meantime, you’re better fed and clothed, I daresay, then you’ve ever been in your life before. And all you have to do in return is to watch my back.’
‘Do all your family have this fatal charm?’ I grunted. ‘I’m persuaded Your Highness could turn a Mussulman Christian.’
He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, we Stewarts are noted for our charm, but unfortunately not for our tact or superior understanding. We make enemies all too easily.’
Against my will, I smiled back. He had an ironic streak that appealed to my own. I found myself liking him in spite of the instinct that told me to resist the notion that, whatever he might call me, however much he might flatter me, he regarded me as a friend. Members of the nobility never made friends of people like me. They used us, then forgot us when we were no longer of value to them. There were no exceptions. I suspected that even the man I admired above all others, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was completely oblivious to my existence until he had work for me to do. Then my name would flit into his mind as a useful tool for his purpose.
All the same, fool that I am, I have to admit that I was more than somewhat flattered when, the following day, June the eleventh, the Feast of Saint Barnabas, the duke caught my eye and nodded as he entered Fotheringay’s central courtyard. He and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, arrived midway through the afternoon to be received with all the panoply of state that King Edward could muster. Banners waved, trumpets sounded, choirboys sang, the assembled company cheered itself hoarse and the king embraced his only surviving brother with an affection that had him crying tears of joy.
Normally, of course, I should have been on the very fringes of such a gathering, unable to see or hear a thing that was going on. But on this occasion, thanks to Albany, there I was, right in the thick of it, a privileged auditor and spectator. I was able to note how anxiously the duke scanned the king’s face, and the tightening of his rather thin lips as his eyes rested on those lords ranged closest about the monarch, members of his inner circle, bosom companions of his hedonistic life. (It was common knowledge that they passed their various mistresses about amongst each other, and that Lord Hastings and the Marquis of Dorset were at daggers drawn over the favours of the delectable Dame Shore.)
It was as he freed himself from King Edward’s embrace that the duke noticed me and nodded. It was nothing more than the barest of acknowledgements, but sufficient to make one or two people glance my way in outraged surprise, and for Albany to dig me, most unroyally, in the ribs and give a little snort of laughter.