There was Prince Henry, himself personable, but very young, of course. He too had his friends and Robert had heard that he used his influence with the King for the benefit of those he favored. So there they were—the royal trio on the stage, from each of whom blessings could flow.
Determined to have the King’s attention, Robert rode close to the stage. But at that moment when he was prepared to dismount gracefully, the horse rose from his haunches, and kicking up his hind legs, shot his rider over his head.
Robert rolled over and over. Then he lost consciousness.
Robert Carr, who had so meant to impress the King by his equestrian skill, had taken an ignoble tumble and lay unconscious before the royal stage.
James rose unsteadily to his feet. He disliked accidents; he was constantly afraid that they would happen to him, and the ease with which they could occur distressed him.
He descended from the stage, and by this time a little crowd had collected about the fallen man. It parted to let the King through.
“Is he much hurt?” he asked.
“His arm’s broken for one thing, Sire,” said one of the onlookers.
“Poor wee laddie! Let him be carried gently into the Palace, and send one of my physicians to look to his needs.”
Someone had removed Robert’s helmet and his golden hair fell across his pale brow.
James looked at him. Why, he was like a Grecian statue, what beautifully molded features! The eyelashes were golden brown against his skin, and several shades darker than his hair.
At that moment Robert opened his eyes and the first face he saw among those bending over him was that of the King.
He remembered in a rush of shame that he had failed.
James said gently: “I’ve sent for a man to look to you, laddie. Dinna be afraid. He’ll look after you.”
He smiled, and it was the tender smile he bestowed on all handsome young men.
He turned away then and Robert groaned.
He had had his great chance but believed he had failed.
That evening James called his favorite, Sir James Hay, to his side and demanded to know how the young man who had fallen in the tiltyard was faring.
“A broken arm, Sire, seems to be the main damage. He’ll mend fast enough. He’s young.”
“Ay, he’s young,” agreed the King. “Jamie, where is the lad?”
“Your Majesty commanded that he was to be housed in your own palace and given the attention of your own physician. This has been done. He is bedded next to your own apartments.”
“Poor laddie, I fear he suffered. He was so eager to do well in the yard.”
“Perhaps he has not done so badly, Sire,” murmured Sir James.
“I’ll go and tell him so. He’d like to hear it from me, I’ll swear.”
“He might even think it worth a broken bone or two,” replied Sir James.
“What! A visit from his King! You boys all flatter your old Dad, Jamie.”
“Nay, Sire, I was not thinking to flatter.”
James laughed, nursing a secret joke. His lads were always afraid he was going to single one of them out for special favors. Jealous cubs, they were, fighting together. Yet they never amused him so much as when they jostled for his favor.
So James went along to see Robert Carr, who lay in bed, his beautiful head resting on his pillows. He tried to struggle up when he saw the King.
“Nay, laddie, bide where you are.”
James took a seat beside the bed.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Y … yes, Sire,” stammered the boy.
A very nice natural modesty, thought James; and now there was a faint color in the young face and, by God, there could not have been a more handsome face in the whole of the Court … now or at any time.
“Dinna be afraid, laddie. Forget I’m the King.”
“Sire … I lie here and …”
“As you should, and I forbid you to do aught else.”
“I should be kneeling.”
“So you shall when you’re well enough. Tell me now: Is it true that you’re Robbie Carr of Ferniehurst?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I’ve heard tell of your father. He was a good and loyal servant to my mother the Queen of the Scots.”
“He would have died for her as I would …”
“As you would for your King? Nay, mon! he’d not ask it. This King likes not to hear of men dying … and this is more so when they have youth and beauty. Wouldn’t a broken arm be enough, eh? Is it painful?”
“A little, Sire.”
“They tell me it’ll be well enough soon. Young bones mend quickly. Now, Robbie Carr, were you a page to me back in bonny Scotland?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And came south with me and then left me?”
“I was sent to France, Sire.”
“Where they taught you pretty manners, I see. Now you’re back at the King’s Court, and Robbie, your King’s telling you this: he hopes there you’ll stay.”
“Oh Sire, my great wish is to serve you.”
“So you shall.”
Robert had heard that the King was always deeply impressed by good looks but he had not believed that they could have such a remarkable effect as his evidently had. The King was as indulgent as a father; he wanted to know about Robert’s childhood, what life had been like at Ferniehurst.
Robert told of how he had been taught to tilt and shoot, and how he had become an expert in such manly pastimes.
“But what of books, lad?” James wanted to know. “Did they not tell you that there was more lasting pleasure to be found in them than in the tiltyard?”
Robert was alarmed, because his teachers had despaired of him and he was far happier out of doors than in the schoolroom; it had seemed more important to his parents that he should grow up strong in the arm than in the head.
James was disappointed.
“It seems to me, lad, that your education has been most shamefully neglected. And a pity too, for ye’d have had a good brain if any had taken the trouble to train it.”
James went sorrowfully away, but the next day he returned to Robert’s bedside. With the King came one of his pages carrying books, which at James’s command he laid on the bed.
James’s eyes were bright with laughter.
“Latin, Robbie,” he cried. “Now here ye are, confined to bed for a few days. And already you’re longing to be in the saddle again and out in the sunshine. Ye canna, Robbie. But there’s something you can do. You can make up a little for all ye’ve lost, by a study of the Latin tongue, and ye’ll discover that there’s more adventure to one page of learning than to be found in months in the tiltyard. For ye’re going to have a good tutor, Robbie—the best in the Kingdom. Can you guess who, lad? None but your King.”
In the Court they were discussing the King’s latest oddity. Each morning he was at the bedside of Robert Carr. The young man was not an apt pupil; but the teacher quickly forgave him this deficiency because he had so much that gave him pleasure.
It was clear; the King had found a new favorite.
Opposite the entrance to the tiltyard at Whitehall was the Gatehouse, a magnificent pile, built by Holbein, of square stones and flint boulders, tessellated and glazed. Several busts of terracotta and gilt adorned the Gatehouse; one of these represented Henry VII and another Henry VIII; and it was known as the Cockpit Gate.