“I know. This fellow on the Continent . . . is he really the Duke of York, Edward’s son?”
“Where is Edward’s son? Where are Edward’s sons? Two little boys in the Tower, and they disappear. Where to? Can people disappear in that way?”
“Easily if their throats are cut or they are stifled as I have heard these boys were . . . stifled by downy pillows . . . poor little mites. Did Richard do it as some say?”
“Why should he? He said they were bastards. But Henry has married their sister. He couldn’t marry a bastard . . . which she must have been if they were. It sounds reasonable to me. Henry takes them from the Tower in secret . . . puts them out to be murdered far from the spot. Someone takes pity on the younger boy . . . and there we have our Perkin Warbeck.”
“Reasonable,” she admitted.
“And a great anxiety to old Henry. You can picture him—trembling on his throne. There are many in Europe who are ready to rise up and help the young man fight for his crown.”
“Richard the Fourth. Would Scotland be happier under Richard the Fourth than under Henry the Seventh?”
“Scotland asks only to have an English king to fight. What his name is is of no matter. Scotland asks to harry the English King and if it can be done by making him change his name from Henry to Richard so much the better. Scotland is happiest when Englishmen are fighting against Englishmen because it saves the Scots the trouble of fighting them. I like to see my poor old enemy Henry being frightened out of his wits by this young man from Flanders.”
“Is he frightened? He seems to be holding his crown rather well.”
“Who can say, little love? He has to be continually on the alert. That has to take his mind from his money bags. And he won’t like having to spend some of those contents on war, will he?”
“James, you are malicious.”
“I am indeed where Henry is concerned . . . but kind and loving to my friends, do you not agree?”
“I would agree with that.”
“I am thankful to have your approval. I fancy I don’t have Huntly’s at this moment. He is wondering whether his daughter Katharine should be in such company.”
“My lord, I trust you will keep your eyes from Katharine. She is not for you.”
“Well I know it. Huntly need have no fears for his virtuous daughter. We must find a worthy husband for her. That I assure you is the reason why he has brought her to Court. Now what say you to sending for Damian?”
“If it so please my lord, then let it be.”
“I’ll send for him tomorrow. Now my bed calls . . . and it would seem it does for many of our friends.”
The King stood up, and the company rose with him.
He bade them all a good and safe night; then with Marion he went to his bedchamber.
Damian appeared the next day. The Abbot of Tungsland had come far since he had attracted the attention of the King and this he had done through what he proclaimed to be knowledge of the art of magic.
He was an astrologer, but there were other astrologers. Damian had special gifts. He could tell the King what was about to happen. He could tell him what to avoid. He had had some luck in those respects and James, who wanted to believe, was inclined to pass over Damian’s mistakes and remember his successes.
Marion had once said: “You help Damian when he is groping for messages and things from the unknown. You supply him with little bits of information, which help him make the right guess.”
James had been really displeased. Easy-going as he normally was he could be angry if anyone spoke disparagingly of something so near his heart as the effectiveness of the occult. Marion was quick to learn lessons. She would have to be careful; her association with James had been dangerously long and she saw the look in his eyes when they strayed to Janet Kennedy—mistress of old Bell-the-Cat though she might be. Kings were not all that averse to taking what Earls regarded as theirs; and James in his passionate pursuit of a mistress would be more determined than he had shown himself to be pursuing an enemy in war.
So Marion said no more about Damian and feigned an interest in his work, which she did not really feel, and when Damian arrived she was with the King.
“Damian . . . my good friend,” cried the King, embracing the abbot. “I am right glad to see you here.”
“My lord’s wish is his command as far as I am concerned. I am always at your service, Sire.”
“Well, have you looked at the stars of late?”
“I search them continuously.”
“On my behalf I hope.”
“My lord King is never far from my mind.”
“Well, Damian, well . . . what sex is the child my dear Marion carries so proudly? Is he the King’s son?”
Marion cried: “James! How could he be another’s!”
“Impossible, impossible dear lady. All know your fidelity to their sorrow . . . some declare I am sure. I was about to say, is he the King’s son . . . or daughter?”
This was the sort of question which Damian liked least. One could so easily . . . and so quickly . . . be proved wrong. If one predicted some things it was easy to adjust one’s meaning if the need arose, but the sex of a child—a plain yes or no—that was tricky.
He placed his hands on the girl. She was large. The manner in which she carried the child indicated it might be a boy. The last was a girl. What the King wanted to hear was that it was a boy and his reward would probably be greater if he made the King happy. It was a chance he had to take in any case so why not take the happy chance?
“I think I can say with certainty that the child my lady carries is a boy . . . and your son, my lord.”
“Bless you, Damian. That’s good hearing, eh, Marion?”
“The best, my lord.”
“And will he grow up to be a good boy to his father?”
“He will,” said Marion. “I shall see to that.”
“There, Damian, you have a rival. The lady is looking into the future and finding the answer before you do.”
“The lady will indeed do all she says. I can confirm that.”
“What a pair of comforters I have! Now tell me of my old enemy below the Border. What trials can you search out for him, Damian?”
“He is beset by them. His eldest boy is sickly.”
“Is he going to die?”
“Not yet . . . but later . . .”
“Ah, there’s another though. A sprightly little fellow by all accounts . . . recently made Duke of York by his doting father.”
“To show, my lord, that there should be but one Duke of York.”
“Well, there is, eh? The other is the true King of England.”
Perkin Warbeck. Here was dangerous ground for Damian. He was always very well informed of affairs so that he knew exactly what was happening. That enabled him to give a considered judgment and once again he had been lucky in being right more often than wrong.
He had the gift of making his prophecies vague. That was the secret. A good sorcerer couched his words in clever obscurity so that when a certain thing happened people said, “Oh that was what Damian meant!”
It was very helpful.
He said now: “A visitor will come to your shores, my lord.”
The King was alert. Was he expecting someone? wondered Damian. It was always wise to say a visitor was coming because visitors came so often to a king. Damian knew that the French were eager to see Perkin Warbeck harry the King of England and that Margaret of Burgundy was helping him, and he knew that the Irish had helped in the past. It was very likely that some messenger would come to Scotland from one of these sources. So it was safe to mention a visitor.
“And how could I receive this visitor?”
“Receive him well. Listen to what he has to say. He will ask your help. Give it.”
That was wise. It was always good to listen and people usually came in supplication. It was never a bad thing to give help when it was asked. This was easy. It was the direct questions such as the sex of a child that made him uneasy.