Chapter XII: Scotchmen’s Business

When the Earl of Bothwell took off his boots that same night, he said, as he threw them to his man Paris, ‘In the morning we go to business.’

‘Ha, in a good hour!’ says Paris, a boot in each hand. ‘And to what business will your lordship be pleased to go?’

‘Man’s business, you fool,’ says the Earl; ‘carving and clearing business; road-making business.’

Paris swung a boot. ‘I consider that there is no gentleman in this deplorable country so apt for that business,’ he said. ‘Do you ask me why? I will tell your lordship very willingly. It is because there is no other gentleman in this country at all.’

‘Apt or not,’ says Lord Bothwell, scratching in his beard, ‘it is myself who will do it.’ He stared at the floor, laughed, caught the word on his lips and kept it suspended while he considered. Then he added, ‘And I signed the contract, and sealed it, but an hour ago.’ He threw himself naked on his bed, and Paris covered him with his blankets.

‘Happy dreams to your lordship, of the contract!’

‘Go to the devil,’ says my lord: ‘I’m asleep.’ And by the next moment he was snoring.

Paris sat upon the floor, with a guttering candle beside him, and made notches on a tally-stick. He told them over on his fingers and got them pat before he lay down.

In the morning he sat upon the edge of his master’s bed—a familiarity which had long been allowed him—produced his tally, and enlarged upon it.

‘Master,’ he said, ‘for your purpose these persons are the best, as I shall shortly rehearse to you. I have chosen each and every for some quality which is pre-eminently useful, in which I believe him to be singular. The first is Monsieur Ker of Fawdonsyde, who, it is true, is at the moment in disgrace for his part in the Italian’s affair. That can be got over, I think; and if so, well so. He has the strongest wrist in this kingdom, next to your lordship’s, and will do for a spare string to our bow: for I take it yourself will be our first—not likely to fail, I grant; but one must always be prepared in these cases for a sudden jerk aside. Monsieur de Fawdonsyde may be trusted to stop that. They tell me also of him that he can see in the dark, and I can well believe it—a yellow-eyed man! Nothing could be more useful to us; for somebody is sure to blow the lights out, and in the ensuing scramble the wrong man might be hurt, and some happy household plunged into grief. Next, I certainly think that you should have home Monsieur Archibald. He—if he do no more—will be a comfortable stalking-horse. He is kinsman—he was greatly beloved by _our man_ in the old days; and could make himself loved again, for he has a supple mind. (Not so, however, his cousin, Monsieur de Morton. He is too stiff a hater for our purpose, and could not conceal it even if he would.) Now, I will tell you one other reason in favour of Monsieur Archibald. I never knew a gentleman of birth who could feel for chain mail in a more natural and loving manner, except perhaps Milord Ruthven, unhappily deceased. His son does not take after him. But I saw Monsieur Archibald take the late David, when there was a thought of going to work upon him, round by the middle, and try his back in every part—just as though he loved the very feel of him. And yet the two were enemies! And yet David suspected nothing! It could not have been better done: so I sincerely advise you to have him. Monsieur d’Ormiston you will of course take with you. He has ears like a hare’s, and so nice a valuation of his own skin that you may be sure the roads will be open for you when the affair is happily ended. But my next choice will astonish you. Be prepared—listen, my lord. It is Monsieur de Lennox! What! you cry—the father to put away the son! With great respect, I hold to my opinion. I believe Monsieur de Lennox could be persuaded—and evidently you could have no more valuable colleague—for two little reasons of cogency. He is miserable in the ill-favour of our Queen, and he ardently desires to stand well again with the English Queen. This, then, would be his opportunity of gratifying both. And it is by no means outside experience that a father should assist at his son’s demise. There was a well-known case at Parma, when we were in Italy; and if the Queen-Mother did not contrive the exit of the late King Francis, then Maître Ambroise Paré is a fool, and not a fine surgeon. Why did she have the funeral oration prepared a week before that King’s death? Ah, the thing is evident! Both of these are Italians, you will say? I confess it. But if King Philip of Spain hath not an eye of the same cast upon Monseigneur Don Carlos I shall be surprised—and mark this: Monsieur de Lennox is a hungry man, out of favour and out of money. His lady, who has the purse, is in the Tower of London; he himself dare not leave Glasgow, where he starves. Moreover, he has another son. Now——’

But here the Earl of Bothwell sat up in his bed.

‘What are you talking about, you fool?’ he asked, gaping.

‘I am discussing the making of your lordship’s road,’ says Paris, ‘of which you did me the honour to speak overnight.’

His master gave him a clout on the head, which knocked him sideways to the floor. ‘You soiled cut-purse!’ he roared at him, ‘you famous pirate, you jack-for-the-string, what are you about? Do you think you are at sea, that you can talk bloody designs to the open sky? Do you think us all thieves on a galley, and the redding of a realm as easy as to club the warder of a bench? Astounding fool! with your blustering and botching, you’ll bring me to a wooden bolster one of these days.’ He leaped from his bed, and put his foot on the man’s neck. ‘If I don’t make you swallow your infamous tally, call me a dunce!’

Paris lay still, pale but serious. ‘It is difficult to discuss matters of moment in this posture,’ he said; ‘but I can assure your lordship that I have given a great deal of thought to your business.’

‘And who under Heaven asked you for thought?’ cried his master. ‘Or who in Heaven gave you the wit for it? Get up, you monkey-man, and fetch me my clothes. We don’t go to work that way in Scotland.’

‘I am conscious of it, master,’ said Paris, ‘and pity it is. There is a saying in Italy, which dates from a very old case of our kind, _Cosa fatta capo ha_: _a thing done_, say they, _is done with_. Now here, a thing is so long a-contriving that it is in danger of not being done at all. Love of Heaven, sir! for what would you wait? What can your lordship want beside the bounden gratitude of the Qu——.’ He stopped, because the Earl struck him on the mouth with the back of his hand.

‘No names, you damned parrot!’

Paris, ashamed of himself, wiped his lips. ‘I admit the indiscretion, my lord, and regret it. But my question was pertinent.’

‘It was cursed nonsense,’ said the Earl, ‘and as impertinent as yourself. Suppose I took this road of yours—what would old Sourface be about? Where would his prim eyes be? Looking through his fingers—seeing and not seeing—for sure! Why, you toss-pot, we must have him roped and gagged, or he’ll have us roped, I can tell you—and as high as Haman. Bah! you make me ashamed that ever I held words with such a gull. Peace now, mind your business, and get me my drink. I am going abroad—then to the Council.’

* * * * *

The first person of consequence he accosted that day was the Lord of Lethington. The Secretary went in desperate fear of him, as you could have told by the start he gave when he felt the heavy hand clap his shoulder.

‘What scares you, man?’ The bluff voice was heard all over the quadrangle, and many paused to see the play. ‘What scares you, man? You watch me like a hare—and me your good friend and all!’

‘I hope to serve your good lordship,’ says Mr. Secretary, ‘in the service that holds us both.’

‘Yes, yes, we had best work together. Now see here, man—come apart.’ He took the unwilling arm, and bent towards the timorous ear. Men on the watch saw the Secretary’s interest grow as he listened: in the midst of their pacing he stopped of his own accord, and pulled up his companion.

‘Yes, my good lord, I could do that. There would be no harm.’

‘Let my lord of Moray understand,’ continues Lord Bothwell, ‘that signed words cannot say all that they import. That is reasonable. But such as they are, such as they bear, he himself must sign with the rest of us. I shall not act without him, nor can the Queen be served. Very well. Go to him presently, taking with you my lord of Atholl. I seek first my lord of Argyll, next my brother Huntly. We shall have the Earl of Crawfurd with us, Mar I doubt not also; the Lords Seton, Livingstone, Fleming, Herries——’

‘These for certain,’ says Lethington; then hesitated.

‘Well, man? Out wi’t.’

‘There is just this. Your lordship knows my lord of Moray—a most politic nobleman.’

‘Politic! A pest!’

‘He is ever chary of putting hand to paper. I know of one band, never signed by him. He wrote a letter, by which all thought——But it purported nothing. However, that is happily past.’

‘He signed away Davy,’ says Bothwell very calmly.

The Secretary turned quickly. ‘No, my lord, no! Upon my oath he never did. Nothing would make him.’

Bothwell considered his twitching brows. ‘He signed the letter which you now have, Lethington. By that you hold him, cunning rogue though he be. Now, take me this way. If he signs not to me before the Council, to the effect that what I sign there he signs also, I move no further.’

‘Your lordship will be wise. But——Oh, his fingers are stiff at the pen!’

‘Master Cecil in England can make them supple,’ says Bothwell, ‘working at them through the palm. And so can you, my friend, if I make you.’

Mr. Secretary closed his eyes.

‘You hold his letter,’ Bothwell went on, ‘wherein he implicates himself in Davy’s killing. Now, if I go to him with the news?’

‘Ha, my lord! But he knows very well that I have it.’

‘Of course he knows. But the Queen does not know it.[5] Now, if I tell him that you will use the letter against him with the Queen, Mr. Secretary, you will be hanged.’

The Secretary flinched. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘what is it that you want from me?’

‘Your master’s sign-manual, hireling,’ says Bothwell. ‘Go and get it.’

He left him to scheme it out, of all wretches in Scotland at that hour the one I could pity the most. Lethington was a man who saw every head an empty pot compared with his own; and yet, by mere pusillanimity, he had to empty himself to fill them. He was a coward, must have countenance if he were to have courage. With a brain like his, a man might lord it over half Europe; yet the water in his heart made him bond-slave of every old Scots thief in turn. The only two he dared to best and betray were——Well! we shall have to see him do it soon enough. And yet, I say, pity Mr. Secretary!

The Earl of Atholl, kindly, dull man, who was his friend through all, went with him now to beard the Bastard of Scotland. Bolt upright in his elbow-chair, his Bible on one hand, his sword and gloves on the other, my lord of Moray listened to what was said without movement. His face was a mask, his hands placid, his eyes fixed on the standish. Atholl talked, Lethington talked, but not a word was said of Bothwell so long as the first of these two was in the room. The moment he was out of it, the question came sharp and short.

‘Who stands in the dark of this, Lethington? Who is at your back?’

Lethington never lied to his master. ‘My lord, it was the Earl of Bothwell came suddenly upon me this morning.’

‘You surprise me, sir. I had not thought you shared confidences with that lord.’

‘Nor have I ever, my lord,’ says Lethington, with much truth; ‘nor did I to-day. Such confidence as there was came from him.’

‘Did he confide in you indeed? And what had he for your ear?’

The Secretary narrowed his eyes. ‘Matters, my lord, of such intimacy that I still marvel how they came to his knowledge.’

‘I do not share your wonder. He is greatly trusted by the Queen.’

‘True, my lord. But such things as he knoweth are not, as I conjecture, fully known to her Majesty.’

Now it was that the Earl of Moray looked solemnly at his servant. ‘You shall name these things to me, Lethington, if you please.’

‘He knoweth, my lord, for certain, the names of all who were privy to the bond for Davy’s slaughter.’

‘Why, yes, yes,’ says Lord Moray, ‘no doubt but he does. For all of them were confessed to by the King, who, indeed, showed her Majesty the bond.’

Mr. Secretary looked out of window. ‘I said, All who were privy, my lord. I did not refer to the bond. He knows more than is known to her Majesty; but considers now what may be his duty in her regard.’

My Lord Moray blinked like an owl that fears the light. He looked at his hands, sighed, cleared his brow of seams. ‘It would be well that I should confer with his lordship upon that matter, before the Council sits,’ he said. ‘Pray you, ask him to favour me at his leisure—at his perfect leisure, Lethington. And when he is here—if he thinks well to come—it would be convenient that yourself were by, in case of need. The matter is a high one, and we may be thankful of your experience. God speed you, Lethington. God speed you well!’

Conference there then was between two acute intellects, which it would be profitable to report, if one could translate it. But, where, in a conversation, every other word is left out, the record must needs be tedious. The Queen was not once mentioned, nor the King neither. The Earl of Bothwell gave no hint that he knew his fellow-councillor dipped deep in murder; the Earl of Moray did not let it appear that he knew the other stripping for the same red bath. Each understood each; each was necessary to the other; each knew how far he could go with his ally, and where their roads must fork; above all, both were statesmen in conference, to whom decency of debate was a tradition. Naming no names, fixing no prices, they haggled, nevertheless, as acutely as old wives on the quayside; and Mr. Secretary, nimble between them, reduced into writing the incomprehensible. Thus it was that the Earl of Bothwell promised under his hand to be the friend of the Earl of Moray, ‘so far as lay within the Queen’s obedience’; the Earl of Moray signified by the same tokens that he would attend the Council and further the Queen’s service in the matters to be moved by the Earl of Bothwell, ‘so far as lay within the province of a Christian.’ Then Lord Bothwell, apparently satisfied, went away to his friend and brother-in-law, my Lord Huntly.

* * * * *

To the Council—it was the seventh of October—came the lords: the Queen not present. It was a short and curious convocation, as silent as that of Hamlet’s politic worms, busy upon the affairs of Polonius. The Earl of Huntly, as Chancellor, produced a parchment writing, which was held up, but not read. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘you shall see in the act of my hand at the pen a service tendered to our sovereign lady, the which, seeing you are acquainted with its nature, I do not discuss with your lordships. Active service of the prince, my lords, may be of two kinds: open movement against enemies avowed, and secret defence against a masked, ambushed enemy.’ He signed the writing, and passed to the Earl of Moray. This one looked at it, read it through twice; took a pen, inspected the point, dipped; detected a hair in the quill, removed it, wiped his fingers, dipped again—and signed, ‘James.’ The parchment then went briskly about. Last to sign it, far below the others, was the Lord of Lethington.

And what was in this famous bond? The Master of Sempill, eager for news, got wind of it, and enshrined it in his Diurnall. He has—

_October the 9._—At a council two days since—the Q—— not
present, but the Earl of Both. returned from the country—I hear
from my wife, who had it from her father (there present), there
was a band passed round the board, read silently and signed by
each lord present. _Its terms_: That the Q—— only should be
obeyed as natural sovereign, and the authority of her dearest
consort, and of all others whomsoever, of no force without her
pleasure first known. The Lords Both., Hun(tley), Mor(ay),
Arg(yll), Atholl, and the Secretary signed this, among others.
My father _not_ present. Thus goeth a King out of Scotland.
_Mem._ Great news for my lord of Mort(on) here....

The Q. will go to Jedburgh, I hear, to a Justice Court; my
wife with her. She took leave of the lord of Bothw. after the
Council. A long time together....

The Master was out in his dates. The very night after the Council Lord Bothwell rode fast into Liddesdale; and next day the Queen, with her brothers, Lord Huntly, and the Court, went over the hills to Jedburgh. The King was believed to be in the West with his father, but no one knew for certain where he was.

[5] My lord was wrong there. She knew it perfectly well.

END OF MEN’S BUSINESS