The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [236]
“This very evening, Your Majesty.” The Frenchman bowed low.
That evening what he wrote was, “I have to do with the most dangerous and cruel man in the world.” The double-dealing Frenchman! (And how did I know this? I had made use of Cromwell’s legacy: his spies and secret police. They served me well. I would not have formed them myself, but as they already existed ... I had found them useful, and using them myself prevented others from using them against me.)
Spies. There had always been spies. Julius Caesar had his, so ’tis said ... although they must have been singularly ineffective, since they failed to warn him of the coming assassination. Spies were necessary, I suppose, to run a state. But I disliked the idea, the very fact of their being required.
I preferred to believe I could read a man’s visage, could sum him up all by myself. I had realized the French ambassador lied. I did not truly need to have the contents of his letters espied, copied, and presented to me. It demeaned him and added nothing essential to my operating knowledge. But these new times required such machinations as a matter of course.
My head was still pulsating. The emerald syrup had done little to dispel the discomfort. Evidently I had not taken enough. I poured a bit more into the medicinal beaker, and swallowed it.
It was only a tiny bit, and yet within minutes I felt relieved of my symptoms. Why can but a little added to the dosage do that? There is so much physicians have yet to discover.
At four o’clock the Scots envoy was to pay me a call. I sat and pulled out the lengthy chronology I had myself constructed of all our relations, going back to my father’s negotiations with Je Scots steadfastly set their faces against us? We were their neighbours, we shared a common isle. Yet they preferred to ally themselves with France. When we fought France in 1513, they attacked us from the backside. When I sought a bride on the Continent, James V had entered the same contest and snatched Marie of Guise right from under my nose. And then there was the little matter of the York jilting.
“The Earl of Arbroath,” announced the page. I seated myself just in time for the jaunty Earl, who strode in as if he always came to see the King of England.
He was dressed in his formal Scots attire: yards and yards of swirling patterned wool, a dagger in his sock, a great overworked silver brooch holding a sash of some sort.
Daggers were not permitted in my presence, since the Duke of Buckingham’s attempt on my life. I nodded to my Yeomen of the Guard, and they ceremoniously removed it.
“Do you truly represent Scotland, Robert Stuart?” I inquired. “Is there a Scotland to represent?” That was the true question.
“As much as it is in any man’s power to represent that glorious land, I do so.” His voice rang in the very mouldings of the ceiling.
“Then you have many questions to answer, questions that have caused me sleepless hours.” I motioned him closer. “What is that tartan you wear?” I asked. It was a rather pleasing interweaving of shades and designs. Unsophisticated, but pleasing. “I notice it has white in it. Does that have a special significance?” I was curious.
His great, fishlike mouth broke into a smile. “White is what we wear for dress occasions, woven into the rest of the cloth. It signifies that we will do no hard riding while wearing it. Riding would throw mud.”
How primitive! How simple! Dark colours for riding. A stripe of white meaning, “There will be no riding, everything will be indoors and clean, upon my word of honour.”
“Aye. I understand. Now, I would you answer me questions which are puzzling me about your master. The Scots King refused to meet with me in York, and I know not his mind. I have received no messages of any sort from him.”
“He was afeared of kidnapping.