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.
The Abbot joined the courtiers at the dinner table that day. They all fired questions at him, which amused the King.
And while they were at the meal one of the servants came running into the hall; his face was red and he was almost inarticulate in his desire to impart his startling news.
“A fleet of ships has been sighted off the coast of Scotland, my lord. They are saying it is Perkin Warbeck who comes to you.”
The King rose excitedly. Warbeck! The man who was claiming the English throne. It would be very amusing— and perhaps profitable—to have the man under his roof.
He looked at Damian who was smiling with satisfaction.
“Blessings on you, Damian, here is your visitor. Why the words were scarcely out of your mouth. . . .”
“I did not know that he would be here so soon, my lord,” said Damian modestly.
“You excel yourself, Damian; now I have only to wait for the birth of my son.” He turned to the company. “I think we should prepare to greet our guest,” he said.
James received Perkin Warbeck at Stirling Castle. Perkin had lived as a royal personage for four years and having been schooled in the part by none other than the Duchess of Burgundy, he had come to believe that he was the son of Edward the Fourth. So many times he had told the story of his being handed over to a man who was too soft-hearted to murder him and had set him free to roam the world for a few years before disclosing his identity that he believed it.
To converse with grace, to accept the homage due to his assumed rank, to behave with the manner of a courtier—this was all second nature to him.
Some of the noblemen of the Scottish Court were ready to laugh at his dandified manners because his gracious and graceful behavior made them feel uncouth.
When he had the throne of England, he told James, he would remember those who had helped in his need. He had made many friends during this period of waiting and they could rest assured he would not forget them.
James said he was welcome and offered him a residence and one thousand two hundred pounds a year. Damian had said he should make his visitor welcome and this was surely that visitor.
Letters arrived from Ireland from Lord Desmond telling James that the Irish would support Richard the Fourth and drive the usurping Tudor from the throne. Moreover James took a fancy to Perkin. The young man talked well and seemed in no great hurry to go to make war into England. He was quite content to dally at the Court; he danced well, sang well; indeed he was a gracious courtier and James could well imagine how concerned the Tudor must be below the Border. The last place he would want his enemy to be was plotting with that other ever-present adversary. Moreover it would be easier to march into England over the Border than it ever could be by sea from the Continent. That was a hazardous matter but to creep over the Border, to plant the flag on English soil—that had been done many times and would be done again.
But not yet. They would wait until the time was ripe. Let them have help from overseas. Let the Tudor fret in his bed at night . . . just a little longer.
In the meantime Perkin had noticed beautiful Katharine Gordon. That was interesting. A lovely girl—cousin of the King, Huntly’s daughter. Perkin looked high . . . that was if he were only plain Perkin. Of course, if he were indeed the true King of England it would be an excellent match for Katharine Gordon.
Marion’s child was born. It was a son and so Damian had scored again.
Marion was delighted and so was James. He said the child should be called Stewart after his father. Alexander Stewart. None could doubt with a name like that that he was a true Scotsman.
Damian was clever, Marion agreed, crowing over her little son. He had been right about the child and the visitor.
“And he said that I was to welcome him,” said James. “None can say I have failed as a host. And did you notice, Marion, that our gallant gentleman is casting eyes on Katharine Gordon?”
Marion had noticed. She was ever watchful of Katharine Gordon.
“It would not surprise me,” said James, “if he should ask for her hand.”
“You’ll grant it?”
“Huntly will have to be asked. But if he is indeed the true King of England he should have a bride with royal blood.”
“So you’ll give your consent.”
“I might . . . when it’s asked. I wonder what the Tudor will have to say about his rival’s marrying into Scotland.”
“For that my dear, we must wait and see,” commented Marion.
