Unicorn Rampant by Nigel Tranter Page A

quarry, so that their owners could wager against which would make the kill, in which case the riders tended to be in pairs. But that by no means always happened and frequently, with sufficient game put up by the dogs, as here, the hawks all went after different fowl—in which case the wagering had to become more complicated. A further complication now was the reluctance of the others to wager against the King— who liked to win, and moreover kept notably good and well-trained hawks. Reigning favourites, such as Steenie Villiers, usually prudently saw to it that they flew inferior birds so that the monarch was unlikely to be offended by losing to them.
    John had no difficulty in spotting James, whose extraordinary sacklike posture in the saddle was unique. He was with two others, Steenie—who presumably was forgiven for yesterday's failure—and the rubicund Bishop of Ely, who of course came from splendid wildfowl country in the Cambridgeshire fens. The young favourite looked bored.
    Boredom took on an added sourness at sight of John riding up. The King spared only a glance from his hawk's assault on a great, lazily-flapping heron.
    "Ha—Johnnie Stewart, come a-hawking! You're late, man—right dilatory. Long abed, nae doubt. Lying in after your knightly vigil, eh? Or after chambering and wantonness, mair like!"
    "No, Sire, neither. My lord Duke sent me. We ... he knew nothing of this hunting and hawking. He sent me for Your Majesty's instructions."
    "Aye, well—no' the noo, laddie. Can you no' see I'm busy? I. . . ha—a strike! An excellent strike. Feathers! Aye, a notable stoop. Yon heron will no' survive another, I say. It'll no' survive another stoop. Ten gold nobles, Bishop, that it comes doon on the next strike."
    "Taken, Your Majesty," the prelate said, if without enthusiasm.
    "Aye—at him, Hippogryph! At him, my bonny bird! He's big, but nae spunk, the great muckle brute! My Hippogryph's mair'n a match for him, Bishop. Hippogryph—you catch the allusion, John Stewart, eh?" A quick look at the younger man. "The winged hero, mind! Ha—there he goes again! A kill ... och, well, no'just. Yon was no' really a strike at a', Bishop, mind. A miss, just. No' to be counted ..."
    "But feathers, Sire! Look—see them fluttering down. That is ten gold nobles . . . !"
    "Na, na—those are loose feathers frae the last strike, man. It was no' a hit, I say. Was it, Steenie?"
    "I . . . ah, did not notice, Sire," the beautiful youth said.
    "You should keep your bit mind on the sport, boy. Dreaming, eh? Och—maybe dreaming o' your auld gossip
    Jamie, belike? Aye, maybe! You, John Stewart—you've got guid eyes, I warrant. You saw it was nae strike?"
    As has been said, John was an honest young man. He coughed. "It ... it seemed to me to hit, Your Majesty. At the base of the neck. A fair stroke. But—see! It is coming down, I think. The heron. Yes, it loses height. . .!"
    James, who had turned to glare at his new knight, looked back. "Guidsake—aye, so it does, lad! It comes doon. See—there it fa's. I was right, Bishop man. Yon great waffling fowl hasna survived a second strike. Ten gold nobles . . .!"
    The heron's deliberate flapping had changed to an ungainly aerial floundering, and in an untidy bundle of long wings, neck and sticklike legs it fell with a splash into the reeds. Majesty spurred in after it in triumph.
    He did not get far, of course—his horse had more sense, swinging round and back as it sank up to its knees. The dogs retrieved the heron, and James began to coax down his hawk with wheedling cries.
    John tried again. "Sire—the Duke of Lennox requires your instructions. There is much, much concern at the palace. Matters have been arranged for Your Majesty. For this day. Many wait, not knowing what .. ."
    "Aye, lad, folk are ay arranging matters for my Majesty! No' always to my taste, see you. Whiles, I prefer my ain arranging."
    "Yes, Sire. But the Duke my father requires to know Your Highness's will. In