After Flodden Read Online Free PDF Page A

former tutor,
Paniter’s friendship with Alexander, James’s illegitimate first-born, was particularly close. It was to be one of Paniter’s cruellest misfortunes, in a life that would grow
increasingly afflicted, that he did not recognise in time that what he felt for the boy was love: as tender as the affection of an uncle for a nephew, perhaps even a father for a son.
    By now Alexander was almost grown. It was two years since he had returned from the university in Padua where, Paniter suspected, he had neglected his studies as wilfully as he had in his
homeland. He certainly forgot to write to his old tutor, for which the secretary scolded him. At that age, though, he too had lived abroad, glad to be beyond critical eyes. At the University of
Paris Paniter proved himself a dutiful son – he wrote every month – and a devoted scholar but, when money allowed, he was also an avid student of the warmer arts. Those lessons still
brightened his daydreams.
    Now Alexander’s studies were over, he had taken on his duties as Archbishop of St Andrews and Lord Chancellor of the realm. Even so, neither his tutor nor his father believed a young man
should embrace the life of a monk. Already, from all accounts, the boy had drunk deep of certain pleasures. Before Alexander had left for Italy, James’s greatest fear, he told Paniter, was
that his son could fall prey to the pox. He had been sent off with a sachet of powders and an earful of advice about the kind of company he was to keep. And, since a man who was to give his life to
God’s work might still one day march to war, shortly before he left the boy had spent a month with Ernst Bastian, one of the finest soldiers in Europe, a survivor of Bosworth, whose eyes
gleamed at memories of the field. By the time Alexander arrived in the narrow alleys and dark meadows of Padua he was able to give a deadly account of himself with sword and dagger. On his
father’s command, he went nowhere without both weapons in his belt. It was advice he continued to heed, even now he was home.
    On the road back to Edinburgh, Paniter and the king scarcely spoke. The sight of the
Michael
, and discussion of her successors, already designed and ready to build, brought the future
thrillingly and disturbingly close. These warships were not for show.
    ‘Louis must be told that our fleet is under way,’ said James, as they neared the city. He paused, nudging his horse forward. ‘I have of course made sure Henry is aware of the
fact, though by more devious means.’
    Paniter nodded. Showing the world they had the means and appetite for battle was the surest way of never needing to go to war. Month by month, though, James was arming his country. He had lost
his peaceable neighbour Henry VII, and now his son Henry VIII was on the throne, rapacious and ruthless as a vulture. As Europe’s kings wrestled for supremacy under the eye of a calculating
pope, Scotland looked very fragile and forlorn, alone on the farthest northern edge of the globe.
    That night the king and Paniter dined in James’s private rooms. As the flagons emptied, and all but the king’s valet had been dismissed, papers gathered on the table, scribbled with
calculations and daubed with spilt claret.
    ‘We need more money,’ said James.
    It was too obvious, too common a statement to need a response. Paniter merely nodded.
    ‘More than ever,’ he continued, seeing his secretary fail to take his point. ‘Argyll brought news last night that battle between Henry and Louis draws closer. Whatever happens
in that quarter, as I hardly need tell you, will determine our future course. I fear that events will move swiftly, once they are set rolling, and we are still far, very far from ready to meet
another army.’
    James refilled their goblets.
    ‘Our new consignment of meltars and foundrymen arrive tomorrow. French, most of them, barring a couple from Ghent. Borthwick has been crying out for help. They should cheer