CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, 19th August, 1822
David tweaked the saltire cockade on his hat and stood back to study his appearance in the small looking glass that sat on his dressing table, craning his neck this way and that.
It was the day of the ceremony at Holyrood, and he wore his new suit of clothes. He could only hope the Dean would find him up to scratch. The man had already made it clear that he considered David a very poor substitute for Patrick Chalmers.
It was going to be a long day. The King wouldn’t arrive at Holyrood Palace till mid-afternoon but David and his fellow advocates were meeting at the Dean’s house at eleven o’clock. The Dean’s carriage would take them all to the palace, where the Dean and Vice-Dean had an early meeting with Sir Robert Peel. While they were thus engaged, the rest of their party would be dispatched to the Entrée Room to secure a good spot for the King’s arrival. When the King arrived, the speeches would begin.
The thought of spending the day with some of the most senior men in the faculty should have pleased David, but in truth he dreaded the day ahead. The politics of the faculty—something that Chalmers seemed to negotiate with perfect ease—eluded him, even after six years, and he’d always felt the safest course of action was to steer well clear of it all.
Today, it would be unavoidable.
There was one thing that made it all bearable: Murdo Balfour would be there. Part of the King’s entourage.
David hadn’t set eyes on Murdo since that morning three days ago now. Already their time together felt unreal. The memory of their last conversation made David shake his head in bewilderment, even as it made him helplessly smile. Even as the rational part of him told himself to stop behaving like a besotted boy.
But really, what was the most that could happen between them? David might share Murdo’s bed for another night or two, possibly even three. It would be a fleeting escape from the stuff of his ordinary life. A night or two to open himself up and let all his stored-up yearnings spill to the floor of Murdo Balfour’s locked bedchamber.
But would his new memories be enough to sustain him against the realisation that it was over afterwards? The awful realisation that that was it.
Enough of that, David chided himself, frustrated at the single-minded direction of his wayward thoughts. He had more immediate concerns. Time to be off. The Dean wouldn’t tolerate lateness.
He walked briskly to the Dean’s house, a beautifully appointed property on Charlotte Square. The day was overcast, but David thought they’d be spared rain. Not that it would matter, given that the rest of it would be spent cooped up indoors.
The door was answered by a maidservant in a neat cap and apron who showed David into the drawing room. Irvine and MacIver were already there. Both men were youthful as compared to the Dean but a good decade older than David.
“Hello, Lauriston,” Irvine said, evidently surprised to see David. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Chalmers was prevented from attending by illness,” David explained. “He asked me to come in his place.”
MacIver snorted at that, but Irvine smiled and murmured, “Ah, new blood. Very good, very good. Come and sit with us.”
They chatted about inconsequentialities while they waited, and, after a few minutes, the Dean joined them. He had the Vice-Dean with him, trotting at his heels like a faithful hound.
The Dean was a tall, thin man with a hook nose and a natural air of authority, whilst the Vice-Dean was his polar opposite. Rotund, amiable and somewhat vague, he’d always struck David as rather ineffectual.
“We’re still waiting on Braeburn, I see,” the Dean observed irritably. “I said ten o’clock, and it’s almost half past the hour.”
“The meeting with Peel isn’t till twelve,” the Vice-Dean observed in a soothing tone. “We have plenty of time.”
“I like to be early,” the Dean said in his usual clipped manner. “I like to get the lay of the land. This will be a tricky business.”
“What’s the meeting about?” MacIver growled. He was a perpetually bad-tempered man, communicating mainly in grunts and expletives. Why he’d been chosen as part of the delegation was beyond David’s comprehension.
“Sir Robert is looking for more consistency in the criminal law, north and south of the border,” the Vice-Dean explained. “He is meeting with the judges as well as ourselves, canvassing support for his ideas. You may be sure he is doing the same in Parliament.”
MacIver scowled. “I don’t like the sound of that. Our laws have long been different from those of the English. We have different histories, different principles.”
The Vice-Dean smiled in his airy, benign way. “But does our different history really matter, MacIver,” he asked, “if our objectives are the same?”
“Of course it does!” MacIver retorted. “Why should we change centuries of Scots law at the whim of an English politician?”
“But what if we need new laws? To tackle those amongst us who would undermine the rule of law?”
He was alluding, of course, to the civil unrest that had plagued the whole of Britain over the last few years, on both sides of the border.
“Is that what Sir Robert wants to achieve?” David asked. “To make it easier to tackle radicals?” The other three men all turned to look at him, appearing as surprised as if a dog had spoken.
“I’m sure I don’t know, but we may find out this afternoon,” the Vice-Dean answered. His tone was as amiable as ever, though his gaze suddenly struck David as rather watchful.
Braeburn arrived then, the last of their number, apologising breathlessly. The Dean received his excuses coldly and called for the carriage. Within ten minutes, they were crammed inside the close confines of the Dean’s old-fashioned brougham and were rumbling through the cobbled streets on their way to Holyrood Palace.
The Entrée Room at Holyrood Palace was horribly warm and growing ever warmer. For almost two hours, David had been standing, waiting. David and a few hundred others—the huge room fairly bristled with men, all of them awaiting the King’s arrival. The few chairs in the room were at a premium and reserved for the more important—rather than the most needful—attendees.
The Dean and Vice-Dean had had their short audience with Sir Robert Peel, emerging tight-lipped about what had been said. The two of them sat on a pair of spindly chairs now, heads together, murmuring, while the rest of the faculty’s delegation stood behind.
David wasn’t troubled by the long wait, but some of the other gentlemen seemed really quite uncomfortable. Poor, portly Braeburn kept shifting from foot to foot and was now trying to surreptitiously rub one ample hip. His handkerchief must be soaked with sweat from the number of times he’d wiped his brow, and his face was red and shiny from the heat.
Braeburn wasn’t the only one. All around, well-fed men in stiff, new clothes fidgeted and perspired in the stifling air. The delegation from the Kirk dominated the place. Over a hundred of them, and every one of them head-to-foot in Presbyterian black. Like a murder of crows, David thought. Or perhaps a parliament of rooks was more like it. Officious and proper. Committee-like.
The preponderance of black was broken up by the secular men in the room. Most of them, like David, wore Sir Walter’s uniform of blue coat, light trousers and low-crowned hat, but a few wore highland clothes—red and green and purple tartans. These fellows stood out amongst their more sober neighbours like birds of paradise.
David knew the ceremony would be a long one. He’d heard the Kirk was to have its say first. Then the university men, the judges, the faculty, and finally, several groups of magistrates and burghers, both of Edinburgh itself and of a host of other surrounding towns and villages the King would never see. Address after address. It would go on for hours, each delegation taking its turn to pour out the same greetings, compliments and felicitations to the King who’d kept them waiting hours for the privilege.
Finally, at half past two, a great clattering in the courtyard outside heralded the arrival of the King’s party. Men on horseback first, then the rumble of the wheels of coaches. At last, it seemed, the King was here.
The servants of the palace were being ordered around by an absurdly young-looking fellow who was apparently a junior member of the King’s staff. His hairless cheeks shone pink with effort as he rushed to and fro, rapping out orders in a slightly high voice.
Earlier, the same young man had determined the arrangement of the occupants of the room according to some form of precedence known only to himself, offending several important personages in the process, the Dean among them. Now he was at it again, practically shoving the great and the good off their seats and exhorting the harried servants to remove the chairs from the room altogether so that everyone would have to stand in the King’s presence.
The servants did his bidding, and a few minutes later, the doors to the Entrée Room were flung open, and the King entered, surrounded by an entourage of redcoats and well-dressed peers.
At first—and despite his size and the magnificence of his dress—David didn’t notice the King. His gaze automatically sought Lord Murdo Balfour. He was easily found, with his height and striking dark looks, bringing up the rear of the royal party.
As the party moved farther into the room, David caught Murdo’s eye. The man’s lips twitched into an almost-smile as he drew closer, and David almost-smiled back, unable to stop the left corner of his mouth lifting. Murdo’s dark eyes glinted with humour as he passed David to join the King in the centre of the room. At last, the ceremony began.
It was just as dull as David had feared. Worse even. The Kirk’s address began with an obsequious welcome, but at length—great length—this turned into nothing short of a sermon, and a rather fire-and-brimstone one at that. If the King was perturbed by this, he didn’t show, accepting what was said with a series of gracious but somewhat unfathomable nods.
The universities went next. They seemed to have resolved any issue over who should have the honour of addressing the King by splitting the job up amongst a bewildering number of professors, each of whom seemed determined to milk the opportunity for all it was worth. David felt his eyelids drooping several times and had to pinch himself awake.
At long last, it was the turn of the faculty, and finally David was moving his stiff limbs forward, following the Dean to stand before the King. They stood in a horizontal line, the six of them, even though only the Dean would be speaking.
It was David’s first proper look at King George. A corpulent, high-coloured man, he wore the marks of longstanding self-indulgence in his heavy jowls and weak chin. His garments were generously cut, but still, he must be well-girdled beneath them to squeeze into his magnificent admiral’s uniform of royal blue, braided with gold. Did he think himself truly a warrior to dress himself so, David wondered? So far as he knew, the man had never seen any kind of military service.
The King smiled at the faculty delegation benignly while one of his retinue murmured in his ear, explaining to him, no doubt, what the Faculty of Advocates was.
“Gentlemen,” the King said when his adviser had pulled back. “It is a pleasure to meet with you.”
They all bowed, somewhat awkwardly in David’s case. As always in formal situations, he was conscious that his manners lacked polish, but he had no time to dwell on his deficiencies. The Dean was already stepping forward to speak.
“Your Majesty,” the Dean said in the deep, sonorous voice he always used when giving an address. “The ancient and honourable Faculty of Advocates welcomes you, our beloved monarch, to Scotland, and thanks you, sincerely and humbly, for the privilege of addressing you.”
The King smiled and inclined his head a little, and the Dean went on in much the same vein, delivering his carefully prepared speech in a slow cadence, seeming to relish every word.
David didn’t dare look at Murdo. If Murdo looked amused, David would find it impossible to keep a sober expression on his own face. He was acutely aware of the man, though, standing just a few steps away.
Determinedly, he kept his attention on the King. It was surprising, David thought, that the King had decided to stand to hear the lengthy addresses, despite the warmth of the room and the staleness of the air.
The King was showing signs of growing discomfort. Initially, he had taken the sort of noble stance that might be assumed for a royal portrait: one foot pointed forward, his weight on the rear leg, his extended right arm holding a gold-topped cane that touched the floor but did not take any of the burden of his considerable bulk. It couldn’t have been a comfortable pose, and he’d done well to hold it so long, but at this proximity, David could see that his expression was growing strained, a beading of sweat breaking out over his heavyset face. His legs in his skintight breeches looked to be bloated, and every now again he shifted, resting a little more weight on the cane.
Had he realised quite how long he would end up standing? Surely someone would have warned him how lengthy this afternoon threatened to be.
David glanced at the Dean to see if he too had noticed the King’s discomfort and if he intended to conclude his speech early. But the Dean seemed entirely oblivious. He was altogether caught up in his oratory, listing now the nations around the globe over which King George was sovereign and master, “A wise father to all his subjects.”
What rot.
Given what he’d already noticed, David wasn’t entirely surprised when, the instant he turned his attention back to the King, it was to see the man stumble, his cane clattering noisily to the floor. Without thinking, David dashed forward to steady him, offering his own rigid frame in support. For a brief moment, the King leaned on him, and David had to brace himself to bear the man’s bulky weight even for that short time.
“Your Majesty,” he gasped. “You should be sitting down. It is far too hot in here to be standing so long.”
There were a few murmurings at that breach of etiquette, but David ignored the shocked expressions, catching the eye of the high-voiced young man who had been ordering the removal of all the chairs earlier.
“Fetch a chair for His Majesty, if you please,” David said loudly, abandoning any attempt at polite address.
The young man coloured with anger at David’s command. He looked at the King, who was already rallying after his brief dizzy spell, pulling his weight back from David.
“Your Majesty—” the young man protested. Perhaps he was an aristocrat, offended to be dictated to by a commoner. Perhaps he thought the King should scold David for his rudeness.
“He’s right, Sir Anthony,” the King said snappishly. “It is…hot in here. So, do as he says and fetch me a chair, there’s a good fellow.”
Sir Anthony flushed an angry red, but he bowed deeply before stalking off to give the order to one of the palace staff.
The King was standing by himself again now, and David retreated back a step. He didn’t yet return to his place, though, nervous the man might stumble again. Instead he waited for Sir Anthony’s lackey to return with the chair. The delicate, spindly-legged thing he brought didn’t look up to the job, particularly when the King dropped into the chair so heavily David thought the legs might give out. But it must have been stronger than it looked.
“What is your name, sir?” the King asked then, his gaze measuring David.
“David Lauriston, Your Majesty.”
“And you are an advocate, like your friends?” He nodded at the Dean, who looked faintly offended to be bracketed with David as a “friend”.
“I am, indeed.”
The King smiled, benign and in control again, comfortable now in his new, seated position.
“Do you enjoy your profession, Mr. Lauriston?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” David answered honestly.
The King smiled and nodded at him genially. “Very good,” he said. It was a dismissal. David bowed and returned to his place.
The King cast a look over his shoulder, summoning someone. The man, a military officer in a red-and-gold uniform topped with a black-plumed shako, hurried to the King’s side and bent his ear to the King’s mouth to hear his whispered instructions. When he straightened, he bowed, then returned to stand stiffly behind the King again.
The King motioned to the Dean to continue his speech, and the Dean smoothly resumed. But David wasn’t listening. He was watching the officer who had just retreated behind the King. The officer who was standing beside none other than Murdo Balfour. After a few moments, Murdo turned his head and whispered something in the man’s ear. The military man reciprocated. Whatever Murdo heard made his eyebrows raise and his gaze seek out David, a funny little smile twisting up that mobile mouth. Then he nodded and looked away.
A few minutes later, the Dean concluded his speech and the faculty delegation was led aside by a frosty Sir Anthony, their places taken by the good Magistrates of Leith.