secretary, with the result that the court had too many chatterers
and dreamers who talked more than they would ever act. The king said their fancies amused him. That they irritated Paniter sorely was an additional source of pleasure.
In recent times, with his former pupil Alexander so often absent, Paniter found himself glad of Torrance’s company. Indeed, he was fast growing into an indispensable companion. There were
few similarities between him and James’s eldest-born. Alexander had a lightness of heart that mirrored his father’s blitheness. The fact he was a bastard and could never be king was,
for the boy, a source of relief rather than regret, and as he frittered away his time on the continent, and made heavy weather of learning the serious business expected of him as the precociously
young and marvellously unsuited Archbishop of St Andrews, he exasperated Paniter to such a degree he had once caught himself tearing at his hair, a parody of the demented teacher. He was obliged to
pause and smile at himself, but as a scholar who was never happier than with a book or pen in hand, Paniter could not fathom such a lack of gravity.
Torrance was a more sober man. He could not raise Paniter’s spirits as Alexander did, nor coax a laugh out of him whatever his mood. What the secretary felt for this handsome lord was
fondness only, and nothing like love. Yet affection was a rare enough event in his life for it to be remarkable. In the young man’s Roman nose and elegant limbs, in his air of natural
authority, and languorous entitlement, he caught a glimpse of the high-born Alexander.
Over time, Torrance’s provenance became clear, though he never spoke about his background without being prompted. That too Paniter respected.
‘I am the only son of a man who did not want me,’ he once confessed, with such a broad smile Paniter could not guess how sorely the fact pained him. ‘He died when I was young,
but by that time he had gambled and drunk away almost everything, and he left me little but his title, and a house with a leaking roof and empty stables. My mother lives for the present with
relatives in Glasgow, who are in the wine trade, but I hope one day to bring her to Edinburgh, where she can set up her own house. She is quite an accomplished musician.’
‘I don’t like to be impertinent, but where is your father’s estate?’ Paniter asked.
‘Ireland,’ he replied. ‘My full title is the Viscount Torrance of Blaneford and Mountjoy. A mouthful for everyday conversation!’
‘Yet useful,’ said Paniter, ‘however impoverished you may be. And the Irish connection explains everything. I had at first put you down as from the Ayrshire coast, or possibly
the Isles.’
‘Many find me hard to place,’ said Torrance. ‘In fact, I wish I had less of a brogue. I am endeavouring to sharpen it while at court among these more . . . shall I say robust
accents?’
‘Rough, you mean?’ said Paniter, raising his eyebrows.
‘Maybe I do. I am told the English court is less rural, and yet . . . ’ He paused, examining his neatly filed nails, ‘I find I prefer people who do not disguise their origins.
Maybe that’s the Irish coming out in me. No honest man need be ashamed of his background.’
‘So you will soon be speaking as if brought up in a woodcutter’s hovel,’ said Paniter, smiling.
But there were no smiles this unhappy day. Both were stony faced as they mounted their horses and set off abreast down the high street. The road to Leith was empty, their only companions the
herring gulls diving for gutter scraps, and an occasional dog truffling by the roadside. It was as if merchants and workers feared to be abroad, as if they would be too exposed to the eye, if not
of God, then of the enemy. Paniter could not recall such stillness since the last outbreak of plague. It made him uneasy and, sensing this, his horse danced and skittered, refusing to settle.
As they left the city, heading east
and dreamers who talked more than they would ever act. The king said their fancies amused him. That they irritated Paniter sorely was an additional source of pleasure.
In recent times, with his former pupil Alexander so often absent, Paniter found himself glad of Torrance’s company. Indeed, he was fast growing into an indispensable companion. There were
few similarities between him and James’s eldest-born. Alexander had a lightness of heart that mirrored his father’s blitheness. The fact he was a bastard and could never be king was,
for the boy, a source of relief rather than regret, and as he frittered away his time on the continent, and made heavy weather of learning the serious business expected of him as the precociously
young and marvellously unsuited Archbishop of St Andrews, he exasperated Paniter to such a degree he had once caught himself tearing at his hair, a parody of the demented teacher. He was obliged to
pause and smile at himself, but as a scholar who was never happier than with a book or pen in hand, Paniter could not fathom such a lack of gravity.
Torrance was a more sober man. He could not raise Paniter’s spirits as Alexander did, nor coax a laugh out of him whatever his mood. What the secretary felt for this handsome lord was
fondness only, and nothing like love. Yet affection was a rare enough event in his life for it to be remarkable. In the young man’s Roman nose and elegant limbs, in his air of natural
authority, and languorous entitlement, he caught a glimpse of the high-born Alexander.
Over time, Torrance’s provenance became clear, though he never spoke about his background without being prompted. That too Paniter respected.
‘I am the only son of a man who did not want me,’ he once confessed, with such a broad smile Paniter could not guess how sorely the fact pained him. ‘He died when I was young,
but by that time he had gambled and drunk away almost everything, and he left me little but his title, and a house with a leaking roof and empty stables. My mother lives for the present with
relatives in Glasgow, who are in the wine trade, but I hope one day to bring her to Edinburgh, where she can set up her own house. She is quite an accomplished musician.’
‘I don’t like to be impertinent, but where is your father’s estate?’ Paniter asked.
‘Ireland,’ he replied. ‘My full title is the Viscount Torrance of Blaneford and Mountjoy. A mouthful for everyday conversation!’
‘Yet useful,’ said Paniter, ‘however impoverished you may be. And the Irish connection explains everything. I had at first put you down as from the Ayrshire coast, or possibly
the Isles.’
‘Many find me hard to place,’ said Torrance. ‘In fact, I wish I had less of a brogue. I am endeavouring to sharpen it while at court among these more . . . shall I say robust
accents?’
‘Rough, you mean?’ said Paniter, raising his eyebrows.
‘Maybe I do. I am told the English court is less rural, and yet . . . ’ He paused, examining his neatly filed nails, ‘I find I prefer people who do not disguise their origins.
Maybe that’s the Irish coming out in me. No honest man need be ashamed of his background.’
‘So you will soon be speaking as if brought up in a woodcutter’s hovel,’ said Paniter, smiling.
But there were no smiles this unhappy day. Both were stony faced as they mounted their horses and set off abreast down the high street. The road to Leith was empty, their only companions the
herring gulls diving for gutter scraps, and an occasional dog truffling by the roadside. It was as if merchants and workers feared to be abroad, as if they would be too exposed to the eye, if not
of God, then of the enemy. Paniter could not recall such stillness since the last outbreak of plague. It made him uneasy and, sensing this, his horse danced and skittered, refusing to settle.
As they left the city, heading east
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