The Schoolmaster

By Jessica Tvordi

Scotland, 1570. Catholic followers of the exiled Mary, Queen of Scots wage war against those of her four-year-old son, King James VI. Enter Master Peter Young, a Geneva-educated merchant's son. Eager to make his way in the world, Peter is appointed to serve as the king's tutor alongside the formidable George Buchanan. Their objective? To shape Scotland's young monarch into a perfect, Protestant ruler—a difficult task in a world filled with religious violence, power-hungry lords, and the petty squabbles of both boys and men.
 
Over the years, Peter sees success with his pupils, proves an invaluable friend to the king's caretaker, the Countess of Mar, and her troubled son, Johnny Erskine, and gains status at court. But when the king's French-raised cousin Esmé Stewart, Seigneur d'Aubigny, arrives in Scotland, Peter and his friends must discover whether this seductive stranger is an agent of Catholic Rome or another greedy relation hoping for preferment.
 
The Schoolmaster is a coming-of-age story, as King James rejects lessons of the schoolroom for love, and Peter navigates treacherous political waters to ensure the nation's security. Through Peter's eyes, readers are transported to a pivotal moment in Scottish history: the arrival of the first of King James's many controversial lover-favorites. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garden Scriptorium
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990371606

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1

January 1570

I should have been thanking God for my good fortune, but my mind was troubled by yesterday’s voyage to Leith—and how the bile had risen to my throat even though the seas had been calm.

Master Young! I turned from where I sat to see the harbor master heading my way.

The boats are leaving for Stirling within the half-hour—we’ve only to finish loading and then you’ll be on your way.

I thanked him, then gathered my few belongings, and steeled myself for the final leg of my voyage. Even though I’d had a good night’s rest at the inn, where I was fortunate to find a bed to myself, it was not enough to steel me against another day or more of traveling by boat.

To this day, I remember the shame of my first sea voyage, which I took with my father the summer before I went to St. Andrew’s. Not ten minutes into the journey I emptied the contents of my stomach onto the deck—and spent the rest of the voyage below on my knees, either in prayer or embracing a wooden bucket, which the captain’s boy came to empty for me every few hours.

I had been lucky on the trip from Dundee as the weather was fine, but the skies now turned dark. I had misgivings as I contemplated these smaller vessels, which I knew were necessary to navigate up the River Forth—but surely, they would make for a rough journey up the coast to the river’s mouth.

As the crew prepared for departure, I noted a man of middle years already on board. He dressed well, but plainly; his sandy hair was turning to grey, and he wore a small beard that came to a sharp point. I caught his eye, for he had shifted his gaze from the cargo to myself. I gave him a little bow—which he returned gracefully along with a smile.

After I was ushered aboard, the man stepped forward to introduce himself. He was Sir Thomas Randolph, the English Ambassador, and we quickly settled into amiable conversation. Sir Thomas had served many years as Queen Elizabeth’s representative to Scotland, although he had traveled to Muscovy of late. I asked many questions of him as I had never met anyone who had been to that nation before. We conversed for some time, especially about their religious customs, and talked about the formation of the Muscovy Company, a subject naturally of interest to me, a merchant’s son.

After a half hour’s talk, it occurred to me I had told Sir Thomas my name, but not why I traveled to Stirling.

I take up a post in the king’s household.

Sir Thomas smiled. Indeed, and it is an important post, too. I read about Peter Young from the dispatch awaiting me when I arrived last night. You are to be tutor to the king and nursemaid to my old friend, George Buchanan, he said with a wink.

Yes, I confirmed, a bit surprised that my name would appear in an official communication from England’s government. I supposed ambassadors must be apprised of all doings of the government, even when concerning such unimportant people as myself. I am to be the king’s tutor, although surely he is in greater need of a nursemaid than Master Buchanan!

I do not wish to offend, Master Young. Buchanan is a fine fellow, but his health fails him, and he now needs more assistance with everything from his toilette to his letters. Don’t let him recruit you as his scribe as you will have your hands full with the Master of Mar and the other young gentleman.

I understood there would be other pupils, I said, but was told nothing about who they were or how many.

There were two boys besides Johnny, the Earl of Mar’s son, when I was there several years ago—a nephew of the Countess of Mar and a cousin of the king. There is also a daughter of the household, although she was being educated by her mother. The countess—Annabella Murray is her name—served Queen Mary before the wars. I imagine Johnny will be your greatest challenge. He is impetuous and likely to lead the others into mischief—at least that was my impression. Let us hope he has matured some.

I nodded in agreement, grateful for this little bit of information and for the pleasant conversation—which set me at ease somewhat, especially as the seas had turned choppy.

When Sir Thomas turned to his papers, the captain was kind enough to tell me about the waterways we traversed, and while we were still in the Firth of Forth, he provided some history of the islands we passed, some of which had been home to hermits and monks.

As the captain returned to his business, I found myself contemplating Sir Thomas. I wondered what his first order of business would be when we arrived at Stirling. He had no servant with him, and I wondered why his government had dispatched him so swiftly to Scotland after only having arrived home to England. I felt lucky to have met him for I knew little about the world I was about to enter other than my official charge: to be the king’s schoolmaster, so the letter of appointment said, and to help build the king’s library.

I had not set out to be a schoolmaster. Despite having spent so much of my life as a pupil, I had once hoped to find some other occupation than scholar or pedagogue. But I was not made for a more active life, unlike my youngest brother, Henry, who served in the King of Sweden’s army. Nor was I destined to serve the Kirk, like my eldest brother, John, who had a parish in Dysart.

I had not even been Regent Moray’s first choice, for he had written to my uncle, Henry Scrimgeour, with whom I had lived in Geneva while a student there, at least twice imploring him to take on this great task. But my uncle, who was reluctant to leave his place at the university, had recommended me as a substitute. At his urging, I had accepted the post, even though I was loath to part from my brother, Alec, who had only recently joined me in Geneva. Being a schoolmaster seemed a sensible vocation for someone like myself, but to tutor a king under the direction of a man with George Buchanan’s reputation? I feared he would be disappointed in me.

It took longer than I’d hoped to travel the coast, as the seas had indeed turned quite rough as we moved closer to our destination. Some of the men spoke of the Catholic rebels—of the Queen’s men—and this just added to my discomfort, especially as my father spoke with concern about the king’s safety before I left home. Near Kincardine, we entered the mouth of the Forth, approaching a place called Alloa—and from that point on the river began to shift, snake-like, curving first left and then right. I became drowsy, lulled by the gentle movement of the boat as we traveled up the river toward my new home.

At some point that night the captain stopped at a small dock for when I awoke with a need to relieve myself, no man stirred. My business completed, I lay back and slipped into a deep sleep.

On the second day of my journey, the captain shouted for me to mark the castle! up on the hill—a magnificent sight, which stayed with me from various vantage points as the river continued to meander toward Stirling. As we approached the harbor later that morning, I could see the shipbuilding yard, as well men unloading goods. I also saw soldiers—much to my surprise—and asked Sir Thomas about them.

This marks the reason for my journey, Master Young, for these men here are English troops. They accompany the men who are here to negotiate over the English rebels—Catholics—captured by the Scots and imprisoned here at Stirling.

We Scots have done the English a service? He nodded. So, why the need for negotiations?

Compensation, Master Young. No good deed can be done without asking a favor in return—and thus it has always been since the beginning of time, he replied with a slight frown.

If we are assisting the English against their own Catholic subjects, will King James not be in danger from his mother’s supporters? I asked.

Yes. But the potential for danger, however slight, has been carefully considered.

My father had been right to worry. Yet if I wanted safety, I should probably have stayed in Dundee.

When we arrived, I bid Sir Thomas’s farewell, thanking him for his company on the journey. A young man awaited him, taking his valise and writing case, and I watched him disappear into the town. The captain kindly placed me into the hands of a carter headed for the castle, so I found myself and my trunk on the back of a wagon, wedged between crates of goods, as it struggled through the cobbled streets up the hill past many fine houses and many curious faces. As we approached, I was distracted momentarily by the presence of many more soldiers camped beneath its walls. As I turned my gaze to the castle towering above me—I had doubts about whether I could make a home in such a forbidding place.

We stopped at the first gate, and I handed my letter of employment to the guard, who waved us through, shouting to a man at the next gate, ‘Tis the schoolmaster, Allan! As we approached, the man moved toward the yard and whistled sharply through his teeth, a piercing noise that brought a small boy scrambling in our direction.

Bring this gentleman to Master Haig, Tom, he said, patting the boy on the head and then turning to me with a smile as I hopped down from the cart. Welcome to the castle, Master Young, I am Allan Reid, of the king’s guard. We'll have your belongings sent up to your chamber as soon as we clear this lot out, he said, gesturing to a second cart filled with wine casks.

The boy tugged at my sleeve, running toward the castle, only glancing back once to make certain I kept up, and then only slowing as he arrived at the entrance to the castle kitchens.

Tom delivered me into the hands of a rail-thin man, gaunt of face, but with friendly eyes—Master Young? he inquired. I nodded.

Andrew Haig, steward. He bowed curtly, as the boy scuttled back toward the light of the yard. Should you need anything for yourself—or, for your pupils in the schoolroom—come to me.

Thank you, I said.

I will bring you to your room, he said, pausing to speak with a servant, before turning back to me.

After a long journey out of the kitchens into a courtyard and into another building and up a staircase, we approached a dark hallway. Midway down, he knocked on a door from behind which I detected the faint strains of a viol. Come, shouted a throaty English voice, and I followed Master Haig into a large room with two beds—and an astonishing number of musical instruments.

This is Master Peter Young, Thomas, the king’s new schoolmaster.

Thomas Hudson, musician. Rising from his chair, he was the tallest person I'd ever seen—a great hulk of a man—yet he bowed with surprising grace. And the lump in the cot over there is my brother, Robert. The lump shifted slightly, snorted, and rolled over to face the wall. We played late last night for our esteemed guests, and afterward Robin drank more than his fill with the soldiers.

Master Haig sighed. Master Young is to be next door, so please keep quieter in the evenings. I suspect Master Buchanan will have him in the schoolroom before first light, and he will need his sleep.

You may be sure, Master Young—we will behave ourselves and not disturb your peace, he said, winking as Master Haig turned toward the door. I took my leave with a bow and followed the steward back into the passage.

One door down, we entered a chamber with a trundle bed, as well as a table, a chair, and a small trunk. A servant arrived shortly thereafter, a comely young woman who made eyes at me as she passed to set down a tray of refreshments. A woman of middle years arrived a moment later with a jug of water and a bowl for washing.

After the servants left, Master Haig said, I will give you an hour to settle yourself, but the Countess of Mar will wish to speak with you once you've recovered from your journey. I'll send someone to retrieve you and show you the castle beforehand. Then you will meet your new mistress.

I fell upon my food and settled on the bed, closing my eyes—I had not expected musicians, although why I did not know. I remembered what my mother had said about the pleasures to be found at court, and wondered what other surprises I would encounter. A knock came at the door—my trunk had arrived—so I unpacked some of my things. I washed, then changed my clothing, trying to make myself presentable, then sat back on the bed and waited for my summons.

Master Haig’s servant, Graeme—a sweet-faced youth with freckles and sandy hair—retrieved me mid-afternoon. The Countess of Mar, he said, wished to see me. But first he would give me a tour of the castle grounds.

The buildings were vast, and the worse for wear—although some, Graeme informed me, had never been finished. Part of the ceiling had fallen in the chapel rendering the place the king had been baptized unfit for worship—so the chattering boy told me. Moreover, the castle had a small staff of live-in servants, although supplemented by local townsfolk helping in the kitchen or laundry. What I learned revealed a world far less exciting than I anticipated: not a court filled with courtiers and foreign visitors, excepting the present instance of the English contingent, but rather the abode of a child housed in a shabby set of buildings in need of refurbishment.

We entered the palace and made our way to the rooms of the Earl of Mar and his family. As I followed Graeme into the room, we slowed our pace to a standstill as the woman was intent on some elaborate embroidery, like nothing my mother or sisters had ever worked.

The Countess of Mar was perhaps ten years older than myself, fair of complexion with a high, round forehead, widely set dark eyes, and rich auburn hair. She was a beauty—and this added to my unease. She bore little resemblance to the women I had encountered in Geneva and none whatsoever to the matrons of Dundee.

My Lady Mar, said Graeme, Master Young is here. She looked up with some interest, rising to greet me. I bowed as I'd seen my Uncle Henry do back in Geneva when greeting the wives of prominent men.

Welcome to Stirling, Master Young. I hope you find your quarters sufficient to your needs?

I do, my lady, I answered.

You are very welcome here, and must tell Master Haig or myself if you need anything at all. She sat back on her chair and gestured that I should take the seat opposite.

Was your journey a pleasant one? she asked.

It was, with good company along the way . . . but the talk of rebellion amongst my fellow travelers was concerning.

The war is not yet at our door; however, it is never far from our thoughts. This present business is about the shared struggle both we and England have with our Catholic countrymen who would make trouble for a stable government.

Indeed, the Catholics seem determined to win back power, I said, struggling to contribute to the conversation.

She paused for a moment: Although I adhere to the old faith myself, I do not wish our country to slide back into the recklessness of Queen Mary’s reign.

I was frankly surprised she admitted so freely her Catholicism. I must have shown my alarm, for she quickly continued.

I do not practice openly given my husband's position. But we occasionally have foreign visitors here of the old faith—and will no doubt have more in the future. I would not have them treated unkindly.

I understand, I said, sitting up perhaps a little straighter, wishing very much this interview would end.

I hear you have not yet had a chance to meet with Master Buchanan. Graeme will deliver you to him shortly, but I will take this time on behalf of my husband, who is occupied with our guests, to discuss your responsibilities.

My lady, I welcome any information you would give me about my pupil—or, so I understand, pupils?

My nephew, William Murray, and another boy, Walter Stewart, a distant cousin of the king, are the oldest. My son, Johnny, who is nearly twelve years of age, will also be your charge. He will give you the most trouble of the three, I’m afraid she said with a half-smile, but I hope you will manage the boys without violence.

I have some sad memories of cruel schoolmasters, I said. I would not wish to perpetuate such practices on any pupils, let alone on my sovereign.

The king has not yet joined the schoolroom, and Master Buchanan and I disagree about when he should do so. He speaks French and Scots—and can read a little. There’s no reason to push Latin and Greek on him before he's been breached, although I suspect I will not win that battle.

For the first time in our short interview, this self-possessed woman looked slightly defeated.

I agree, my lady, he is far too young for Greek.

She nodded and smiled cautiously. Although I spoke no falsehood to her, as I did in fact believe what I had said about the course of the king's education, I was surprised by the speed with which she had made me her ally. Was she that handsome? Or was I simply eager to make a good impression on the woman under whose roof I would be living for a good many years to come, even if she was a Papist?

May I ask about the other children at the castle? You have a daughter, I believe. How does her education proceed?

It proceeds nicely, she replied, quickly betraying her pride in this other child with the excitement in her voice. My Mary speaks and reads French quite well, and has some Latin. She would go further in her studies if she had the opportunity, but, sadly, so she has been barred from the schoolroom as Master Buchanan dislikes our sex and found her ‘impudent’—a ridiculous charge, as she is as meek as a lamb.

I have an ‘impudent’ sister of my own, although I prefer to think of her as merely intelligent and inquisitive.

She paused for a moment, tilting her head as she looked at me intently. I would be grateful for advice regarding her further education.

I would be happy, my lady, to assist . . . perhaps tutor her when I am not in the schoolroom.

I will discuss this with my husband and let you know if it’s to his liking. She smiled at me, seemingly pleased with my offer.

As for the other young women of the household, she continued, there are few . . . but should you find yourself in need of company, I understand Thomas Hudson is regular in his visits to a certain establishment in the town. I am certain he will be happy to direct you there.

I must have turned a deep red as she spoke these words—indeed, my face felt quite hot. What sort of woman spoke so freely of such matters?

Perhaps you are more virtuous than the other young men of this household? Serve the king well, treat our inhabitants with respect, and I'll help you to a good marriage when the time comes.

With a wave she dismissed me, turning her eyes back to her needlework. I rose to bow, and, turning to take my leave, stumbled into the chair I had been sitting in. I mumbled an apology, and Graeme came to my rescue, stepping forward with a barely concealed smile to escort me to Master Buchanan.

Graeme quickly filled me in on the scandal of the past summer, when the chamberlain’s clerk had got one of the maids with child, and how the one had been dismissed from service and the other sent back to her parents with a small purse from the countess herself.

When Graeme took me to the outer close, I quickly spied three boys on a small lawn by the castle wall—undoubtedly William, Walter, and the infamous Johnny—accompanied by a soldier, who appeared to be instructing them in the handling of guns.

Are these drills a regular part of the boys' education? I asked, surprised they were so occupied in the middle of the day.

Not as such, yet as English are here Master Buchanan asked if they might instruct them in the latest weapons. The boy looked longingly at my pupils, as if he, too, wished to shoot a gun.

I would have thought such activities of little interest to a man with Master Buchanan’s scholarly reputation.

Graeme chuckled, and said, You are right there for other than Latin Master Buchanan seldom praises any other subjects. But he was a soldier himself back in his youth. Also, I suspect he is happy to have a few moments to himself, especially as all he talks of these days is ‘When Master Young joins us . . .’

Has he been informed of my arrival?

No. With the great doings hereabout, I am afraid no one has bothered to tell him. You might not mention you’ve been here since shortly after midday, nor that you've had a rest, a wash, and a feed. He continued, smiling, He'll put you to work soon enough, so let him think you've barely arrived.

We came to an outer building, and Graeme unlatched a door that opened at the top of a long, narrow room in which stood four tables and six or seven chairs. As we stood there on the landing, I could see slates and books piled on two tables, and some books stacked on a table pushed against the inner wall.

And there he was. George Buchanan—the great historian, theologian, tutor, diplomat, and former soldier—was stationed at a table at the very back of the room. Even seated he appeared quite tall, although a bit stooped with a hump forming at the top of his aged back, gazing down at a large folio open on the table in front of him. He had very little hair on top of his head, and an equally scraggly beard, although cut short. I thought him asleep, but suddenly his hand, twisted with age, darted out and turned the page.

We descended the creaky steps, but still he took no notice of us. A second later, as we stood before him, Graeme cleared his throat gently, then cleared it again after no response, until this great man—Scotland's own Erasmus—without taking his eyes off the page said, quite sharply, What is it, boy?

The previously confident Graeme now seemed terrified.

I bring Master Young, sir, who has just arrived. Her ladyship asked me to escort him directly to your presence.

At the mention of my name, however, the old man’s sour countenance disappeared as he looked up from his book.

Peter Young! he said, standing up with some effort. What a pleasure it is to meet you at last! He crept around the desk, and I met him with a little bow. As soon as I righted myself, he took my hand, grasping it in both of his own, greeting me with a surprising warmth. It has been more than 30 years since I saw your dear Uncle Henry—we first met as exiles in Paris, you know—but I do believe you are his spitting image. A true Scrimgeour, indeed, although I imagine your father would have something to say about that.

I am told I take after my mother in appearance and intellect, and she much resembles her brother in both.

His eyes, which were large and round, narrowed slightly. As so few women possess even average intelligence, she must be an unusual specimen. Although I had been alerted to his poor opinion of the female sex by the Countess of Mar, I was nonetheless disappointed to have this confirmed by the man himself—yet I met him with a polite smile and acknowledged my eagerness to begin.

First thing tomorrow, my boy . . . I will run you through the usual schedule, which, if to your liking, we will institute when the young king joins us. But if anything’s amiss I wish you to speak up. Indeed, I have been experimenting with these older boys for this past year to determine what may well serve our future pupil.

After a brief interview, we left the schoolroom together and headed back into the grounds, where Master Buchanan barked at the boys, telling them to head back to the schoolroom. They would, he told me, spend the final hour of the day translating Horace from Latin to English and then to French before restoring it to Latin—and hoping nothing had gone amiss along the journey. We said our farewells and Graeme accompanied me into the inner close, pointing out the entrance that would take me back to my room, where I would have time to myself before everyone met to dine.

Many hours later, after arranging the room to my liking and writing to my parents, I headed down to present myself for the banquet honoring the English. I worried about where I would be placed, and with whom I would be expected to converse. I was directed to a place next to John Wood, the private secretary of Regent Moray. Master Buchanan sat toward the front of the same table conversing with a man who looked to be the castle’s minister. Near the head of the table opposite him sat Sir Thomas Randolph, more finely dressed than he had been as a traveler.

I need not have worried about my banquet companion for Master Wood—a fatherly gentleman, simply dressed and looking quite weather-beaten like an old soldier—kindly pointed out all the great men in the hall, especially those seated at the head table. Regent Moray and the Englishman, Sir Henry Gates, sat to the