From “The Favourite,” a historical novel in progress.
“The art of number cannot count the hours /
Thou hast been absent.”
—Dekker & Middleton (?), The Family of Love, 1608
Royston, Hertfordshire, April 1623
A thick mist hazed their vision, and yet somehow the Huntmaster had managed to spot a clue on the ground and called the deer-stalking party to a halt. James reined in his horse and turned it about. “A good eye, a very good eye,” James complimented him. James remained mounted on horseback as the Huntmaster flung himself down from his saddle.
The other riders and their mounts huddled about as the Huntmaster crouched down amid the decaying leaves. With both hands he scooped up the fumet in a nest of leaves and dirt and drew it to his nose like freshly baked bread. “It is fresh,” he pronounced. “And large enough to be a stag’s.” He held the pile of excrement up for James to see.
“Ay, a stag worth chasing.” James nodded his approval and looked about. “Which way?”
“This way, Your Majesty.”
Changing directions, the dozen-odd courtiers spurred their horses forward, the dogs running ahead as lightning does the thunder. James had not wanted to ride today, but Lord Hay nagged and needled like Noah’s wife. Now here, with the dogs barking, the air fresh and smokeless, his horse strong and swift, he was glad he’d come.
Soon the stag was spied, the horn was blown, and the chase commenced. The mad horde of dogs now acted as one unified being, pursuing the stag whose antlers were so large that it seemed a miracle the beast could run at all. James urged his horse faster ahead, afraid the other riders would hold back only to keep from breaking decorum by overtaking their King. Out of habit, he looked over his right shoulder, expecting to see George keeping pace at his side. But nay, George was not there; he and Charlie both were far, far away.
Up ahead, the stag’s gallop dwindled to a canter while the unflagging dogs, bred entirely for speed, gained ground, giving James and his men time to catch up. James loved the hunt, always had, because it banished the world and its cares from his thoughts. In the heat of the chase, his mind’s clatter went quiet; in motion and purpose, he found peace. But today, thoughts intervened, disturbed his reverie, called him back to the world. Steenie. Steenie, where are you? He wondered about Steenie and Charlie, how their matter in Madrid was coming along. Why so long since there’d been a letter from either?
“Lo, where he goes!” the Huntmaster cried. The stag was making the fatal but unavoidable error of running toward a thin copse of old, burly trees. As James advanced, he saw that the animal had stopped at a massive fallen oak and, unable to run further, turned to face his pursuers. The dogs knew the steps of the dance: They broke their arrow-like formation and from multiple sides snarled at their prey. The stag jutted his head, brandished his massive antlers. You would not believe the size of his rack, and so late in the season, James imagined writing to George. Or was it too soon to send another letter, the third this week?
He had fulfilled the requests of George’s most recent letter, sent what they needed. The letter said the Spaniards must be wooed with gifts, impressed by England’s largesse, made to see that the Infanta, their near-saint of a princess, would continue her life of earthly splendor when she moved to London. It said the Spanish would not take him and Charles seriously if they wore clothes and jewels less valuable than those common in the Spanish king’s court. James had sent the jewels. He kissed them and prayed they bring his dear boys safety and luck.
The stag could run no more, but would not go down without a fight. Individual dogs darted closer, jaws snapping, but each thrust of the sharp antlers forced the dogs to retreat. Toward this stalemate, as the dogs wailed, James steered his horse, slowly, crunching leaves and breaking twigs. His arrival, it seemed, did not go unnoticed by the stag. He was quite sure that he saw the two enormous brown eyes meet his own. In them, he could see equal parts fear and defiance. He put up his arm to tell the other riders to halt their advance. He was in no rush. The dogs had penned the stag.
George’s letter had asked for more than jewels. He needed to be elevated to the rank of duke. “It has proven difficult to negotiate with Olivares, a duco, when I am but a marquis. I do not beg the title for myself but for the success of completing the treaty.” James had told the Privy Council he would grant George the title. They remonstrated, argued that this further ennoblement was unprecedented and would cause bitterness and resentment among the old families of England. James did not argue back. He told the Council it had been done.
James swung down from his horse. The dogs’ barking and snarling intensified. They had done their work of driving the prey to exhaustion, and they expected the King, or some other man, to finish the work so that they could return to the comforts and desserts of the lodge and kennels. Though it did no good, James hushed the dogs, crept a little closer, worried that the stag might overleap the horizontal oak and renew chase. Instead, though, the stag seemed to acknowledge his defeat with a slight bow of the head. His wide antlers, rich with the velvet growth of springtime, struck James as a glorious ancient crown. Eventually James would defeat this other king, take his crown back to the lodge, and mount it on the walls among the other conquered crown-antlers displayed there. But first, James wanted to see . . . to look into the soul of a king beaten by exhaustion.
Why?
That was the one word that the stag-king seemed to utter. Why must I be killed? My time is not yet done.
“Sir,” the Huntmaster said. “The others await the kill. Shall I do it?”
“Nay, I will do it.” He needed to show he still could. He took the spear, aimed for the stag’s heart, and thrust it in. Quickly, quickly. You have suffered enough. May I do you the honor of ending it quickly.
