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The Royal and Ancient Game

Written by Mark H. Huston

St Andrews Scotland, Winter 1634

James O’Fehl, the butler of Ramsay Manor, wearily tugged open the heavy wooden door to Andrew's bedchamber. He could see faint streaks of morning light through gaps in the drawn draperies. Andrew was sleeping soundly in the center of his large bed. James shuffled across the room, and briefly paused to steel himself against what he knew must be done. He took a deep breath, shook Andrew's shoulder, and quietly announced, "The package ha' arrived, milord."

Andrew, the son of Laird Ramsay, sat upright, instantly awake "Here? In the castle?"

"Aye, milord."

Andrew tossed back the covers, peeled his nightshirt off in one swift motion and began to pull on his clothing. The cold January air chilled the bed chamber, and he shivered with cold. Or maybe excitement, James thought dryly.

"Just in time for today! Perfect, James! Have you told my father?"

James lit more candles in the room. "No, milord. You wanted me to wake you first, if they arrived tonight. The messenger brought them out in darkness, sir. It was quite expensive to have them delivered at this hour. They got to the village last night, I'm told."

"Does anyone in the village know of this?" Andrew hopped on one foot as he pulled on a stocking, finally steadying himself on the bedpost.

"No, sir. Other than it was a very special package, and had to be delivered to you as soon as possible.” James picked up a doublet, and held it so Andrew could put his arms into it. “That has happened before, with other packets and letters for your father. While this is somewhat larger, we aroused no undue suspicion."

Andrew ignored the doublet, threw a splash of water on his face, and turned to James. "Did anyone know they were from Germany, specifically Grantville?"

"The writing on the package was somewhat strange, but it is unlikely anyone noticed, or could deduce the contents."

Andrew smiled and clapped James on the back. "This is going to be one of the best days of my life. I cannot wait to see the look on Foreman's face. He’s Spottiswoode’s man, you know. Nobody has beaten him in a year and a half. But today. Hah! Today will be different. We must wake my father."

****

Laird Ramsay dashed down the stairs and joined his son and James in the main hall. Laird Ramsey hadn’t bothered to dress; he was still in his nightclothes. The crate was half opened by the time he arrived. It was not yet fully light, and flickering candles in the great hall created twisted and dancing shadows as the men worked. Laird Ramsey dashed to the fireplace, snatched the massive family claymore from over the mantle, and used it to hack away some of the last bindings.

At last. They had them. From Grantville, the future. They lay exposed, in their bag.

Laird Ramsey handed the heavy sword to his son, and knelt in front of the open crate. He carefully lifted out a long bag. It rattled mysteriously. Father and son looked at each other with a mix of anticipation, joy and disbelief. Andrew was clenching the massive claymore in both hands, breathless with anticipation. The two men grinned at each other, a wide silly grin.

Laird Ramsey reached inside the bag and grasped a shiny metal shaft. He pulled it out of the bag, and looked at it in wonder. "Look how long this is!". He held it up to a candle, and looked at it closely. There were cushioned grips! At the opposite end, where the gleaming metal shaft blossomed out to a bulbous shape, were the deeply embossed words Titanium and Wilson Pro Golf. It was a three wood. Made of metal. The rarest metal in the world. “They mus’ be strong, named afta’ the Titans,” he muttered

Andrew nodded, and then hastily looked at the other clubs in the bag: the massive driver, the irons, and the curious short and flat-faced putter, all purpose-built for the greatest game in the universe.

“This,” said Laird Ramsay, his voice quavering with excitement, “this is what we will use to finally defeat that dammed Spottiswoode.” He looked as his son a little guiltily. “S’pose I shouldn’t call him dammed. He is the archbishop of St Andrews and Lord Chancellor, after all. But his men Foreman and Hannay have beaten us for the last time.”

This was a rivalry that went far, wide and deep. The noblemen had their pride. The men of the kirk had the same. Both groups struggled against the sin, and in most other areas of their lives all were successful at being good, modest, and solid Christians.

However . . .

This was golf, and their struggles against the sin of pride were less successful here.

The kirk/noble game had been going on every Monday morning, weather and course allowing, for the last three years. It had been two years since Laird Ramsay had carried the day. Two years of itchy, scratchy, rubbed-raw-with-dirty-burlap humility. It was time. Past time. A man can only take so much humility.

Andrew was still clutching a putter. “We should challenge them to a wager. Something significant, something the preacher and his kirk golfers will have to live down. Something embarrassing.” He handed the putter to James and tuned to his father conspiratorially. “What should it be, Father?”

Laird Ramsay held up his hand and got a far-off look in his eyes. “I have just the thing. Something no bishop’s man should ever do. Aye.” He nodded his head slowly. “Aye, ‘tis perfect.”

“I’ve seen that smile on your face before, Father. Whatever it is, you are scheming. That much I know for sure.”

“Aye, lad. And we must make the wager before they see the clubs, or hear of their existence. It must be today.” He held the club in his grip, wiggling it. “See how it flexes, boy, so much more than the old ash? We will be able to hit the ball so much further. We will have one shot for two of theirs. 'Twill be a slaughter, it will.”

Andrew had been digging in the crate and the golf bag, going through the zippered pockets. “Look, Father. Balls! They sent us up-time balls too. These will work better than the feather stuffed balls we use.”

The father lifted his son's face to his, each man holding a club, and solemnly said, “Lad. We both know it takes balls to play this game of golf.”

James O’Fehl almost stifled his laugh, but wasn’t quite successful.

The laird and his son glared at him.

****

Later, the sun was shining brightly for a Monday morning in January. Cold but unusually clear. Brisk. Perfect weather for golf. Just a touch of wind from the sea.

Spottiswoode and his men Foreman and Hannay were already waiting on the first tee at St. Andrews. At sixty-eight years of age, Spottiswoode had withdrawn from active competition in the last year, although he still played occasionally. He nearly always came out to walk a few holes, and offer encouragement to his two associates.

Laird Ramsay and his son strode confidently to the tee, carrying their same old clubs. They bowed slightly to Spottiswoode. “Good morning, Archbishop and Lord Chancellor. It is a pleasure to see you in fine form this morning.” Laird Ramsay turned to Foreman and Hannay, and nodded to them. “Gentlemen, you too are looking fine this morning. Beautiful day, no?" The nobleman smiled beatifically.

Hannay looked suspiciously at Laird Ramsay. “You are in quite a mood today, milord. ‘Tis been a while since I have seen you this chipper for our weekly match.” He turned to his partner Foreman. “What d’ye think?”

Foreman smiled. “I think it will be different at the end of the day, after we finish, and he pays us the wagers he has lost. Like every other day.”

Hannay piped up. “'Tis for a good cause tho, lads. Ye be supporting the kirk.” The two churchmen laughed. Spottiswoode frowned slightly at his subordinates. They were rubbing it in too hard.

The silly smile did not leave Laird Ramsay’s face. “I feel lucky today, lads. Very lucky. So does Andrew, don’t ye, son?”

“Aye, Father.”

Laird Ramsay continued, “So ...