'For killing our Queen?'
David Gray's heavy brows lowered in a band across his face. 'I would not swear, child, that such is what he means by justice – whatever Spain and Rome may mean. Would that it was. Rather, I think, it is because Elizabeth betrayed him, broke their wicked compact over Queen Mary, and denounced his part in that vile execution to Chancellor Mait-land and the Council of Scotland. For that, I think, he will never forgive her. Elizabeth, I vow, made a dangerous enemy the day she wrote that letter betraying the Master of Gray.'
The girl drew a long breath. 'You do not sound… as though you loved him,' she said.
'You do not understand, Mary. Indeed, how could you? Himself I love. Patrick, my brother.' His lips tightened. 'My half-brother. The noble brother of my lord's bastard! I cannot help myself. We have been very close, always. Strangely, for we could scarce be more different. Himself I love, then. But what he is, and what he does, I hate! Hate and fear, do you hear me? Hate and fear.' The paper was trembling a little in those strong hands. It seemed as though almost with relief he came back to it, back to the letter. 'In Spain, then, Patrick saw sufficient to convince him that Elizabeth's days are numbered. It can only have been the ships, the great armament, that King Philip is long said to have been preparing. Armada is the word that they use for it – a great fleet of galleons, and great armies of men, to invade and subdue England. There has long been word of it, rumours – but Patrick must have seen it with his owns eyes, and have been satisfied that it is great enough, powerful enough, to serve its purpose. The downfall of Elizabeth's England. Beyond a peradventure, he says. For him to be sure, the armament must indeed be vast and very terrible. And nigh ready to sail, since he says within a three-month. Unless…'
'Invasion of England – before the summer!' Mary said, with slight difficulty. 'So soon. Yet a year too late!'
'Eh…?'
'To save Mary the Queen.'
'Aye. That is the truth. One short year. Or, perhaps… I do not know… but perhaps there is a reason for that. It may be that Philip of Spain prefers to invade England with Mary safely dead rather than invade to save her life. In her testament she named him, not her son James, as heir to her two kingdoms of England and Scotland, you will mind. She did it, I think, more as a threat to make Elizabeth keep her alive, than as her true desire – for when we saw her at Wingfield Manor only a year before her death, she spoke most warmly of young Jamie – warmer than he deserved, 'fore God! Still, she died leaving Philip of Spain her heir, by this testament -and now he is prepared to claim his inheritance!'
'And Scotland? Surely that could never be? Not here…?' The girl's great eyes widened. 'Is that what Uncle Patrick means when he says that…? Here it is… He says "you will agree that an overdose of good things is seldom a kindness. Moreover, we have our young friend J. to consider". He means, then, that Scotland must be saved. Saved from King Philip and his invasion. That is it?'
David Gray nodded. 'Something of the sort, he suggests. Although not all would say, I think, that it was for the saving of Scotland! He would have me inform the Early of Huntly of all this – that is "our blustering northern cousin H." of course. With the Earl of Erroll, the High Constable, and the Lord Seton, and others of the like kidney. In other words, the Catholic lords. These to brace themselves – to muster their forces, to arm. Then, and only then, when they are ready and assembled, to inform King Jamie.'
'Why that? Should not he be the first to be told?'
Her father smiled, but not mirthfully. 'We are dealing here with the Master of Gray, child – not some mere common mortal! The King then to write to Philip of Spain – or to send an ambassador, belike – offering a treaty of alliance, to aid in the invasion of England. On the condition, need I say, that Scotland is left free. Assuring him that a Scottish army is assembled and waiting. And, of course, to add that if Philip refuses to agree, he, James, will be compelled to inform Elizabeth of all – even to join forces with her. Which assuredly would much distress His Most Catholic Majesty.'
The girl swallowed. 'I… I see.'
'That is your Uncle Patrick! That is what the letter means. Scarcely apt intelligence for a chit of a girl?'
'Perhaps not.' She took the letter and gazed down at its curiously untidy yet vital, forceful handwriting. 'But I do not see, Father, why you say that it is no concern of yours, either? Is it not of the greatest importance?'
'He would have me esteem it so, I agree.'
'But is it not, indeed? For us all? For all Scotland?'
'I do not know.' David Gray moved away from the window, to pace up and down the little bare room. 'It could be -indeed, probably it is – but one more of his many conspiracies. A plot for the furtherance of his own affairs. Like so many.'
'But… the invasion of England! That is no private plot!'*No. But what he would have transpire here in Scotland might well be, girl. He would have this done now – this of Huntly and the rest. Philip of Spain's armament, this Armada, may not be so near to sailing as he says. There have been rumours of it for long. He could be using the threat of it for his own purposes. To stir up trouble again in Scotland. He knows that Huntly is a firebrand, ever ready to rouse the north…'
'Yet he writes this not to my lord of Huntly, but to you, Father.'
'Aye. Huntly, the great turkey-cock, would not make head nor tail of such a letter! Patrick would use me – use me as he has done before, times without number. I had thought that we had done with such. I have done with such, by God! I'll no' do it – I will not!' The man thumped clenched fist on his table as he passed it.
Thoughtfully, gravely, the girl looked at him. 'How can you say that?' she asked. 'He declares roundly that this is no mere conspiracy. Not to doubt him. The King, and the whole realm, must be endangered if the Spaniards invade England. None can question that, surely? Uncle Patrick has pointed a way of escape, has he not? For Scotland. How can you refuse your aid? If not for his sake, as he says, for the King's sake. For all our sakes.'
'I can – and do! You hear?' Almost he shouted at her – which was markedly unlike David Gray: 'I will be entangled in no more of Patrick's plots and deviltries. I swore it – and I will hold to it. I have seen too much hurt and evil, too much treachery and death, come of them. No – I will not do it.'
She shook her dark head slowly, and turned back to the paper in her hand once more. 'What is this about an office?' she enquired. 'An office to be set up on Castle-hill? Here, does he mean? This castle…?'
'No. He means the Holy Office, so called. The Spanish Inquisition. Set up on the Castle-hill of Edinburgh. He would chill my blood…'
'The Inquisition!' Mary Gray stared at him now, wide-eyed, something of the terror of that dread name quivering in her voice. 'Here? In Scotland? No – oh, no! That could never be! Not… that!'
Her father did not answer her.
She came over to him almost at a run. 'Father! Father – if that could happen, the Inquisition here… then… then…' She faltered, gripping his arm. He had never seen her so moved. 'You would never stand by and see that happen? Anything would be better than that, surely? You – a true Protestant? You cannot stay your hand from what he would have you do – from what this letter says, if that could be the outcome? You cannot!'
'Mary – can you not understand, child?' he cried. 'Cannot you see? What Patrick here proposes could well bring that very evil about! Bring the devilish Inquisition to Scotland, to Edinburgh. You talk about saving Scotland – about Patrick saving Scotland, thus. Do you not perceive, lass, that this is in fact most like a conspiracy to overthrow the Reformed religion in Scotland? The Catholic lords are to muster and arm. Secretly. Not until they are assembled is the King to be told. Not even then the Chancellor and the Council – that is what he means by James's tutors and servitors. The Protestants around the King are not to know of it. Until too late. Think you that this Catholic army will do the young Protestant King's biding? He will become its prisoner. Then James is to make a secret alliance with
Catholic Spain. Against Protestant England. Do you believe that the Kirk could ever agree to that? So the Kirk will have to be put down – by Catholic arms. What will remain, then, of Protestant Scotland? Would the Catholic lords keep out Philip's Inquisition? Could they? Do you not see what it means?'
She stood still, silent.
Tt is not easy, straightforward,' he went on, sighing. 'Nothing about Patrick Gray is ever easy or straightforward.'
'Yet you cannot leave it thus, Father,' she said. 'You cannot just do nothing.'
'What can I do? Other than act as he demands? Which I will not do.'
'You could tell the King, could you not? Without telling the Catholic lords. He used to rely on Uncle Patrick's advice in matters of state. Is the plan itself not a good one? Apart from putting Scotland in the power of the Catholic lords. If it was the Protestant lords who armed and assembled instead? The King could still treat with Spain, with an army at his back. It is a sound policy, is it not? The only way to preserve the realm in this evil pass? Uncle Patrick has the cleverest head in Scotland – often you have said it. Use it then, for Scotland's weal, Father. But… use your own likewise. Let it be the Protestant lords who arm – but otherwise the same.'
It was the man's turn to stare. Almost his jaw dropped as he considered what was proposed – and who proposed it. Was this the infant that he had petted and played with? The child that they had brought up? What had they nurtured, Mariota and himself?
'You… you do no discredit to your sire, I think,' he said, a little unsteadily.
'It is best, is it not? That you should go to the King?'
'It is not, I' faith! I cannot go to the King, girl. His last words to me, yon day at Holyroodhouse, were that he wished never to see my face again. Nor Patrick's either. An ill and graceless breed, he named us…'
'The same day that he would have made you knight?'
'Aye. But that was before I had abused him. I spoke him hard that day – as no subject should bespeak his prince. No base-born subject in especial… like Davy Gray the Bastard! I threatened him sorely. The King. For Patrick's sake. He will never forget it, will James Stewart. I have cut myself off from the King.'
'If you told him that the safety of his realm depended on hearing you? The safety of his person – for it is said that he is heedful for himself? Surely he would see you.'
'You do not understand, Mary. Kings are not to be approached thus. I cannot see him, or speak with him, without he summons me…'
'But, Father – even I used to speak with the King. He said that I was a bonny lass, and that he liked me well. He thanked me for being kind to Vicky – to the Duke of Lennox.'
'That was different, lass. Then your Uncle Patrick was a power in the land. Acting Chancellor of Scotland, and Master of the King's Wardrobe. I was his secretary. We were part of the royal Court. Ever about the King. Now… ' He spread his hands. 'I cannot speak with James without he summons me. And that he will never do.'
'The King, it is said, is not one whose mind cannot be changed…!' she began when her quiet voice was drowned.
There was a great clattering of hooves, clangour of armour, and the shouting of commands, from close outside. Man and girl moved back to the window. Through the arched doorway under the gatehouse streamed into the inner courtyard of Castle Huntly a troop of heavily-armed riders mounted on the rough garrons of the country, shaggy and short-legged but sturdy horses whose hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones of the enclosed square and echoed back and forth from the tall, frowning walls of great soaring keep and flanking-towers. Amongst them all, conspicuous because of the height of his handsome Flanders roan, rode a heavy florid man of middle years, dressed in richly embossed half-armour, black and gold, dark doublet and trunks, and long riding-boots. On his massive greying head was clapped a flat old-fashioned velvet bonnet instead of the more fashionable high hat and plume – the only man there not wearing a steel morion helmet.
Throwing himself down off his horse, this paunchy bull-like man started to shout as soon as his boots touched the cobbles -and at his bellowing, all other voices soever fell discreetly silent.
'Davy! Davy Gray – to me, man!' he roared. 'A pox on you – where are you? Where in hell are you skulking, i' God's name? Poring over dusty books and papers, I'll be bound…' He glanced up at the round north-west flanking-tower, and perceived the figures at the window. 'There you are, damn you! Down with you, man. Would you ha' me stand waiting your pleasure like some carle frae the stables? Me – Gray! Did you no' hear my horn? Are you deaf, man – as well as heedless o' my affairs and well-being…?'
'My lord sounds as though restored,' David Gray said to the girl, drily. 'His gout is improved, undoubtedly – and therefore he must needs burst a blood-vessel with his shouting!' But he raised a hand to the window in acknowledgment of the summons, and folding the letter, tucked it away carefully in his doublet, and turned to the stairway – but not in any urgent haste.
The fifth Lord Gray's voice neither awaited his arrival, nor lessened its volume. 'And where is my moppet? Where a pest's
Mary – my ain Mary? God's mercy – is this a house o' the dead, or what? Must Gray come to his ain, and naught but doos and jackdaws greet him? Mary!' he bawled. 'Mary Gray -haste you, lass. Would you hide frae me? Bairnie – where are you?' Although the noise of him had nowise diminished, the tone and tenor had altered significantly; almost there was a chuckling, wheedling note in the vociferation now, if that can be imagined, distinctly ridiculous in so notable a tyrant.
Smiling gently, the girl turned to follow her father down the narrow winding turnpike stair. And for all her curious calm and serenity of manner, she tripped lightly as might any child.
When she emerged, my lord was hectoring her father in front of all the fifty and more grinning men-at-arms.'… trees down all along the Inchture road, dykes broken and beasts straying! But two nights gone, and I come back to this, Davy Gray! I make you steward o' half the Carse, the more fool me, and here's you roosting in your tower moping over papers…'
'Last night's storm was notably strong, my lord… '
'What of it, man? Must trees lie where they fall because o' a skelp o' wind? And my beasts stray, because you canna keep your nose out of books and parchments?'
'I have men clearing the trees and mending the dykes,' David declared, his voice flat, nor noticeably apologetic. 'I set them to the home parks first, believing that you would have it so.' His glance flickered over the ranks of armed retainers. 'If your lordship would travel with a wheen less of escort, more men there would be for clearing your trees!'
'Insolent, on my soul! You to speak me thus! You – a chance by-blow!'
'Exactly, sir. But yours And with my uses – where secrets are to be kept!'
Father and son eyed each other directly, choleric yet shrewd pig-like eyes in that sagging, dissipated face, meeting level grey ones. This was an old battle, almost a formality indeed, something of a game to be played out.
'The godly business of the Kirk prospered at Perth, I hope, my lord?' the younger man went on, as evenly. 'Knowing its import, we scarce expected to see you home for a day or two yet. Or, should I say, a night or two?'
The other frowned, black as thunder, but before he could speak, a trill of laughter came from the small tower doorway where Mary stood watching.
'Was the Lady Murray unkind, Granlord… or just unwell?' she called, dark eyes dancing. 'Or perchance did her husband come home oversoon from the Court?'
'God be good – Mary, you… you ill-tongued hussy! You shameless baggage!' my lord spluttered, but with the frown vanished from his heavy brows like snow before the sun. He went limping forward, all jingling spurs and clanking steel, arms wide, ridiculous. Into them the girl came, not running, indeed with a sort of diffident hesitancy of pace, so at variance with her dimpling, smiling assurance as to be laughable, and was enfolded, swept up off her feet, and chuckled and crooned over. 'Och, lassie, lassie!'
She gurgled someth
ing into his neck above the steel gorget.
'Lord – it's good to have a grip o' you! You're the bonniest sight these eyes have seen in a score years!' he told her, nuzzling his gross empurpled features in her hair.
Her laughter pealed out. 'Bonnier than the Lady Murray? Bonnier than the Provost's wife at Dundee? Or Mistress Moncur? I have not her great paps, Granlord!' And she kissed him full on the lips.
'Och, wheesht you, wheesht you, wench! The randy wicked tongue o' you!' her grandfather gasped. 'Damme, you're a handful! Aye, God – an armful is nearer it, eh? An armful getting, I swear!' And he squeezed her comprehensively.
She bit his ear, quite sharply, so that he yelped.
David Gray looked at his father and his daughter from under puckered, downdrawn brows. Always this was the way of it – always it had been. The child, conceived in shame, born in disgrace, fathered on himself, could do what she would with this bellowing bull of a man, one of the proudest, most arrogant and powerful lords of all the arrogant strutting nobles of poor Scotland, where none other could do anything. She alone, of all within his wide orbit, not only seemed to have no fear of him, no revulsion, but actually seemed to love him, taking outrageous liberties with him, as he with her. Sometimes he feared for her in this also – for David Gray cherished no illusions as to his potent sire's character and appetites, pillar of God's Reformed Kirk as he was. The great stot, drooling over her, pawing her… aye, and letting her call him Granlord, that silly childhood name she had given him. Why did she never act so with himself, Davy Gray – who would give his right hand for her, his life indeed, any day? Who had cherished her and brought her up, and loved her as that sodden, whoring wind-bag of a lord could never conceive? Himself, her father -at least, in all but blood – she seldom hugged and laughed with and rained kisses upon.
Abruptly, the stern, sober, soft-hearted Davy Gray swung on the watching leering ranks of my lord's unmannerly and uncouth men-at-arms, and waved a peremptory hand at them.
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