The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  'At least he would have me warn Your Majesty.'

  'Aye – but why, man? Why?' Shrewdly the King peered. 'He doesna love me, does Patrick Gray! He loves nane but himsel', I swear. If he's that close with Philip? And he's a Papist, as all men ken. And banished my realm for his treason. Eh? Why warn me?'

  David hesitated, moistening his lips. 'I do not search his reasons, Sire – only the facts. That this invasion endangers Scotland as well as England.'

  Mary Gray spoke. 'Is that not your answer, Your Grace? That he can still love Scotland?' she asked simply.

  'Eh…?' James frowned, wriggling in his saddle. 'I am Scotland,' he said. No one spoke.

  Into the pause the beat of hooves sounded, as the escort of men-at-arms belatedly came pounding back along the track, to discover what had happened to their royal charge. James waved them away again, peremptorily. At the other side, the clustered seething company of his lords and ladies and courtiers kept up an unceasing hum of talk and conjecture as they gazed inquisitively, suspiciously, resentfully, at the little group beside the monarch. The Earl of Mar in especial looked and sounded angry, not minding who perceived it apparently. Undoubtedly he had not forgotten Davy Gray and his part in the rescue of Ruthven.

  James grimaced at the colourful noisy throng and turned his puffed and padded shoulder on them. 'Forby,' he said, returning, with one of his lightning changes, to his former querulous, weasel-like probing. 'Why did he no' write these tidings to me, mysel', man? Tell me that. He's aye writing me letters, is Maister Patrick.'

  David stared, at a loss. 'He is…? Patrick? He writes to you? To the King? Still, Sire…?' Incredulity was evident in every word of him.

  'Aye, he does.'

  'But what…?' He bit his lip, pausing. A subject could scarcely demand of his King what even his half-brother might write to the monarch – though the brother had been condemned to death by the same monarch less than a year before, and only had his sentence reduced to banishment for life by a hair's-breadth, through certain unseemly pressure on the part of the present questioner. David wagged his head helplessly. 'Patrick… is a law unto himself, Your Highness,' he said.

  'Aye. The last letter was from Rome. Wi' a message from the Pope himsel'. Ooh, aye – your Patrick rides a high horse, for a felon! Vaunty as ever! He sends me advices, whispers, intelligences, from a' the Courts o' Europe. Aye – and in return would have Dunfermline back! Guidsakes – he has the insolence, the shameless audacity, to demand the revenues o' Dunfermline Abbey be returned to him! For his decent upkeep and reasonable dignity, as he names it! God in Heaven – was there ever sic a man?'

  Involuntarily, David Gray exchanged glances with his daughter – though whether she recognised the enormity, as well as the vital significance of this revelation, he could not know. The Commendatorship of the Abbey of Dunfermline, once the richest church lands in all Scotland, the prize plum for all the hungry Scots lords after the Reformation, had eventually and most skilfully been acquired by Patrick, Master of Gray at the downfall of Arran the Chancellor. At his own downfall, in turn, they had been the main price that had had to be paid for the necessary intervention of the powerful Earl of Huntly on his behalf, David acting as go-between. Huntly was now Commendator of Dunfermline, and held its rich revenues. That Patrick should be working to get them back, though a forfeited exile, and so soon, not only indicated an extraordinary impertinence and double-dealing, but showed that he was seeking to conduct a campaign against Huntly, his own relative, with the King. Yet, this letter that had brought them here to the Wood of Lindores, had as its ostensible purpose the saving of Scotland by means of Huntly and his Catholic colleagues. Or at least the implication of Huntly in a Catholic rising, to control the King, dominate the land, and engineer a strategic alliance with the Catholic King of Spain. Could it be… could it be, after all, only a conspiracy? A deep-laid and subtle device to discredit and bring down Huntly, and so win back the riches of Dunfermline? Good God, it was possible – so possible, with Patrick! David Gray, frowning blacker than he knew, sought an answer, racking his wits. He needed time – time to think this thing out, to winnow down through the dust and chaff to the secret inner core of his brother's intention. Heaven save him – he had to think…!

  His daughter gave him a moment or two, at least. 'If Uncle Patrick wrote to you from Rome, Sire,' she said, 'then that would be before he went to Spain. Before he saw the Spanish ships. Therefore he could not tell you of it.'

  'Houts, lassie – why write to you to warn me, then? Why no' send the letter to me, the King? There's an ill stink in this somewhere, I swear. I smell it…'

  The girl looked from her father to Lennox, and received no help from either. 'Would your Grace have believed it?' she asked.

  'A pox! If I believe not him, why should I believe you, with his tale, woman?'

  'Because the Master of Gray knows that you will esteem my father honest. Whatever he said to you yon time. All men know David Gray as honest, do they not?'

  So artlessly, apparently innocently, entirely naturally and yet authoritatively did she come out with that, that she left her hearers, somehow, with no option but to accept it. They stared at her – her father longest.

  'So it is true,' she added, with a sort of finality. 'And there is little time. But three months.'

  'Aye – three months. This three months…?' Majesty nibbled his fingernail. 'Little time – if it is true. What can I do eh? What can I do in three months?'

  David found his voice. Whatever his brother's real intentions, they must go through with this now. The substitution of a Protestant instead of a Catholic muster at arms would prevent any involvement of Huntly anyway – and so wreck Patrick's plot, if that indeed was his aim. 'The Master of Gray, Sire, has his suggestions to make,' he said. 'For Your Grace. Have I your permission to put them?'

  'Suggestions, eh? From him? Aye, man – out wi' them. Waesucks – what does the rogue suggest?'

  David cleared his throat. 'The project is simple – and, I think, the wise course in the circumstances, Sire. Possibly the only course that could save your realm in the event of a successful invasion of England. It is that you call upon the lords to muster their forces, the Protestant lords of course. Within the month. The Spanish ambassador will quickly acquaint his master of the fact. Then you send a message or an envoy to King Philip, suggesting a secret treaty of alliance against England. On the condition that Scotland is left free and unassailed. Offer a Scottish expedition over the Border at the same time as his Armada sails, to weaken Elizabeth's arms. And, if Philip should reject this – then the word that Your Grace would be forced to inform Elizabeth of all. And to send your assembled forces to join her own… in the defence of the Protestant religion!'

  'Good God in Heaven!' Lennox exclaimed.

  King James seemed considerably less startled. 'A-a-aye!' he breathed out. 'So that's it! Guidsakes – it sounds like Patrick Gray, to be sure! Aye, i'ph'mmm. Here's… here's notable food for thought. 'Deed, aye.' Keenly he peered at David. 'But the Master's a Papist, we a' ken. Here's unlikely Popery, is it no'?'

  The other looked away, in his turn. 'My brother, I think, has never taken matters of religion with… with quite the seriousness that they deserve,' he said.

  James actually giggled. 'Aye.' He nodded the large top-heavy head. 'I can believe that.' He glanced over towards the restive throng of his followers in the hunt, growing the more impatient as the rain grew heavier. 'We'll have to think on this. Think closely. It's no' that simple, mind. The lords… they'll likely no' be that eager to muster their strength. It's costly, you ken – costly. No' without I tell them what's toward wi' Spain. And then yon woman… then my good sister Elizabeth would hear o' it in a day or two. She's right well served wi' her spies, is Elizabeth.' The great unsteady, luminous eyes narrowed. 'A pox – I canna ken which o' a' these pretty lords there will be writing to her frae my ain house o' Falkland this night!' And he gestured towards the overdressed company. 'Or how many! For she pays t
hem better than she pays me, the auld…' He swallowed, adam's-apple bobbing. 'How am I to get the lords to muster, without I tell them this o' Spain – and have Elizabeth champing at my door?' The King of Scots suffered under the major handicap of having no sort of standing army of his own, other than the royal guards, so that he must depend for any real military force upon the feudal levies of his haughty lords.

  It was Mary Gray who answered him promptly, simply. 'Tell them that you fear a Catholic rising, your Grace. In favour of the King of Spain's plans.'

  Her father caught his breath. Here was thin ice for even light feet.

  'Aye. Uh-huh. Well, now… ' James paused. 'But… would they believe it?' 'They would, would they not, if the Catholic lords did indeed likewise muster? If your Grace was to write to my lord of Huntly and the other, privily, that they muster quietly. In case… in case perhaps of a Protestant rising to aid Protestant England against Spain.'

  All three of her hearers made strange noises. The Duke of Lennox's plain and homely face was a study as he stared at the girl. King James's high-pitched laughter burst out in a whinny. David Gray chokingly protested.

  'Mary – be quiet, child!' he exclaimed. 'What fool's chatter is this? Have you taken leave of your wits…?'

  'Na, na, Davy!' the King chuckled. 'Leave her be. It's nane so foolish, on my oath! Sakes, it's easy seen whose daughter this is! I can see profit in this – aye, I can.'

  'And dangers too, Your Grace. Dangers of civil war. With your realm an armed camp. Both sides facing each other, sword in hand.'

  'Och man, if it came to that, some small blood-letting, a few lords the less, might no' be just a disaster for my realm, you ken!' The monarch licked his hps. 'But – och, that needna be. I could keep them apart. Huntly and the Catholics are mainly in the north. I could have the Protestants assemble in the south – along the Border.' James smote his wet knee: 'Aye – along the Border! And how would our good cousin and sister o' England look on that? Wi' Spain threatening? Guid lack – I might even win Berwick back! And never a shot fired!'

  'Your Grace will do as you think best. But I would advise that you muster only the Protestant lords,' David said heavily. 'Lest you light a bonfire that you canna douse!'

  'Aye, well. I'ph'mmm. We'll see…'

  'Cousin, the lords would rise – the Protestant lords – fast enough, I vow, if it was to make a sally to avenge the Queen your mother's execution. Over the Border.' Young Lennox made his first contribution. 'Have I not been asking for such a thing this six-month past? Ma foi – I myself will raise and arm five score brave lads for such a venture! Marry that to this matter of the Spaniards, and do you not shoot two fowl with one arrow?'

  'M'mmm. Well, now…'

  'Why, yes,' Mary nodded. 'Then, with your army on the

  Border, Sire, are you not well placed? No need, surely, to draw sword at all – to shed blood. If the King of Spain will treat with you, all is well and Scotland is safe. And you will have Berwick again, no doubt. He will know that you are assembled ready, and could march south to Queen Elizabeth's aid. So he will indeed treat, I think.' She paused for a moment. 'And so, I think, will Queen Elizabeth.'

  'God's Body – you are right, girl! So she would, I swear.'

  'Yes. But… ' Mary looked, with touching diffidence, at her father, and smiled, at her most winsomely appealing. 'I am only a lassie, I know, and understand little of affairs of state. But… would it not be wise to have my lord of Huntly and some of his Catholic forces with you, Sire – lest while you are away over the Border, maybe, with the Protestants, the Catholic lords should indeed arise and seize Scotland?'

  The three men took some seconds to assimilate that. James found words first – or rather, he found a guffaw which rose and cracked into a less manly tee-heeing.

  'Save my soul – here's a right Daniel! A bit female Daniel! Lassie – I should have you at my Court. I should so…!'

  'No, Sire – you should not!' Harshly, almost in a bark, that came from David Gray. 'My daughter's place is in my house – not in any Court. I have seen enough of Courts! She is young – a mere child. However forward, malapert! She is but fifteen years…'

  'Och, she's no' that young, man. At fifteen was I no' ruling Scotland? And without a Regent. And… and you could come wi' her, Davy. I'd owerlook yon time. I'd… we would exercise our royal clemency, maybe, and admit you back to our Court and presence. Aye…'

  *No, Sire. I thank you – but no. I am a simple man. I do very well as a schoolmaster and my lord's steward. I know my place. And Mary's. Her place is in my house, with her mother.'

  'But Master Gray,' Lennox exclaimed. 'Here is a notable opportunity…' 'For whom, sir?'

  'For her. For Mary, Mon Dieu…' Mary Gray silenced the Duke with a touch of her finger on his wrist. She looked at the King, however. 'Your Grace is indeed kind. But my father is right, I am sure…'

  'Of course I am right, girl! God grant me patience! Your Grace – have I your permission to withdraw? We have done what we came to do – acquainted you with my brother's tidings and advice. The matter is no further concern of ours.'

  'Aye, Master Davy – you may go. I… we are grateful. Grateful, aye. For your tidings. We shall consider it well. Closely. And take due action.'

  'The Chancellor… ' Mary whispered to her father, but loud enough for the other to hear.

  'Eh…? Ah, yes – the Chancellor.' David frowned. 'Sire -my brother also has it that it would be best, safest, if Your Highness dealt with this matter yourself, without informing Sir John Maitland, the Lord Chancellor. Especially the letter to King Philip. I take it that he believes that the Chancellor would not approve.'

  'Aye. Belike he wouldna, Sir John! The more so if he kenned that Patrick Gray was at the back o' it! They never loved each other yon two, eh? We'll see, man – we'll see. I canna promise you anything, mind. It's a matter o' state…'

  'Exactly, Sire. For myself, I care not which way it goes. It is no more concern of mine. Nor of Mary's. Our part is done.'

  'Just so, just so. Aye. Off wi' you, then. Time, it is. Johnnie Mar is glowering there black as a Hieland stot! Hech, Vicky -you'll hae to think o' some matter to tell him we've been discussing on. Some matter to do wi' Lord Gray, belike. Aye, maybe anent his Sheriffdom o' Forfar. That will serve… ' The King held out his not over-clean hand. 'Our thanks to you, then, Master Davy. And to you too, lassie. We are indebted to you, and… and shall weigh it generously against your former misdeeds. Aye. You may leave our presence.'

  Stiffly indeed David leant over to offer but a token kiss of the royal fingers. Mary was more suitably dutiful, even warm. As she straightened up in her saddle, she said quietly. 'I greatly thank Your Grace for asking me to your Court. It is true that I am too young, as my father says. But… would you not be better served to have back my Uncle Patrick to your Court? Much better. He is a clever man…'

  'A plague on him – too clever by half! Tush, lassie -enough o' that! Yon one will serve me better in France or Rome or Spain itsel', than here in my Scotland. Be off wi' you.'

  'Come, Mary.'

  'I shall accompany you some way on your road, Mary?' Lennox suggested.

  'Not so, my Lord Duke,' David jerked. 'Your place is with the King – not with my lord of Gray's steward and his brat! Besides, I am very well able to look after my daughter, I assure you – very well able!' Reaching out, he took the reins of Mary's garron, and pulled his own beast's head round hard. 'Your servant, Sir… and my lord Duke!'

  'Farewell, Vicky!' Mary called, as they trotted off.

  Her father clapped his blue bonnet back on his wet head.

  Past all the staring supercilious courtiers they rode, northwards, the man gazing straight ahead of him, the girl eyeing the chattering fashionable throng with frankest interest, unabashed.

  It was not until they were well past and on their way, alone, towards Lindores village and the Tay, that David spoke. 'I do not know what to make of you, Mary – on my soul, I do not!' he said.


  'Must you make aught more of me than you have made already, Father?' she asked fondly. 'Some would say, I think, that you have wrought not ill with me hitherto – you, and Mother… and Uncle Patrick!'

  David Gray uttered something between a groan and a snort. 'God help me… I'

  Chapter Three

  THE Lord Gray came home to Castle Huntly in a gale of wind and the worst of tempers. For three weeks, three solid weeks, he had been away kicking his heels down in the Borderland, along with many another Scots lord, whilst his wretched men ate and drank themselves silly in armed but pointless idleness, by royal command but at his expense – men who should have been hard at work rescuing the hay crop from the sodden far-flung grasslands of the Carse of Gowrie, hay for the vast herds of cattle that were the very basis of ray lords prosperity. It was mid-July. The wettest and wildest spring and early summer in living memory. There would be the devil to pay for it next winter, in lack of forage and starving beasts, with the hay lying flattened and uncut, or rotten and mildewed -and the corn harvest like to be as bad. Seventy-five men of his, seventy-five able-bodied men, wasting their time and his substance amongst those damnable mist-shrouded bog-bound Border hills, on the commands of a crazy young half-wit King, who feared Catholic risings, Spanish invasions, and God alone knew what else!

  Lord Gray had come home with fully half his force, king or no king. And those that he had left behind in Teviotdale were the most useless of his band, moreover – as was the case with many of the other feudal contingents, the majority of the lords being in a like state of impatience and fulmination, almost revolt. James, the young fool, had forbidden any worthwhile activity, even cattle-raiding, any forays across the Border -although that is what they understood that they had been there for – and nibbled his finger-nails instead, afraid of the English Lord Dacre's Northumbrian levies hurriedly raised to face them, afraid of the Governor of Berwick's garrison, afraid of the Catholics in the west under the Lords Maxwell and Herries who were supposed to be threatening the English West March, afraid of what the madcap Earl of Bothwell might do in these circumstances – afraid indeed of his own shadow. Waiting for his envoy back from Spain, it was said, delayed by storms; waiting for the supposed Spanish invasion of England; waiting for the gold that Queen Elizabeth had hastily promised him for keeping her northern march secure and denying his ports to Spanish ships; waiting, Christ God, for anybody and everybody to make up his royal mind for him!