'Marie,' David said carefully. 'We have heard the advantages of this project. But I think that there are disadvantages, are there not?'
She looked at him for a moment steadily, before she answered, level-voiced. 'Catherine of Bourbon is ugly, crooked and no longer young,' she said. 'Moreover, few I think, would name her chaste.'
'Oh, no!' That was a young voice, in involuntary urgent protest, as Mary Gray broke the hush. 'Not that!'
The Mistress of Gray looked down at the goblet of wine in her hand, and said nothing.
David considered her thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
My lord produced something between snort and chuckle. 'Hours!' he said. 'No insuperable barrier to a royal match, yon! Forby, she'd no' be getting aught so different herself -save maybe in years! Jamie's no' that much o' a catch!'
'He is the King of Scots, Granlord,' the girl demurred in quiet reproach.
'Aye, God help him!'
'You will not acquaint His Grace of this? Of the Princess's… quality?' David asked, in a moment or two.
The Lady Marie's answer was to put her hand into a brocaded satchel-purse that hung from the girdle of her travelling-gown. From it she produced a miniature portrait, painted on ivory, within a delicately gemmed frame. She handed it to
David. It showed a young woman, oval-faced and pale, richly dressed and bejewelled, almost dwarfed within a high upstanding ruffed and pearled collar.
'She looks none so ill,' he said, passing it to his father.
Faindy Marie smiled. 'A Court painter may flatter,' she observed. 'And that was painted ten years ago, at the least.'
My lord was admiring the diamonds round the frame. 'Potent persuasion this!' he mentioned. 'And the dowry? What of that?'
She shook her head. 'Of that I have no knowledge. It would be necessary for Patrick himself to come to Scotland to discuss it.'
'Oh, aye. rph'mmm. No doubt. So he baits his trap, the miscreant!' Lord Gray took a heavy limping pace or two about his chamber. 'Cunning, artful, I grant you. If this match should take place…! France! It would be a great matter for the realm. For Scotland. For us all. Aye – and for Patrick Gray!' He turned on Marie. 'How comes it that he is so close with Henry of Navarre?'
'Patrick has a nose for… for keys! Keys that will open doors. And a powerful colleague in Elizabeth Tudor. The Protestant lioness and the Protestant lion!'
'Elizabeth!' David exclaimed. 'The Queen? You mean… you mean that he deals with Elizabeth still? After all that has happened? Elizabeth, who betrayed him?'
'He writes to her, or to Burleigh, or to Walsingham, each week.'
'But… but this is scarce to be believed! He hates Elizabeth. She played with him, led him on, and then worked his downfall. With Maitland and James. Elizabeth, that monument of perfidy – his chiefest enemy!'
The young woman shook her head. 'That is not how Patrick views it, Davy. For him, it is all the game of statecraft. He does not cherish friends or enemies. He does not measure injuries done to him… nor that he does to others. He uses the cards that come to his hands – uses, you understand?' She sighed a long quivering sigh. 'Would it were not so! God – would he were as other men! But he is not. He is… Patrick Gray. And I am his wife. I married him knowing him. Elizabeth betrayed him, yes – but had he not betrayed her beforehand? They are of one kidney. But she is Queen of England, and therefore an important card in his game indeed, to be played if he can..
'But the Armada of Spain! That was to destroy her? That he built his hopes on…?'
'Did he, do you think? Another card in the same game, Davy.'
'A card that went sore agley, 'fore God!' my lord snorted. 'I'm hoping this new card o' his, this Navarre match, isna like to go the same way, eh?'
Marie looked at him coolly, directly. 'You hope…? You approve of the venture then, my lord? Of the attempt that I am here for?'
'Me? I didna say that, did I, woman? Me approve? Na, na -I said no such thing,' the older man blustered. 'An unlikely day it'll be when I approve o' any plot o' Patrick's! But… if Elizabeth o' England is behind this match, it's no' to be taken lightly. And Navarre is heir to France, right enough. The French king is young. But if he is ailing…' He coughed. 'And I am a good Protestant, forby!'
Marie smiled slighdy.
'Aye, then.' My lord seemed to make up his mind. 'I'll see that you get to my lord of Orkney your father's house in Edinburgh. I'll no' take you, mind – for thanks to Patrick my credit's no' high at Court. But I'll see that you win there. Davy here will take you, belike. Till then, you can bide here.'
She inclined her golden head. 'Thank you, my lord. This is generous indeed. More generous by far than I looked for. Or Patrick either!' She met his shrewd little pig's eye. 'But I shall not burden you with my awkward presence for long, I assure you – for die sooner that I can reach the Court, the better. For this… this estimable royal project.'
'Aye. So be it'
She turned to David, and found him eyeing her strangely, intendy, almost sorrowfully, with little of gladness or elation in evidence over this happy change in her immediate fortunes. At his look she bit her lip, and mute appeal shot with some sort of pain clouded her clear grey eyes. She said nothing – nor did he.
It was Mary who spoke. 'May I see the picture, Granlord? she asked, and slipped over to take the miniature portrait from her grandfather. She looked at it closely, and then from it to the Lady Marie.
'No!' she declared briefly, softly, but with a strange finality.
'I am sorry,' Marie Stewart said – and sounded as though she meant it.
Chapter Four
THE new heir to Gray was born in the icy mid-January of 1589 – not at Castle Huntly but in the somewhat raffish and ramshackle establishment of the Lord Robert Stewart, Earl and Bishop of Orkney, in the old eastern wing of the Palace of Holyroodhouse which King James allowed his carefree but never debt-free, permanently impecunious, illegitimate uncle. No festivities were held, no bonfires lit on the hill-tops flanking the wide Gray lands in the Carse of Gowrie, as was normal on such auspicious occasions. The Lord Gray had reverted to his former attitude towards his daughter-in-law, and would have none of her.
Undoubtedly my lord was disappointed. The worthy, hopeful and ingenious scheme for the Navarre match had come to nothing. Admittedly it was still being mooted in certain quarters and Queen Elizabeth had declared herself in favour. But James himself had become quite definitely opposed. Which was very strange, for at first it had been quite otherwise. When the Mistress of Gray had arrived at Holyroodhouse in October, it had not taken long for the entire Court to buzz with the exciting news that King Jamie was veering away from the proposed Danish match and was much intrigued with this new notion of marrying the sister of the man who was heir presumptive to France and might very well shortly be king thereof. James indeed began drawing elaborate heraldic doodlings and designs incorporating the Lilies of France into the Royal Arms of Scotland, and calculating the shining possibilities of himself, or at worst his heir, succeeding eventually to the throne of France as well as that of England – since Henry of
Navarre, although married for seventeen years, had no legitimate children. James was even said to have made up a lengthy and romantic poem to dispatch to the lady.
Then, all of a sudden and without warning, all was changed. James lost interest. Word spread through the Court that the King had discovered that Princess Catherine was in fact old, ugly, crooked and of doubtful morals. Whence and how this intelligence had reached him was not known, although it was noted that the Duke of Lennox, who, being half-French himself, had at first been strongly in favour of the match, quite abruptly became as strongly against it, James following suit. Indeed so offended was the King that he went further, and promptly reverted to negotiations with Denmark once more -where, as it happened, King Frederick, having given up Scotland, had pledged his elder daughter the Princess Royal to the Duke of Brunswick in the interim; however, he still had his younger daughter, th
e fourteen-year-old Princess Anne available. She was prettier than her sister, too, he pointed out – though naturally the dowry would be smaller in consequence.
So Lord Gray's hopes of credit and profit through being intimately connected with a resounding Franco-Scottish union faded almost entirely.
The Master of Gray perforce remained an exile. But it was a very near thing. Letters of recall from the King and the Chancellor were in fact bringing him home to Scotland, when suddenly they were countermanded without explanation. Had bad weather not kept his ship storm-bound at Dieppe, he might indeed have beaten the ban. As it was, he did not allow receipt of the royal edict, which reached him actually on shipboard, wholly to demolish his plans, for by February information reached Scotland that the Master was in London, and apparently cutting high capers at the Court of Saint James.
The ageing Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer of England, wrote a letter to Sir John Maitland, Lord High Chancellor of Scotland, to the effect that that realm would much benefit by the speedy return of the talented Master of Gray, and suggesting that the said excellent Chancellor should advise his royal prince to that effect.
The royal prince maintained, as so frequently was his habit, a masterly inactivity.
There was further correspondence – a deal of it now, a flood. Sir Frances Walsingham, Principal Secretary of State to Elizabeth, and the most sinister figure in Europe, wrote to Mr. William Ashby, English Resident at the Scots Court, desiring him to urge King James to countenance and receive back to favour the notable Master of Gray, whose love for His Majesty was as well known as his services were assuredly valuable. Archibald Douglas, lifelong enemy of Patrick's, and Scots Resident at the Court of Saint James, informed Chancellor Maitland by letter that he truly believed the Master to be far changed in his fashions and moreover filled with goodwill towards the said Chancellor to whom he might be of considerable use if he was permitted to return home. Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor of England, wrote to the Vice-Chancellor of Scotland, Sir Robert Melville – he refused to have anything to do with Maitland – indicating that Patrick, Master of Gray had an excellent head for figures and that he had put certain financial proposals before himself which, if he was allowed to bring them to fruition might well greatly advantage King James and his realm. Lord Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England, wrote to the Earl of Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland thanking him for his belated congratulations on the defeat of the Armada, and in a postscript recommending to him the useful Master of Gray with whom he was sure he would have much in common.
Chancellor Maitland's prim lawyer's mouth was almost permanently down-turned these spring days of 1589, and his royal master nibbled urgenty at his ragged nails, wagged his great head, and sought the patience of the Almighty God whose earthly vassal and vice-regent he was. Doing nothing can tax even the most expert, at times.
At the end of April, Queen Elizabeth herself had occasion to set her royal hand to paper. Walsingham's minions had been successful in intercepting letters from the Earls of Huntly and Erroll and other Catholic lords to the King of Spain and the Duke of Parma, lamenting on the defeat of the Armada and promising to share in another attempt against England, provided 6,000 Spanish troops were landed in
Scotland. Elizabeth's reaction was vigorous, clear and by no means restricted to diplomatic terminology. Was ever a realm plagued by such neighbours, she demanded? Was this to be borne? Good Lord, she wrote, her quill spluttering ink, methinks I do dream! No king a week could bear this! Was James a king indeed? Her last paragraph, however, ended on an abruptly different note. Obviously her well-beloved but youthful cousin of Scotland could do with more sage counsel and seasoned advice about his government and realm, and to such end she could not do better than recommend the return of Patrick, Master of Gray, of whose good intentions, probity, and agility of mind she was now heartily assured. With this admonition she committed James to God's especial care and guidance.
That young man, sorely tried, took himself away for a prolonged bout of hunting in Ettrick Forest.
Lastly the Master of Gray himself wrote to his monarch, privily, and enclosed the letter in one to his wife. Significantly, it was addressed from no farther away than Berwick-upon-Tweed. After assurances of his undying devotion and loyal service, he mentioned that while in London, having had some conference with Queen Elizabeth and sundry of her ministers, he had been deeply shocked to learn that His Grace's pension from that princess, negotiated by himself a year or two before, was much in arrears and moreover sadly inadequate to the situation. He had certain proposals for tie rectifying of this deplorable state of affairs, consonant with the dignity of all concerned, and believed that he had convinced Her Highness and her Lord Treasurer in the matter. It but remained to lay his proposals before His Grace. Moreover, in a purely personal matter he craved the royal indulgence. His son and firstborn, whom as yet he had not had the felicity to behold, was now four months old and notably in need of christening. It was suitable that the boy should be received into Christ's true and Reformed Kirk of Scotland, for the eternal salvation of his soul, a ceremony at which he, the unworthy father, had perhaps understandable ambitions to attend. If His Grace would exercise his royal clemency so far as to permit the devoted petitioner to be present at such a humble ceremony, this would surely provide a suitable occasion to discuss the aforementioned financial matter, and also the additional suggestion that he had made to the Queen of England that Her Highness might decently invest her heir and successor with an English dukedom as token and earnest of responsibilities to come. Etcetera.
No mention was made of the Princess Catherine of Bourbon.
James, by the grace of God, King of Scots, Duke of Rothesay, Lord of the Isles, and Defender of Christ's Reformed Kirk, saw the light belatedly – in the warm glowing reflection of English gold pieces as well as in the saving of an innocent young Catholic brand from the burning. He capitulated, inditing a note in his own intricate hand, permitting his right worthy and truest friend and councillor Patrick, Master of Gray to re-enter his realm of Scotland forthwith. He personally appended the royal seal – omitting to inform the Lord Chancellor – and despatched it by close messenger to Berwick-upon-Tweed.
It was exactly two years, almost to the day, since the royal sentence of beheading for high treason had been reluctantly commuted to banishment for life.
The great banqueting-hall at Holyroodhouse presented a scene of which Mary Gray, at least, had never seen the like. In the hall at Castle Huntly she had witnessed many an exciting and colourful occasion, but never on such a scale and with the atmosphere of this one. It seemed to her, from her point of vantage in one of the raised window-embrasures which she shared with her father and mother and a life-size piece of statuary, that there must be hundreds of people present – not one hundred or two, but many. Every hue of the rainbow shone and revolved and eddied before her, jewellery flashed and glittered in the blaze of a thousand candles. The noise was deafening, everybody having to shout to make themselves heard, so that the music of the royal fiddlers and lutists in the ante-room was almost completely drowned. The smells caught the throat – of perfumes and perspiration, the fumes of liquor and the smoke of candles. The cream of Scotland was here tonight – the Protestant cream, that is – by royal command and in its most splendid apparel. Chancellor Maitland, in sombre black, who must pay for it all out of a chronically impoverished Treasury, frowned sourly on one and all from beside the high double-doors at the top end of the vast chamber. Few heeded him, however, for his frown was part of the man.
The small Gray party was very quiet and dully-clad compared with the rest of the gay and confident throng, in their best clothes as they were although none would call dull the flushed and ripe comeliness of Mariota Davidson, a mother for the fourth time, all tremulous wide-eyed unease; and Mary's lip-parted, utterly unselfconscious excitement, wedded to her quite startling elfin attractiveness, drew innumerable glances, admiring, intrigued, speculative
and frankly lecherous. As for David, his frown almost matched that of the Chancellor as he partly hid himself behind the statue that had been one of Mary the Queen's importations from her beloved France – for too many of the faces that he saw here tonight he knew, and had no wish to be recognised in turn. All this had been his life once, all unwillingly – and he had hoped, indeed sworn, never to tread the shifting-sands of it again. They were in Edinburgh, at the Lady Marie's earnest request, for the christening on the morrow; and here tonight only to please the urgent Mary, who had engineered a royal summons for them through Ludovick, Duke of Lennox.
Abruptly the din of voices was shattered as, from the top of the hall, a couple of trumpeters in the royal livery blew a fanfare, high-pitched, resounding, challenging. Chancellor Maitland stepped aside, and footmen threw open the great double doors. From beyond strode in the Lord Lyon King of Arms, baton in hand, with two of his heralds, brilliantly bedecked in their red-and-gold tabards and plumed bonnets. This, it appeared, was to be a state occasion.
Behind paced, preternaturally solemn and looking extraordinarily youthful, the Duke of Lennox, newly appointed Lord High Chamberlain, a position once borne by his father, not quite sure whether to wield, carry or trail his staff of office. Dressed in plum-coloured velvet, padded and slashed, he took very long strides and appeared to be counting them out to himself. At evidently a given number of paces, he halted, turned, cleared his throat in some embarrassment, and then thumped his staff loudly on the floor.
Mary Gray gurgled her amusement.
In the succeeding hush they all heard the King sniffing, before they saw him. He appeared beyond the open doorway presently, shambling in a hurried knock-kneed gait, almost a trot, peering downwards and sideways as he came, fumbling at the stiffening of his exaggeratedly padded trunks. He was overdressed almost grotesquely, in royal purple doublet barred with orange, stuffed and distended about the chest and shoulders inordinately, pearl-buttoned and hung with chains and orders. His lolling head seemed to be supported, like a joint on a platter, by an enormous ruff, soiled already with dribbled spittle, whilst round and about all this he wore a short but necessarily wide cloak, embroidered with the royal monogram and insignia, edged with fur, and boasting a high upstanding collar encrusted with silver filigree. To top all, a fantastically high-crowned hat, fully a score of inches in height, ringed with golden chain-work and festooned with ostrich feathers, sat above his wispy hair. The effect of it all, above the thin and knobbly legs, was ludicrously like an over-blown and distinctly unsteady spider. It could now be seen that the reason for the regal preoccupation was the extraction of a handkerchief from a trunks pocket, less than clean.
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