The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  'Gold!' James cried. 'Gold, you said. You have it with you, man? You brought me gold?'

  'Only a token payment, Sire. Not the entire pension. I convinced the lady, I believe, that three thousand gold pieces would be a more suitable and worthy pension for her heir than two. It is but the extra thousand that I brought with me, I fear.'

  The King gulped and swallowed convulsively – but even so the saliva flowed copiously down his doublet. 'A thousand gold pieces! Extra! God's splendour – the pension is increased, you say? You have a thousand gold pieces for me, Patrick man? Here? Is it the truth?'

  'Outside. In your own palace, Sire. In my Lord of Orkney's lodgings. The rest is promised within the month.'

  James was so moved that he got to his feet and reached out to grip the Master of Gray's white satin arm, his poem falling unnoticed to the floor.

  Sir John Maitland's sallow features were wiped clean of all expression. He actually moved back a little way from the Chair of State. He knew when, for the moment, he was beaten.

  Without seeming to fail in support of the royal grasp, Patrick stooped low to retrieve the fallen papers. To do so he had to use the long staff as prop, so that the ribboned top of the thing was just under the King's nose. James blinked at it.

  'You've… you've done well, Patrick,' he said thickly. 'I…. we shall accept the gold from our sister, gladly. Aye, gladly. It's no before its time, mind. But you've done well. And… and yon's a bonny bit stick, you have. I've never seen the like.'

  'The latest folly at Versailles, Sire. His Grace of France uses one such. You admire it? Then it is yours. Take it.'

  'Eh…? Me?' Flushing with pleasure, the King reached for the staff. 'Thank you, thank you. Man, it's a bonny stick. But…' He giggled. '… I'll no' ken what to do wi' it, Patrick.'

  'I will show you, Sire. Privily. It is very simple. When you can spare the time. There are other matters for your royal ear, also, when you can spare the time. This dukedom… '

  'Ooh, aye – I'll spare the time. I've plenty time.'

  'Perhaps then, Sire, you will graciously spare a little of it tomorrow? To attend the christening of my son?'

  'M'mmm. Oh, well – maybe…'

  'I was hoping, Highness, that you would consent to be godfather to the boy.' That came out a little more hurriedly than was usual in the utterances of the Master of Gray. 'Since he is, in blood, second-cousin to Your Grace. And in order that his reception into the true Kirk and Protestant faith may be… unquestioned. Alas, my own faithful adherence has been so oft and shamefully doubted by my ill-wishers! And you are God's chosen and dedicated Defender of the Faith, are you not?'

  'Aye, I am.' James was very proud of that title.

  'For the saving of the innocent mite's immortal soul… '

  Tph'mmm. Ooh, aye. Well… maybe. Aye maybe, Patrick. We'll see.' The King was twisting and poking the staff this way and that.

  'Your Grace – I am profoundly, everlastingly grateful!' Patrick bowed low, to kiss the royal fingers. And, straightening up, 'You dropped these papers I think, Sire.'

  'Oh, aye. My poem. M'mmm. For the Princess Anne. I wrote a poem. For the Marischal to take wi' him to Denmark. Aye… my Lord Marischal. He's down there yonder waiting yet, the poor man. And the wee envoy frae Denmark. Vicky -my Lord Chamberlain – summon the Marischal again, man.'

  The Duke beat his tattoo on the floor once more, and gestured to the heralds, who in turn moved down to usher in the impatient and injured party at the door. The buzz of excited talk and comment from the company hardly sank at all, now – although some laughter sounded.

  James sat himself in his chair again, but clung to his new staff, which he laid across his knobbly knees. Patrick strolled over to Lennox, smiling warmly, to grasp the youth's padded shoulder.

  'Vicky!' he declared. 'It does my heart good to see you again – I vow it does! And Lord Chamberlain too, i' faith! On my soul, you are a grown man, now!'

  The Duke looked at the other with a frank, almost doting admiration. 'I thank you, sir,' he jerked. 'It is good to see you also.'

  James, close by, did not miss the admiration in his young cousin's tone – and glowered his jealousy. 'Quiet, you!' he commanded. 'The Marischal…'

  Patrick and the Duke of Lennox exchanged conspiratorial grins, and stood side-by-side waiting, as the little procession, that was the object of and reason for the entire assembly, approached. Indeed, the Master of Gray appeared to have become an integral and prominent part of the proceedings and royal committee of reception.

  George Keith, fifth Earl Marischal of Scotland, a tall soldierly figure in early middle age, dressed it would seem rather for the battlefield than the ballroom, came first, looking angry, with at his back his standard-bearer carrying the red, gold and white banner of his house and office. Next strutted a tiny dark bird-like man, the Danish Envoy, richly but sombrely dressed. Behind followed perhaps a dozen lordlings, lairds and pages, bearing a variety of boxes, chests, parcels and bundles.

  Coming near to the Chair of State, the Marischal bowed stiffly, his splendid half-armour creaking and clanking at the joints. The little Dane bobbed something remarkably like a curtsy, fetching titters from the body of the company. The others variously made obeisance.

  At a cough from James, Lennox suddenly recollected his duty. 'Your Grace's embassage for Denmark,' he announced.

  'Aye,' the King said. 'We greet you well, my Lord Marischal. And you, Master… er… Bengtsen. Aye, all o' you.'

  'Sire – we are here by your royal command,' Keith declared, his deep voice quivering with ill-suppressed ire. 'We have been waiting… we were misled! Yon man Gray… he misdirected Master Bengtsen, here. Aye, and sent these others off. Down to your stables, Sire. His wife kept me in talk… '

  'Ooh, aye, my lord – just so,' James acknowledged, head rolling but eyes keen. 'Nae doubt. A… a mischance, aye. A misadventure. But nae harm done…'

  'But, Sire – it was very ill done. 'Fore God, it was! I am not to be made a fool of…'

  'Na, na, my lord – never think it. The Master o' Gray wouldna ken what was toward. New come to the palace. You'd no' intend any offence – eh, Patrick man?'

  'Indeed no, Sire,' that man assured, pain at the thought and kindliest bonhomie struggling for mastery on his beautiful face, in his whole attractive bearing. 'If I have transgressed against my lord in some fashion, I am desolated. I tender profoundest apologies. But… I must confess to be much at a loss to know wherein I have offended?'

  'Damnation – you made a mock of me, did you no'?' the

  Marischal seethed. 'You named Skene, here, a pedlar! You sent Master Bengtsen to the other end o' the house, and these others to the stables! Deliberately, I swear, in order to…'

  James, leaning forward, banged his new stick on the floor reaching it out almost to the speaker's feet, and then made a poking motion with it at the earl's middle. 'Enough, my lord – enough!' he protested, his voice going high in a squeak. 'You forget yoursel'! We'll hae no bickering in our royal presence. Aye.' He rose to his feet. 'Now – to the business. I… we now, my Lord Marischal, solemnly charge you to convey these our gifts and liberality to the Court of our cousin King Frederick o' Denmark, in earnest and in kindly pledge o' our love an affection. Aye – that's towards himsel', you ken. But more especial towards his daughter, the Princess Anne, wi' whom it is our intent and pleasure – pleasure, mind – to ally oursel' in holy and royal matrimony. In token o' which, my lord, you will gie to the said lady this poem and notable lyric which I have wrote wi' my ain hand. Aye.'

  With a curious mixture of urgency and reluctance, James thrust the crushed papers into the earl's hand.

  Blinking, Lennox cleared his throat. 'Sire – are you not to read…?' he wondered.

  'No.' That was a very abrupt negative for James Stewart. His glance flickered over to the Master of Gray, however, and away. Poets were scarce indeed about the Scottish Court – but Patrick Gray was a notable exception.

  The Earl
Marischal, the arranged programme thus further disrupted, eyed the papers doubtfully, glanced around him, and then, for want of better to do, bowed again.

  'Aye, then,' the King said, scratching. Tph'mmm. Just that.' He seemed, of a sudden, desirous of being finished with the entire proceedings. 'Er… God speed, my lord. And to you, Master Envoy. To all o' you. Aye. God speed and a safe journey. You will convey the Princess Anne to me here, wi' all suitable expedition. Expedition, you understand. Tell her… tell her… och, never heed. You hae our permission to retire, my lords.'

  'But… the gifts? The presents, Sire…?' the Marischal wondered.

  'Och, I ken them a'. Fine.' James waved a dismissive hand. 'You may go.'

  Schooling their features to loyal if scarcely humble acceptance, the bridal ambassadors proceeded to back out of the presence – a trying business, with a long way to retire and all the gear and baggage to manoeuvre. James let them go only a bare half-way before he rose and hurried over to the Master of Gray.

  'Man, Patrick,' he said, turning his back on the assemblage at large. 'This o' the dukedom? Think you… think you she means it, this time? Elizabeth?'

  The handsome man smiled. 'I think that Her Grace meant it… when I left her, Sire,' he said gently. 'It is for us to see that she continues to mean it!' He gave just the slightest emphasis to the word us.

  'Aye. She… she seems to think highly o' you, Patrick. Why?' That last came out sharply.

  There was nothing sharp about the reply. 'Your Grace – I have not the least apprehension. Not a notion!'

  'U'mmm.'

  It was some little time before Patrick Gray was able to detach himself from the King and from the many others who came clustering round him – the ladies in especial. It was noticeable, of course, that quite as many others did not cluster around him, or greet him in any way, other than by hostile stares, muttered asides and coldly-turned shoulders – amongst these some of the most powerful figures in the land, such as the earls of Mar, Glencairn, Atholl, Argyll and Angus, the Lords Sinclair, Lindsay, Drummond and Cathcart, the Master of Glamis who was Treasurer again, and numerous black-garbed ministers of Christ's Kirk. One man who dithered betwixt and between, in evident perplexity and doubt, was the splendidly-attired Bishop of St. Boswell's, Andrew Davidson. Towards him, Patrick cast an amused smile, but by no means sought the cleric's company.

  Dancing in progress, the Master of Gray threaded his graceful way through the throng, greeting and being greeted, all amity and cordiality, but not permitting himself to be detained for more than moments at a time. As directly as he might, he made for the raised window alcove wherein he saw his wife standing, with three others.

  As he came close, those in the near vicinity moved aside, as by mutual consent, to allow him space. Scores of eyes watched, intently, curiously.

  The newcomer's eyes were intent also. After a swift, searching initial glance up at all four occupants of that embrasure, he gazed at one and one only – young Mary Gray. For once his brilliant smile faded – which was strange, for the girl was beaming, radiant.

  None in that circle spoke. Never, surely, were a man and a woman so alike – and yet so different.

  'Mary!' the man got out, throatily, almost hoarsely.

  'Uncle Patrick!' the other cried, high, clear and vibrant, and launched herself down off that plinth and into the white satin arms.

  David Gray stared straight ahead of him, grey eyes hooded, lips tight. The Lady Marie reached out a hand to press Mariota's arm.

  They kissed each other, those two, frankly, eagerly, almost hungrily, as though unaware of all the watching eyes. They were in no hurry. There was no pose here, no seeking after effect, no calculation. It could have been this, rather than anything that had gone before, that had brought the Master of Gray across most of Europe, moving heaven, earth and hell itself to make it possible. Long they embraced, elegant, magnetic man and lovely eager girl – as though magnets indeed held them together.

  Then Patrick as with an effort put her from him, at arm's length. But still he could not take his dark eyes off her face. For once he had no words to speak.

  'Oh, it is good!' Mary said, for both of them. 'Good! Good!'

  He nodded, slowly, as in profound agreement. Then, still holding one of her hands, he turned to face the others.

  'I rejoice… to see you,' he said, the so eloquent voice unsteady, uncertain. 'All of you.'

  His half-brother inclined his head.

  'Oh, Patrick – Patrick!' Mariota exclaimed, breathlessly. 'Thank God! It has been long. So long.'

  'Aye, long,' he agreed. 'Too long. You are very beautiful, Mariota my dear. I had almost forgot how beautiful. And how warm. Kind. And Davy… Davy is just Davy!'

  'Aye,' that man said. He stepped down, to hold out his hand. 'Aye, Patrick.'

  Still holding Mary to him, the Master slipped his free hand from his brother's grasp and up around his wide shoulders, there to rest. 'God help us – what a family we are!' he murmured.

  The Lady Marie laughed, though a little tremulously. 'You see, Mariota,' she said. 'Those three will do naught for us. We shall have to climb down from here as best we may – for these men scarce know that we are here!'

  The ladies were assisted to the floor, and more normal greetings exchanged. Mary was agog, however, for information, for explanations, for secrets.

  'Uncle Patrick,' she demanded, just as soon as she had opportunity, dropping her voice conspiratorially. 'How did you do it? You were not expected until tomorrow. How wonderful was your entrance here! How did you affect it? Did you know? Know that it was all arranged for the Danish mission? Did you?'

  He touched her hair lightly. 'What think you, my dear?'

  'I think that you did! I think that you conceived it all – and deliberately upset all the King's plans. So that you should be the one to whom all looked – not the King. And not the Marischal. I was sorry for my Lord Marischal. And the little Danish man. That was scarcely kind of you, Uncle Patrick. But… I think that you are very brave.'

  'M'mmm,' he said. 'You appear to think to some effect, young woman. What else do you think, eh?'

  'I think that King Jamie, though he may seem to have been won, though he smile on you now, will not love you any the better for this night.' She shook her head seriously, dancing roguery gone. 'He planned all, that he might read his poem for the Danish princess. To us all. For he esteems himself to be a notable poet, does he not? But then, you came. You upset all – and he dared not read it. For he knows full well that you are a much better poet than is he. I think that he will not readily forgive you for that, Uncle Patrick.'

  'Say you so?' The Master of Gray fingered his tiny pointed beard. 'It may be so. Perhaps you are right. It may be that I was a trifle too clever. Who knows? I can be, you know.'

  'Yes,' she nodded gravely. 'As in the matter of the Navarre lady.'

  His finely arched eyebrows rose. 'Indeed!' he said. 'Mary, my heart – what is this? What has come to you? Here is unlikely thinking for, for a poppet such as you! What is this you have become, while I was gone?'

  'I am… Mary Gray,' she told him quietly, simply.

  Into the second or two of silence that followed, both Mariota and her husband spoke.

  'Do not heed her, Patrick,' her mother declared, flushing. 'She is strange, these days. Foolish. Perhaps it is her age…'

  'She is no longer your poppet, brother – or mine!' David jerked. 'What she has become, I know not. But… she concerns herself with things a deal too high for her – that I do know. Nonetheless, Patrick – she is right in this, I fear. The King will not love you the more for this. And you have made an enemy of the Marischal – when you have enemies enough.'

  'The Marischal, Davy, is off to Denmark tomorrow – and by the time that he wins back to Scotland, it will matter not.' The Master, speaking softly, guided his little company into a corner where at least they might not be overheard. 'It was necessary, see you, that I should be received back at Court -and b
e seen by all to be so received. Before my enemies could know that I was here, and could work against me with the King. James did not summon me to Court – only permitted my temporary return to Scotland – and that reluctantly indeed. For the christening. Tomorrow. So I wore out relays of cousin Logan of Restalrig's horses getting here tonight. I am here before the courier who brought me the King's letter could himself win back! Think you that Maitland and the rest of the Protestant lords would have permitted that I be received? By tomorrow night, I swear, my body would have been floating in the Nor' Loch, rather! And an outlaw, none could be arraigned for my death. But now – I am received, admitted, one of the elect once more! They dare not touch me now – not openly. I have the King's ear, the King's protection… for so long as he needs something that I can give him. One thousand golden guineas! And, he is to pray, more to come! A deal of good money – but cheap at the price, I vow!'

  'Cheap…? The price? What price? To you? It is Elizabeth's money…'

  The Master's laughter was silvery. 'Why, Davy – I thought that you at least would know our Elizabeth better! That gold was hard-earned – but not from Elizabeth of England. It came from less lofty sources – at no little cost to me. Methinks that she will not deny credit for it one day, nevertheless! Heigho -we cannot have chicken-soup without immersing the chicken! Cheap at the price I esteem it, yes – and moreover have we not achieved a royal godfather for young Andrew! Which also may have its value, one day. But… enough of this whispering in corners. It looks ill, furtive. And I am never furtive, am I – whatever else I am, God help me! I see my lord of Mar eyeing me closely. He grows ever more like a turkey-cock, does Johnnie Mar.' The Master of Gray was of a sudden all smiling gaiety again. 'See – it is a pavane that is being danced. I am partial to the pavane. In good company. Now – which of you ladies will do me the honour…?'

  It was at Mary Gray that he looked.

  A moment or two later they moved out together to the stately measures of the dance, eyes in their hundreds watching, dazzling satin and humble lawn. Mary Gray danced like a queen.