The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  The man went very white, dark eyes blazing. 'I'll thank you to be silent!' he jerked.

  'Silent, yes. I have been silent for too long, perhaps, Patrick. Silence is a quality much in demand for the wife of the Master of Gray – and I do not come of a notably silent family, as you have observed! There are times when it would serve you but ill to keep silent – and I think that this is one. I know all the signs, Patrick – I have seen them so often ere this. You are about to launch some dark and underhand plot, some scheming subtle venture, in which someone will be direly hurt… for the benefit of the Master of Gray! Is it too late to ask that you stay your hand, Patrick? Too much to ask you to renounce it?'

  'What nonsense is this? Have you taken leave of your wits, Marie, for God's sake? With an obvious effort, he controlled himself. 'See you, statecraft is none so ill a business. It cuts both ways – works much good for many as well as some small hurt for a few. The realm cannot be served without it. My life it is. I am on the Privy Council again…'

  'The Council will hear naught of this that you are now plotting, I warrant! Or your meetings with Maitland would not be secret.'

  'It is better that way. For the weal of the realm. For the King's peace.'

  'The realm! The King! Oh, Patrick – who do you deceive? Not yourself, and not me. Not even Mary here, I think.'

  Mary looked from one to the other gravely, hurt in her eyes. 'Do not speak to each other so,' she pleaded. 'Please do not.'

  Both reacted to that, and at once. Patrick took a pace towards her, changed his mind, and turning strode to the door and out, without another word. Marie rose from her frame, and came to enfold the younger woman in her arms.

  'My heart, my sweet Mary!' she cried. 'Forgive me. That was unkindly done. I was foolishly carried away. I do not know what made me behave so. I am sorry!'

  Mary kissed her. 'Do not fret, Lady Marie,' she said. 'All will be well. I know it. Uncle Patrick must scheme and plot. As he says truly, it is his life. And he is very good at it, is he not? He will not stop it, I think. So… we must just scheme and plot also. So that whenever he makes a mistake, we may perhaps right it. You and I. Is that not best?'

  Marie drew back a little, to stare at the girl, wonderingly. 'Oh, Mary my dear,' she exclaimed. 'Bless you. But… you do not know what you say. What you propose. What goes on in Patrick's handsome head.'

  'I think that I do. I am very like him, you know – very like him indeed. My father – Davy Gray – says that we come out of the same mould. It may be that the same goes on in my own head. Good and ill, both.' She smiled, warmly. 'Is it not… convenient?'

  'Lord…!' the Lady Marie said, shaking her head.

  James was in high good humour. The hunt had found in the boggy ground around Duddingston Loch, a mere mile over the hill from Holyroodhouse; it would have been strange had they not, perhaps, considering the pains taken by the King's foresters to ensure that there were always deer in the royal demesne, however tame and imported – and however many Edinburgh citizens with a taste for venison must hang to discourage poaching. They had killed, after an excellent chase, up on the high ridge near Craigmillar Castle to the south, James himself striking the fatal blow. Moreover, his favourite goshawk, set at a pair of mallard from the loch against Johnny Mar's bird, had flown fast and true, stooped on the drake and brought it down cleanly, whilst Mar's hawk had gone bickering off after a heron to no advantage. So the King smirked and chuckled, railing his former playmate, and declaring that his fine Geordie Gordon should have been there to witness it – for Huntly, who had set out with the rest from the palace, had unfortunately been recalled by a messenger on seemingly urgent business, and had not as yet rejoined them.

  It was almost certain that no further quarry would be found, save down in the great swampy area by the loch again, for this was no hunting country in fact, far too populous an area, too near to the city, for deer to lurk save in the marshy, reedy sanctuary west of Duddingston. The head forester, therefore, advised that they return downhill, and suggested that the scrub woodland around Peffermill was the likeliest place to try, with the wind south-westerly and the easten area already disturbed. James thought it would be better further west still, at Priest-field perhaps, but the Master of Gray agreed convincingly with the forester, pointing out the much more free run that they could have from Peffermill, leaving Priestfield for even a possible third attempt. The King's good humour, plus his intemperance for the sport, allowed him to agree.

  It was Mary Gray's first royal hunt, this twenty-second day of August. Only the day before, James had made official announcement that, allowing for all contrary winds and possible delays, his special emissary the Lord Dingwall, acting as his proxy, should have wedded the Princess Anne in Denmark by now, and that therefore he, James, by the Grace of God, King, could be considered to be a married man, and Scotland to have a queen. That this queen was only the second daughter of the King of small Denmark, and not the sister of the childless King of mighty France, was a pity, but must be accepted philosophically. James therefore concentrated now on the youth – she was barely fifteen – and declared pulchritude of his bride, and asserted that he was madly in love. Contemporaneously with the royal announcement had come a proclamation from the Lord Chamberlain, publishing the names of the new queen's household. The Countess of Huntly would be principal Lady-in-Waiting, and amongst others, the Lady Jean Stewart one of the Maids of Honour, and Mary Gray an extra Woman of the Bedchamber. So now Mary held an official position at Court, and should begin to take a fuller part in its activities.

  With Jean, she rode between Ludovick of Lennox and Patrick, up near the front of the colourful cavalcade, and even the King, who was apt to be more impressed by male good looks than by female, remarked on her fresh young beauty, and leeringly dug an elbow in the Duke's ribs and mumbled congratulatory jocularities. It was accepted by all, undoubtedly that she was Lennox's mistress.

  Down the hill through the fields towards the low-lying marshland between Craigmillar and the great towering bulk of Arthur's Seat they streamed, the head forester and his assistants first, followed by a small detachment of the royal guard, then the King and his falconers. It was in the group of lords and their ladies, immediately behind, that Mary and Jean rode, thanks to the lofty status of their escorts. Further back straggled the field of fully three-score laughing, chattering riders, no great proportion of them vitally absorbed by the hunting, but only there because it was expected of them, it was the thing to do – and since it was their monarch's passion, because those who showed no interest in it might well offend the source of privilege, position and preferment. Some, having put in an appearance, would undoubtedly take the opportunity quietly to fall behind and make their way back to the city, rather than put in some further hours of pounding about the thickets and waterlogged unpleasantness of Duddingston Myres.

  From the hamlet of Peffermill a causeway led out into the great green marsh area. The normal procedure would be for the hunt to wait here, while the foresters went in to try to find and rouse a skulking stag amongst the water-meadows, and force him out to hard ground for the sportsmen to chase. But James, timorous and hesitant in almost all else, was a paladin where hunting was concerned, frequently indeed himself doing the work of his foresters. Nothing would serve now, but that he and all others who called themselves men, should plunge into the morass and beat out the place thoroughly. Sighing and shrugging, his younger nobles and some of their more spirited ladies prepared to follow on. This had happened before. The dozen or so members of the bodyguard looked depressed.

  As James clattered on to the causeway, past the last of the buildings, the millhouse itself, a stout figure came hurrying out, calling and waving and panting, apron still round a wide middle – no doubt the miller himself. The King frowned impatiently, and gestured a rebuff, for this was no time for petitions and the like. The Master of Gray, however, reined

  up and over to the man. He exchanged a few words with him before hurrying on after t
he others.

  'Heed nothing, Sire,5 he called out. 'Just some complaint of robbers and vagrants. As ever.'

  The King waved back in acknowledgment.

  Where the causeway forked, perhaps a quarter-of-a-mile in, was the obvious place to spread out. The foresters shouted to that effect, and James was ordering his reluctant guard to fan out left and right, with the group of nobles still a little way behind, when the green leafy place of tall reeds, alder spinneys and drooping willows suddenly seemed to erupt in noise and men. Out from the plentiful cover, as at a given signal, poured scores of unkempt and ragged figures, yelling, brandishing swords and clubs and daggers, some mounted, some on foot. The leaders notably were dressed in tartan and wore Highland-type bonnets.

  'A Gordon! A Gordon!' range out on all sides. From somewhere unseen, a single piper skirled the rousing notes of The Cock o' the North.

  All was immediate chaos amongst the hunting party. The guard was already spread out on either side, dispersed. James all but fell off his handsome black Barbary in alarm, staring wildly about him. This was of all things, indubitably, what he most dreaded, victim already of many abduction attempts. His hoarse cries were almost like those of a trapped animal.

  Only a small part of the hunt cavalcade could see what was going on, owing to the windings of the causeway amongst the scrub woodlands, and its narrowness stringing out the company almost indefinitely. Indeed most, having few ambitions to act as bearers in a quagmire, were deliberately hanging back. Most of the lords in the foremost group, however, after a momentary hesitation, spurred on to the aid of their monarch, tugging at their swords. Even the readiest, however, must needs follow Patrick Gray who had his sword drawn almost as soon as the attackers appeared, and dashed forward with ringing cries.

  'The King! The King!' he shouted. 'Save His Grace!' And then, 'Guard! Guard! Back here! To the King! Back to the King!'

  The men-at-arms who had each more or less been riding at the nearest of the assailants, were somewhat confused by these gallant orders. Some turned back indeed, some hesitated, others pressed on. Those who came back became entangled with the hurriedly oncoming lords – for the level and firm ground of the causeway was narrow, and space for excited horses and riders circumscribed to say the least of it.

  Confusion indeed reigned all around, and not only on the side of the defenders. The attackers themselves appeared to be almost as uncertain in their assault, however vigorously brandished their weapons and fierce their cries. If there was a concerted plan of action, it was not evident. Men rushed and darted, wheeled and dodged and sallied, by no means all pressing in on the King himself. The clash of steel, the thudding of blows, the high whinnying of horses, all rose to mingle with the monotonous chant of 'A Gordon! A Gordon!' and to all but drown that turbulent clan's challenging battle-anthem on the bagpipes.

  One of the noblemen, at least, did not aid in the confusion. Instead of rushing forward with his elders, the Duke of Lennox reined his mount right round and came plunging back to Mary's side. There he drew sword, and so sat, his pleasant blunt features tense, jaw dourly set.

  Mary, flushing, leaned over to grip his arm. 'No, no, Vicky!' she whispered. 'Not here. Up yonder – with the King. You should be with him there.' Uneasily she glanced round at the few other women, clustered together there. It was not often that Mary Gray looked embarrassed. Fear did not seem to have touched her, as yet.

  'James is well enough served,' Ludovick returned. 'All run to his aid.'

  'But…' Mary, noting that set look, did not press him. 'At least, look to these ladies. Not me only,' she urged, low-voiced.

  With no very eager or gallant expression, the young man tossed a look at the small group of flustered and alarmed women. He nodded. 'Back,' he told them, gesturing along the causeway. 'Back to the others. Toward the mill.'

  Most of them, with only uncertain glances forward toward their menfolk, did as they were bidden. Mary, however, sat her horse, one of the Duke's own, unmoving, gazing ahead with keenest interest rather than apprehension. Jean, after a few moments hesitation, elected to remain with her. Lennox placed his mount between them and the trouble in front.

  It was very difficult to ascertain just what was happening, so congested was the causeway up there. The King, at any rate, seemed to be safe, back amongst a tight group of his nobles, and cowering in a state of near collapse. Fighting of a sort was proceeding at a number of points, so far without any noticeable casualties. The Master of Gray undoubtedly was foremost and most militant amongst the Court party, dashing hither and thither, sword waving, shouting instructions, urgings, threats.

  The royal guard, although outnumbered and dispersed, appeared to be gaining the upper hand; at least, the attackers seemed notably averse to coming to grips with them. For that matter, there was a lack of close-quarters engagement all round. The famed Highland dash and ferocity was perhaps only largely vocal, after all.

  Three rough-looking individuals, swathed in tartan plaids, came yelling down the line, their very third-rate horses splashing in the reeds and surface-water at the side of the causeway. At the martial gestures of the Earl of Mar and the Lord Yester, they drew away prudently and came on towards Lennox and the girls. The Duke, frowning and a little pale, prepared to take on all three.

  More huntsmen were coming up from the rear now, however, bewildered but alerted by the women who had ridden back. The trio of bullyrooks presumably decided in the circumstances that a closer approach would be inadvisable, and contented themselves with standing where they were, shaking fists and weapons and chanting their slogan. Mary, when she perceived that they were not in fact going to attack, was not so frightened as to perceive some other things also; for instance that there was no sign of blood about these warriors, even on their swords; that their voices did not sound in the least Highland; and that under their plaids their clothing seemed to be quite Lowland and ordinary.

  The winding of a horn from somewhere out of sight forward sounded high above all the shouting and clash. It had an extraordinary and immediate effect on the entire scene -indeed, not even the rockets of Patrick's pageant of Leda and the Swan were more salutory in their effect. On the part of the assailants, all fighting was broken off forthwith. With a unanimity and discipline that had been somewhat lacking in their advance, the attackers obeyed what was clearly a signal to retire. Men turned about in their tracks and went plunging back into the long reeds and waterlogged thickets of the myre, mounted and foot alike splashing away prompdy and wholeheartedly, heading into the cover nearest to them like so many water-rats released near their chosen habitat. If the assault had been a failure, there was no foolish reluctance about conceding the fact.

  No single victim was left behind to witness to the fury of the attack.

  Patrick Gray made the only gesture at pursuit. He rode a little way after one of the mounted men who elected to flee along the fork of the causeway eastward. He soon came trotting back however, sword still in hand, and actually laughing. Mary, now alerted to such things, noted that his sword was unblooded also.

  He found the lords clustered round their trembling sovereign, congratulating him on his escape, inveighing against all traitors, dastards and poltroons, and preening themselves a little on prompt and effective action. Lennox and his two ladies rode forward to rejoin the group.

  'All gone, Sire,' the Master of Gray called out, sheathing his sword at last with something of a flourish… 'Bolted like coneys for their holes! They will not return, I swear! You are not hurt? They did not reach Your Grace?'

  Although James could not yet find words to answer, the others did, volubly. Loud and long were the assertions, questions, demands. Everywhere the name of Huntly was being cursed and reviled.

  Patrick appeared to doubt the general assumption. 'I cannot believe that this was my lord of Huntly's work,' he said, when he could make himself heard. 'He would never so move against His Grace's royal person! 'Tis highest treason! After all the King's love for him? No, no. Moreo
ver, Huntly surely, had he planned such wickedness, would have worked it to better effect. These, I vow, were but feeble warriors…'

  'They were Gordons, man! Did you no' hear them, 'fore

  God? Huntly's own ruffians!'

  'Who else leads Gordon, but Huntly? That curst tribe!'

  'Tartan savages they were! Hieland cut-throats!'

  'Aye. And were they any more valiant at Brig o' Dee? They fled then, the arrogant Gordons…'

  'My lords,' Patrick declared, waving his hand. 'It may be as you say. But let us not judge too hastily. Huntly is not here to answer for himself…'

  'No, by God – he's no'! Where is he, then? Why turned he back…?'

  'Aye – where is the forsworn Papist? He knew well no' to come hunting this day!'

  Patrick shrugged elegant shoulders.

  The King, unspeaking, was urging his tall horse through the press now, back, southward along the causeway toward Peffermill again, head down, eyes darting. He pushed and prodded his lords, to have them out of his way, all fear, hurt and suspicion. He answered none who addressed him, met no eyes, uttered no words although his thick lips seemed to be forming them. On he urged his mount, regardless of how many he forced off the causeway into the myre. In jostling disorder the strung-out hunt turned itself around and headed whence it had come.

  Somehow Patrick Gray managed to draw ahead, and as they emerged on to the firm and open ground near the mill, went cantering towards the millhouse itself, authoritatively demanding wine and sustenance for His Grace the King.

  James, still trembling almost uncontrollably, allowed himself to be persuaded to dismount, and shambled into the miller's house, supported by the Master of Gray and the Earl of Mar.