The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Lennox was about to follow the other great lords inside, when Mary laid a hand on his arm.

  'Vicky,' she said quietly. 'Your sister, the Lady Hetty. How greatly do you love her?'

  'Eh…? Hetty?' He shrugged, French-style. 'I know her but little. She was reared in France, with my mother, while Patrick brought me here. We are… not close.'

  'But she's your sister. I believed that you owed her a duty – to save her from being wed to my Lord Huntly. But now she is his wife, for better or worse, you owe her another duty, do you not?'

  Uncertainly he looked at her.

  'She is Countess of Huntly, now. If ill befall her husband in this, she must suffer also.'

  'If Huntly is rogue enough to misuse James and attack his King's person, he must needs pay the price, Mary. The price of treason.'

  She shook her head. 'Huntly may indeed be a rogue. But this roguery, I think, is not his. Here was no treason, Vicky.' Sitting their horses side by side, she spoke close to the young man's ear. 'Could you not see it? See that it was all a plot? But not of Huntly's making. Those were no true Highland-men, no true Gordons. It was no true attack. No blood was spilt, that I saw. All were too careful for themselves. None pressed close to the King. It was but play-acting, nothing more. I am sure. To bring down Huntly.'

  'M'mmm.' Ludovick rubbed his chin. 'You think it, Mary? All that? The fighting, to be sure, was but half-hearted…'

  'Yes. So the Lady Hetty must be warned, Vicky. And Huntly also. Before… before his enemies have their way. Before a great injustice is done.'

  'But who…?'

  'My Lord Huntly has many enemies. He makes them apace. But that does not merit… this.'

  Her companion frowned. 'Nor is he any friend of mine,' he pointed out. 'And if I go now, hasten back to the city and leave James, it will be noted. When Huntly is warned, in time to flee, it will be Lennox his new gudebrother who warned him. To the King's declared hurt.'

  'That is true. I had not thought of that. Yes, you must stay. I will go. Give me something of yours, Vicky, that I may show to them. Lest Huntly does not believe such as myself. Your signet-ring – that he will recognise…'

  'Aye – take it, Mary. If you think that is best. God knows if this is wise…'

  'It is right. Fair. Is that not enough?'

  'I do not like you to go alone…'

  'Why not? It is but a mile or two. If I cannot gain entry to Huntly, I shall ask the Lady Marie to aid me. All know her. Tell my Uncle Patrick that I felt weary. Upset by the stramash. And went back. Go in now, Vicky – to the King.'

  Mary reined her horse round, waved to Jean, and rode off eastwards.

  In the crowded millhouse, James sat crouched over a rough table, gulping and spilling small ale from a pewter tankard, pale but apparently recovering. Every now and again he reached out an uncertain hand to pat the arm of the Master of Gray standing close by, whom he evidently looked upon as his saviour. So far, the name of Huntly had not crossed his lips. Those around him, however, made up for his omission. On all hands were demands for the Gordon's immediate arrest, trial, even execution. After all, he was still technically under sentence of death for treason, from the Privy Council, for the Brig o' Dee Catholic rising. The King's personal pardon had never been officially confirmed by the Council, dominated as it was by the Kirk party. Only Patrick Gray raised a voice on Huntly's behalf – which may have been partly responsible for James's obvious gratitude and trust. He was pointing out to all, that he had recognised none of the Gordon lairds in the assault, when Ludovick came in.

  'I agree with the Master of Gray,' that young man announced, jerkily. 'It may be that Huntly himself had no hand in this. Only, perhaps, his enemies!'

  All eyes turned on him – and none more sharply than Patrick's. A chorus of protest and derision arose from the other lords.

  'There speaks a prudent and generous voice,' the Master commended.

  'And the Countess o' Huntly's brother!' someone added.

  Something of an uproar followed. It faded only as a newcomer pushed his way urgently into the crowded low-ceiled room, clad in the royal livery – indeed, Sir John Home, lieutenant of the King's guard.

  'Sire,' he announced. 'Instant tidings from my Lord Chancellor Maitland.' He laid a folded and sealed letter before the King. 'For your immediate eye, Highness.'

  James picked up the paper gingerly in shaking fingers, held it away from him as though it might carry the plague, turning it this way and that. Then, the seal still unbroken, he handed

  it to the Master of Gray, signing for him to open and read it.

  Patrick did as indicated. The letter proved to have a second paper within it. He glanced at the contents, and his fine eyebrows rose and his mouth pursed.

  James peered up at him, in mute question. As did all present.

  'Your Grace,' he said slowly, almost hesitandy for that confident man. 'The Chancellor has… has come upon a letter. This letter. Intercepted it. From Huntly. It bears his seal, see you. It is to my lord of Livingstone. At Callendar. Requiring him to muster men and arms. Secretly. To be ready to march. In the service of the Holy Catholic Church and the true and ancient faith…'

  He got no further before his words were drowned in a flood of furious outcry, passionate, continuous, demanding. Louder and louder grew the din, so that Patrick, shrugging, laid down the papers.

  As though moved by a force outside himself, James rose unsteadily to his feet, and so stood for a few moments, ill-shapen features twisted and contorted with emotion, great liquid eyes heavy with sorrow, like some dog ill-used by its master. Then he raised a hand for silence.

  'My lords,' he said, 'so be it.' His voice, now that he had found it at last, was stronger, more resolute, than might have been expected. 'Sir John Home, you will take my guard and apprehend and arrest George Gordon, Earl o' Huntly, forthwith. Wherever you shall find him. To be warded secure in the Castle o' Edinburgh. On charge o' conspiracy against the safety o' our realm and royal person, in highest treason. Aye. We… we…' The unusually firm voice broke. 'Och, to your ill duty, man – to your duty. And may the good God ha' mercy on me, his silly servant!'

  In the succeeding acclaim and fierce plaudits, the King turned to the Master again. 'Take me awa', Patrick – take me awa',' he pleaded. 'I'm no' feeling that well. I'm sick, man -sick to death. I want out o' here. Frae a' these loud men.'

  'Assuredly, Your Grace. At once. We shall have you back at Holyroodhouse almost before you know it.'

  *Na, na – no' there, man. No' there. Geordie might raisethe town against me. There's Catholics aplenty, and other ill bodies, in Edinburgh. He'll maybe try again. I'll need a strong place. A castle. Craigmillar's near – a big, bonny, strong place. I'll to Craigmillar, Patrick – I'll be safe there. In case o' more deviltry. Aye, take me to Craigmillar.' 'As you will, Sire…'

  It was evening before Patrick Gray returned to his lofty chambers in Orkney's wing of Holyroodhouse. He seemed to be a little bemused, abstracted in his manner, for he quite forgot to kiss, as was his usual, either his wife or Mary or the baby Andrew.

  'A busy day you have had, Patrick,' Marie said pleasantly. 'Brave doings, by all accounts – and James much beholden to you, I gather. So your credit stands the higher. My brother Robert tells me that the King has taken refuge at Craigmillar. I wonder that he permits his guardian angel to leave his side thus long to visit us here!'

  Thoughtfully the man considered her. 'Do I detect some displeasure here, my dear?' he wondered.

  'Why, no. Should it not be pride, rather, in my husband's bold championing of his King? His heroism? All testify to your gallantry, to your… preparedness! It seems that, once again, Patrick, your quick wits won the day!'

  He stroked his now clean-shaven chin. 'You are too kind, Marie. And you will have heard – that Huntly escaped?'

  'So it is said,' she nodded. 'You will have eaten at Craigmillar? Or shall I find you some supper?'

  He began to pace the attic room. 'So
meone warned him. I would give much to know who it was. Home rode straight from Peffermill to Huntly's lodging here, and found them gone. I have questioned him. They had been gone only minutes. Yet scour the city as he would, he found no trace of them. Some of his Gordon lairds they took – but not Huntly or his wife. Maitland sent men hot-foot along all roads to the north – but without avail. It is believed now that they slipped down to Leith, and took boat to Fife. They will not catch Huntly now, I think.'

  'And that will upset your… plans?'

  'Plans? Is that not a strange word to use? The King's safety is what signifies. The ship of state upset – not plans of mine.' He shrugged. 'For myself, it is of little matter whether Huntly escaped or no. He is forfeit now. The forfeiture papers are already signed.'

  'Indeed? So soon? They were quickly drawn up, were they not?'

  'Maitland, my love, is ever efficient! And prompt. As he was over my own forfeiture one time!'

  'And as he was, it seems, over this letter of Huntly's that was… intercepted. To Livingstone, was it not? Most timely. Was it a forgery, think you?'

  Patrick grimaced. 'Indeed no, Marie. You insult the Chancellor! Maitland is never clumsy. It bore Huntly's own seal. I noted, however, that it was undated!'

  'Ah! Then… then it probably was old? Written some time ago? Intercepted some time ago? Before Brig o' Dee, perhaps?'

  'I commend my wife's intelligence! Let it be a lesson to us all never to write treasonable correspondence in clear words, my dear!'

  Both were surprised, undoubtedly, by the little gurgle of amusement from Mary where she sat at the window.

  'I see,' Marie said, after a pause. 'So Huntly is forfeit. But forfeit only. He is still powerful.'

  'In the north, Marie – in the north, only. And Dunfermline is in the south, is it not? Sweet and precious Dunfermline!'

  Long the Mistress of Gray looked at her husband from level grey eyes, and said nothing.

  He turned away, to the younger woman. 'My dear, I missed you after Peffermill,' he mentioned. 'Vicky said that you were upset. I am sorry, Mary. But there was no need to be so. None. I esteemed you in no danger.'

  'Nor I, Uncle Patrick,' she assured. 'No danger at all.'

  His eyes widened a little at that. 'Had I believed there to be any, I would have looked to you, child.'

  'Yes. I know that. You see, I looked to the King's head forester. When I saw that he sat his horse unmoved, in all that stramash, even with his arms folded, I knew that there was no danger.'

  The man swallowed. 'You watched him? The forester…?' 'Yes. You see, I saw you speaking with him in the stableyard last night, and giving him money. Was I not wise to watch him, then?'

  'Wise…?' He drew a long breath. 'Wisdom, God help me, is over rife in this family, I think!' His brows came down. 'Then… then what upset you, child? If you were so assured?'

  Her pink tongue just tipped her lips. 'I was upset… only for foolish woman's reasons. But I am so no longer. I am recovered quite.' Mary rose, and came to him, smiling her warmest. 'I am happy, now. Happy that my lord of Huntly escaped. And the Lady Hetty. Are not you, Uncle Patrick? Really? It is so much better that way. You escaped from Edinburgh to Leith yourself, once, did you not? Just in time, likewise.'

  'Ah… yes,' he admitted. He blinked quickly.

  'I watched you both go – you and Lady Marie. And my lord of Huntly aiding you.'

  'H'mm. Yes. But… at a price, girl. At a price! It cost me Dunfermline!'

  'It cost more than that,' she said. 'It cost my father, Davy Gray more than that. Perhaps you do not know, Uncle Patrick, what it cost him?'

  Both of them were now gazing at her strangely, intently.

  She looked up at him, smiling again. 'But that is all done with. Dear Uncle Patrick – forget Dunfermline! Forget Huntly! You are high in the King's favour, and all is well. Let us all be happy again!'

  He searched the young, eager, lovely face upturned to his, wonderingly. 'A kiss from you, sweeting… and I count Huntly well lost! Perhaps Dunfermline, even!' he exclaimed.

  'You shall have it.' Flinging her arms around him, she kissed him vigorously, whole-heartedly. Still clutching him, she held out a hand towards the Lady Marie. 'You too,' she pleaded. 'Come. Please do. Now we shall all be happy again, together – shall we not? Come.'

  Marie looking from one to the other, bit her lip, hesitating, and then came. Patrick's hand went out to her likewise.

  Chapter Eight

  THE King of Scots walled himself up in Craigmillar Castle, high on its ridge south of the city, seeking security, if not peace of mind, within its outer bailey and inner bailey, its ditch and drawbridge and its massive keep – and would not stir therefrom. All who sought the fountain of honour, authority and government must seek it past three gatehouses, a guardroom and parapets bristling with armed men. Nothing would coax majesty without – not though it was the height of the hunting season, with the stags of the great park of Dalkeith nearby at their best and fattest. Hawks could be flown from Craigmillar's great grass-grown outer court, tennis be played and archery practised – but James was in no mood for such pastimes, and they were followed only by such of his unfortunate Court as found itself immured within the gaunt walls, sombre vaults and frowning towers of the castle.

  James himself, after the first fright of the ambush and its implications wore off, and as fear of further repercussions began to fade, not unnaturally perhaps turned his mind more and more to distant vistas far beyond these safe but enclosing walls, and to contemplations more apt for a newly-married young man – even if only wed by proxy. He began to dwell upon the imagined person, parts and prospects of his bride, as a more rewarding thought than the perfidy of Geordie Gordon. Indeed, he shut himself up for most of days on end in a lofty turret chamber, where he could look out over the wind-whipped Firth of Forth estuary, past the rock of Bass and the Isle of May, to the grey North Sea, in the direction of far Denmark. Here, with a portrait of the Princess Anne that had been sent to him, he indulged in a positive orgy of synthetic emotion, an auto-intoxication of purely intellectual adoration for the Viking's princess of his imagination.

  No doubt the sad and sudden termination of his pseudo-romantic relationship with Huntly was partly responsible. James, not notably masculine in himself, but brought up to condemn and fear his unfortunate and lovely mother, Mary

  Queen of Scots, and educated by stern Calvinist divines who frowned on women – at least in theory – had ever sought his emotional satisfactions from his own sex, and all from older men than himself. The succession of favourites, however far they went in their relationship with this unlovely and loveless royal youth, had all proved to have feet of clay; all had used their intimacy with the source of privilege to gain for themselves power and wealth and domination. All had been brought down by jealous nobles. Disappointed, hurt, James, now twenty-two, turned, in at least temporary revulsion, to this new and exciting prospect – a young woman, innocent and fair and already his own, although unknown, who would give him what hitherto his life had lacked.

  So, in escape from the reality of the present, he wrote to her innumerable letters which could by no means be delivered, in a strange mixture of passion, dialectics, philosophy, semi-religious ecstasy and gross indecency. He indited poems, large and small, and then decided upon a really major work, which history would rate as one of the literary masterpieces of all time. He studied erotica, consulted much-married men and women – the Master of Gray and his wife, embarrassingly, in especial – physicians, necromancers, herbalists, even mid-wives. He toyed with the idea of having a relay of ladies to bed with, both experienced and virgin, and of various ages and shapes, in order to practise upon – but decided eventually in favour of pristine innocence rather than expertise, for presentation to his sea-king's daughter. He grew pale and languishing and greater-eyed than ever – and kept his Master of the Warbrobe busy indeed in ordering and fitting the most elaborate and fanciful garb ever to be worn by a Scots monar
ch, for outdoors and indoors, day and night wear, most of it in a taste as bizarre as it was grotesque.

  All of which was something of a compensation and source of infinite, if guarded, merriment to the royal entourage in more or less forced confinement within Craigmillar – although one or two of his Court perhaps perceived pathos therein, and discovered in their hearts some sympathy with this strange, complex, shambling creature, born in sorrow and treachery, separated from his mother almost at birth, who had known no true love in all his life, the pawn of arrogant scheming nobles and harsh and dictatorial clerics.

  The Gray family was inevitably much at Craigmillar -although its members continued to reside at Holyroodhouse, the distance between being but two or three miles. Patrick was in high personal favour again – although this, unfortunately, owing to James's almost complete temporary withdrawal from affairs of government, was not translated into any real political power, which remained more firmly than ever in the hands of the coldly astute Maitland. The King, in his present preoccupation with womankind, anatomy, and the like, saw a deal of his cousin Marie Stewart, finding in her a quiet sympathy, sensibility and frankness which he had hitherto overlooked. And since Lennox – whose defection at Peffermill did not seem to have been noticed by his royal cousin – was now, as Chamberlain, necessarily domiciled at Craigmillar, he sought to entice Mary Gray there at every opportunity – the Master by no means hindering him. With the new queen expected almost at any time, and her household, of which Mary was now a member, having to be prepared and made ready for her arrival, this proved easy and convenient enough, indeed to be expected – even though Duke Ludovick would perhaps have preferred that Mary did not take her sewing and embroidery duties quite so seriously, as did not the Lady Jean, for instance.

  The relationship between Patrick Gray and Ludovick Stuart was interesting and not unimportant. Undoubtedly many about that licentious and idle Court believed it to be illicit and unnatural. They made a strangely ill-assorted pair certainly, the handsome, talented, quick-silver and accomplished man, and the plain, solid, rather awkward and ineloquent youth. But they had been good friends for many years – ever since, at the age of ten, young Vicky had been brought from France by Patrick, at the King's command, to succeed to his late and brilliant father's dukedom. The Master of Gray's part in the downfall and subsequent death of the same father, the usual kind informants had not failed to disclose to the young heir; but Ludovick, who had scarcely known his sire, had clung to Patrick. Indeed his early affection for the Master had grown to an admiration amounting almost to adoration, that nothing then or later could ever wholly upset,