The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  'I cannot think that the present wind need unduly alarm you, Sire,' Patrick reassured. 'Nor, I esteem, are all crowned heads in hourly danger from His Satanic Highness. For, see you, your right royal cousin Elizabeth of England has well survived his spleen these many years!'

  'Spleen!' James spluttered. 'Are you so sure it's spleen, man – in her case? A pox – I'm thinking it's his protection she's had, the auld… auld… ' He swallowed, and royally sought forbearance. 'Och, well – we maun just pray God will take her in His ain good time. Amen.' One pious thought led to another. 'Aye – prayers. We'll ha' to order prayers in a' churches o' the realm, Patrick. For the abatement o' these ill winds. Aye – forthwith. The Kirk owes it to me, its sure Protector. I'll see Master Lindsay about it, right away. Aye.' With sudden determination, the King shuffled to the door. 'I'll clip Auld Hornie's wings yet, by God!' At the open door itself, he glanced round. 'You needna bow on this occasion,' he announced with regal condescension, and hurried out.

  For long moments Patrick and Mary eyed each other, thoughtfully – and seldom had they looked more alike. The man spoke first.

  'So I have to congratulate you on another conquest, my dear! A notable one, indeed. It… it seems that I am ever underestimating you, Mary! Not, h'm, one of my commoner failings!'

  'No,' she told him. 'Here is no cause for such talk, I think. Just a poor, wandering, lonely man in need of a friendly hand.'

  'I noticed the hand!' Patrick agreed, laughing. 'Call it what you will, Mary – so long as it is your friendship and your hand that our Jamie seeks! Properly prosecuted, this may lead to great things. I confess, it had never crossed my mind… '

  'Nor should it now, Uncle Patrick,' she interposed firmly, seriously. 'I pray you, build nothing out of this. For my sake, if not the King's. He was but carried away by his own rhymings, his own fears and hopes. It seemed that he needed help – and I sought a little to help him.'

  'Precisely, sweeting. And let us hope that you will be enabled to help him again, and considerably. For James, you see, has not hitherto looked to women for his help. Dealing with kings, you know, can be to much advantage. But it requires much thought and planning – for they are not as other men. You must take my advice…'

  'Dealing with kings, Uncle Patrick, it seems may not always be of much advantage – to the kings! It was cold steel that killed King Henri of France, it seems! And you were not surprised by the tidings, that night at Falkland. I wonder why?'

  The man's features stilled in the extraordinary fashion that on occasion could change his whole appearance. It was as though a curtain had dropped over those lively laughing eyes. 'What do you mean, girl, by that?' he said softly, almost under his breath.

  'Just that, Uncle Patrick, our dealings with kings may often best be kept privy to ourselves – do you not agree?' And when he did not answer, she smiled. 'Do not be angry. Did you win a lot of siller from the Commendator of Lindores? Leave him some, Uncle Patrick, please – for I think that he may well wed the Lady Jean. And she will need siller, too…'

  Without a word he turned and left her there.

  Alas for the efficacy of prayer even by royal appointment. The weather that autumn of 1589, whether devil-inspired or otherwise, did not moderate. Indeed it worsened, southwesterly gales blowing almost incessantly throughout the entire months of September and October. They were as bad as those which had dispersed Philip's Armada a year before, and of longer duration. The belated corn harvest was flattened and rotted, haystacks were blown to the winds, all round the coasts fishing-boats failed to return to their havens, and ordinary sober men shook their heads in foreboding.

  The state of mind of King James bordered on chronic hysteria, in consequence. He shut himself away even more rigorously in the keep of Craigmillar, and even within the castle itself showed himself to few. He saw the entire climatic disturbance as a personal conspiracy against himself and his unseen beloved, and in a lesser degree and somewhat obscurely, against Christ's Holy Evangel, with which of course he closely identified himself. The Huntly business was all but forgotten; the irresponsible antics of the Earl of Bothwell, who, having won free from Tantallon, was as usual running wild in the Borders, no longer affected his monarch, it seemed; the normal machinations of mutually jealous lords left him apparently unmoved. He filled the long days and nights of waiting, particularly the nights, with alternate bouts of prolonged prayer, increasingly peculiar versifying, even deeper study into the supernatural and the black arts, with necromancers and reputed dabblers in these things sought out and brought to him from all over the land. Not to put too fine a point on it, the sovereign's mind appeared to many to be in process of becoming quite unhinged.

  The rule and governance of the realm, in consequence, devolved almost wholly upon the Lord Chancellor, Maitland. This undoubtedly by no means suited many of those at Court; particularly Patrick Gray, who, despite his recent rapprochement with the Chancellor, found his wings considerably clipped – since his influence with that wily if upstart lawyer was inevitably a deal less effective than with the young James. As the weeks wore on, indeed, Patrick became very preoccupied indeed. He spent an ever-increasing proportion of his time in the company of the Duke of Lennox, it was to be noted.

  With the continued non-arrival of the ships from Denmark, Mary Gray, for one, watched the King, Patrick and Ludovick, all three, with concern. James himself she did not often see, though when she did he was apt to dart strange, uneasy, almost appealing glances in her direction – glances which, she was well aware, Patrick seldom missed. For his part, the latter saw that Mary was very consistently at the castle; indeed, had not his wife put her foot down firmly, he would have had the girl lodging there. As Master of the Wardrobe he was, with the Chamberlain, the official most responsible for arrangements for the Queen's reception; the Queen's ladies, therefore, he kept under his own appreciative eye.

  Ludovick, these long inclement days, tended to be moody and morose. A vigorous and active young man, with no great intellectuality or fondness for indoor pursuits and idle Court dalliance, or for that matter the card-playing which his friend the Master found so profitable, he fretted at the forced immurement within Craigmillar's thick walls. Out of patience with James, ill at ease with most of his fellow courtiers, a fair proportion of the time that he was not with the Master of Gray he tended to spend in the small room in the keep with Mary and her colleagues. There were distinct doubts as to whether Patrick wholly approved now, whatever had been his previous attitude.

  On one such occasion, in mid-October, with Lennox watching Mary at her stitchery with more than usual stolid gloom, the girl rallied him smilingly.

  'Vicky,' she protested. 'You puff and sigh there like a cow with an overfull udder! Why so dolorous these days? I have not seen you smile in a week, I vow!'

  'Eh…? Well… in part because I never see you alone, Mary. Always other women are with you. That Jean. And Kate Lindsay. And the Sinclair wench. I do believe that Patrick arranges it so. Always working away at these clothes and trappings.'

  'But that is why we are here, Vicky – our duty. You of all men should know it, as Chamberlain. Besides, are we not alone now, and have been these ten minutes? And all you have done is moon and scowl!'

  'You are ever sewing and stitching. Never done with this sempstress's work. It's not suitable…'

  'It is especial work, Vicky – close wear for the Queen's own person. It is suitable that her ladies should do it. It is all that we can do for Her Grace, in this pass. Save pray for her safety and speedy arrival.'

  'Pray!' The young man all but spat that out. 'Mortdieu -I've had my bellyful! of that! All this morning we were at it.' He jumped up, and began to pace the small apartment. It was unusual indeed to see Ludovick Stuart thus moved. 'Hours he kept us on our knees. Mine pain me yet! Though, on my soul, it was like no praying I have ever known ere this! He weeps and shouts at his Maker, parbleu – when he is not babbling about black arts and wizardry! All over a chit of a girl whom he
has never even seen! 'Fore God, I believe – aye, I believe that his mind is going. That we may have to take steps, as Patrick says.'

  'I think that is unfair, Vicky. That you are too hard on the King, by far. He is only distraught, surely.' Mary looked up at him thoughtfully, biting a thread with small white teeth. 'And… what does Patrick say? What steps are these?'

  He frowned heavily. 'It is very secret,' he said, lowering his voice. 'Privy only to ourselves. Perhaps I should not tell -even to you, Mary. He said to keep it close.'

  'Even from me, Vicky – who can keep a secret? And I know many of Uncle Patrick's secrets. Did he say not to tell me?'

  'No. No, but… well, if you swear not to tell it to a soul,

  Mary? Aye. Patrick, you see, fears for James's reason – and mon Dieu, he is right, I begin to believe! If the King's mind goes – goes completely, you understand – then it will be necessary to take steps. Great steps, and prompt. For the weal of the realm. He says that a Regency would have to be set up -to rule instead of the King. As a first step. It might be necessary even… even to find another king. Later, that is. Should this madness continue.' Lennox was speaking jerkily, and looking almost shocked at his own words. 'But first a Regency.'

  Mary did not answer, but only gazed at him great-eyed.

  'You see how it is, Mary? You understand? The country cannot be governed by a madman. There have been Regencies before, a-many…'

  She nodded slowly. 'And who would be this Regent?'

  He swallowed. 'Why me, Patrick says. I am next heir, you see. Since it could not be my cousin Arabella Stuart, in England. And… and…'

  'I see.' Steadily she considered him. 'I see. So says Uncle Patrick?'

  'Yes.'

  Mary looked down at her sewing. 'Not all would welcome this, I think, Vicky. Even those who might be agreeable to turn against King James. Some would say that you are not old enough to be Regent, perhaps. Chancellor Maitland might say as much, I think.'

  'Aye. Belike. But Maitland would not be told. He would be the last to be told. He likes me not, that man.'

  'But, as Chancellor, first minister, must he not know? And act…?'

  'He would no longer be Chancellor,' Lennox told her simply. 'The Regent's first duty would be to appoint a new Chancellor.'

  'Uncle Patrick?'

  'To be sure. Who else?'

  The girl's breath issued in a long sigh. 'Of course,' she said. 'Who else!' After a moment or two she rose to her feet and came over to him, to take his arm. 'Vicky – here are deep matters indeed. I do not wonder that you have been anxious, ill-humoured. But do you perceive how deep? Such talk now is… treason! Uncle Patrick at least advised you well in this, that you should not speak of it to anyone. For your head's sake!'

  The other's boyish features flushed. 'No, no – not that! Not treason, Mary! Lord – never say it! You do not understand. We must take thought – for the realm. For its safety and governance. We… we are high officers of state, members of the Privy Council. You are a woman – you do not understand…'

  'I understand all too well, I think, Vicky. Men have died for less dangerous words than these. Some might call them betraying your king. Be careful, Vicky – think well. King James is shrewder than you take him for. He is far from mad, I do believe. Promise me that you will say nothing of it to anyone! And that you will tell me should the matter go any further. I do not fear so much for Uncle Patrick – for he has walked dangerously all his days. But, you…!'

  Unhappily her companion nodded. 'As you will, Mary. I promise. I did not mean… perhaps it is too soon to consider these things…'

  'And it would be better, Vicky, that Patrick does not know that you have told me. Much the best. You see that?'

  'Aye. I shall not tell him.'

  'Good,' she said. 'Poor Vicky – such anxieties but ill suit you. Statecraft is but little to your nature, I think.'

  Heartily he agreed with her. 'You are right, i' faith! Would that I could exchange it all for the good clean air of Methven and the hills of Strathearn! Out of these accursed enclosing walls and crazy humours! And you with me there, Mary… '

  The girl smiled, but kindly. 'Patience, Vicky,' she said. 'Though, to be sure, I would rather see you Laird of Methven than Regent of Scotland.'

  'And you? How would you see yourself?'

  'As Mary Gray, just. And your friend. Just that. Always that.'

  He sighed, gustily.

  During the next three days Mary sought to see the King alone – and found it more than difficult. James did spend most of his time alone – but shut in his own chambers with guards

  at every door. To have sought audience past these would have made the girl conspicuous and provoked comment inevitably -the last thing that she desired. And no amount of waiting about in likely places, or other like device, was of any avail.

  It was on the last day of that week, after mid-day meal taken in the great hall in company with most of the resident courtiers but minus the royal presence, that, climbing the long winding turnpike stair to the Wardrobe rooms again, Mary's glance was caught whilst passing one of the narrow arrow-slit windows. Down below she had glimpsed an unmistakable shambling figure, pacing the flagged parapet walk that surmounted the walling of one of the secondary corner-towers, solitary though every now and again raising a hand in a repetitive gesture.

  Only for a moment or two did the girl hesitate. That tower was an inner one, relic of the original smaller fortalice, sheltered from the wind, its top hidden from most of the castle's windows and courtyards – no doubt why James had selected it for privacy. Her Uncle Patrick had recently settled down to a game of cards, she knew, with carefully-chosen and wealthy companions. Ludovick was gone down to Leith, to superintend the repair of decorations erected for the Queen's reception and blown down by the gales. With a brief word to her two colleagues, the Ladies Jean Stewart and Katherine Lindsay, indicating that she had left something behind, Mary turned and ran light-footed down the steps worn hollow by mailed feet.

  Darting along the bare labyrinthine mural passages that honeycombed the thick walling, up and down steps, she came to the foot of the little stairway of the tower where the King promenaded. An armed guard stood there. With entire authority she asserted that she was from the Master of the Wardrobe, with word for His Grace. Known by sight to all in Craigmillar, the guard let her past without demur. Another man-at-arms held the caphouse door at the stairhead – but he was no more obstructive; indeed the unexpected sight of a pretty, breathless girl commended itself to him sufficiently for him to whisper confidentially in her ear that His Highness being in a passing strange state, it behoved her to watch her virtue and perhaps close up the front of her gown – a liberty she forebore to rebuke as he opened the door for her.

  James was shuffling up and down, up and down, over the counter-placed flagstones at the other side of the rectangular walk that crowned the tower within the crenellated parapet, lips moving, arms gesturing – whether apostrophising his Maker, declaiming poetry, or making incantations, was uncertain. Mary, lifting her skirts a little, went tripping over the stones towards him.

  The King halted in mid-pantomime at sight of her, glowering blackly. Then, as she straightened up from her brief curtsy, and he perceived her identity, his features slackened to a grimacing smile.

  'Och, it's yoursel' just, Mistress Mary!' he declared, in relief. 'You gave me a right fleg! I was thinking o' Anne, you see – o' the Queen. I wondered if I was beholding her drowned ghost…!'

  'Oh hush, Sire – how could that be?' she returned. 'Your lady is safe and well, I vow, and no ghost. Moreover, not to be confused with the humble daughter of Davy Gray.'

  'Aye. Aye, belike you're right. It was just a sudden notion, you ken.' James scratched at his straggling apology for a beard. 'But… what brings you here, lassie? You're alone, just? There's nane hiding behind yon door? I'm no' seeing a'body… we are not giving our royal audience to any. We would be private…'

  'No, Sire –
I am quite alone.' The girl hesitated, prettily. 'I… I came, Your Grace, to seek a favour.'

  'Aye. Ooh, aye. A' folk do that,' the disillusioned monarch agreed, with a sigh. 'What is't you want then, Mary?'

  She wrinkled her lovely brow. 'It is difficult. I am overbold, I well know. I should not ask it. But… I must needs dare turn to you, Sire, in my trouble. You see, I also am turning my foolish head to poetry. Although that is much too fine a name to give my poor verses. I seek to write an ode to your princess, Sire – a little song of welcome for your young Queen Anne from her most lowly Woman of the Bedchamber. I have got so far, poor as it is – but now I am stuck. Stuck quite, Your Grace, for a rhyme. So… so I dared come to you for help

  James of Scotland was quite transformed with delight. Shining-eyed, stammering his pleasure, he turned to her, grasping her arm, her hand again. 'Hech, hech – is that s'so? Y'you are, Mary l'lass? Mercy on us – it's kindly in you, right kindly. Aye. I rejoice to hear it. No' that you're stuck, mind -for I ken what it is to be stuck for a rhyme. Many the time I'm stuck, myself. But… och, I'd never ha' thought it. And you but a bit lassie…'

  'That is so, Your Highness. And my, my presumption is the greater in coming to you who are not only the King but so renowned and practised a poet…'

  'Aye – but who better, who better?' he exclaimed. 'Wae-sucks – do I no' writhe betimes on the same slow fire mysel'?'