The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  'You – you have bested Queen Elizabeth?'

  'Why yes, my pigeon – I think that I have. And hope to again, bless her!'

  Intently the girl looked at him. 'Did she not best you? Did she not once best you grievously? Did she not betray you shamefully to Chancellor Maitland? Deliberately. Causing you to be taken and tried for treason? Over the death of our good Queen Mary, whom she murdered? So that you all but lost your life?'

  He stroked his chin. 'I suppose that is true, Mary. But… statecraft is a ploy in which one must learn to let bygones be bygones. Revenge and vindictiveness are luxuries that may not be afforded in affairs of the realm. Especially towards a reigning prince. I can nowise drag Elizabeth off her throne. Yet because she sits on that throne, I may achieve much of benefit. I would be a fool, would I not, to prefer to remember that it once suited her policy to be rid of me?'

  'I see,' Mary considered him gravely. 'She might be so suited again.'

  'Aye, she might.' He laughed, fondling her smooth bare arm. 'But enough of such matters – no talk for a girl lacking her beauty-sleep. We shall await Gloriana's pleasure, since we can do no other – and then seek to pit our wits against hers. For all dealing with Elizabeth is such – like swordplay. She has to be approached with a fresh and unprejudiced mind. But, you – you are not wearying, my dear? Finding your time to hang heavily? You, who have half of our ageing Elizabeth's pretty boys running after you, paying you court instead of her? I vow she will be sending for us soon, if only in sheerest desperation to be rid of you, my sweet!'

  The young woman shook her head. 'I am not wearying, no. I like it very well,' she said frankly. 'But I do not flatter myself that the flattery of these gentlemen is more than that… nor their court more than a step towards winning into my bed.'

  'H'mmm.' Patrick's stroking of her arm paused for a moment. 'I faith, you are… plain-spoken, girl,' he said, blinking a little. 'For your years. But… I give thanks at least that you are not swept off your dainty little feet by these gentry. Even Raleigh himself, I notice, seems over-eager. You are new and fresh, of course – a freshness that the Court ladies here notably lack. And devilish attractive, although I say it myself…!'

  'Thank you. Sir Walter, I think, feels it necessary to conquer every new lady,' she said. 'He seeks to do so very spendidly. I would not wish to distress him that he has failed to conquer my heart – so long as that will content him. As I have told him.'

  'On my soul, you have! Damme – that could be a dangerous hand to play! You think… you think that you can play it, lass? At your age? With such experienced gallants as these?'

  'Why yes, Uncle Patrick – I think so. None of these fine gentlemen, you see, are one half so pressing as was Nick the stable-boy at Inchture. Or even the blacksmith's son of Longforgan.'

  Swallowing audibly, the Master rose to his feet. 'Is that so?' he said, moistening his lips. 'I… ah… I perceive that I am but beating the air, my dear. Left far behind you. You must forgive me.' He took a pace or two away, and then came back to the bed. 'Moray,' he said, in a different tone. 'You have no trouble with Moray, I hope, Mary?'

  It was the girl's turn to blink a little. 'Why, no,' she answered, after only a moment. 'My lord and I understand each other very well, I think.'

  'I am glad of that,' he said. 'You must tell me if it should turn out… otherwise.' Patrick stooped to kiss her. 'Goodnight, my dear. Tell me… am I getting old, think you?'

  Her soft laugh was very warm, as her arms went up to coil round his neck. 'You are younger than I am, I do believe, Uncle Patrick!' she said.

  The very next evening they saw Elizabeth. They were all at a great entertainment of dancing and music given by the Earl of Oxford in the Mirror Ballroom of Greenwich House itself – for the Queen preferred her subjects, in especial such as basked in the light of her favour, to provide the festivities for her multitudinous Court out of their pockets rather than her own. An interlude of dancing apes, dressed male and female in the very height of fashion, was just concluding with the females beginning to lewdly discard their clothing, to the uproarious delight of the company, when a curtain of silence fell gradually upon the crowded colourful room. All eyes turned from the grotesquely posturing monkeys towards the far end of the mirror-lined apartment. Only a slightly lesser hush had descended when the apes had been brought in, and at first Mary Gray anticipated only another such diversion, and anyway could see little for the throng. Then, as everywhere women sank low in profound curtsies, and men bowed deeply, and so remained, she could see over them all. She caught her breath, dazzled.

  The dazzlement was by no means merely metaphorical. The brilliance of what she saw actually hurt the girl's eyes – so much so that, initially, detail was blurred and lost in the blaze of radiance. Scintillating, flashing in the light of a thousand candles, and duplicated to infinity by the mirrors on every hand, a figure stood just within the doorway – a figure indeed rather than a person. It was only as Mary stared, scarcely believing her own eyes, that she belatedly perceived two facts; one, that there was a pair of very keen and alive pale eyes glittering amidst all this brilliance; and two, that she herself was the only other person standing fully upright in all that assembly, and in consequence that those searching eyes were fixed full upon her. Down the young woman sank.

  The tap-tapping of a sharp heel on the floor was the imperious signal that all might resume the upright. Elizabeth Tudor came on into the ballroom on the arm of her host Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, with an almost tense and deliberate pacing, as though she held herself in from more rapid motion, and on all sides men and women pressed back to give her clear and ample passage. Even now Mary could scarcely discern the pale thin features of the woman herself, so extraordinary was their framework. The Queen was dressed all in white satin, but in fact little of this material was to be seen, so thick encrusted was it with gems and jewels. Her gown was rigid enough to have stood upright on its own, so closely sewn was it with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, in clusters and galaxies and designs. Her great upstanding ruff, which forced her to hold her head so stiffly, was pointed and threaded with literally hundreds of small pearls and brilliants. Hanging from her neck were at least a dozen long ropes of great pearls. Her once-red hair, now covered with an orange wig, had a myriad of pearls large and small threaded on many of the hairs. Above it a pearl and diamond tiara was perched. Her fingers were so beringed that they could scarcely bend, and her wrists and forearms were sheathed in bracelets of white enamel studded with more gems. All this, coruscating and sparkling in the bright light, was so overwhelming on the eye as to leave the beholder dazed, dizzy. Its absurdity was on such a scale as to benumb the critical faculties.

  Woe betide anyone, however, who equated that absurdity with weakness or vapidity of character, took such outward display as indicative of emptiness within. Elizabeth's passion for precious stones was a weakness indubitably, but there was strength enough in other directions to counter-balance many such. None who knew her were ever so foolish as to allow themselves to be deceived.

  The Queen paced stiffly round the great and respectful company, throwing a brief word here, a thin smile there, once hooting a coarse laugh at some whispered remark of Oxford's, poking a diamond-studded finger into the padded ribs of my lord of Essex, frowning impatiently at one unfortunate lady who, when curtsying, slipped a heel on the polished dancing floor and thudded down on one knee. It was the respect, awe almost, which so much impressed Mary Gray – so different a reaction to that inspired by King James in his courtiers and subjects. Which the girl found strange indeed, for Elizabeth in her own way was almost an incongruous and ridiculous a figure, on the face of it, as was her distant cousin of Scotland. Fascinated, the girl watched.

  Elizabeth moved hither and thither amongst Oxford's guests, but though time and again she came close to the Master of Gray and the Earl of Moray, always she veered off. Almost certainly she was deliberately avoiding them, for it was unthinkable that she did not know well of their
presence there; Walsingham and his horde of spies, had for years seen to it that Elizabeth was the best-informed monarch in Christendom. Mary glanced at Patrick sidelong. The man was his smiling assured self – although Moray was much otherwise, flushed and plucking at his pointed golden beard.

  The Queen circled back eventually to the little group that stood actually alongside the Scots party – Raleigh, Francis and Anthony Bacon and the Lord Mountjoy. With them abruptly she was a changed woman, vivacious, easy, swift in gesture, rallying the young men, her strange pale golden-green eyes darting. Mary, watching closely, was sure that those eyes flickered more than once over in their own direction, but no move, no hint of acknowledgement of their presence, was vouchsafed.

  Elizabeth was now in her fifty-seventh year, and in the girl's youthful eyes, was showing her age, although her clear and absolutely colourless complexion was still extraordinarily free of wrinkles. She was not beautiful, nor had ever been; the long oval of her face, high aquiline nose, faint eyebrows and thin tight lips, precluded it; but when animated, there was an undoubted attractiveness in her features, a magnetism that was not to be denied.

  Suddenly, with a ringing laugh, she turned away from the four young men, ordering Oxford to proceed with the evening's entertainment, presenting only her stiffly upright back to the Scots emissaries in the process, and went pacing off towards the head of the room amidst the consequent stir. Seldom could there have seemed a more deliberate snub.

  'My God…!' Moray growled. 'This is not to be borne!'

  It was the Master of Gray's laughter that rang out now, and more melodiously than had the Queen's. 'My lord – you are a notable performer at the glove and the ball, we know. But this is a more delicate sport – and he who holds his hand to the last round may win the game!' He by no means lowered his voice to make this comment, and undoubtedly Raleigh and the rest heard him, possibly even the receding Elizabeth herself.

  Oxford gave a signal to the musicians in the gallery, and thereafter Elizabeth led the stately measures of the first dance with her host as partner. Couples were slow to be first to venture out in the Queen's company, and only two or three had in fact been bold enough to make a move when Patrick, bowing to Mary, took her by the arm and swept gracefully out into mid-floor with her. For a few moments, although others were circling on the perimeter, only these two pairs were out in the centre of the room, the target of all eyes. Patrick guided Mary so that they passed very close indeed to the Queen and Oxford. Darkly smiling eyes met and held narrowed golden-green ones, and then they were past. The Master chuckled in the girl's ear.

  'Heigho!' he said. 'Two can play this game. Let Gloriana pretend now that our presence is unknown to her!'

  'I think that Her Grace is not greatly going to love me!' Mary murmured.

  'Tush, lass – Elizabeth admires best those who stand up to her… if so be it she does not chop off their heads! And she can scarce do that to the King of Scots' envoys!'

  After only a minute or two more of the dance, the Queen abruptly adandoned it, indeed abandoned the ballroom altogether, stalking off through the doorway by which she had entered, Oxford hurrying in her imperious wake. Few failed to notice the fact, Mary included.

  'She has gone,' she told her partner. 'She is set against us, quite.'

  'Wait,' Patrick advised. 'She is not gone for good, otherwise the music would have been stopped, and we would be all bowing and scraping. Wait you, moppet.'

  They had not long to wait, in fact. The first bars of music for the next dance were just being struck up when Sir Walter Raleigh came to touch the Master on the arm.

  'Her Grace commands the presence of my lord of Moray and yourself, with your ladies, in the ante-room,' he said expressionlessly. 'Come.'

  'Indeed? We are ever at the Queen's commands, of course. We were about to dance this pavane, however. Perhaps…?'

  'I think that would be inadvisable, Patrick.'

  'Ah – you think it? Perhaps you are right. You agree, my lord? Lead on then, Walter.'

  Elizabeth was seated in a throne-like chair in a smaller chamber beyond the ballroom, Oxford and Essex at her back. As the visitors made the required obeisance, she smiled graciously.

  'Welcome to our Court and presence, once more, Master Patrick,' she said pleasantly. 'I see that you appear to be nowise disadvantaged from heretofore. I congratulate you on your… resurgence. I think, almost, that you are indestructible!'

  'You are kind, Highness – as always. And more adorably beautiful than ever!' Patrick stepped forward, sank on one knee, took the proffered bejewelled hand, and raised it to his lips. 'It is like the summer returned to be put in Your Grace's presence once more.' It was noticeable that he retained a hold of the royal fingers.

  The Queen looked down at him quizzically. 'You ever were a talented liar, Patrick!' she observed. She twitched her hand away from his grasp, then, almost flicking his face with the hard diamonds in the process. 'Impudent!' she snapped.

  'Say, rather, overwhelmed and beside myself, Lady!' he amended gently, rising.

  'I doubt it, sir – God's death, I do! But nor am I overwhelmed, I'd assure you! Be certain of that, my friend. If anyone is beside himself, I conceive it to be my peculiar cousin of Scotland, who can still consider you a worthy emissary!'

  'On your own recommendation, Madam, I am grateful to say!' Smiling, Patrick half-turned. 'May I present to Your Grace my prince's other emissary – my lord the Earl of Moray, close kinsman to the King.'

  'Aye, I have been noting him! A better-made man than you, Patrick – and more honest, I hope! Welcome, my lord – in ill company as you are!'

  Moray, obviously uneasy, uncertain how to take all this, bowed stiffly over Elizabeth's outstretched hand. 'I present my prince's traist greetings and salutations, Your Grace.'

  To be sure, to be sure. No doubt. But not your own – eh, sir?' the Queen rejoined dryly. 'I have heard you named bonnie, my lord – and perhaps with some slight cause. At least you are bonnier than your late good-father and uncle, the previous Moray! For he was as sour-faced a knave as any it has been my lot to meet!' Elizabeth opened her mouth, and then clapped a hand to it in a seemingly impetuous and girlish a gesture as might be imagined. 'Sweet Jesu – a pox on my runaway tongue!' she declared, eyes busy. This will be his daughter? You must forgive an old woman's scattered wits, my dear.'

  The Countess, flustered and speechless, curtsied, glance darting towards her husband, who seemed all but choking. 'Your Grace…!' that man spluttered. 'Yes, my lord?'

  When the other found no words, and Patrick seemed about to intervene, smiling still, Elizabeth raised a hand to halt him.

  'Tell me, my lord of Moray – how many bastards besides your father and goodfather did the late King James of pious memory produce? On ladies of noble blood, I mean, naturally

  since the rest can be ignored. It was always been a question of some doubt with me. Once, I thought that I could count seventeen – but since I had no fewer than five named James amongst that total, I grew confused. Perhaps no proper count was kept?'

  The Earl's good-looking ruddy features grew almost purple, but the Queen went on before he could speak.

  'And this,' she said, turning to look at Mary now, 'is the wench of whom I have not failed to hear! An interesting face is it not, Patrick? Even though it need not show its mislike of me so plainly! Your name, child?'

  'Mary Gray, Your Grace.'

  'Aye. It could scarcely be other! I wonder, Patrick – have I wronged you? Or… not wronged you enough?' She was patently comparing the two Gray faces, feature by feature. 'A fascinating problem, I vow! What do you find so amiss in me, child? Come – tell me.'

  Mary shook her head gravely. 'I would not dare to find aught amiss with the Queen of England, Madam, in her own palace.'

  'Ha! Minx! That is as good as to admit you mislike! What ails you at me? Out with it, I say. Be quiet, Master of Gray! Speak but when you are spoken to!'

  The girl chose her words careful
ly, but with no sign of agitation. 'I but wonder, Your Grace, why so great and powerful a princess should act so. Assuredly there must be a reason.'

  Elizabeth's jewelled shoe tapped the floor. 'Act so…?' she repeated. 'You, in your wisdom and experience, chit, conceive it that I act amiss as a princess? On my soul, this intrigues me! And you seek a reason for my actions?' 'Why yes, Highness.' 'And have you thought of one?' 'No, Your Grace. Not yet.'

  The Queen barked a brief laugh at that. 'Fore God – you are candid, at least! Like that other you once brought to my Court, Patrick – the natural brother that you miscalled secretary. Was not Davy his name? Aye, Davy Gray. He had the same critical eye, the same damned uncomfortable honesty! Unlike yourself, Patrick! And yet… and yet the likeness between you two, otherwise, is not to seek! A strange contradiction, is it not?'

  'Not so strange, Highness – since Davy Gray had the upbringing of Mary here,' Patrick told her.

  'Ah – so that is it? The upbringing, you say? But not, perhaps, the begetting?' She smiled, looking from one to the other. 'I perceive it all now. A remarkable situation. I see that you deserve my sympathy, child, rather than my just ire. To be such as you are, to have in you such opposing strains -to be Patrick and Davy Gray both! God help you!' The Queen leaned back in her chair. 'But enough of this,' she said, changing her tone. 'Is my young cousin of Scotland in good health? He has sent me no poems, of late. He is not sickening?'

  'His Grace is much distressed, Madam, in awaiting his bride. The Princess Anne,' Patrick told her. 'These long continuing contrary winds and storms…'

  'Ah, yes,' Elizabeth sniffed. 'Had he chosen the Princess of Navarre, as we advised him, he could have spared himself this. You led me to believe, Master of Gray, that you could convince him to that course. And you did not. I do not commend such failures, sir. Navarre is now France, and his sister heir thereto. Here was folly.'