The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  'Moray? And Bothwell? How comes Moray into this?'

  'He is Captain of the King's Guard. Or was. Bothwell was the King's prisoner. He could be held responsible. But, worse – the escape was gained through a man dressed as an officer of the Royal Guard, and bearing an order supposedly signed by Moray, as Captain, to gain him admittance to Bothwell on the King's business. A forgery, of course. But ample for the occasion. Ample to poison the King's mind. Moray's denials count for little.'

  'Who was this man? This officer of the Guard?'

  'Nobody knows… or will tell. But he was dressed in the royal colours and livery. And only one close to the Guard could have gained him that. Or close to the Wardrobe!'

  'I see. So Patrick cries down Moray, now? Why?'

  'Not so. He is loud in Moray's defence. Too loud. Making excuse for him in this. But also in the matter of the Queen. It is for this last that I am frightened, Vicky. This of the Queen.'

  'You fear for the Queen, Mary? Surely not that? Not even Patrick could…'

  'The Queen, yes. Although not so much as for Moray. I fear for them both. Together. Patrick is very attentive to the Queen. But she has Dunfermline, that hateful place that he had set his heart on. He will never have it now – and I think that he will never forgive her. And, sorrow – that was my doing also. It was I who urged the King to dower her with Dunfermline Abbey. To prevent Patrick from ruining himself to get it. I was clever again, you see – so very clever. So I bear responsibility for both, for Moray and the Queen, Vicky

  'I think that you blame yourself overmuch, Mary.' He frowned. 'But… I do not understand. How comes the Queen into this matter? Of Moray and Bothwell? What do you fear for her, in it?'

  'It is not that. It is that the Queen is seeing overmuch of Moray. From the first she has liked him well, as you know. But it becomes too much. In especial since coming to Falkland. And Patrick is effecting it so, I am sure. Falkland is not far from both Dunfermline and Donibristle, Moray's house in Fife. The Queen is ever going to Dunfermline, to see to her house building there, while the King is hunting or at his books and papers. Moray is in disgrace, and banned the Court meantime – but he is much at Dunfermline, and the Queen at Donibristle.'

  'You think that they are lovers?'

  'No. Not that. Not yet. But Moray is… Moray. And very handsome. And the Queen is lonely, and very young. And Patrick, I think, would have the King come to believe it. To Moray's ruin.' She sighed. 'I have spoken to him, of course. He but laughs at me, denying it. But as one of the Queen's women I see much. I see how he ever entices the Queen to Dunfermline, with new notions for her house, new plans for the pleasance she is making, for the water-garden, for new plenishings that workmen he has found for her are making. When she would have the King go with her, I have seen how Patrick works on him to do otherwise – a deputation to receive, a visit to Cupar or St. Andrews or Newburgh, new papers to study, or some notable stag spied on Lomond Hill. He is always with the King, closer than he has ever been. With Moray and Bothwell and Huntly banished the Court, the Chancellor still in Edinburgh, and many of the lords at their justice-eyres – aye, and you away here, Vicky – thus there are few close to the King to cross Patrick's influence. Only Mar, who is stupid. And Atholl, who is drunken.' She paused, almost for breath. 'I fear greatly for Moray and the Queen,' she ended flady. 'And I must blame myself.'

  'You blame yourself for too much, Mary. This is Patrick's doing, not yours.'

  'But I – I thought to outplay Patrick at his own game. That there is no denying.'

  He carried an armful of sweet-smelling hay to the manger. 'Patrick is nearer to the Devil than ever was Bothwell!' he said.

  Her lovely face crumpled as with a spasm of pain. 'Do not say that, Vicky!' she pleaded. 'Never say it.'

  'It is the truth,' he declared bluntly. 'The man is evil.'

  'No! Not evil. Not truly evil. My father – Davy Gray -said that he had a devil. I did not believe him. Yet he loved him – loves him still. Perhaps he is right – perhaps he has a devil. Perhaps he is two men – one ill and one good. There is much good in him, Vicky – as you know, who are his friend.'

  'Was his friend,' Lennox corrected briefly.

  *Was and are, Vicky. You must be. True friendship remains true. Even in such case.'

  'May a man remain friends with evil, and still not sin?'

  'I think he may, yes. Is it sin for me to love Patrick still, as I do. Not the evil in him, but Patrick himself.'

  'He is your father…'

  'I do not love him because he sired me. Davy I love as my father. I love Patrick… because he is Patrick.'

  'Aye.' Ludovick sighed. 'So do we all, God help us! Come – into the house with us.'

  'Then – you will come back with me, Vicky? To Falkland? To help me? To try to save Moray. And the Queen. And Patrick from himself. I know that you hate the Court, Vicky -but come.'

  'Lord!' Almost he smiled. 'All that! So many to save! I will come, Mary – but cannot think to achieve so much. I am no worker of miracles, as you know well. Or you would be my wife here in Methven. But come I will – since you ask it. As you knew I would – or you would not have come, I think.'

  'As I knew you would,' she agreed, gravely. 'Thank you, Vicky.'

  Later, with a well-doing fire of birch-logs blazing and spurting on the heaped ash of the open hearth, filling the handsome room with the aromatic fragrance and flickering on the shadowy panelled walls, Mary sat, legs tucked beneath her skirt, on a deerskin rug on the floor, and gazed deep into the red heart of the fire, silent. It was indeed very silent in that chamber, in all the great house, in the night that pressed in on them from the vast and empty foothill country. The only sounds were the noises of the fire, the faint sigh of evening wind in the chimney, the occasional call of a night-bird, and the soft regular tread and creak of floorboards as Ludovick paced slowly to and fro behind her. They had not spoken for perhaps ten minutes, since she had cleared away the meal that she had made for them, and he had lit the fire against the night's chill.

  The young man's voice, when it came, was quiet also, less jerky and self-conscious than was his usual. 'This… this is what I have always dreamed of, Mary. You, sitting before my fire, in my house. Alone. And the night falling.'

  She neither stirred nor made answer to that. His steady but unhurried pacing continued at her back, without pause.

  'You are so very small,' he mentioned again, presently, out of the shadows. 'So slight a creature to be so important. So small, there before the fire – so slightly made, yet so perfect, so beautiful. And so strong. So strong.' That last was on a sigh.

  'I am not strong, Vicky,' she answered him, after a long moment, calmly, as out of due consideration. 'No, I am not strong.'

  'Yes, you are,' he insisted. 'You are the strongest person that I know. Stronger than all the blustering lords or the frowning churchmen. Stronger than all who think that they are strong – the doctors and professors and judges. Aye, stronger even than Patrick Gray, I swear.' He had halted directly behind her.

  She shook her head, the firelight glinting on her hair, but said nothing. Nor did she look round or up.

  'Why should the woman that I want, and need, be so strong?' he demanded, his voice rising a little. 'When I am not strong? Why should it have been you… and me? In all this realm?'

  'I do not know, Vicky,' she told him. 'But this I do know… that I do not feel strong this night.'

  'You mean…?' Looking down on her, he opened his mouth to say more, and then forbore, frowning. When she did not amplify that statement, made so factually, he resumed his pacing.

  An owl had the silence to itself for a space.

  'All men want you,' he said, at length. 'I watch them. See how they look at you. Even some of the ministers of the Kirk. Even James, who is fonder of men than of women. All would have you, if they could. Yet you look to care for none of them. You smile kindly on all. On many that deserve no smile – ill, lecherous men. But yourself, you ne
ed none of them?' That last was a question.

  'You think that?'

  'I know not what to think. I wonder – always I wonder. You keep your inmost heart… so close.'

  'You make me sound hard, unfeeling, Vicky. Am I that?

  'No. Not that. But sufficient unto yourself, perhaps. Not drawn to men. Yet drawing men to yourself.'

  'I mislike the picture that you paint of me. Is it true, then?'

  'It cannot be – for I would paint you as the loveliest picture in all this world, if I could, Mary – if I but knew how.'

  'Dear Vicky.'

  'Mary.' Abruptly he was standing directly above her again, his knees all but touching her back. 'Have you – have you ever given yourself to a man? So many must have tried to have you. Have you let any take you?' That was breathlessly asked.

  'Why no, Vicky. I have not.'

  He swallowed, and was silent

  She turned now, to look up at him. 'Why do you ask? Do you fear that I am cold? Unnatural? That I find no pleasure in men, perhaps? And think that this may prove it?'

  'No, no – never that, Mary. I am glad. Glad. I hoped…' He paused. 'You see, neither have I ever had a woman.'

  Slowly she smiled. 'No?'

  'No.' Something, perhaps her faint smile, made him add, hurriedly, almost roughly, 'I could have had, Mary. Many a time. Many would have… that Jean Stewart…'

  She nodded. 'I know it, Vicky. The Duke of Lennox need never lie lonely of a night.'

  'But I do, Mary – I do!' he cried. 'There's the nub of it!

  And it is your doing.'

  'I am sorry,' she said flatly.

  The silence resumed, and Ludovick's pacing with it.

  Presently, and very quietly, the girl began to sing, as though to herself, an age-old crooning song with a haunting lilt to it, as old as Scotland itself. Softly, unhurriedly, deliberately, almost as if she picked out the notes on a lute, she sang, eyes on the fire, swaying her body just a little to the repeated rhythmic melody. The song had no beginning and no end.

  Gradually the young man's pacing eased and slowed, until he was halted, listening, watching her. Then, after a minute or two, he came to sink down on his knees on the deerskin beside her. His hands went out to her.

  'Mary!' he said. 'Mary!'

  Turning her head, she nodded slowly, and smiled at him, through her singing. She raised a finger gentiy to bar his lips. Her strange song continued, uninterrupted. The two wolfhounds, that had sat far back in the shadows, crept forward on their bellies into the circle of the firelight, until they lay, long heads flat on outstretched forepaws, on either side of the man and woman.

  A quiet tide of calm flowed into and over that chamber of the empty house, and filled it.

  Her singing, in time, did not so much stop as sink, diminish to a husky whisper, and eventually fade away. Neither of them spoke. Ludovick's arms were around her now, his face buried in her hair. Presently his lips found her neck below her hair. In time a hand slipped up to cup one of her breasts.

  She did not stir, nor rebuke him.

  More than once words seemed to rise to his exploring lips, but something in the girl's stillness, the positive calm of her, restrained him. He held her close, while time stood still.

  It was the sinking of the fire, the need to replenish it with logs, that changed the tempo. Lennox, after throwing on more wood, became imbued with a new urgency. His lips grew more daring, his hands roved wider. At last Mary stirred, sighing.

  'Vicky,' she said, 'this way lies sorrow, hurt. For us both. You must know it.'

  'Why, Mary? Why should it? We shall not hurt each other, you and I. And we are not children.'

  'Not children, no. But you have a wife, Vicky. I cannot forget it.'

  He frowned. 'In name only. I have told you. And many men have wives… and others.'

  'Yes, my lord Duke,' she said. 'And others!'

  'Lord – I am sorry, Mary! I did not mean it that way.'

  *No. But that way the world would see it, Vicky. Not that I greatly care what the world thinks of me. But I care what I think of myself. And of you. Moreover, I will not further hurt your Lady Sophia. In this house, where she should be.'

  He shook his head, wordless.

  'We must not think only for the moment,' she added.

  'Moment!' he jerked. This marriage of mine is not for any moment. It may be for years – a lifetime! I cannot wait for that. I have warmer blood than that!'

  'And you think that I have not?'

  'I do not know. I only know that you are strong. So much stronger than I am.'

  'Do not talk so much of strength,' she said, low-voiced. 'If I was so strong, I would not be here in this great empty castle with you now. I would have gone back, forthwith, late as it was. When I found you alone. Not to Falkland but at least to St. John's Town. Or even to the inn in your village here. If I had been so strong.'

  Uncertainly he eyed her, surprised at her sudden vehemence.

  'I have told you before, Vicky – I would not have you think me other than I am.'

  'Will I ever know you?' he demanded. 'Know you as you are?*

  It was her turn not to answer.

  'Are you unhappy, Mary? Here. Alone in this house, with me?' 'No.'

  'You are not frightened? Not of me, Mary? Never of me!'

  'No, Vicky. I do not think that I could ever be frightened of you. Only of myself, perhaps.' She paused. 'So… so you will help me, will you?'

  He stared at her, swallowed, and could find no words. But after a few moments his arms came out again to encircle her but protectively this time, and so remained, firm, strong.

  Her little sigh might have been relief, relaxation, or even just possibly, regret.

  Presently she settled herself more comfortably on the deerskin, leaned her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

  She did not sleep. But after a while Ludovick did, his weight against her becoming heavier. Long she crouched thus, supporting him, growing cramped, sore, although with no discontent thereat showing in her features. Indeed frequently a tiny smile came and went at the corners of her mouth. Sleep overcame her, at length.

  Sometime during the night she awakened, stiff, chilled. Ludovick lay relaxed, arm outflung, but shivering slightly every so often in his sleep. The fire had sunk to a dull glow, and the hounds had crept close about them for warmth. Smiling again a little at the thought of forty empty beds in that great house, Mary carefully reached over to draw up another of the deerskin rugs that littered the floor. Settling herself as best she could, she pulled it over them, man, hounds and all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  AT first light they rode away from Methven Castle. They went first to the village nearby, where Ludovick knocked up his steward and left sundry instructions, and then turned eastwards for the Earn and Fife, going by unfrequented ways and avoiding Perth. They parted company some miles outside Falkland, so that Mary could enter the town alone and without arousing special comment. The Lady Marie knew of her errand anyway, and she had chosen an occasion when Patrick had gone on one of his many brief visits to Broughty Castle, to examine progress of his works of improvement.

  Lennox's return to Court that evening, even without his new wife, evoked no great stir. James was glad to see him, in an absent-minded way. Patrick also professed himself to be overjoyed, when he got back from Broughty next day. Otherwise there was little interest, for the Duke had as few friends as he had enemies.

  Thereafter began a strange and unacknowledged tug-of-war over the activities and influences and persons of James Stewart, Earl of Moray, and Anne of Denmark, Queen-Consort. Undoubtedly none of the principals knew anything of it. Nor did the King, though the effects were not lost on him, perceive the tugging, the stresses and strains of the warfare, the gains and losses sustained. Even Patrick Gray himself probably did not fully recognise the positive and consistent nature of the opposition to his plans. He could be amusedly sure that his daughter, wife and Lennox would disapprove o
f any obvious moves against Moray; but then, the Master's moves were seldom obvious. That Mary Gray was, in fact, little more obvious than himself, had not yet fully dawned upon him.

  Moray was still banished the Court, but was living less than a score of miles off at his own house of Donibristle. Dunfermline was only five miles away, and Anne was as often there as at Falkland. Mary, as was to be expected, was usually with her -and so now was Ludovick Lennox who had never previously shown any notable interest in the young Queen. He was seldom far from her side, indeed – which did not escape the notice of the Court, and did not endear him to Moray any more than to Patrick, whatever Anne thought of it. James would remark, waggishly, that his good Coz Vicky seemed a deal fonder of the Queen than of his own Duchess – but few doubted that the stiff and unforthcoming Lennox was in fact more interested in the Queen's tire-woman than in Anne herself, Mary being sufficiently kind to him in public to give some substance to this assumption.

  The Queen, therefore, although she saw much of Moray, seldom saw him alone. Lennox was as good as a watch-dog -and notably well-informed as to Anne's every move. Probably she believed that James had arranged it, and even Patrick may have assumed the same. As a situation, it verged on the comic.

  Patrick sought continually to arrange matters so that the Queen should be thrown in Moray's way, and that the King might find them together in some incriminating circumstance.

  Mary, Marie and Lennox, from their positions of strategic vantage close to the King, Queen and Patrick himself, sought to make sure that this did not happen. It could not have been achieved without Lennox, and him devoting almost his full time to the business. Patrick, in due course, came to realise this, even though attributing much of it to the King's instigation – and the rift between these two former close friends widened. And, in time, however successful the counter-measures, that rift began to worry Mary Gray almost as much as the fate of Moray. Thwarting the Master of Gray, however secretly, was a chancy activity, and like trying to damp down a volcano; there was no saying where one might cause another irruption to break out, in consequence, with who knew what hurt to others.