Lord and Master mog-1

by Nigel Tranter

  Patrick actually laughed, though not respectfully. 'But that is not where the astute Gloriana will send them, I swear!' he said.

  'No? Where then, sirrah?'

  'Where but to Mary herself, Lady? To Wingfield. To speak with her – under due restraint, to be sure. To take strong measures against our company would set back Your Grace's relations with Scotland grievously, offend King James, and greatly rejoice France, Spain and the Pope. Yet this project was devised only because Davy and the others believe that you will not permit us to see Mary. Allow that, under what safeguards you desire, and there is no need for this desperate venture – no rift in Your Highness's relations with Scotland.'

  Elizabeth drew a long breath, and then exploded into urgent speech. 'God's passion -! believe that you have devised it all your own self, Patrick Gray, in order to constrain me! It fits all too close, too snug by far. It is your work, you devil…!'

  'Not so, dear Madam. For I have patience, and entire faith in your wisdom. My brother and his friends it is who are thus headstrong, not me.'

  'Either way, you are a devil, Patrick. Why I permit you even to speak with me, I know not…' she paused, and from the littered table at her bedside picked up the locket which Patrick had given her some days before, weighing it in her hand. Though he smiled gently, the young man watched that beringed hand keenly. 'I should return this bauble to its shameless giver,' the Queen went on. She dangled it back and forth. 'Should I not, Patrick…?'

  He leant over. 'If Your Grace wishes to break my heart,' he told her.

  'Have you a heart, Patrick – or but a busy, black, scheming mind? And a honeyed tongue?'

  'Feel you whether or no I have a heart, Lady. Feel whether it throbs,' he advised, and reaching out, took her hand and placed it against his chest

  'Lord – you are so padded, man, I feel naught but staffing…!'

  Smiling, he opened his white velvet doublet, and guided her hand therein.

  'I think… yes, I think that you have a heart, Patrick,' Elizabeth murmured. 'I feel something. But… it beats but slowly, sluggishly, it seems. What dull cold message does it spell out, I wonder? Come nearer, lad, that I may listen.' She patted the bed at her side.

  'If mine is cold and slow, yours must be hot and fast indeed fairest one,' he asserted softly, sitting down. He took the locket and chain from her other hand, and proceeded to settle it, as before, between her breasts.

  'Rogue liar!' she said, but leaned the closer. 'Mary Stuart, they say, is growing fat You must tell me, Patrick, when you return, the truth of it Will you, boy – the truth?'

  'Assuredly, dear lady – always the truth. As now…'

  Chapter Twenty-four

  WINGFIELD Manor belonged to the Earl of Shrewsbury, who had long been burdened with the expense of acting gaoler to Queen Mary in his various strongholds – for in her usual fashion, Elizabeth expected her faithful subjects themselves to pay for the privilege of entertaining her guests, voluntary or otherwise. In this instance, however, Walsingham had found a deputy for Shrewsbury – no doubt because he feared that the Earl might be growing soft where Mary was concerned – in the person of Sir Ralph Sadler, a stocky, square, impassive man in. his early sixties, a soldier, stiff, unsmiling and a little deaf. The Manor of Wingfield was a large and compact house, standing in a strong position on a steep promontory, in foothill country about ten miles north of Derby, its only accessible side guarded by a moat

  As Sir Edward Wotton, Walsingham's deputy, introduced the four visitors to Sadler, under the fortified gatehouse, the drawbridge lined by his men-at-arms, he greeted them without betraying emotion of any sort, nodded to Marie rather than bowed, and turned away forthwith to lead them within. The choice of the unhappy Queen's gaolers-in-chief was always something of a mystery. Presumably Walsingham selected them for qualities which were no doubt of vital importance. Whatever their differing types, it was essential that they should be staunch Protestants, past the age of probable susceptibility to women's wiles, stern of heart

  (A single-minded gentleman, undoubtedly,' Patrick murmured.

  'Necessarily so.' Wotton smiled. 'I would not play host to your princess for a dukedom! I would end in the Tower, I have no doubt – and very quickly.'

  'I wonder!'

  The house formed two squares, one within another, around a central grassy court where fantail pigeons strutted, ducks from the moat quacked, and women washed clothing at a trough beside a well. Wotton informed them that one of the internal wings was allotted to Mary and her small entourage, and another to her guards and Queen Elizabeth's representatives.

  David's eyes were busy on strategic details as he followed Patrick, Orkney and the Lady Marie.

  At the entrance to Mary's apartments, a thin saturnine stooping man, like a moulting crow, met them, and was introduced as Mr. Secretary Beal, a Clerk to the Privy Council and Elizabeth's 'envoy' to her royal cousin – in feet, her principal and very efficient spy. Behind stood Monsieur Nau, Mary's own secretary – he who had once been refused audience of James at Falkland – and also Sir Andrew Melville of Garvock, her most faithful attendant, styled Master of her Household, who had elected to stay with his mistress throughout the long years of her captivity, brother to the better known Sir James of Halhill and Sir Robert the soldier.

  Beal spoke coldly, nasally. 'I understand, Sir Edward, that these gentlemen are to be permitted a short exchange with the former princess, Mary Stuart?'

  "That is so, Mr. Secretary – in your presence and mine, naturally.'

  'If Her Grace permits an audience,' Melville put in, valiant yet

  Beal sniffed, Wotton smiled, Sadler stared straight ahead of him, but Patrick bowed. 'Indeed yes, sir,' he declared. 'It is our humble desire and request that such audience maybe granted to us, her loyal subjects.'

  Orkney chuckled 'Mary will see me, never fear. I am her brother – God help her!'

  Melville, and Nau also, bowed and withdrew.

  'The lady maintains this… comedy,' Wotton observed, shrugging. 'She never wearies of it Extraordinary.'

  'Is comedy the word, sir?' That was Marie, eyeing him levelly. 'She is anointed Queen of Scots, and Queen-Dowager of France. Where is the comedy?'

  'Your pardon, lady.'

  They waited, in silence.

  Presently Melville returned 'Her Highness is graciously pleased to receive you,' he announced.

  He led the way indoors, into and through a chamber where two ladies mended garments. At an inner door he glanced back at Wotton and Beal, who had come along behind the Scots party. 'Her Grace prefers to receive her Scottish subjects in private audience, sirs,' he asserted evenly.

  'No doubt,' Wotton answered. 'But the Queen's command is definite, sir.' Never did Elizabeth or any of her servants accord Mary her title of queen. 'Your lady may not see these, or any visitors, save in the presence of myself and Mr. Beal.'

  Tight-lipped, Sir Andrew turned and resumed his walking.

  They passed through a kitchen, and then up a narrow twisting staircase. Undoubtedly these had been the servants' quarters of Wingfield Manor. In the little corridor above, Monsieur Nau stood on guard outside a closed door. As the party came up, he turned solemnly to rap on its panels with his little staff, slow dignified knocks. In marked contrast to this somewhat laboured and pathetic 'striving after royal style and ceremony, the door was flung open swiftly, and a woman stood framed therein, smiling. A rivulet of laughter, spontaneous, unaffected, silvery, seemed to cascade around the company.

  'Alors mes amis – visitors! True visitors, from Scotland!' a clear musical voice rang out 'Happy this day! Ah, I am glad,

  In front of her all were dumb – even Patrick, even indeed the insensitive and hearty Orkney, her unlikely brother. David, looking, found himself to be incapable of any coherent thought, only of powerful and conflicting emotions. He was aware of a quite shattered admiration, an eager and overwhelming sense of devotion, and a great pity.

  He perceived, after some fashion, t
hat though Mary Stuart was indeed lovely, beautiful, that was not the heart of the matter. Nor was her attractiveness, her fascination. These affected him, undoubtedly – or he would have been no man. But it was something other than all this, something of such extraordinary quality and radiant personality that held him transfixed, transported, so that he could neither have moved nor spoken had he been called upon to do so. It was was not he was blinded by emotion. He perceived well enough that she was not the ravishing girl who, sixteen long years before, had crossed the Border and thrown herself upon her cousin Elizabeth's mercy-saw even, with a pang at his heart, that the knuckles of the slim white hand that she held out to her brother were swollen with rheumatism. It was that he perceived that she had no need of the chiselled perfection of her small and delicate features; of the alabaster transparency of her skin; of the flaming glory of her red-gold hair, as yet barely touched with silver; of the amber-and-green translucence of her eyes; of all the vital grace of a slender and almost boyish yet supremely feminine figure that the years were only just beginning to thicken. Without all these she would still have been, for David Gray, the same glowing magnetic being that was Mary Stuart and Mary Stuart only.

  Well might Elizabeth Tudor insist that she should never set eyes on her.

  ' Robert, she cried, pronouncing the name in French fashion, 'You are an old man! What have they done to you, mon cher Robert! Your belly is enormous!'

  Orkney guffawed, but even he was not unaffected. He could find no words. He looked at her – but later had to ask Patrick how she had been dressed. She was indeed all in black, save for white lace at neck and wrists, and wore no jewellery, the black velvet threadbare and mended. But how she was clad was quite unimportant, irrelevant, with Mary Stuart's beholders – however fond she was of clothes. What she wore was seldom noticed at the time.

  Laughing warmly, the Queen turned to her niece. 'And this -this can be none other than ma petite Marie, my namesake? So fair, so true, so douce! My dear, let me kiss you. I swear that you are the prettiest thing that these eyes have seen for long years. Ah me, once I was like you. And behold me now!'

  'You… Your Grace.' In face of that unlooked for sparkle and lively humour, the younger woman could only stammer. She curtsied, for her, clumsily. It seemed incredible that Mary should still laugh, after all the years of sorrow and prison.

  The Queen's extraordinary eyes rested on Patrick, and changed expression. 'So-o-o! For once rumour has not lied,' she murmured. "The Master of Gray is even more beautiful than has been told me. Is all else likewise true, I wonder?'

  He sank down on one satin knee, to kiss her hand. 'Madam' he said thickly. And again, 'Madam.' He bowed his head. 'Accept my… my devotion.' That was not like Patrick Gray.

  'I do accept it, sir – for I need all such, direly. But that you know as well as I do.' She raised him up. 'I thank you for coming. For achieving what few others have done these endless years – this meeting with friends from Scotland.'

  She turned to David. 'Who is this brave one who stands so surely on his two feet?'

  'He is David Gray, Highness. Secretary to this embassage. Brother to myself as the Lord Robert is to you.'

  'Ah. Another son of my good friend, your father. And a very different son, I vow! But, pardieu, I would not have thought him a secretary! Eh, Master Beal?' There was flashing scorn in that last – but not for David.

  As in a dream he took her proffered hand He did not sink down on his knee. He did not even bow. Nor did he speak, nor raise that hand to his hps. He merely stood and looked his adoration, his worship, lips parted

  Brilliantly the Queen smiled on him, and the hand which he clutched stirred and slid up to touch his face, briefly, lightly. 'Yes, very different, mon cher,' she repeated softly. And then, in another voice, 'Come,' she commanded

  They followed her into a sitting-room of modest dimensions and scant fiirnishing, where another lady sat stitching in the autumn sunshine at a window. The company all but filled the apartment As though noting it, the Queen turned

  'Mr. Beal, and you. Sir Edward – you may retire,' she said, all regal suddenly.

  "That is not possible, Madam,' Beal declared, in his rasping voice. 'We must stay.'

  'Unbidden, sir? In a lady's chamber? Any lady's chamber?'

  'It is the Queen's command'

  'The Queen? Ah yes, of course – the Queen. My sister is ever… thoughtful.' She shrugged, Gallic fashion. 'The Lady

  Melville will entertain you, then, gentlemen.' 1

  The woman at the window, Sir Andrew's wife, rose and came oyer to the Englishmen – Beal brushed her aside with a wave of his hand, however, and continued to eye the Queen.

  'You have not long, Madam,' he warned "These gentlemen needs must return to Derby forthwith.'

  Wotton had the grace to look uncomfortable, and to mutter apologies.

  Mary ignored them both thereafter, as though they were not present She turned to Orkney. 'How is my son, Robert?' she asked. 'How fares James – my poor James?'

  'Och, me laddie does well enough,' her half-brother told her, grinning. 'He warstles his way towards manhood… o' a sort!'

  'He grows the man? He is tall? Fair? Ofa noble countenance? Mort dieu, to think that I must ask the aspect of my own son! Whom does he favour? Does he favour Henry, or rather myself?'

  Orkney guffawed. 'God kens whom he favours, Ma'am. No' your own self, and that's a fact Maybe he has something o' auld Lennox to him – yon slippit mouth and gangling gait… '

  'His Grace is not tall, Madam, but his proportions are adequate,' Marie put in hurriedly, 'and his eyes are very fine -Stewart's eyes. He is the most learned youth in the land, and of great talents.' She knew that she gabbled, but could not help herself. Indeed, it seemed utterly impossible that this superlative, radiant creature should be mother to the shambling, sly and frightened James. 'He reads the Latin, Greek and Hebrew. He writes poetry…'

  'But not to me, alas,' the Queen interposed sadly.

  'His Highness sent his most devoted filial greetings, Your Grace,' Patrick announced. 'He assures you of his duty and affection. And he would have you to know that he does all in his power for the easement of your situation and the improvement of your state.'

  'I am happy to hear ft, sir,' Mary mentioned, a little dryly. 'It would seem to be a prolonged process!'

  'It is, yes, unfortunately, Madam – with the fate of realms in the scales. But, at last, the clouds open and the way becomes clear. Your Highness may take heart. Your long and weary vigil is like to be nearly over.'

  'Do you say so, Master of Gray? Ah, how often have I heard that before! Ma foi – soon now, this one assures me. Wait but a little longer, another says. And I have waited – aye, le bon Dieu knows how I have waited…!'

  'I also know it, Highness – we all do. But this time, it is different. I… we come direct from Her Grace of England. The King, your son, gave us full power to treat and negotiate. And at last we have something that Queen Elizabeth desires, something that Scotland may treat with.' Patrick's glance flickered over to where Wotton and Beal stood.

  Mary looked in that direction also. 'But does Elizabeth desire that I ever return to Scotland? Indeed, does my son, sir?'

  Patrick coughed. 'It may be that Scotland is not the next step for you, Madam. It may be that meantime you should, look southwards rather than north, for your freedom I believe that Your Grace loves France second only a little to Scotland?'

  The Queen's lovely glowing eyes looked deep into Patrick's own. 'I think that you should speak me plain, Master of Gray -in especial if, as these gentlemen of England say, we have but little time. What is this of France? And what that my sister of England desires, which Scotland may give?' Though that was said calmly, there was no doubting the tension behind the words.

  Patrick took a long breath. Seldom had Marie seen him less master of a situation, less at ease. He picked his words with obvious care. 'The King, Madam, proposes a, h'm, limited Association in the Scottish Cr
own.'

  'Limited? I first proposed such Association. Limited in what, sir?'

  'A sharing of the style and address, Your Grace. Also of certain revenues – in a due proportion, of course. With mutual powers in the granting of titles of honour, appointments of patronage…'

  These are fripperies, sir -pouf, mere nothings!' The Queen interrupted, with an expressive gesture. 'What of the rule and governance of my kingdom?'

  Patrick moistened his lip. 'That, His Grace and Council have decided, must meantime be left to himself. Neither the Kirk, nor Her Grace of England, will consider it otherwise. It is…'

  'Sacrebleu – you come to me with this! This insult! I am to yield all my rights and powers as ordained monarch to my son, a youth not yet of age, at the behest of the ministers of the Kirk and the Queen of England? How think you of me, Master of Gray? How thinks my son of me? Do I seem a shadow, a ghost? Look at me, sir. What do you see? A cipher? Or a fool?'

  'I see a very fair lady long held captive, Madam, for whom freedom of a surety must speak louder than any other word.'

  'But not freedom at any price, Monsieur. One may pay too dear for even such bliss. I have taken solemn vows before God, at anointing and coronation. I cannot divest myself of them as of a worn-out dress. I am Queen, not of Scotland but of the Scots, I would remind you. I cannot un-queen myself, at the behest of others. Sometimes, but yes, in weak moments, I have wished that I could, pardieu. But it is not possible.'

  'But… for sixteen years, Madam, you have exercised none of the powers and rights of monarch. You have been in all matters a prisoner. Surely, what now is offered is infinitely to be preferred? A release from this bondage. Your freedom. To live your own life again…'

  'My life is not my own – it is my people's. If I forgot that once, I have paid sufficiently, have I not? I shall not forget it again. How shall I live amongst my people in Scotland, and take no hand in their affairs, do naught for their needs, leave their care, for which I am responsible before God Almighty, to other hands? How shall I, sir? Mary spoke warmly, passionately.