It was while they awaited an answer from Elizabeth, David at least with much anxiety, that a quite different storm burst upon the Scottish Court from the south, all unexpectedly – at all events, once again, to David Gray, as to others much more loftily-placed. It came in the form of a furious letter from Elizabeth, a second from the Lord Burleigh, and vehement supporting representations from the English ambassador on the instructions of Walsingham. Like an explosion it rocked Edinburgh.
The Queen of England was enraged. One of her most gallant and favoured subjects, the excellent Lord Russell, had been savagely and barbarously done to death, whilst on an official mission and on English soil, by the minions of the Earl of Arran. Arran had indeed been present at the dastardly outrage. Assuredly nothing of the sort could have occurred in the presence of the Scottish Chancellor without his approval and instigation. Arran was therefore the murderer of one of the Queen's most beloved friends. She demanded forthwith that he be handed over to her Governor of Berwick, to stand immediate trial for his crime.
To say that James was appalled by this extraordinary communication, is to put it mildly. The young King indeed took to his bed, and at first refused to see anyone, Arran included. For Burleigh's supporting letter left no doubts as to the seriousness with which the matter was viewed in London, though nobody in Scotland had ever heard of Lord Russell being prominent at the English Court Burleigh, repeating the Queen's charges, announced that should her demands anent the Earl of Arran not be met immediately, James's pension would cease, all diplomatic relations would be broken off, a punitive expedition would be despatched to the Border, and a Bill would be rushed through Parliament debarring James from any possibility of the succession to the English throne.
The King turned his face to the wall, and wept
Well might Arran fume and curse and plead, mystified as he was wrathful. James would not hear him. The younger man was struck in his most vulnerable spot-his overmastering ambition for the dual throne of England and Scotland. He would hear nobody indeed, shutting himself away, while his Court wondered and questioned and debated. Never had a storm arisen out of so small a cloud. Border incidents were an everyday occurrence, and many more prominent men than this Bedford heir had died in them. What did this mean? And what would be the outcome? It was inconceivable that the King could hand over his Lord Chancellor and favourite to an English trial…
Yet, when at last a puffy-eyed, nervous and stammering James was brought to the point of granting the audience that the English ambassador demanded, it was on this impossible condition that Wotton insisted. Arran and Kerr of Ferniehirst must be delivered up, he declared. His instructions were adamant. James gabbled and shrilled and choked. Wotton would not budge – and reiterated the consequences. The English Parliament had never been so anti-Scots, he pointed out, especially with the other matter of Mary Stuart's plot and the threat of assassination against Elizabeth. They would debar the Scots succession without any urging from the Queen; indeed, it would undoubtedly require Elizabeth's active intervention on his behalf to save his claim now.
James's tears overflowed again. He wailed that he would that all the lords of his Borders were dead and the fine Lord Russell alive again.
It was the Master of Gray who, presently, suggested a compromise. While it was unthinkable that my Lord of Arran should be handed over to the Governor of Berwick like some English renegade, it might be advisable and acceptable that His Grace should confine him in some assured stronghold where he could be held secure until this unfortunate business was suitably adjusted and resolved to the satisfaction of all parties…'Yes, yes,' James cried;, clutching at a straw. Assuredly, that was the solution. His good sister Elizabeth would surely be satisfied with that! Captain Jamie should be shut up, at once. Let it be seen to. In St. Andrews Castle for sure. It was the strongest Aye, right away. He would send a letter to Her Grace of England – a special envoy – explaining the matter. Ferniehirst should be punished, of course – hanged.
Wotton, professing serious doubts, withdrew on Patrick's pressing his arm.
And so, ridiculously, fantastically, for one of the few crimes that he had not committed, fell Captain James Stewart, Earl of Arran. Or commenced his fall; for his was a somewhat prolonged descent. He was immured in St Andrews Castle, deprived of his high offices, and James mourned for him as though dead – but not quite as he had mourned for Esme Stuart And the Master of Gray ruled in his stead – though modestly he refused the style and title of Lord High Chancellor. He did however preside over the meetings of the Privy Council, even though in a determinedly unofficial and temporary capacity. No jealous earls or lords might say that Patrick Gray thrust himself into the highest office under the Crown.
Elizabeth Tudor informed her Parliament that she could not countenance the public trial of her erring sister Mary Stuart -meantime. But an Act passed, naming as liable to summary execution not only all who plotted against her life but those in favour of whom the plots were made, would be a sensible and just precaution. The Act was passed with acclamation.
Bishop Davidson announced to Patrick that he was now a free man. The Kirk, after due and devout consideration, had decided that he had in fact never been married at all to Elizabeth Lyon.
Chapter Twenty-seven
IT was always difficult to know whether there was some sort of large-scale entertainment going on in the Earl of Orkney's apartments at Holyroodhouse, or whether it was a mere domestic evening. Orkney was so prolific of progeny and so fond of a multiplicity of female company – as indeed were his sons – that he had always sufficient members of his own establishment respectably to fill a ballroom; moreover, apart from Marie, who was so out-of-type as scarcely to seem to belong to the same family, they were all of such hearty, lusty and extrovert nature that it was seldom indeed that their quarters did not sound as though either a rout or a rape was in full progress. More dull and sober members of the royal household had long given up complaining; only solitary confinement, it had been ascertained, would change the King's uncle.
Patrick was faced with the usual problem as he strolled round Orkney's eastern wing of the palace in the September dusk. Laughter, shouting and skirling, it seemed, issued from every window. Yet it was unlikely, surely, that here was an invited company, for would anybody at Court hold such a function without seeking the exalted company of the acting Chancellor, especially Orkney who had never made any secret of his designs upon the Master of Gray as a prospective son-in-law?
Patrick slipped in through a side door, looking for a servant to ask the Lady Marie's whereabouts. He could find none; Orkney's servants tended to take after their master. One room from which he heard voices, on his opening the door, was revealed to contain two persons grovelling on the floor in extraordinary and vigorous embrace. Another he did not trouble to look into, the sound of a woman's giggles and screeches being sufficiently informative. These were the servants' quarters. He mounted the first stairway that he came to, and was promptly all but knocked over by a laughing, uproarious, stumbling trio, a young girl in front, dishevelled and all but naked to the waist, one young man behind grasping her flowing red hair and another her torn chemise. One of the gallants, Patrick recognised as a son of Orkney's; probably the other was, also. Presumably they would not be disposed, meantime, to guide him to their sister.
Not for the first time, Patrick asked himself how in the name of all that was wonderful, Marie Stewart had managed to grow up such as she was in this atmosphere.
By following the music to its source in a long picture-hung gallery, he ran Orkney himself to earth – but not just as he expected. It was the Earl indeed who was doing the fiddling, sitting at a lengthy and almost empty table of broken meats and spilt wine, over which one or two figures still sprawled. Patrick had not realised that the man had this attribute. Though obviously drunk, he was leaning back, glazed eyes fixed on a frowning painting of King Alexander the Second, and playing the instrument with great pathos and sweetness. One of his curre
nt young women leaned against his shoulder, despite her clothing managing to look extraordinarily innocent because she was asleep, and further down the table an older woman beat solemn time to the music with a slopping goblet of wine. Marie was not there. Indeed, the only other sign of life was a large wolfhound which methodically moved up the table, forepaws on the board, selectively clearing the various platters of their debris.
It was in the garden that Patrick eventually found Marie, in an arbour – and with a companion. Though the pair were only sitting on a seat together, he was profoundly shocked – infinitely more so than by any of the scenes that had presented themselves within the house. He knew the fellow – a George Ogilvie, brother to the sister's husband in Glen Prosen in Angus. He had been hanging around the Court for a while… with this as attraction?
'I beg your pardon,' Patrick announced, coldly. 'I had not realised that you were thus engaged. I will retire.'
'Why, Patrick, there is no need,' Marie assured. 'It is good to see you. We are but seldom so honoured, these days. You are so important a figure…'
'Nevertheless, I will await another occasion, I think. With your ladyship's permission!'
At his tone, she raised her fine brows, and then smiled. 'Was it myself, then, that you came to see? Or Mr. Ogilvie?'
'I can conceive of no subject which I would wish to discuss with… this gentleman,' he answered. Ogilvie, on perceiving the newcomer's identity, had started up.
'I… I shall be off, Marie'he faltered. 'A good night to you. And to you, sir.' 'No, no, George. Do not go…' Ogilvie went, nevertheless.
For a while there was silence. Patrick paced to and fro in front of Marie's seat
'If it is exercise that you came here for, Patrick, let us walk, for sweet mercy's sake!' the young woman said, a little tardy for her, rising.
He frowned, and halted. 'Not so,' he said. 'Unless you are tired of sitting? Perhaps you have been at it overlong? Perhaps you are chilled, now that he is gone?'
Unspeaking, she looked at him in the gloom.
'It may be that I should be grateful that at least you are but sitting, and not lying, as are most of your peculiar family, it seems! This Ogilvie – he is not lacking in the necessary virility, I hope?'
'Patrick – George Ogilvie is my sister's good-brother – and my good friend,' Marie said evenly. 'I would ask that you speak honestly of him in my company…if not of myself!'
'Of course, of course, my dear -I am all respect! My only hope is that I have not ruined your evening!'
'You are in a fair way to doing so, sir, I think,' she gave back. 'May I ask, had you any other purpose in your visit?'
'Nothing that need give you a moment's concern, no! Nothing that in the circumstances could do other than amuse you, Marie. I did but come once more to ask if you would marry me. So wearisome an errand, I must admit'
She turned her head away, biting her lip.
'Undoubtedly I should have sent you warning. It is thoughtless to descend upon a lady unawares! Another time, I shall remember.'
'Do,' she said swiftly. 'As no doubt you do for any of your other women – the Lady Hartrigge… Eupham Erskine… Madame de Courcelles… or even Elizabeth Arran – though perhaps she does not require warning! We all deserve a like courtesy, surely?' She took a deep breath. 'Or is it too much to ask, now that you have become so great a man, so busy? Master of all Scotland, indeed – and therefore, of course, of all its women!'
Quite suddenly Patrick laughed – and amusedly, not sourly, harshly. 'Lord, what a fool you are, Marie!' he declared. 'And myself also. Like bairns, we are!'
'A bairn – the great Lord High Chancellor of the Realm! The Master of the King's Wardrobe…'
'Aye, there you have it! Think what you have just said, girl. Does it not sound strange in your own ears? For I am not the Chancellor, but I am the Master of the Wardrobe! There is a great difference, is there not? I could be the Chancellor – yes. I act the part, for the moment But I do not seek to be the master of Scotland, see you – merely of the royal wardrobe! James has offered me an earldom, but I have refused it I am well content to be Master of Gray. I do not seek any of these things. Aye, the Wardrobe suits me very well!'
She turned to look at him. 'What signifies the name?' she asked. 'You are the master of Scotland. You have made yourself that – arid by no accident, I think. Does it matter what they call you, so long as all men do what you tell them? Even the King?'
'You dream, Marie – you dream!'
'It is true. Has not James shut up even Arran at your behest – his own favourite and familiar?' 1
'Only as a gesture towards Elizabeth.' She sdd nothing.
Patrick sighed. 'I would, at least, that the women did as I told them – one woman in particular!'
'Enough do, I believe, to keep you from… discomfort!' She looked away again. 'And yet you… you deny me even George Ogilvie!'
It was the man's turn to be silent He began to pace the garden path, and quite naturally she fell into step beside him.
'George tells me,' she went on, in another voice, 'that the Master of Glamis is back in Angus, at his castle of Aldbar. That my lord Bothwell has been seen in Dundee, and the Earl of Mar is said to be on Donside. None of them without your knowledge.. I am sure?'
'Your George would seem to be notably well informed for a heather lairdling!'
'He says that the whole north country buzzes with it. All the Ruthven lords are back- and to some purpose, no doubt'
'And does your knowledgeable Ogilvie suggest what these purposes may be?'
'He says – he but repeats the clash of the countryside – that it is your doing, Patrick. That you have brought them back, in order to constrain the King… without your hand seeming to appear.'
'Lord, was ever a man so detracted! Whatever ill is done in Scotland, it must be my doing, for some deep and sinister motive! And do you believe all this, Marie?'
'I do not know. I have long since given up trying to know what to believe of you, Patrick. Save that you will go your own gait, always.'
'And would have you go it with me, my dear. That, too, you know.'
'George Ogilvie notwithstanding?'
He shrugged. 'As you say, George Ogilvie, or the Devil himself, notwithstanding!'
'But this… this is most generous of you!' she exclaimed, though her voice broke a little. 'Am I to be almost as privileged as you are? Permitted the magnificent freedom of a man, plucking fruit by the way where I will?'
'Aye,' he said, heavily for Patrick Gray. 'If needs be. If that is how you would have it. For have you, I must, Marie.' Wryly he smiled. 'You see how much means your talk of me being master of all!'
She was moved – but hardened herself. You conceive this as the only way to master me, perhaps?'
'I think that I shall never master you. I do not know that I wish to. Only to marry you, woman – and that is different.'
'Yes, Patrick, marriage is different, as you say. But you know my views on marriage, to be sure.'
'Aye. That is why I came here with some hopes tonight, Marie. Perhaps foolishly. But tonight I am a free man – save for your toils. Today, I had word that my marriage to Elizabeth Lyon is no more.'
He heard the catch in her breath, as she turned to him. 'Patrick!'
'Aye. Or better than no more – that it has never been. It is annulled, as void and invalid.' 'Annulled…?'
'The Kirk, in its wisdom, finds this the better course And who am I to question it? Moreover, I think that you will take it kinder than a divorcement…'
'Oh, yes, yes! I do! I do! Patrick – you did not tell me…! This is…'
'You are happy, my dear?'
'Of course. Of course. Can you doubt it?'
'Then… does it mean… can I believe… that you will indeed wed me now? At last, my love?'
Brokenly she laughed. 'I cannot see… how I can refuse, any more! Can you?' Abruptly she swung round, to bury her face against his chest, clutching him convulsively. 'O
h, Patrick! It has been so long! A very long time. I can hardly understand it. That at last there is nothing to stand between us…'
'Save the Master of Gray?' he asked, holding her fast, 'This… monster who must rule Scotland and all men! The satyr who uses all to serve his own wicked ends?'
She looked up at him. 'Even he does not stand between us,' she said. 'Perhaps he should. Perhaps I am a fool, weak, sinful. But I love you, Patrick- all of you, the good and the bad. I am not so very good, my own self, And I will wed you as you are. Once I told you that, a free man, I would give you an honest answer. There you have it.'
'My beloved! And… your door that was to stand wide open for me, one day?'
She raised a hand to his hair. 'It stands open, my heart. I could not hold it shut, any longer. I am but a weak woman. But… I would esteem you the more if you would bear with me, and wait… a little longer. Until we are wed. Or is that too much to ask of the Master of Gray?'
He drew a long breath. T faith, Marie Stewart, you drive a hard bargain! Is life with you going to be this way, always?'
'I think not, Patrick. But… if it is?'
'I will wed you, just the same – God help me!'
They were married on a grey November day, with great pomp and ceremony, at Holyroodhouse, in the presence of the King -who indeed gave away his cousin – and all the great ones of the land. Mariota saw her father there, for the first time since Patrick's earlier marriage; the Bishop was prepared to be affable, but his daughter was not.
Lord and Master mog-1 Page 39
