James once more suggested that to celebrate the occasion he should make the happy couple earl and countess, but again Patrick declined. He was the Master of Gray. Let that stand. One day, God being merciful, he would succeed his father as sixth Lord Gray; until then he would serve his King very well as he was. He did, however accept the Commendatorship of the prosperous Priory of Culross as a small mark of his monarch's esteem – which at?5000 Scots a year, was always a help to a man taking on the burdens of matrimony.
Actually, Patrick had another and personal request to put to the King, that he humbly ventured to suggest might fittingly mark this joyful occasion. He pleaded that James might, of his royal goodness and clemency, see fit to transfer the unfortunate Earl of Arran from durance vile in St. Andrews Castle, to less rigorous ward in his own house of Kinneil – under due and strict guard, of course. He had had a word with Wotton on the subject, and he agreed with him that Queen Elizabeth was not likely at this stage to differentiate between the two forms of imprisonment. His Majesty was of course graciously, indeed eagerly, pleased to accede to this generous request on the part of the bridegroom. Indeed, everybody was pleased – fond monarch; Arran, who had himself written to Patrick suggesting the move and offering as inducement to his friend the great and influential Commendatorship of Dunfermline, the wealthiest church lands in all Scotland, which he had held for some time; and the returned Ruthven lords, who now knew where they could lay hands on Arran's person, that had been hitherto safe from them behind the impregnable walls of St. Andrews Castle.
Altogether it was an auspicious wedding-day, even though somewhat less dramatically celebrated than had been its predecessor eleven years before.
Patrick Gray had now reached the mature age of twenty-seven years. The bridal pair were still delectably engaged in the discovery of each other, in one of the remoter Gray castles of northern Perthshire, when the reunited and assembled Ruthven lords, with a following of almost eight thousand men, struck without warning at Stirling, where James was in residence. The move was well planned, the royal defence half-hearted in the extreme, the town fell, and the great castle surrendered with scarcely a blow struck. James, in dire agitation, and vowing that this could never have happened had his good Master Patrick been on hand, nevertheless found that his former harsh captors had adopted a new attitude towards him. Instead of hectoring and bullying, they knelt at his feet, swearing devotion and allegiance, and assured him that only His Grace's true good and the weal of the realm had moved them to act thus drastically in order to remove the traitors and scoundrels with whom the unprincipled Arran had surrounded his liege lord. For themselves they had no claims nor ambitions – only the triumph of the true Protestant faith and the King's gracious goodwill. In token of which they did not claim any hand in the government for themselves, suggesting instead that James chose some faithful, well-tried and experienced minister of his own whom his loyal Reformed subjects might support and serve in the interests of all Scotland – for instance, the Master of Gray, if he could be persuaded to exchange his present blissful dalliance for the burden of state affairs.
Nothing loth and mightily relieved, James sent forthwith for the innocent Master of Gray with pleas, indeed imperative royal commands, to come quickly and take control of the rudderless ship of state.
Arran, warned, bolted from Kinneil, the royal guards conveniendy looking the other way, and fled the country.
Patrick sighed, complained that they might at least leave a man alone to his nuptial exercises – and returned to duty, resolutely refusing to admit that he was now indisputably the master of Scotland, even to his wife.
Happy Scotland, that seldom in her long history can have known a ruler at once so able and so devoid of personal ambition.
Chapter Twenty-eight
FOR the best part of a good, peaceful and prosperous year, that of our Lord 1586, Patrick Gray largely controlled the destinies of his native land – whatever the names and titles of the nominees who carried out his policies, for he still rigidly refused the office of Chancellor, or indeed any other save that of simple Master of the King's Wardrobe, the holding of which seemed to tickle his fancy. For that year, the bribery of underlings all but faded from the life of Scotland; corruption, in the major courts at least, became a rarity; and the King's law, however uncertain and curious, prevailed in all but the wildest Borders and remoter Highlands. For one year even the great lords held their hands, sheathed their swords, and waited. For one bare year.
Then on the fifth of August, Walsingham reached out his long arm and arrested Anthony Babington, in Harrow Woods, and the peace of Scotland, the pax Patricius was shattered quite.
Babington was a hot-blooded young Derbyshire squire and a Catholic. In concert with some companions of like outlook, he devised one more project for the dethroning of Elizabeth, the elevation of Mary in her place, and the re-establishment of the True Faith in England and Scotland. Unfortunately perhaps, he was more effective than most of his predecessors, more, thorough-going and vigorous. His plans were not in the clouds, but realities. Unfortunately, too, he communicated the gist of them, by letter, to Mary the Queen, though taking the precaution to sign them with a cipher.
Warned, through Giffard the Jesuit counter-spy, Walsingham laid hands on Father Ballard, another Jesuit agent who was in touch with Babington. Tortured, he at length revealed the identity of the leaders of the plot. Babington and his colleagues were apprehended, and put to the rack. Their confessions, and the progress of their plans, shook England. The ports where Spanish, French and Papal troops were to be landed were listed; estimated numbers of local supporting forces were given; arrangements for the rescue of the Scottish Queen were detailed; and, worst of all, the identity was revealed of six gentlemen who were conjointly responsible for the assassination of Elizabeth, without which the invasion could not be f assured of success – the names including Babington himself and even one, Charles Tilney, of the Queen's own Gendemen Pensioners.
Mary was taken to Fotheringay, now under closest arrest, while Parliament screamed for her blood. It mattered not how whether she knew of the proposed assassination or no. The new Act naming as guilty any in whose favour a plot might be hatched adequately covered her position, from the point of view of England's law.
Babington and his companions died horribly, on the 20th and 21st of September, as a public spectacle and warning, Elizabeth's own commands insisting that their agonies be extended for as long as humanly possible, after mutilation and disembowelling.
Parliament, in London, set an early date for Mary's trial, and, prejudging the issue, vociferously demanded the death penalty.
The trial, held in indecent haste at Fotheringay, was a farce, a mere formality, and intended to be nothing else, the judges including even Walsingham himself. Mary, denied an advocate, defended herself with vigour and dignity, but Walsingham could produce letters to prove all that he wanted, genuine or forged. Although the judges held that it was legally unnecessary now to prove Mary's knowledge of and condoning of the assassination attempt, Walsingham produced a letter addressed to Babington from the Scots Queen, plainly supporting this course. Mary, whilst admitting the authenticity of most of the other intercepted letters, swore by all that she held to be holy that this was false, a forgery, that never could she countenance the violent death of her sister-queen, that the assassination of an anointed monarch was a crime against the Holy Ghost, the assenting to which would damn her own soul to everlasting torment.
The thirty-six judges, under the Lord Chancellor, the two Lord Chief Justices and Burleigh himself, were not impressed. They adjourned the Court for a week, and on the 25th of October found Mary Stuart, daughter and heiress of James the Fifth, late King of Scots, guilty, and sentenced her to death by execution at such time and place as appointed by the Queen's most excellent Majesty. God save the Queen!
Scotland boiled into a ferment. England could not do this to her Queen – even though many S cots had called her a whore and an i
dolatress for years, well enough content for her to linger a captive. Imprisonment was one thing, but death by execution quite another. Moreover, this was a national insult, since no English court assuredly had jurisdiction to try and condemn the Queen of Scots. Demonstrations and near-riots broke out all over the country. The Kirk itself was moved to protest against this unwarrantable attack on the sovereignty of Scotland.The Catholic north and the Highland clans blazed alight with ire. The Estates of Parliament met and demanded the annulment of so iniquitous a trial and judgment
All this might seem strange in the circumstances, if not positively ridiculous, but it could be argued that the Scots were always a particularly thrawn, awkward and disputatious race, and wickedly proud Moreover, despite their determinedly dour and matter-of fact facade, they are sentimentalists, romanticists, almost to a man. But perhaps still more to the point is the fact that the Reformation had come late to Scotland At this time, therefore, the majority of the population had been born Catholic, whatever faith they opted for later. If the Gaelic Highlands were taken into account, as was not always the case, probably more than half the Scots people still belonged to the Old Religion.
Scotland did not seethe alone, either. France, Spain and the t Vatican, as might have been expected, sent vigorous protest, combined with dire threats, to London; but apart from these, practically every crowned head in Europe, every princeling even and petty ruler, sent envoys or urgent written representations to Elizabeth. All saw only too clearly, in Mary's sentence, a shocking and unthinkable threat to their own order – the judicial execution of a monarch. Accept that, and the entire principle of the divine right of kings was jettisoned, lost, their sheet-anchor gone.
Elizabeth neither confirmed nor rejected the death sentence. Elizabeth, indeed did nothing.
Not that she was entirely alone in that. Two others who might have been expected to be markedly active in this crisis seemed in fact to be almost entirely supine, passive. They were James, King of Scots, and his trusted mentor and minister, Patrick, Master of Gray.
James's state was, to say the least of it, curious. He made little comment on the situation, keeping his own counsel. When public opinion forced him to speak, he deplored the grievous assault on the idea of kingship, the injury done to Scotland's pride, the invalidity of the court and its judgment He did not allow himself the luxury of a more personal statement – and certainly not once did he unburden his soul of the anguish that a son must feel for a mother in such dire straits. Not for kings was the exhibition of private griefs and anxieties, he asserted – and quoted a Latin tag to prove it;, Patrick Gray's attitude was as disciplined, and more calmly assured. Elizabeth would not endorse the death sentence, he declared firmly, unshaken by all urgent demands – David's and his own wife's in especial. She could not, without disastrously weakening her own throne, endangering her own crown. She would not put another queen to death – she dare not. There was no need for alarm, therefore. No move was better than a false move in a delicate situation.
From this considered attitude Patrick would not budge, in public or in private utterance.
Alas for statesmanlike calm and discipline. These admirable qualities were at all times somewhat scarce amongst the Scots nobility, and in a crisis of national sentiment such as this, they were notable for their absence. Indeed, they were even more unpopular than the idea of unity, which is saying something, in Scotland. Adversity, they say, makes strange bedfellows. This death-sentence on an eighteen-years-imprisoned queen did likewise. Sworn enemies made common cause, Catholic and Protestant lords spoke with almost the same voice, and men who had cursed and abused Mary for years suddenly became her vocal friends.
Patrick Gray, for once, had miscalculated.
The extent of his miscalculation was brought sharply home to him when, on the last day of October, he was abruptly commanded into the royal presence from his house in the Lawn-market of Edinburgh. With David at his side, he strolled unhurriedly down the steep mile of tall lands and tenements to the grey Palace of Holyroodhouse, frowning occasionally. He was unused to such brusque summonses.
They found the palace, in a state of considerable commotion, and thronged with men – the supporters of many great lords.
'Huntly's Gordons and Bothwell's Hepburns mixing – and not at each others' throats I' David commented. 'Here is some-thing new in Scotland!'
Wondering, they made their way to the Throne-room. It was as thronged as was the courtyard. One swift glance was enough to establish that this was not just a spontaneous corning together of sundry lords that happened to be in Edinburgh at the time. This was an assembly, summoned and arranged.
That Patrick's sources of information had not advised him of it was interesting. The Ruthven lords, Angus, Johnny Mar, Bothwell, Home, Lindsay, the Master of Glamis and the rest, now the dominating force on the Scottish scene, were very much to the fore; but so were also the Catholic leaders -Huntly, Herries, Montrose, Erroll – along with men of neither faction, such as Atholl, Wemyss, Crawford, Seton and the Lord Claud Hamilton. The King himself, as so often the case, stood nervously in a far corner, a hunched shoulder turned against Sir John Maitland, the Secretary of State, who seemingly sought to convince him to some course.
At sight of Patrick, James's young but woebegone and sagging features lit up. He came across the floor at an ungainly run. 'Man Patrick!' he cried. 'You've been ower long. Where have you been? Could you no' have come quicker than this? Man, it becomes you ill – ill, I say! to treat your prince's summons thus. They have all been at me, Patrick…'
'Sire, I was so deep buried in the affairs of your realm that I fear I took a deal of digging out. It is a toil that I would be quit of, I do declare.' He smiled reassuringly, as James gripped his arm. Then his genial regard circled the entire great room, and he laughed pleasantly, amusedly, and waved a welcoming hand. 'I see many friends of mine here gathered, Your Grace – a great many. I applaud the happy circumstances that brings us all together, thus.'
"They've been at me, I tell you, man – all at me. Like hound-dogs!' the King declared. 'About… about… her! About Mary – my mother.' It was not often that James was brought to enunciate that word. 'They are all at it. They'll no' let me be. I have told them what you said, Patrick…'
'Master of Gray,' the brash young Earl of Bothwell interrupted. 'We fear that His Grace is not fully apprised of the danger in which our Queen is placed…'
'Our Queen, my lord?' Patrick commented, but mildly. 'I do not think that I have heard you name her that, before!'
The high-coloured, bold-eyed nephew of Mary's former paramour bit his lip. 'Nevertheless, sir, our Queen she is. Scotland's Queen,' he asserted strongly. 'Her life is sore threatened, and Scotland's name and honour with it. We are here to urge that His Grace take immediate and sure action.'
A strong chorus of Ayes came from the assembled company.
Patrick bowed his head to the strength of expression rather than to the fears expressed. 'I applaud your concern, my lords' he said. We all feel deeply for Her Highness. But I believe your dread to be ill-founded. I have said before – I do not accept it that Queen Elizabeth will endorse this sentence of execution.'
'You may not accept it, but Archie Douglas does!' the Earl of Angus declared. 'He writes to me that all about the Queen believe that she will sign the decree, that the bishops have advised that it is her duty, and that Leicester has sworn that he will have Mary slain in her cell if the execution goes not forward.'
The King and Patrick had received a like account, of course. Archibald Douglas, the Scots resident ambassador in London, was a sort of cousin of Angus, as of the late unlamented Morton.
'Master Douglas is a notable correspondent, my lord, but his judgment has been proved to be at fault ere this, where Queen Mary is concerned!'
None failed to detect a barb in that The Reverend Archibald had been one of the principal parties to the murder of Darnley.
The Earl of Huntly spoke up – to James, not to Patr
ick. The Cock o' the North addressed no one less than his monarch. Your Grace's fair name demands that you protest in the strongest terms at this outrage against your royal mother. And more than protect…'
'But I have protested!' the King cried. 'Have I no' sent Sir William Keith to make protest against the wrongous trial…!'
'Keith!' Huntly exclaimed scornfully. 'Think you, Sire, that Elizabeth will pay heed to such as Keith?'
'What else can I do, man Huntly?'
'You can annul and cancel your country's participation in the infamous Protestant League!' the Catholic Gordon chief roared. 'It is a work o' the devil, anyhow!' And he glared at Patrick.
There was a shuffling of feet and a murmuring, there. Unity might cost too much.
Another Douglas, George of Lochleven, the same who had once proved Mary's friend indeed and aided her escape from his own father's fortress, now raised his voice for her once more, and boldly. Your Grace would be well advised to listen to the promptings of your own heart, rather than the honeyed words of some who constantly counsel you,' he said. 'Some there are close to you, no doubt, who are but the pensioned slaves of Elizabeth! Their aim, I will swear, is but to create bad blood between Your Grace and your royal mother…'
'Quiet, man!' James squeaked, his eyes rolling and darting. 'How dare you speak me so!'
Patrick laid his hand on the King's arm. 'Sire, perhaps Lochleven will give us the names of these dastards whom Elizabeth has bought?' He smiled. 'It may be that in his remote tower, he hears whispers which pass over us here! And the House of Douglas, as all men know, has its, h'm, its own channels of information.'
The Earl of Angus, for his part, laid a hand on his kinsman's shoulder. George Douglas swallowed, but met Patrick's amused gaze squarely.
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