Lord and Master mog-1

by Nigel Tranter

  Testing his joints, his muscles, cautiously, painfully, the man decided that no bones were broken. He took a tentative step or two, clinging to the wall – and though he winced with the stounding hurt of it, he perceived that he could walk. The dog began to bark, loudly.

  Feeling his way, hand never leaving the masonry, and with the children chanting in his wake, he began to edge along. A dark archway opened ahead of him – no doubt the pend from the wynd leading out on to the street. Through its echoing vault he limped, tottering.

  At the other end he paused, breathing deeply, trying to focus his unco-ordinated sight. Even so, it did not take him long to recognise his whereabouts. He was in the Lawnmarket, not far from his own house – even on the same side of the street Thankfully, if with great care, he began to stagger up the cobblestones. The children and dog deserted rum.

  How he managed to drag himself up the many steep stairs to his lofty eerie of a house, David did not know. Undoubtedly it took a long time. But one part of his mind was busy throughout, despite the physical stress – that clear, active part which pain indeed almost seemed to sharpen.

  They had not put him into a cell, like Patrick, as they had threatened, then. Nor had they resorted to the rack and the thumbscrews. Why? They had brought him down from the castle, spilling whisky over him to make him appear to be drunk – to account for his unconsciousness and battered condition. Brought him near to his own house. Why?

  Not out of any remorse or pity, that was certain. It could only be policy. What then? Why trouble thus? They wanted information from him. Presumably they had decided that they would not get it in a cell or under torture – nor from an unconscious man. They must still hope to get it out of him somehow, then, or they would merely have locked him up, or disposed of him out-of-hand. They must be going to watch him, therefore – keep him under observation, and hope that he would lead them to the information that they sought No doubt they were watching him, now. The fools! If only they knew the truth, the terrible, incredible truth! Not that they would, have believed him if he had told them…!

  David Gray lurched into his own house, and collapsed part upon a settle, part against the table. Consternation gripped the little household. Fortunately both Mariota and Marie, who had stayed with them since her husband's arrest, were practical-minded women, not given to hysteria. However vocal their distress and urgent their demands for explanation and information, however vehement their denunciation of whoever was responsible for his state, they set about the loving care of David's injuries and provision for his comfort and needs, without delay. They both knew him too well to be impressed by the smell of liquor. Mary, now thirteen years old, stared in wide-eyed horror, whilst seeking to keep young Patrick quiet.

  Speaking with difficulty through cut and swollen lips, David told them briefly what had happened after leaving Patrick's cell, dwelling mainly upon the fact that his assailants had but used him as a bait, allowed him unhindered access to his brother merely so that they might question him afterwards, and stressing that they undoubtedly would be watching him still, watching the house, hoping that he would lead them to what they wanted to know.

  The brutes!' Mariota exclaimed."The dastardly brutes! To think that they could sink so low – Maitland, Stewart! Men you have worked with…!'

  'It is but what Patrick would name statecraft, I suppose!'

  'It is savagery! Barbarity…!'

  'It is shameful! They are no better than brute beasts!' Marie said. 'But… but…' Her voice faltered. 'If you are to be watched, Davy, as you say – then what are we to do? It is but three days until… until…' She bit her lip.

  David cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  'We shall find a way, never fear,' Mariota asserted stoutly. "We shall win Patrick free.'

  'But how? Oh, how can we? If they watched David thus, they will watch me also, Patrick's wife, without a doubt And you too, Mariota…'

  'My lord – he would help. They would not dare to treat him so!'

  'I would not be so sure. But Lord Gray is at Castle Huntly, still. He has not come -he has not come, though he must know well that Patrick is taken and condemned. I wrote to him, but… he has not come! Anyway, to ride to Castie Huntly and back would take too long-four days.'

  'The King, then. You must try to see the King again, Marie. He is your own cousin.'

  'They will not allow it I have tried – you know how I have tried. But they surround James – guard him like a prisoner himself. They will not allow me into the palace. Davy – what did Patrick say? What did he tell you to do?

  David moistened damaged lips. 'He… I…' He swallowed, sorely. 'I cannot do it, Marie. I told you before. I am sorry -? but I cannot do it. Would not, even if I could.'

  'Davy! You do not… you cannot mean that! Not really mean it…'

  'Aye. As God is my witness, I do!'

  'But… your own brother '

  'Aye. My brother.'

  'No, Davy – no! Oh, I know how he is at fault That he has done shameful things. I know that you blame him -I blame him also. But… but not this, Davy. Not to…the death!'

  'Has he hesitated at the death of others?'

  'Perhaps not. But… that does not make us his judges.'

  'You would have me to forget all the evil that he has wrought?'

  'Not forget – but forgive '

  'Who am I to forgive him? The ill was not wrought against me. But I… I could have saved some of the ill from happening, had I been stronger, truer to my conscience, of a better courage. Do not talk to me of forgiveness, for I do not forgive myself!' David had sat up in his bed, in his vehemence, and now swayed dizzily with the effort, his features contorted with pain. 'Only… only of this I am sure,' he declared thickly, uncertain only in the enunciation of his words. 'It must not, it shall not, happen again.'

  'Davy, lie down,' Mariota commanded. 'You distress yourself. Lie back, Rest – you must rest, You are not yourself. We shall speak of this again…'

  If you mean that I will think differently in the morning, woman, you are wrong,' he told her, sinking back.

  Tut, now, In your right mind, Davy, you would never condemn your brother to death! No, no. I tell you…' Suddenly Mariota turned, recollecting her great-eyed, watching children. 'Mary, take your brother in the house. Quickly, now – off with you. Here is no talk for bairns…'

  T am sorry, Mariota,' Marie said, low-voiced, after the door had closed on them. 'I had forgotten the children. I hardly know what I am doing, or saying. I think that I shall go mad – if we are not all mad already'

  'Hush you, my dear. It will be better in the morning. Davy will think differently then, I swear. He is hurt, sick…'

  That is nothing to the point,' the man said, wearily. 'My mind is made up.'

  'Oh, Davy! If not for his sake – for mine!' Marie besought him, brokenly. 'We have understood each other, been good friends,always.,

  Slowly, painfully, David turned his head away from them, to face the wall.

  'Leave him, Marie – let him be,' Mariota counselled. 'He needs rest, sleep. We must let him be…'

  David did not sleep, nor scarcely rest Tossing and turning on his bed, despite the hurt of it, he wrestled with himself, his faith, his conscience and his love, and knew no peace of body, mind or spirit

  Some time, how much later he knew not, he heard the door of his bedchamber open and shut But he did not turn towards it, did not open the eye that was less painful closed. Indeed he had forgotten it when, after a while, some feint stir of movement near him penetrated the turmoil of his mind. Reluctantly he turned his head and looked.

  Young Mary sat on a chair beside his bed, gazing at him silently. In her hand she held a cup.

  'I have brought you a posset,' she told him. 'It is to help you to sleep.'

  'It will require more than a posset to make me sleep this night!' he said. 'But… thank you, lass.'

  She helped him drink it down, so that he need not sit up. Then, still unspeaking, she s
at down again at his side, to watch him, her eyes fixed on him, unwavering.

  David would have turned his head away once more – but somehow could not He would have shut his eye again – indeed did shut it often enough, but always opened it again. He could not keep his gaze away from her, avoid her eyes. It was those eyes that held him, burned in on him, ravaged him – deep, dark, lustrous, lovely eyes, so damnably like Patrick's. They never left his face, considering him, reproaching him…

  Mary Gray had more than fulfilled the promise of her early childhood. She was small still, but perfectly made and already well developed, thus early on the threshold of most lovely young womanhood. Always she had been a dainty, exquisite creature; now she was of an elfin beauty to take the breath away and catch the heart-strings. Only one other had David ever seen who touched her in beauty – and that her namesake Mary of Scotland.

  He stood it for as long as he could. 'Why do you stare so, child!' he exclaimed at length, 'Lord knows, I cannot be a pretty sight!'

  Gravely she shook her dark head, but her great eyes never left his ravaged features nevertheless. 'Father,' she said, gently, but thoughtfully, 'Mother and the Lady Marie are weeping. Because my Uncle Patrick is to die, is it not?'

  Swallowing, the man nodded dumbly.

  'And you could save him, could you not, if you were well and able?'

  David started up, aches or none. 'No, I could not! I could not, I tell you!' he cried, almost shouted. 'It is impossible, child.'

  'Oh yes, you could,' she asserted, quietly, assuredly. 'You can do anything that you set your hand to. Uncle Patrick told me that, himself. Long ago. He told me that you were the finest, strongest man that he knew, and that he would wager you against any man or set of men in all Scotland. It is true. I know.'

  David groaned. It is folly, girl – sheer arrant folly. I am weak, helpless, a broken reed…'

  'Only because you are sick and injured and beaten, by those evil men. But you could save him, if you were well' She nodded decidedly. 'So 'must do it, in your place.'

  David choked, and the blood came trickling from a corner of his mouth. 'Lord child, – what… what are you saying?'

  That I must do it, for you, Father. You will tell me what to do, and I will do it'

  'Och, Mary lass, Mary – you do not know what you say…'

  I do. Father. These wicked men must not gain the mastery. And it is right that I should do it, I think – for Uncle Patrick is my true father is he not?'

  Dumbfounded David gazed at her, peering from his watering eye. 'You… you… who told you that, child?' he got out at last, thickly.

  'Many have said it. Often. Children about the Court. My grandfather, once, when he was drunk. I am so like my Uncle Patrick – all can see it. It is the truth, is it not?'

  After seconds, wordlessly he nodded his head.

  'So, you see, it is right that I should do it – for my own father. I love you best, of course. But I have always loved my Uncle Patrick, too.'

  David drew a long breath. 'My dear,' he said. 'There is nothing that you can do. Nothing. I am sorry…'

  I can go to the King. If you will tell me how I may win in to him. The King will hear me. He likes me well. He told me that I was a bonny lass. He thanked me, mind, for being land to Vicky that is Duke of Lennox. He would pay heed to me.'

  'But, lass, it is not so easy as that. Even if I could bring you into the King's presence.' He paused. 'Do you know for what your, your Uncle Patrick was judged and condemned?'

  That I do. Everybody knows that. It was for not saving poor Mary the Queen, when he went to London.'

  'Aye – just that. For not saving Mary the Queen! A heavy charge, my dear.'

  'Poor Mary the Queen! I hate that Elizabeth for killing her – hate her! But it was Elizabeth who killed her, was it not? It was not Uncle Patrick?'

  'No, Yes. But, you see…'

  'And you went to London with Uncle Patrick to try to save her too, Father, did you not?5

  'Yes. I went also. But not as Patrick went – only as a secretary…'

  'But to try to save the Queen. But you did not save her, either of you.'

  David looked down, away from those glowing, searching eyes, at last 'No,' he said 'Neither of us.'

  'But you did try – which is the main thing, is it not? Mother says that you did all that you could to save the poor Queen. Tell me what you did, will you? Did you try to save her, the way that you saved the King, at Ruthven?'

  He did not answer.

  'As you saved Uncle Patrick and Vicky's father in France, that time-with the cattle-beasts?'

  He stared at the floor. 'No,' he muttered 'It was not possible.'

  Then, Father, if you tried all to save her, and could not do it -how could Uncle Patrick? Always he mid me that you could do anything that you set your hand to – and I know that it is true. Did you not set your hand to saving the Queen?'

  He met her eyes now, and strangely his swollen lower hp was trembling. 'God help me, child – I do not know!' he burst out I do hot know.'

  Gently she reached out to touch his clenched bruised fist 'Do not worry, Father – do not worry,' she said 'I am quite sure that you did your best Like Uncle Patrick – whatever they say. Is that why these evil men beat you so cruelly?'

  He made no reply, did not seem to hear her.

  They had no right,' the girl declared 'Evert though they loved the Queen, they had no right. For she said that all were to be forgiven. She said that all, all who encompassed her death, even the horrid man who cut off her head, and Queen Elizabeth who told him to do it – all were to be forgiven.'

  'Eh…? What was that? What did you say? The man turned slowly, to lean towards her, as though hard of hearing. 'What did you say?'

  'Have you not heard? Everyone speaks of it The speech that she made. They have made a broadsheet of it Mary the Queen spoke it before she died She said… I mind not all that she said But this she did say – might God, who alone can judge the thoughts and acts of men, forgive all those who have thirsted for her blood Was she not good, Mary the Queen? Kind I am glad that I am named Mary, too. She said all were to be forgiven. So, the King cannot be angry with Uncle Patrick, any more-nor with you either, Father. Can he?'

  David Gray was not listening.

  'If I go to him, I am sure that he will say that Uncle Patrick is not to die. So, will you tell me how I can come to the King, please?'

  There was silence in that bedchamber for long moments, as Mary Gray waited, serious, intent Only the man's deep breathing sounded

  Then abruptly, he brought his open hand down upon the quilt that covered him. 'Amen! So be it!' he said, and turned to her urgently. 'Child – you know my lord of Huntly's great house down the Canon gate?'

  'Huntly House – over the street from the Tolbooth? Aye, I know it fine, Father.'

  'They will never think of you, a child… with a basket, maybe. Aye, a basket on your arm, when you go errands to the booths for your mother. In the morning. That is it… See, Mary – fetch me paper and quill and ink-horn from my desk. You know where they are – paper, quill, ink-horn. And quickly!'

  Eyes alight, the girl ran to do his bidding.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  GEORGE, 6th Earl of Huntly, Chief of Clan Gordon, Cock o' the North, principal Catholic of the realm – and now, curiously, to be the Kirk's Commendator-Abbot of Dunfermline – red-faced, haughty, arrogant, leaving his tail of five-score mounted Gordons stamping and clattering in the forecourt of Holyroodhouse, strode past all wary-eyed and circumspect guards and officers in the various palace doorways and corridors without so much as a glance. Behind him his five bonneted and plaided Gordon lairds were scarcely less proudly overbearing, hands on their broadsword hilts, so that the sixth, David Gray, wrapped in Gordon tartan and with bonnet crammed hard down over his brow, stiff and sore as he was, had great difficulty in keeping up with this fierce Highland stalking. And, Heaven knew, he did not want to fall behind, to become in any way conspicu
ous, to become other than just one plaid-wrapped supporter amongst six, for keen-eyed watchers, to consider. It was a blessing that these Highlanders always kept their bonnets on, save when actually in the royal presence; also that his face was still swollen and discoloured enough to be barely recognisable.

  Huntly's shouted demands as to the whereabouts of the King brought them expeditiously to the library of the palace -Huntly always approached his sovereign in this fashion, as a matter of principle, considering himself practically a fellow-prince. In the ante-room, the young Earls ofBothwell and Mar sprawled at ease with tankards of ale, and deliberately did not rise to their feet at the Gordon eruption. The older man snorted loudly as he passed, but otherwise ignored them. Their mocking smiles were discreedy kept below the level of laughter which might reach Gordon ears. They did not bother to look at Huntly's following.

  At the door of the library, an officer of the guard stood on duty. He made no attempt to halt the oncoming party, but on the contrary threw open the door and announced that the noble Earl of Huntly, Lieutenant of the North, sought audience of His Grace. Reinforced by a growled pleasantry from the noble suppliant himself, the party swept inside, David in the midst, It was as easy as that. The last Gordon in, turned to close the door with something of a slam

  The King was sitting alone at a table in the musty-smelling, booklined room, surrounded by open volumes, pen in hand, scratching away at a paper. Next to the hunting-field James was happiest when in a library. He looked up, frowning, with no relish for being disturbed. Moreover, he had always been a little afraid of the potent and fiery Huntly.

  'Ha, 'Grace,' the latter cried, doffing his feathered bonnet at last 'At your books again, I see! Man, I would not let the books take a hold of you, see you. They are worse than women or the bottle for sucking the marrows out of a man!'

  James rose, trembling with his earnestness. 'My lord, books are the finest gift of Almighty God to men!' he protested. 'Without them, we should be as the beasts that perish.'