The boy shouted, Mary waved vigorously, Mariota's hand rose to her throat, her mouth.
They came on. Again Patrick raised his hand, looking down.
Mariota this time whipped off the kerchief that bound her hair, and flapped it Her son all but fell off his horse in his enthusiasm. Mary was smiling, moist-eyed.
The cavalcade was at the nearest point of the causeway to the watchers, now, no more than a couple of hundred yards away. Patrick was half-turned in his saddle, leaning over, his eyes fixed on them. It seemed almost as though he was going to rein in his horse, to turn down to them – but the causeway had a vertical stone ramp, and was moreover protected by a formidable cheval-de-frise of iron spikes. The arm that had remained raised in salute, slowly sank.
Mariota sobbed in her throat, and turned to David. He sat still, immovable.
Patrick could not delay. All the Gordon cohort pressed on at his back. His mount, inevitably, moved on, away. He had to turn ever further round in his saddle. At his side Marie was waving and waving. He shouted something, and his hand half-rose again, but his words were indistinguishable against the bagpipes' shrilling and the beat of hooves.
'Davy-oh, Davy!'Mariota whispered.
Patrick was carried onwards, his whole slender body now twisted to face the rear. His handsome features were only a blur at that distance, but his entire posture and bearing were eloquence itself. In a few moments the riders behind him would block the line of vision between him and the group below. He raised both hands, not up as before but out, back behind him, open-palmed, towards his brother – and so rode.
David sat like stone, although the knuckles of his fists, clenched on his horse's reins, gleamed whiter than ivory. Then, gradually, one of those fists loosened, relaxed its grip, and slowly, quiveringly, lifted. It was as though it rose of its own volition, but hardly, against the man's will, until it was high above his head, open, no longer a fist, and so remained.
There was no drowning Patrick's shout, then, high-pitched, ringing, exultant, as his own hands shot up above his dark head, to clasp there, and shake, and unclasp and clasp again. They saw Marie's arm reach out, to her husband's shoulder. And then the horsemen at their back came between to hide them both.
In silence the family group sat now, watching as the front of the cavalcade reached the end ofthe causeway and was swallowed up amongst the high frowning tenements – or not quite silence, for Mariota was sobbing frankly, openly.
David moistened his lips twice, thrice, before he could find words. And even then his voice was curiously uneven, broken, for so stern-faced a man. 'Why… why are you crying, my dear?' he asked. 'What is there to weep for? All is… well, is it not?'
The strangled choking sound that Mariota produced might have signified anything or nothing.
David reached out his equally uncertain hand, to stroke her hair. 'Very well, is it not?' he repeated. 'He is safe, now. None will snatch him from Huntly's care, before Leith. He has his life. He will do very well in France… will the Master of Gray!
She nodded, blowing her nose.
'And we… we shall do very well, too. At Castle Huntly, my dear. Very well. No more cities and courts and statecraft for us! You were right. I should never have left Castle Huntly. We shall do finely – leading our own life, at last' His voice strengthened. 'Rob Powrie is past stewarding. I shall steward Castle Huntly hereafter. My lord promised it. We shall be very happy, Mariota my dear – the four of us. It is what was meant to be – for we are simple country folk, you and I.'
A sniff- but she put her hand out to grasp his.
'Whatever Mary Gray may be! Very well so – on our way to Castle Huntly, before anyone can say us nay. To the west Port with us…and…and no looking back!'
'Yes, Davy…'
Postscript
THAT was not the end of Patrick, Master of Gray, of course – not by a long chalk. Indeed, he was back again in Scotland within two years, and suing the Crown for damages – and winning! But that, and a further catalogue of typical and highly doubtful endeavours is, for the moment, another story. Enough for the day…
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Lord and Master mog-1 Page 49
