"I thank you, Countess, for your help," Heriot asknowledged. "He is a fine lad. His parents have reason to be proud of him, I think. We shall tell the Queen how well he does."
"And how content he is ? "
"Well—that he does not pine, at least. Also that he is safe here. And will in nowise be given up. To any." "By me. So long as I command here."
"You mean... ?"
"I told you, young man I am but my son's deputy. He is the Prince's keeper, not myself. Remember it."
George Heriot opened his mouth to speak—and then thought better of it.
They took their leave of the old lady rather less stiffly than when they had greeted each other.
* * *
That evening, George Heriot sought to convince the Queen that it was to her advantage to swallow her pride and go to be with her son at Stirling, assured that Lady Mar could not refuse her, however reluctant she might be. Anne maintained a posture of outrage and shock at the very suggestion. Alison Primrose came to announce that Master Heriot's groom had just ridden in from Edinburgh, and brought this letter.
The man took the paper, and seeking the Queen's permission to scan it, opened the sealed folds. It was only a brief note, obviously hastily penned. "Have just overheard the Master of Gray telling the Lord Sinclair that E. of Mar has left King and on his way back to Scotland. This may be important. M.G."
"So-o-o !" Heriot breathed out.
"Is it news?" Anne demanded. "Ill news? What it is?"
"I cannot think it good news, Highness. The Earl of Mar is on his way back to Scotland." He caught the Primrose girl's eye.
"A coarse oaf of a man 1 Scotland was sweeter without him! But does it concern us ?"
"I think it may. The Countess his mother was at pains to inform us that he was the Prince's lawful guardian, not she. He, the Keeper of Stirling Castle. She gave no assurance that the Earl would not deliver up the Prince. And Mary Gray, when she told me of this plot, believed that the Earl might be in it. Such was the rumour she had heard. It seemed unlikely, with Mar in England with the King. But now...!"
'The King may be sending him. As he sent you," Lady Huntly suggested. "For some reason of his own."
"Our letters cannot have reached him yet?" the Queen asked.
"No, Highness. It cannot be that"
"Mar comes to destroy m I know it He has hated me from the first. Ah, God—have mercy upon me!" Anne cried, and burst into tears.
Troubled, the man sought to soothe and console her, but with no avail. The Queen's women hustled him out of the bedchamber. She had been weeping like this for most of the day, fretting herself into a fever, hysterics. It was that Countess of Mar's fault, insulting Her Grace.
In the night, Queen Anne miscarried for the second time.
5
"MY LORD OF MAR," the Chancellor said, "I regret it—but it is not possible for you to see the Queen. Her Grace is very ill, and weak..."
"I know that, man! God—all Scotland knows it! The more reason that I see her. I have a letter from her from her lord the King."
"I will see that Her Grace gets it at once..."
"No, sir! I will see her. The letter I will give into her ain hands —none other. His Majesty's instructions. And I've messages for her, forby. Frae the King. Take me to her, man."
"I fear not, my lord. Her Grace's own royal commands."
""What! She'll no' see me, Mar! Is that what you're after telling me, Seton?" A red-faced, gobbling turkey-cock of a man, John of Mar advanced a threatening step. Only in his early forties, he looked much older, harsh, overbearing, arrogant. 'The likes o' Sandy Seton'll no' keep me frae the woman!"
"I must my lord. I cannot but obey the Queen's direct commands. She said that she would not see you." The Chancellor's voice quavered a little. Sir Alexander Seton of Pluscarden, recently created Lord Fyvie, was a dozen years the other's junior and scarcely a dominant character, slight, slender, modish, good-looking, with the face of an intellectual.
"Christ's Wounds, she did! Well—I have the King's commands, Seton, d'you hear? Whose do you obey—heh? The King's Majesty's ain—or his silly bit puling wife's? Tell me that—you that ca's yourself Chancellor, King's Chancellor—no' his consort's!"
From the background, near the doorway of Linlithgow's Great Hall, the Master of Gray came to his colleague's aid, but calmly, undramatically, as though all was a matter of course. "No call for contest, my lords," he said, coming forward. "Give me His Grace's letter, Johnnie. Her Grace, I hope will not refuse to see roe. Eh, Sandy? And I can, perhaps, persuade her to give audience to the Earl of Mar later, and hear the King's messages. A woman sick must be humoured, Johnnie."
Mar grunted but no more; and Fyvie agreed eagerly.
The Hall of Linlithgow Palace was crowded as it had not been for long. The Queen's miscarriage and subsequent grievous illness had brought important folk from the four quarters of the kingdom. The Chancellor had hastened from Dunfermline, the Earl of Orkney from the West, the Master of Glamis, the Treasurer, from Angus—and now the Earl of Mar, newly arrived from England, from Edinburgh with the Master of Gray. Should the Queen die, a totally new situation would arise, with interesting permutations for those in authority. This was the fourth day after the miscarriage.
In a corner of the huge apartment, Mary Gray slipped away from George Heriot's side. "I will go warn Lady Huntly," she murmured. She had come two days before, as an Extra Woman of the Bedchamber whose services might be required.
A small group, with Fyvie and the Master of Gray, detached themselves and made for the private stairway to the Queen's apartments. Unobtrusively, Heriot followed.
Patrick Gray did not fail to notice it "Ha, Master Geordie—I heard that you came here. Promptly!"
"I told you, sir, that it was to the Queen that I was sent."
"Quite. You came at a bad moment I hope that you did not, h'm, worsen it, my friend!"
Heriot could have slain the elegant Master for that—for it was precisely that thought which had dogged him for four days and nights. Had he not urged the royal visit to Stirling Castle, might this miscarriage never have occurred? It was a grevious question, and though Mary Gray, Alison Primrose, and even Lady Huntly all united in absolving him, he was not wholly reassured.
At the bedchamber door Sir Harry Lindsay, Master of the Queen's Household would have denied them entry until, in the gloomy stone corridor he recognised the Master of Gray and they exchanged quick glances. Heriot noted that exchange.
In the stifling room, Sir Hugh Herries, the royal physician, Lady Huntly, Mary Gray and Margrete Vinster, a Danish Maid-in-Waiting, stood round the great four-poster bed The Queen lay flat thereon, eyes closed.
"Your Grace—I deeply regret to disturb you," Fyvie said, low-voiced. "But..."
"I... will... not... see ... Mar!" The words from the bed were weak, but measured and very definite.
"No, Highness. I told him. But this is the Master of Gray. With a letter from the King's Grace."
"I do not want it Oh him."
"My Lady Anne," the Master said, at his silkiest, "as well as the letter, I bring words for your royal ear alone."
A faint negative twitch of the sweat-damp head on the crumpled pillow.
"About your son, the Prince Frederick Henry."
That putting of the name Frederick first had its effect. The red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes opened, the pale lips parted just a little.
"It is hot in here, over-crowded," the Master went on pleasantly. "Sir Hugh—I think the room should be cleared. Do not you?"
Herries, who owed much, including his knighthood, to the Master of Gray, nodded, and gestured for all to leave.
The Queen's eyes turned, in sudden alarm and appeal, to George Heriot He nodded.
As most of the company moved to the door, three remained with the Master and the Chancellor—Lady Huntly, Mary Gray and George Heriot Coolly Gray eyed each of them in turn. None spoke.
"May I remind all here that there is such a body as the Privy
Council," he observed, almost conversationally. "In matters of state, the authority of its members is paramount. The Chancellor, my Lord Pyvie, and my humbler self, are of His Grace's Scots Privy Council. And we would have speech with the Queen. Alone."
"I am Henrietta Stewart, and do not leave the Queen's side, for any man," the Marchioness declared briefly.
"I was sent directly to Her Grace by the King," Heriot said. "I shall leave her presence only if she wishes it"
"No!" Anne jerked, surprisingly strongly.
Mary Gray said nothing—but did not move.
"Very well—since it is Her Grace's wish," the Master nodded —and smiled entirely affably at them all. "Here is the letter, Your Grace. As to the Prince Frederick Henry, I know how you wish to have him in your own royal care. His Grace has seen fit to command otherwise. But in the present situation, of your sad sickness and the King's absence, we of the Privy Council who are left in Scotland, deem that His Grace's royal wishes might well bear alteration somewhat, his commands be . . . ameliorated. Perhaps, with your royal permission, I could persuade my friend the Earl of Mar to prevail on his lady mother to deliver to him the Prince, out of Stirling Castle. And he to bring the lad here to Your Grace at Linlithgow. It is admittedly, directly contrary to the King's orders. But I personally, with the Earl of Mar and my lord Chancellor here, would accept responsibility."
The swift indrawing of two breaths, the Queen's and Mary Gray's, drew Heriot's swift glance. With Mary he exchanged meaning looks. When he turned to the Queen, she was eyeing him with an agonised questioning, compounded of both hope and fear. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
There was a tense pause. Then Anne spoke. "No," she whispered. "No. Let him stay... where he is." That ended in a sob.
The Master's eyes narrowed, but only for a moment "As Your Grace wishes of course. But... if the Prince knows that you are ill, his mother—and I cannot think that he will not have been told, in merest humanity—then he will be anxious, desirous of seeing Your Highness."
She licked dry lips, her breathing uneven, fevered eyes searching all faces. "No," she got out. "No, no, no 1 Leave me, Master of Gray. Leave me—in God's name I"
"Go, sir—if you have any humanity of your own!" Lady Huntly cried. "Can you not see how you distress Her Grace?"
The Master bowed deeply. "As you wish, Highness. I but sought your comfort. And that of your family. Should you change your royal mind, I am at your service."
"It was meant for the best, Madam, I assure you," Fyvie asserted —and sounded honest.
Together they backed out of the presence. At the door, the Master's eyes caught George Heriot's, and they were icy cold.
The Queen dissolved into wailing, gulping tears, her weak body racked, and Henrietta threw herself bodily upon her, clutching, kissing, gabbling endearments.
Mary Gray and the man considered each other. "Tell Her Grace that she acted wisely, my lady," Mary said urgently. 'For the best The best for all. I swear it!" Then she gestured with her head towards the door.
Outside in the crowded corridor, with the Master's elegant back disappearing down the far stairway, Mary turned almost as cold a glare as that of her father on Herries the Queen's physician. "Your royal mistress needs your attention, Sir Hugh. I'd counsel you to attend better to Her Grace than to some whom you obey so readily!"
Looking abashed, the plump little doctor bobbed an unhappy bow and hurried within. Alison Primrose, waiting there, was sent in also.
Moving along to a small dressing-room where they could be alone, Mary sighed.
"That was a grievous encounter, Geordie," she said. "And near disaster. A fierce test for the Queen. I esteem her more. I think today, than ever I have done. And it was you she trusted in. Only you."
"We cannot say that. She knows that I am working with you, being guided by you."
"She does not love me. Has always doubted me. Perhaps because the King speaks well of me. So all the greater credit to you. That she trusts you so entirely, on so great an issue."
"The wonder of it—since she might well blame me for all her present miscarriage and illness. My advice."
"That would be folly. She may be light-headed but she is not a fool. She proved that"
"Yes. And I fear that I have made a potent enemy of the Master."
She shook her head. "Not of necessity. My father is an ill man to cross. But he does not normally bear grudges. He will fight you, so long as you oppose his plans, fight without scruple. But he will not personally hate you. Indeed he will admire you the more for besting him—and be the more concerned to best you next time 1 He is a strange man—but not wholly bad."
"It was a cunning move. To get the Prince out of Lady Mar's grip, allegedly into the Queen's but really into his own. This move offers one gleam of hope, I think. It must mean that he is not certain of the old Countess giving up Henry to her son. Else why trouble with this?"
"True. But she told you that she would, did she not?"
"She may not have told him that. She does not trust him, even though her son does."
The young woman nodded. "And there are more gleams of hope than that, Geordie. This illness of the Queen could be a godsend. Forcing my father to delay his plot You have seen the crowds outside the palace. Waiting to hear how the Queen fares. The people. They do not greatly love her, perhaps—for she has never sought their love. But they like her better than the King, for she is gay and generous. And I swear they feel for her as a mother deprived of her children. Now she is ill, they rally to her. No good time, I think, for the Master of Gray to attack her. To pull down her husband and use her son against her. My father will not overlook that—that is partly why he is here today, I am sure. He may not need the people's support, in his plans. But he will not want their opposition, or active wrath. He is far too clever to risk that. So—he seeks to take the Queen with him."
"But this only postpones the issue. Either the Queen gets better, the people forget, and all will be as it was. Or—God forbid—she dies. And his way is clear."
"True. But it gives us time. She will not die, I think. She has recovered from miscarriage before. Time we must use. My father will hold his hand, I believe, while she is gravely sick. So she must seem to remain gravely sick for a time—even if she is truly better." "While... ?"
"While we ask the King to return, with all speed!"
He shook his head. "James will not do that"
"Even if he believes his wife's at death's door?"
Heriot spread his hands. "No. I am sure of this. This of the English succession means everything to him. He has lived for it, all these years—as he has not lived for Anne of Holstein. He will not turn back, at this stage. For anything."
"Then the man is a monster!"
"Perhaps. Judged in one fashion. But not in another, I think. He is a king. Not as other men. The Lord's Anointed, with the fate of two kingdoms in his hands. He will say 'God's will be done !' and continue on his appointed way. Of that I am sure."
She bowed to his certainty. "Very well. No doubt my father argues likewise. Then we must seek for the next best. To frighten him with the Queen's health, so that he sends a Viceroy back, with complete royal authority to act in all things in the King's name. That could only be Vicky, next heir to the throne after the young princes. He has acted Viceroy before, when James went to Denmark—the only man who has. With Vicky, and a viceroy's authority, we could halt my father."
"Perhaps. But... we have already written to the King."
"Not that the Queen is dangerously ill. He surely cannot ignore that altogether. Write to Vicky too. He wants to come back He never wanted to go to London. He would live quietly at Methven with me, if James would let him."
"That I know is truth. He told me. Very well. We shall write to the King and the Duke. They say that Fyvie has already written. I wonder what he said ? And we shall seek to keep the Queen feigning illness—even though she betters." He looked at the young woman with mixed feelings, head asha
ke. "Lord knows where you are leading me, Mary Gray. It is well seen whose daughter you are I"
* * *
It took many days for their urgent courier-borne letters to England to bear fruit, days of anxious waiting, playing a part fretting—but presumably anxious days for the Master of Gray also, as he waited either for the Queen's state of health to improve, and so not prejudice his programme, or to change her mind about Prince Henry's release. That she seemed to do neither must have been galling in the extreme, as day succeeded day. No sign of betterment emanated from the sick-room, where Anne played her part with a fair realism—and indeed made but slow recovery. What Sir Hugh Herries thought—and told the Master—was not to be known; but he had been joined by two other physicians brought from Edinburgh at Heriot's expense and left in no doubts as to their duty. The Scots people had cause to believe their Queen all but on her death-bed, and discovered for her a new affection and sympathy. Prayers were said for her in every kirk in the land.
Then, late on the evening of 21st May, a hard-riding, spume-flecked, mud-spattered troop of horsemen clattered up the cobbled hill from Linlithgow's Market Square and into the palace courtyard, the royal Lion Rampant of Scotland borne aloft, and Ludovick, Duke of Lennox, eased himself wearily out of the saddle, and actually staggered in sheer dizziness on the flagstones, one of his companions indeed falling on one knee in his exhaustion and stiffness. A few moments later, however, Vicky Stewart forgot fatigue, anxiety and certainly dignity, as Mary Gray flung herself into his arms and they clung to each other gasping incoherencies.
It was a while before the Duke was in any state to notice George Heriot standing at his back with a goblet of wine— although his party was not so slow in perceiving similar preferred restoratives. From an upstairs window the Duchess of Lennox looked down on the scene—but did not seek to intervene at this stage. She and her husband knew precisely where they stood with each other.
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