"The Courtesan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tranter Nigel)

Chapter Eight

THE King of Scots walled himself up in Craigmillar Castle, high on its ridge south of the city, seeking security, if not peace of mind, within its outer bailey and inner bailey, its ditch and drawbridge and its massive keep – and would not stir therefrom. All who sought the fountain of honour, authority and government must seek it past three gatehouses, a guardroom and parapets bristling with armed men. Nothing would coax majesty without – not though it was the height of the hunting season, with the stags of the great park of Dalkeith nearby at their best and fattest. Hawks could be flown from Craigmillar's great grass-grown outer court, tennis be played and archery practised – but James was in no mood for such pastimes, and they were followed only by such of his unfortunate Court as found itself immured within the gaunt walls, sombre vaults and frowning towers of the castle.

James himself, after the first fright of the ambush and its implications wore off, and as fear of further repercussions began to fade, not unnaturally perhaps turned his mind more and more to distant vistas far beyond these safe but enclosing walls, and to contemplations more apt for a newly-married young man – even if only wed by proxy. He began to dwell upon the imagined person, parts and prospects of his bride, as a more rewarding thought than the perfidy of Geordie Gordon. Indeed, he shut himself up for most of days on end in a lofty turret chamber, where he could look out over the wind-whipped Firth of Forth estuary, past the rock of Bass and the Isle of May, to the grey North Sea, in the direction of far Denmark. Here, with a portrait of the Princess Anne that had been sent to him, he indulged in a positive orgy of synthetic emotion, an auto-intoxication of purely intellectual adoration for the Viking's princess of his imagination.

No doubt the sad and sudden termination of his pseudo-romantic relationship with Huntly was partly responsible. James, not notably masculine in himself, but brought up to condemn and fear his unfortunate and lovely mother, Mary

Queen of Scots, and educated by stern Calvinist divines who frowned on women – at least in theory – had ever sought his emotional satisfactions from his own sex, and all from older men than himself. The succession of favourites, however far they went in their relationship with this unlovely and loveless royal youth, had all proved to have feet of clay; all had used their intimacy with the source of privilege to gain for themselves power and wealth and domination. All had been brought down by jealous nobles. Disappointed, hurt, James, now twenty-two, turned, in at least temporary revulsion, to this new and exciting prospect – a young woman, innocent and fair and already his own, although unknown, who would give him what hitherto his life had lacked.

So, in escape from the reality of the present, he wrote to her innumerable letters which could by no means be delivered, in a strange mixture of passion, dialectics, philosophy, semi-religious ecstasy and gross indecency. He indited poems, large and small, and then decided upon a really major work, which history would rate as one of the literary masterpieces of all time. He studied erotica, consulted much-married men and women – the Master of Gray and his wife, embarrassingly, in especial – physicians, necromancers, herbalists, even mid-wives. He toyed with the idea of having a relay of ladies to bed with, both experienced and virgin, and of various ages and shapes, in order to practise upon – but decided eventually in favour of pristine innocence rather than expertise, for presentation to his sea-king's daughter. He grew pale and languishing and greater-eyed than ever – and kept his Master of the Warbrobe busy indeed in ordering and fitting the most elaborate and fanciful garb ever to be worn by a Scots monarch, for outdoors and indoors, day and night wear, most of it in a taste as bizarre as it was grotesque.

All of which was something of a compensation and source of infinite, if guarded, merriment to the royal entourage in more or less forced confinement within Craigmillar – although one or two of his Court perhaps perceived pathos therein, and discovered in their hearts some sympathy with this strange, complex, shambling creature, born in sorrow and treachery, separated from his mother almost at birth, who had known no true love in all his life, the pawn of arrogant scheming nobles and harsh and dictatorial clerics.

The Gray family was inevitably much at Craigmillar -although its members continued to reside at Holyroodhouse, the distance between being but two or three miles. Patrick was in high personal favour again – although this, unfortunately, owing to James's almost complete temporary withdrawal from affairs of government, was not translated into any real political power, which remained more firmly than ever in the hands of the coldly astute Maitland. The King, in his present preoccupation with womankind, anatomy, and the like, saw a deal of his cousin Marie Stewart, finding in her a quiet sympathy, sensibility and frankness which he had hitherto overlooked. And since Lennox – whose defection at Peffermill did not seem to have been noticed by his royal cousin – was now, as Chamberlain, necessarily domiciled at Craigmillar, he sought to entice Mary Gray there at every opportunity – the Master by no means hindering him. With the new queen expected almost at any time, and her household, of which Mary was now a member, having to be prepared and made ready for her arrival, this proved easy and convenient enough, indeed to be expected – even though Duke Ludovick would perhaps have preferred that Mary did not take her sewing and embroidery duties quite so seriously, as did not the Lady Jean, for instance.

The relationship between Patrick Gray and Ludovick Stuart was interesting and not unimportant. Undoubtedly many about that licentious and idle Court believed it to be illicit and unnatural. They made a strangely ill-assorted pair certainly, the handsome, talented, quick-silver and accomplished man, and the plain, solid, rather awkward and ineloquent youth. But they had been good friends for many years – ever since, at the age of ten, young Vicky had been brought from France by Patrick, at the King's command, to succeed to his late and brilliant father's dukedom. The Master of Gray's part in the downfall and subsequent death of the same father, the usual kind informants had not failed to disclose to the young heir; but Ludovick, who had scarcely known his sire, had clung to Patrick. Indeed his early affection for the Master had grown to an admiration amounting almost to adoration, that nothing then or later could ever wholly upset,

It was a day of unseasonable battering rain and wind in mid-September, that Mary Gray sat stitching at the window of a small room in the main keep of Craigmillar. This chamber was one of three grimly functional apartments, all bare masonry, gun-loops and arrow-slits, set aside for the Master of the Wardrobe, and the unlikely repository of the fripperies and confections of the royal trousseau and plenishings. Shot-holes stuffed with scintillating fragments of cloth-of-gold and brocade, coarse elm tables littered with lustrous and colourful silks and satins, now mocked the severity of those frowning walls where once Mary, the Queen's half-brother Moray, her future husband Bothwell, and her Secretary Lethington, brother to Sir John Maitland, had secretiy plotted, urged on the Queen's divorce from King Henry Darnley, James's father, and set alight the train that exploded at Kirk o' Field with Darnley's assassination.

Because outdoor activities today were precluded, and young men for the moment in short supply in the castle, the Lady Jean Stewart, supposedly also applying herself to the new Queen's needlework, but in fact gossiping, gesturing and giggling without cease, kept Mary company. Such was life for this true daughter of Orkney.

It was thus that her distant cousin Ludovick found them. Not infrequently he managed to escape from his duties to this little room. That on this occasion he would have been content for the Lady Jean to be neglecting her needlework elsewhere went without saying, but Lord Chamberlain as he might be, he was not the young man to order her hence. One attempt he did make, however.

'The Commendator of Lindores is at cards down in the Preston Tower. With Ferniehirst, Borthwick and, h'm, others. He might be grateful were you to rescue him, Jean.' That came abruptly, after a silent minute or two.

'If the Commendator prefers his silly cards to… to better sport, let him stay!' She shrugged. 'He is losing again, I suppose?'

'Aye, naturally.'

Mary looked out of the streaming window. 'Uncle Patrick plays also?' That was more of a statement than a question. 'Aye.'

Jean hugged her buxom self. 'Then the good Commendator-Abbot's goose is cooked! Serve him right, I vow – for he is plaguey mean. He would have his fairings at the cheapest, would Lindores – including me!'

'I have seen you less than dear, yourself!' Lennox said bluntly.

She did not so much as colour. 'You mistake, Vicky. You would, of course.' She glanced from the man to Mary. 'I am no huckster. I give for nothing – or else I play high. Like Patrick Gray. Lindores does not understand. He has the mind of a tradesman…'

'He would wed you, I think,' Mary observed.

'No doubt. But he is old, as well as mean…'

'He is less old than Patrick,' Lennox pointed out. 'He is not yet thirty, I think…'

'Patrick is different! Patrick will never be old. Patrick is wonderful. At cards as at all else! I dote on him…'

'So all the Court knows!' Ludovick grunted. 'As, indeed, do half the women here!'

'No less than yourself, perhaps, Vicky!' That was barbed.

'He is my friend,' the young man declared stiffly.

Jean Stewart skirled high laughter. 'None would deny it…!' She stopped, as the door opened. A head peered round, a large somewhat lop-sided head crowned by an absurdly high hat decked with ostrich-plumes.

Hurriedly all three rose to their feet, and the girls curtsied over their needlework, as the King shuffled in, large feet encased in loose slippers.

James ignored them. 'Vicky,' he complained querulously, 'I've been seeking you a' place. Man, you shouldna hide yourself away like this. You're the Chamberlain. Here's this wee man – the Provost, it is. Frae Edinburgh. About the reception ceremonies in the town. For Anne. My… my wife. The Queen, aye. He says you sent for him. You should be seeing him, Vicky – no' me. I'm busy. I'm in the middle o' a sonnet… '

'Your pardon, Sire. I did not know that he was come. You should have sent a page for me, an officer…'

'Och, I was for stretching my legs. I was ettling to find Patrick too. He's hiding away somewhere. A' folks hiding away frae me. It's nae better than a rabbit-warren, this castle. I thought on this wee room, wi' your Mistress Mary. Away you down and see the man, Vicky.' 'At once, Your Grace.'

'Aye.' James did not follow Lennox out, but moved over to the window, to peer through. 'It's wild, wild,' he declared. 'Ill weather for the sea. Wind and rain. It's no' right, no' suitable.'

'You could play at the tennis in the Hall, Sire,' Jean said helpfully. 'I have heard that my lord of Moray does so, at Donibristle. Indoors…'

'Hours, woman – tennis!' the King cried. 'A pox on tennis! It's no' tennis – it's Anne! Your Princess. My wife. She's on the sea. Coming to me. In these accursed storms. Waesucks – it's no' fair! The lassie – she'll puke. It's an ill thing, the sea – sore on the belly. The great muckle deeps, see you – they're like ravening wolves! Aye, wolves. Opening their slavering jaws for my puir Annie! In this plaguey wind… '

'Do not fear, Your Grace,' Mary said earnesdy. 'All will be well, I am sure. The Queen will be safe. This is not truly a storm. It may not be blowing out at sea, where the ships are. It is from the west, you see – the other way.'

'D'you think I dinna ken that? So it blaws in her face, lassie – it keeps her frae me! It blew a' yesterday, too. The Devil's in it, for sure. I'll need to have prayers said…'

Jean actually giggled.

Furiously James turned on her. 'Quiet, girl! Will you laugh at me? God's soul – I'll no' have it! Silence, d'you hear?'

Jean swallowed. 'It was just… prayers, Sir! Against a puff of wind…'

'A puff! Fiend take you – here's no puff! A' night I lay and listened to it, wowling and soughing round this castle. wheedling and girning. I couldna sleep thinking o' the lassie's boatie. And it's getting worse, I tell you. Aye, and you whicker and snicker! Och, away wi' you, wench! Out o' my sight. I'll no' be whickered at. Begone, you ill hizzy!'

Hastily the Lady Jean, flushing at last, backed out of the room, dropping her embroidery in the process. At the door she turned and fled, forgetting to curtsy. Mary, less precipitately, would have followed her, but Majesty pushed her back into her seat.

'No' you, lassie – no' you,' he told her. 'Och, I canna bide yon Jean! Aye gabbing and caleering! Making sheep's eyes. Sticking out her paps at me! I dinna like it. I'll need to be getting her married off on some man. It's no' decent. She's aye like a bitch in heat. I'll have to think on it.'

'The Lady Jean has no evil in her, Sire,' Mary told him. 'I pray, do not misjudge her. She is but overfull of spirit.' She paused for just a moment. 'Although she would be better married, I truly think.'

'Aye. I'll consider it.' James looked at her sidelong, out of those great liquid eyes. 'And you, lassie? Are you no' the marrying kind, yoursel'?'

She smiled. 'Time enough for that, Your Grace. I am but sixteen years.'

'Ooh, aye. Though, mind you, my ain lass is a year younger. And you're ripe for it – 'sakes aye!' He looked her up and down judicially. Then he tipped forward his extraordinary hat, to scratch at the bulging back of his head. 'But… eh, now… Vicky. Vicky – the Duke o' Lennox – is young, young. And fair donnart on you, lassie. Mind, I'm no' blaming him that much! You'll be bedding wi' him, belike?'

'I bed with no man, Sire.'

'Eh? No?' The King looked surprised. 'I thought… I jaloused…?'

'Then Your Grace jaloused but mistakenly,' she assured, but gently enough. 'Others, I have no doubt, do the same. I am very fond of my lord Duke – but that is all. We have been friends since we both were bairns – good friends. But that is all. I am my own woman, still.'

'Ummm.' James plucked at his sagging lower lip. 'You're… you're holding him off, then? For he's hot for you. I've watched him, aye. And, 'sakes, I'm fond o' Vicky, too, lassie.' He began to shuffle about the room, touching things. 'Vicky's near to me, near to the throne, see you. Of the blood-royal, aye. Mind, now, I'm a married man, and like to be making bairns o' my ain, he'll no' be next heir muckle longer. Na, na. But… but… even so, he's no' just… he's a duke. And…'

'Sire,' the girl interposed. 'If you are seeking to tell me that the Duke of Lennox is not for such as me to marry – then content yourself, for I know it well. When he weds, it must be to some great noble's daughter. And she must be rich – for Vicky has insufficient wealth. I know it all. Rest assured, Sire, I shall not seek to marry your cousin.'

'Aye, so. Good, good. Proper – maist proper. Nae doubt we shall find a good worthy husband for you. Ooh, aye – some honest decent laird, wi' broad acres belike. Some lordling, even – for you've the Gray blood after a'…'

'I thank you, Highness – but I am in little hurry. And when I do seek a husband, it would please me well to choose my own – by Your Grace's leave.'

'Och, well – we'll see, we'll see.' The King began as though to move to the door, but shufflingly, darting looks hither and thither, as though reluctant to go. Suddenly he turned round and came back to the girl, and looks and tone changed quite. 'See, lassie,' he said, almost diffidently. 'You've got a wiselike head on your shoulders, and a decent honest tongue. There's a wheen things you maybe could tell me – things I dinna just ken aright. About lassies… ' He coughed. 'I ken maist things, mind! – I'm no' just an ignorant loon. But… och well, she's about your ain age, and there's things I'll need to do wi' her…'

'I understand, Your Grace,' Mary said, soberly. 'Anything that I may decently tell you, I will.'

'Aye, well. I've never had a lassie, you see. Mind, there's some been gey near to it – ooh, aye. Bold brazen hizzies would ha' had the creeks off me if I hadna… h'mmm… ' He paused. 'Will it hurt, d'you ken? I mean, really hurt?'

'I take it, Sire, that you mean will it hurt the Queen, and not yourself? For I think, surely, that last is unlikely.' Only a single dimple in her cheek countered her gravity of mien. 'But I am told that so long as you are gentle, any slight hurt for the lady will be swallowed up quite in the satisfaction.'

'Eh, so? Uh-huh. Gentle. Is… is that possible. I mean…?'

'I esteem it so, Sire. Firm, but gentle.'

'Aye. Well, maybe. Like… like with a new-broken colt?'

'Perhaps. But I would think with rather more of fond affection.'

'I've aye been fond o' horses,' the King said simply. 'Yes. I had forgotten.'

'She's young, mind. Anne. And will be a virgin, for sure. A pity it is that you will be a virgin too, lassie? It would ha' been better… You'll no' ken so much.'

'I am sorry. But I have good ears, I am told – and have heard not a little. Though, are there not plenty otherwise whom you may ask, Sire?'

'Aye, plenty! Plenty! But… God save me, I just canna bring myself to ask them, Mistress Mary! Yon Jean, now! She'd ken plenty, yon one! But she'd whinny like a mare at me. Her sister, even – the Mistress o' Gray. She's kind, and she's told me some bits, mind. But… you see, she's used wi' Patrick. And… and I'm no' Patrick! He's different frae me. We both have the Latin and Greek. We both have the poetry. But… we're different other ways. So… och, I just canna speak wi' her as I do wi' you.' James looked at her from under heavy drooping eyelids. 'Maybe… maybe we could do mair than just talk, lassie? Maybe… well, maybe you could come ben to my bedchamber, the night? I could arrange it that you bide here, at Craigmillar, the night. It's gey wet for going back to Holyrood. Aye, we'd learn a thing or two, that way…?'

With all seriousness, Mary Gray appeared to consider this suggestion. 'You are gracious, Sire – and I am honoured. But I think, no. No. It would be better, more meet, I think, to await the Princess Anne – the Queen. That you should both learn of these things together. She will esteem you the more, that way, I think. I would…'

'But she needna ken…'

'If she is a woman, then she will ken, Sire.'

'M'mmm. You think it? Ah well… ' James gave the impression of not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved. He nibbled at his finger-nail. 'It's right difficult,' he muttered.

'I think, perhaps, you make too much of the difficulties, Highness,' she told him gently. 'After all, it has happened before. Many times.'

'Aye – but no' to me. No' to the King o' Scots. I am the Lord's Anointed, lassie – Christ's Viceroy. I am the father o' my people, see you – the fountain o' the race! It wouldna do…

it's no fitting, that I shonldna ken the way to handle a lassie in a bed. You see my right predicament? I've heard tell it's no' that easy, whiles, to get your mount to the jump, in time? And I wouldna like to jump my ditch afront my mare! Maybe I'd ha' been better wi' the Navarre woman, after a'. She'd ken the whole cantrip good and well…'

'Never that, Sire. You chose aright, I swear. Never heed about that first… ditch. There will be many such, after all. And in your own chamber, I cannot think that the Princess Anne will consider you as the Lord's Anointed or Christ's Viceroy – but just as her own new young husband. Be assured, she will not be critical of you, but only of herself.'

'You think it?' That was eager. 'Och, I hope so – I hope so. Maybe… maybe if I was to indite a poem about it, for her? Read it to her afore we bedded – maybe that would aid it? I'm good at poems, you see – I ha' the pen o' a ready writer. Aye. Even if I've no' just… no'… Och, well.'

Mary nodded. 'I understand. I am sure that the Queen will greatly esteem your poetry. But, Sire – I would counsel you to keep the poems out of the bedchamber, nevertheless. At first. Women are but silly shallow folk, you see – and perhaps Her Grace would liefer have just then kisses and fondling. I think that would be my preference.'

'It would? Kisses and fondling.' He sighed. 'Aye, maybe. Mind, it's maybe no' that easy to go about the business with a lassie you havena met wi', till an hour or two before. I'm doubting if it'll just come natural.' The King licked his lips. 'Now, it wouldna be that difficult wi' you, Mistress Mary -now I ken you, you see.' A royal arm slid around the girl's slender waist, and the long and delicate, if ink-stained and not overclean fingers sought for and captured her own.

'The Queen, I feel sure, will not prove difficult, Your Grace. She is young, and by her picture very bonny. And the poems that you have written for her will have greatly moved her, I vow. For few women are so… honoured. Your praise of her beauty and grace, your avowal of your great passion – all will move her. If indeed these are what Your Highness has written?' And with the most natural movement in the world, Mary turned to stoop and pick up a fallen hank of silken thread, thereby disengaging herself deftly from her sovereign's clasp.

That hinted question as to the tenor and content of his muse was highly successful, in that James at once reverted to the ardent poet and wordily-confident lover of the past few weeks. He dropped the girl's hand to grope about in an inner pocket of his stained doublet.

'I've two-three sonnets here. By me,' he told her. 'Well-turned and euphonious without being ambiguous – if you ken my meaning, Mistress. Aye. One's notable – right notable. Here it's – this one.' He extracted one of a number of crumpled papers, and smoothed it out. 'Listen you here, lassie. I've no' just decided on its tide, mind – but you'll no' deny its quality, I'm thinking.' Striking an attitude, James began to intone – and as he read, his hand came out again to recapture Mary's.

'The fever hath infected every part

My bones are dried, their marrow melts away,

My sinnews feeble through my smoking smart,

And all my blood as in a pan doth play.

I only wish for ease of all my pains,

That she might wit what sorrow I sustain.'

Finished, eagerly he peered at her, to observe the effect.

Mary cleared her throat. 'Most moving, Sire. As I said. 'Twill move her, to be sure. You did say… pan? Blood in a pan…?'

'Aye, pan. Pot wouldna just do. Chamber-pots, you ken. Nor goblet. Cauldron might serve – but och, it wouldna scan, you see. D'you no' like pan, Mary?'

'To be sure, Your Grace – pan let it be. It… grows on me, I think.'

'Aye. That's right. That's how I felt myself, lassie. Now, heed you to this one. It's maybe no' so lofty in sentiment – but it rhymes brawly. Longer too.'

The King was still declaiming, and so engrossed in the business that he did not notice when a knock sounded at the door, nor yet relax his moist clutch of Mary's hand. The door opened, and Patrick Gray stood there, looking in, his scimitar eyebrows rising high. Mary looked over to him, and smiled slowly, tranquilly, with just the tiniest shake of her dark head to advise against interruption.

It was the Master's courteous applause, at the end, that informed the King that they were no longer alone. He flushed hotly, stammered, and dropped the girl's hand as though it had burned him.

'Bravo, Your Grace! Eloquence indeed! A royal Alcaeus… with our Mary as Sappho!'

'Eh…? Och, no. No. It's you, Patrick man? You… you shouldna do yon. Creep up on me. No, no. And you mistake. I was just… just rehearsing a bit sonnet. For Anne, you ken. For the Queen. To hear the way it scanned, just. The lassie here… another lassie… about the same age, see you… listening… '

'So I perceived, Sire…'

'His Grace was much concerned about the wind and rain, Uncle Patrick – for the Queen's journey.' Mary came to the royal rescue. 'Telling me of his fears for the delay of the ships, he… he graciously thought to read over the poems welcoming her to his realm.'

'Ah… quite.' Patrick nodded gravely, though his eyes were dancing.

'Aye – the wind, the wind!' James recollected gratefully, turning to the window. 'It's wild – och, a storm it is. And getting worse. Waesucks – ill weather for journeying. And a lassie. It's the powers o' darkness, I swear – Satan himsel' working against me. He'll confound me if he can, I ken fine -for he's dead set against a' Christian monarchs. Ooh, aye. There was Anne's ain faither, King Frederick, met an untimous end no' that long ago. And even my late uncle o' France – cut off in his prime, even though naught but a Papist. By ill cold steel, I'm hearing.' James shivered. 'God rest his soul. Och, it's right dangerous labour being a Viceroy o' Christ – dangerous.'

'I cannot think that the present wind need unduly alarm you, Sire,' Patrick reassured. 'Nor, I esteem, are all crowned heads in hourly danger from His Satanic Highness. For, see you, your right royal cousin Elizabeth of England has well survived his spleen these many years!'

'Spleen!' James spluttered. 'Are you so sure it's spleen, man – in her case? A pox – I'm thinking it's his protection she's had, the auld… auld… ' He swallowed, and royally sought forbearance. 'Och, well – we maun just pray God will take her in His ain good time. Amen.' One pious thought led to another. 'Aye – prayers. We'll ha' to order prayers in a' churches o' the realm, Patrick. For the abatement o' these ill winds. Aye – forthwith. The Kirk owes it to me, its sure Protector. I'll see Master Lindsay about it, right away. Aye.' With sudden determination, the King shuffled to the door. 'I'll clip Auld Hornie's wings yet, by God!' At the open door itself, he glanced round. 'You needna bow on this occasion,' he announced with regal condescension, and hurried out.

For long moments Patrick and Mary eyed each other, thoughtfully – and seldom had they looked more alike. The man spoke first.

'So I have to congratulate you on another conquest, my dear! A notable one, indeed. It… it seems that I am ever underestimating you, Mary! Not, h'm, one of my commoner failings!'

'No,' she told him. 'Here is no cause for such talk, I think. Just a poor, wandering, lonely man in need of a friendly hand.'

'I noticed the hand!' Patrick agreed, laughing. 'Call it what you will, Mary – so long as it is your friendship and your hand that our Jamie seeks! Properly prosecuted, this may lead to great things. I confess, it had never crossed my mind… '

'Nor should it now, Uncle Patrick,' she interposed firmly, seriously. 'I pray you, build nothing out of this. For my sake, if not the King's. He was but carried away by his own rhymings, his own fears and hopes. It seemed that he needed help – and I sought a little to help him.'

'Precisely, sweeting. And let us hope that you will be enabled to help him again, and considerably. For James, you see, has not hitherto looked to women for his help. Dealing with kings, you know, can be to much advantage. But it requires much thought and planning – for they are not as other men. You must take my advice…'

'Dealing with kings, Uncle Patrick, it seems may not always be of much advantage – to the kings! It was cold steel that killed King Henri of France, it seems! And you were not surprised by the tidings, that night at Falkland. I wonder why?'

The man's features stilled in the extraordinary fashion that on occasion could change his whole appearance. It was as though a curtain had dropped over those lively laughing eyes. 'What do you mean, girl, by that?' he said softly, almost under his breath.

'Just that, Uncle Patrick, our dealings with kings may often best be kept privy to ourselves – do you not agree?' And when he did not answer, she smiled. 'Do not be angry. Did you win a lot of siller from the Commendator of Lindores? Leave him some, Uncle Patrick, please – for I think that he may well wed the Lady Jean. And she will need siller, too…'

Without a word he turned and left her there.

Alas for the efficacy of prayer even by royal appointment. The weather that autumn of 1589, whether devil-inspired or otherwise, did not moderate. Indeed it worsened, southwesterly gales blowing almost incessantly throughout the entire months of September and October. They were as bad as those which had dispersed Philip's Armada a year before, and of longer duration. The belated corn harvest was flattened and rotted, haystacks were blown to the winds, all round the coasts fishing-boats failed to return to their havens, and ordinary sober men shook their heads in foreboding.

The state of mind of King James bordered on chronic hysteria, in consequence. He shut himself away even more rigorously in the keep of Craigmillar, and even within the castle itself showed himself to few. He saw the entire climatic disturbance as a personal conspiracy against himself and his unseen beloved, and in a lesser degree and somewhat obscurely, against Christ's Holy Evangel, with which of course he closely identified himself. The Huntly business was all but forgotten; the irresponsible antics of the Earl of Bothwell, who, having won free from Tantallon, was as usual running wild in the Borders, no longer affected his monarch, it seemed; the normal machinations of mutually jealous lords left him apparently unmoved. He filled the long days and nights of waiting, particularly the nights, with alternate bouts of prolonged prayer, increasingly peculiar versifying, even deeper study into the supernatural and the black arts, with necromancers and reputed dabblers in these things sought out and brought to him from all over the land. Not to put too fine a point on it, the sovereign's mind appeared to many to be in process of becoming quite unhinged.

The rule and governance of the realm, in consequence, devolved almost wholly upon the Lord Chancellor, Maitland. This undoubtedly by no means suited many of those at Court; particularly Patrick Gray, who, despite his recent rapprochement with the Chancellor, found his wings considerably clipped – since his influence with that wily if upstart lawyer was inevitably a deal less effective than with the young James. As the weeks wore on, indeed, Patrick became very preoccupied indeed. He spent an ever-increasing proportion of his time in the company of the Duke of Lennox, it was to be noted.

With the continued non-arrival of the ships from Denmark, Mary Gray, for one, watched the King, Patrick and Ludovick, all three, with concern. James himself she did not often see, though when she did he was apt to dart strange, uneasy, almost appealing glances in her direction – glances which, she was well aware, Patrick seldom missed. For his part, the latter saw that Mary was very consistently at the castle; indeed, had not his wife put her foot down firmly, he would have had the girl lodging there. As Master of the Wardrobe he was, with the Chamberlain, the official most responsible for arrangements for the Queen's reception; the Queen's ladies, therefore, he kept under his own appreciative eye.

Ludovick, these long inclement days, tended to be moody and morose. A vigorous and active young man, with no great intellectuality or fondness for indoor pursuits and idle Court dalliance, or for that matter the card-playing which his friend the Master found so profitable, he fretted at the forced immurement within Craigmillar's thick walls. Out of patience with James, ill at ease with most of his fellow courtiers, a fair proportion of the time that he was not with the Master of Gray he tended to spend in the small room in the keep with Mary and her colleagues. There were distinct doubts as to whether Patrick wholly approved now, whatever had been his previous attitude.

On one such occasion, in mid-October, with Lennox watching Mary at her stitchery with more than usual stolid gloom, the girl rallied him smilingly.

'Vicky,' she protested. 'You puff and sigh there like a cow with an overfull udder! Why so dolorous these days? I have not seen you smile in a week, I vow!'

'Eh…? Well… in part because I never see you alone, Mary. Always other women are with you. That Jean. And Kate Lindsay. And the Sinclair wench. I do believe that Patrick arranges it so. Always working away at these clothes and trappings.'

'But that is why we are here, Vicky – our duty. You of all men should know it, as Chamberlain. Besides, are we not alone now, and have been these ten minutes? And all you have done is moon and scowl!'

'You are ever sewing and stitching. Never done with this sempstress's work. It's not suitable…'

'It is especial work, Vicky – close wear for the Queen's own person. It is suitable that her ladies should do it. It is all that we can do for Her Grace, in this pass. Save pray for her safety and speedy arrival.'

'Pray!' The young man all but spat that out. 'Mortdieu -I've had my bellyful! of that! All this morning we were at it.' He jumped up, and began to pace the small apartment. It was unusual indeed to see Ludovick Stuart thus moved. 'Hours he kept us on our knees. Mine pain me yet! Though, on my soul, it was like no praying I have ever known ere this! He weeps and shouts at his Maker, parbleu – when he is not babbling about black arts and wizardry! All over a chit of a girl whom he has never even seen! 'Fore God, I believe – aye, I believe that his mind is going. That we may have to take steps, as Patrick says.'

'I think that is unfair, Vicky. That you are too hard on the King, by far. He is only distraught, surely.' Mary looked up at him thoughtfully, biting a thread with small white teeth. 'And… what does Patrick say? What steps are these?'

He frowned heavily. 'It is very secret,' he said, lowering his voice. 'Privy only to ourselves. Perhaps I should not tell -even to you, Mary. He said to keep it close.'

'Even from me, Vicky – who can keep a secret? And I know many of Uncle Patrick's secrets. Did he say not to tell me?'

'No. No, but… well, if you swear not to tell it to a soul,

Mary? Aye. Patrick, you see, fears for James's reason – and mon Dieu, he is right, I begin to believe! If the King's mind goes – goes completely, you understand – then it will be necessary to take steps. Great steps, and prompt. For the weal of the realm. He says that a Regency would have to be set up -to rule instead of the King. As a first step. It might be necessary even… even to find another king. Later, that is. Should this madness continue.' Lennox was speaking jerkily, and looking almost shocked at his own words. 'But first a Regency.'

Mary did not answer, but only gazed at him great-eyed.

'You see how it is, Mary? You understand? The country cannot be governed by a madman. There have been Regencies before, a-many…'

She nodded slowly. 'And who would be this Regent?'

He swallowed. 'Why me, Patrick says. I am next heir, you see. Since it could not be my cousin Arabella Stuart, in England. And… and…'

'I see.' Steadily she considered him. 'I see. So says Uncle Patrick?'

'Yes.'

Mary looked down at her sewing. 'Not all would welcome this, I think, Vicky. Even those who might be agreeable to turn against King James. Some would say that you are not old enough to be Regent, perhaps. Chancellor Maitland might say as much, I think.'

'Aye. Belike. But Maitland would not be told. He would be the last to be told. He likes me not, that man.'

'But, as Chancellor, first minister, must he not know? And act…?'

'He would no longer be Chancellor,' Lennox told her simply. 'The Regent's first duty would be to appoint a new Chancellor.'

'Uncle Patrick?'

'To be sure. Who else?'

The girl's breath issued in a long sigh. 'Of course,' she said. 'Who else!' After a moment or two she rose to her feet and came over to him, to take his arm. 'Vicky – here are deep matters indeed. I do not wonder that you have been anxious, ill-humoured. But do you perceive how deep? Such talk now is… treason! Uncle Patrick at least advised you well in this, that you should not speak of it to anyone. For your head's sake!'

The other's boyish features flushed. 'No, no – not that! Not treason, Mary! Lord – never say it! You do not understand. We must take thought – for the realm. For its safety and governance. We… we are high officers of state, members of the Privy Council. You are a woman – you do not understand…'

'I understand all too well, I think, Vicky. Men have died for less dangerous words than these. Some might call them betraying your king. Be careful, Vicky – think well. King James is shrewder than you take him for. He is far from mad, I do believe. Promise me that you will say nothing of it to anyone! And that you will tell me should the matter go any further. I do not fear so much for Uncle Patrick – for he has walked dangerously all his days. But, you…!'

Unhappily her companion nodded. 'As you will, Mary. I promise. I did not mean… perhaps it is too soon to consider these things…'

'And it would be better, Vicky, that Patrick does not know that you have told me. Much the best. You see that?'

'Aye. I shall not tell him.'

'Good,' she said. 'Poor Vicky – such anxieties but ill suit you. Statecraft is but little to your nature, I think.'

Heartily he agreed with her. 'You are right, i' faith! Would that I could exchange it all for the good clean air of Methven and the hills of Strathearn! Out of these accursed enclosing walls and crazy humours! And you with me there, Mary… '

The girl smiled, but kindly. 'Patience, Vicky,' she said. 'Though, to be sure, I would rather see you Laird of Methven than Regent of Scotland.'

'And you? How would you see yourself?'

'As Mary Gray, just. And your friend. Just that. Always that.'

He sighed, gustily.

During the next three days Mary sought to see the King alone – and found it more than difficult. James did spend most of his time alone – but shut in his own chambers with guards

at every door. To have sought audience past these would have made the girl conspicuous and provoked comment inevitably -the last thing that she desired. And no amount of waiting about in likely places, or other like device, was of any avail.

It was on the last day of that week, after mid-day meal taken in the great hall in company with most of the resident courtiers but minus the royal presence, that, climbing the long winding turnpike stair to the Wardrobe rooms again, Mary's glance was caught whilst passing one of the narrow arrow-slit windows. Down below she had glimpsed an unmistakable shambling figure, pacing the flagged parapet walk that surmounted the walling of one of the secondary corner-towers, solitary though every now and again raising a hand in a repetitive gesture.

Only for a moment or two did the girl hesitate. That tower was an inner one, relic of the original smaller fortalice, sheltered from the wind, its top hidden from most of the castle's windows and courtyards – no doubt why James had selected it for privacy. Her Uncle Patrick had recently settled down to a game of cards, she knew, with carefully-chosen and wealthy companions. Ludovick was gone down to Leith, to superintend the repair of decorations erected for the Queen's reception and blown down by the gales. With a brief word to her two colleagues, the Ladies Jean Stewart and Katherine Lindsay, indicating that she had left something behind, Mary turned and ran light-footed down the steps worn hollow by mailed feet.

Darting along the bare labyrinthine mural passages that honeycombed the thick walling, up and down steps, she came to the foot of the little stairway of the tower where the King promenaded. An armed guard stood there. With entire authority she asserted that she was from the Master of the Wardrobe, with word for His Grace. Known by sight to all in Craigmillar, the guard let her past without demur. Another man-at-arms held the caphouse door at the stairhead – but he was no more obstructive; indeed the unexpected sight of a pretty, breathless girl commended itself to him sufficiently for him to whisper confidentially in her ear that His Highness being in a passing strange state, it behoved her to watch her virtue and perhaps close up the front of her gown – a liberty she forebore to rebuke as he opened the door for her.

James was shuffling up and down, up and down, over the counter-placed flagstones at the other side of the rectangular walk that crowned the tower within the crenellated parapet, lips moving, arms gesturing – whether apostrophising his Maker, declaiming poetry, or making incantations, was uncertain. Mary, lifting her skirts a little, went tripping over the stones towards him.

The King halted in mid-pantomime at sight of her, glowering blackly. Then, as she straightened up from her brief curtsy, and he perceived her identity, his features slackened to a grimacing smile.

'Och, it's yoursel' just, Mistress Mary!' he declared, in relief. 'You gave me a right fleg! I was thinking o' Anne, you see – o' the Queen. I wondered if I was beholding her drowned ghost…!'

'Oh hush, Sire – how could that be?' she returned. 'Your lady is safe and well, I vow, and no ghost. Moreover, not to be confused with the humble daughter of Davy Gray.'

'Aye. Aye, belike you're right. It was just a sudden notion, you ken.' James scratched at his straggling apology for a beard. 'But… what brings you here, lassie? You're alone, just? There's nane hiding behind yon door? I'm no' seeing a'body… we are not giving our royal audience to any. We would be private…'

'No, Sire – I am quite alone.' The girl hesitated, prettily. 'I… I came, Your Grace, to seek a favour.'

'Aye. Ooh, aye. A' folk do that,' the disillusioned monarch agreed, with a sigh. 'What is't you want then, Mary?'

She wrinkled her lovely brow. 'It is difficult. I am overbold, I well know. I should not ask it. But… I must needs dare turn to you, Sire, in my trouble. You see, I also am turning my foolish head to poetry. Although that is much too fine a name to give my poor verses. I seek to write an ode to your princess, Sire – a little song of welcome for your young Queen Anne from her most lowly Woman of the Bedchamber. I have got so far, poor as it is – but now I am stuck. Stuck quite, Your Grace, for a rhyme. So… so I dared come to you for help

James of Scotland was quite transformed with delight. Shining-eyed, stammering his pleasure, he turned to her, grasping her arm, her hand again. 'Hech, hech – is that s'so? Y'you are, Mary l'lass? Mercy on us – it's kindly in you, right kindly. Aye. I rejoice to hear it. No' that you're stuck, mind -for I ken what it is to be stuck for a rhyme. Many the time I'm stuck, myself. But… och, I'd never ha' thought it. And you but a bit lassie…'

'That is so, Your Highness. And my, my presumption is the greater in coming to you who are not only the King but so renowned and practised a poet…'

'Aye – but who better, who better?' he exclaimed. 'Wae-sucks – do I no' writhe betimes on the same slow fire mysel'?'

'Yes – that is my sole excuse, Sire. Here is my trouble. It is in the third verse. It goes thus:

My voice I raise, my lyre I tune,

to thee fair daughter of the seas,

Thy coming cannot be too soon

for this poor handmaid of thine ease;

O end my weary waiting, please

with solace of thy presence… well… boon.'

'Eh? Boon?' James repeated. 'Boon, you say?'

She bit her lip. 'Boon, yes. That is all that I can think of to end the verse. It is not very good, is it?'

'Boon.' The King scratched his head under the inevitable high hat. 'I canna see how it could be boon, lassie… thy presence boon. Na, na – it's no' right, some way.'

'No,' she agreed meekly. 'I know it. That is why I came to you. I cannot think of aught else.'

'Ummm,' he said. 'Oon's no' that easy, to be sure. To do wi' a woman's presence. Moon wouldna do, nor yet swoon. Mind, if you'd done it in the Scots, it would be better, Mary. Then you could ha' said doon or abune or goon. Aye, or her royal croon. Och, it's easier to make words rhyme in the Scots, I find.'

'Perhaps I should have done that, yet.'

'Aye. But maybe it's no' too late to change it a wee thing, here and there. Into the Scots. I ken it's an ill task for a poet having to change the words he's wrung oot o' his heart's blood – but och, whiles it has to be done, lassie. Now… wi' solace o' thy presence boon' it was, was it no'? Aye. See you – if you were to change a wheen o' the rest o' the words into Scots, then you could set the last line the other way roond, and say "wi' presence royal my solace croon."'

'Ah – how true, Sire! Splendid!' Mary clapped her hands. 'Why did I not think of it? Not only does it rhyme, but it is better, much better.'

'Aye, I think it so myself. But mind, you canna just ha' the one Scots word to it, Mary. You'll need to go through a' the ode and change a bit word here and there to oor ain Scots usage. It'll no' be that difficult. What was the line before it…?'

' "O end my weary waiting, please." '

Tph'mmm. I'm no' that rejoiced wi' yon "please", mind. "Waiting, please" is no' just perfect, maybe.'

'Indeed it is not, as I am well aware.'

'Aye. You could mak it "Gladden my weary waesome ees", belike.'

'Waesome ease…?'

'Ees – eyes, you ken. Een would be righter – but, och, it wouldna rhyme. We'll no' mend that. Ees it'll ha' to be.

"Gladden my weary waesome ees, Wi' presence royal my solace croon."

That's nane so ill.'

She moistened her lips. 'Indeed, Sire – it is truly most… most apt. So quickly to perceive the need and supply the answer. I am overwhelmed. But… I must not keep you further, must not trespass on your precious time, must not intrude more on your own royal muse…'

'Och, never heed it, lassie – I like it fine,' James assured. 'I'm right practised at it. Ooh, aye. See you – go you right through your ode frae the beginning, Mary, and I'll gie you a bit hand. Wi' the Scots. For the prentice hand's aye slower than the master's.'

'Oh, but that is too much, Your Grace. You are too kind…'

'Na, na. Let's hear it a'…'

So, hand in hand and side by side, the teetering unsteady monarch and the dainty girl went tripping round and round that battlemented walk, bobbing up and down over the flagstones gapped for drainage, reciting, inventing, weighing, if scarcely improving the doggerel verses that Mary had so hurriedly concocted, James eager, voluble, authoritative, his companion appreciative and serious, the wind blowing her hair about her face and her skirts about her legs. For anyone in a position to overlook them, undoubtedly they would make a curious picture.

It was only when the King had the pathetic little ode almost transformed to his own peculiar satisfaction, that a thought occurred to him that abruptly halted him in his wambling tracks, his face falling ludicrously.

'Eh… but what o' the Master?' he demanded. 'What o' Patrick Gray, your faither? Or your uncle, or what you ca' him? Was it he… did he set you to this poetry, girl? He's a right notable poet himsel', I ken. You're… you're no cozening me? Seeking to befool me wi' his verse…?'

'Sire – my Uncle Patrick knows naught of this. It is my own entirely.'

'But why came you to me when you could go to him, woman? For help and improvement? Eh?'

'Uncle Patrick is much too throng with affairs, Your Grace, to trifle with my poor rhymes. He is much too taken up with other matters to think of poetry, at this time.'

Sidelong he peered at her. 'He is, eh? What takes up our Patrick so?'

'In the main, matters of money, Sire, I think. Siller and gold. In your affairs, and his own.'

'Moneys, eh? Siller and gold? And in my affairs, you say? Hech, hecht – what's this?' The muse forgotten, James was all ears. 'Out wi't, lassie. What moneys?'

She hesitated modestly. 'It is not perhaps for such as me to speak of these matters…'

'Houts, lassie – ha' done! It's… it's our royal will that you tell us o' the business. Aye.'

She bit her lip. 'As you command, Sire. Siller is much in Uncle Patrick's mind, I fear. The cost of the arrangements for the Queen – as Master of your Wardrobe. He and the Duke of Lennox are ever fretting over it. And my Lord Chancellor says that your Treasury is near empty.'

'Ummm,' James said. 'Aye, maybe. Siller's a right rare commodity, to be sure. Aye, and Maitland's close, close, the man.'

'Yes. So Uncle Patrick ever turns his eyes southwards. To Queen Elizabeth. On Your Grace's behalf.'

'Eh…? He does? Elizabeth? Aye – my pension. She doesna pay it, the auld… the auld…'

'No. But you will recollect, Sire, that Uncle Patrick brought you a thousand gold pieces of it when he returned to Scotland. He believes that he can win more for you – for it appears that he understands this Queen passing well. So he writes letters, many letters, and much presses Mr. Bowes.'

'Aye, he's right close wi' Bowes, I do hear. Ower close, maybe. I dinna like yon man, mysel, wi' his smooth white face

'Nor, I think, does Uncle Patrick, Your Grace. But as the Queen of England's envoy he must needs work with him on your behalf. For the increase of this pension… '

'Increase! Waesucks – if she'd but pay the sum agreed, the woman! Since Patrick agreed it wi' her three years syne, for two thousand pieces each year, she hasna paid a quarter o' it! And she's been right gorged wi' gold and siller since then – maist pecunious. Yon man Drake and his pirates fair load her wi' Spanish gold and plate. Hundreds o' thousands. It's no' right, no' decent. I'm her heir and successor. It'll a' be mine when she dies… ' The impoverished heir of Gloriana all but brought himself to tears at the contemplation of the gross injustice done to him.

'Yes, Your Grace. Hence Uncle Patrick's efforts. He believes that he can gain you the money. The promised increase. Even more, perhaps. So he writes and writes. But… but letters are poor things. If he could but see the Queen. Elizabeth. Speak with her. As before. Assuredly he would be the more successful.'

'Aye. I'ph'mmm. See her.' The King nodded, stumbling onward again. 'Aye. Maybe that is well thought o'. See her. An embassage…'

'Yes, Sire. An embassage.'

'Aye. But… did Patrick put you up to this, lassie? This embassage? Why did he no' speak o' it to me, himsel'? I had word wi' him but this morning.'

Mary sighed. 'I fear that he but thinks of the embassage as distant. Not immediate. He… he has other plans, meantime

'Other plans? What now – what now?'

'Plans of his own, Sire. I told you, he is much concerned about siller – in his own affairs as well as for Your Grace. Since his forfeiture and banishment he has had but little money, as you will know. My lord of Gray will give him nothing. He has great expenses. He is building again Broughty Castle, his portion. So… so he seeks to win back the Abbacy of Dunfermline.'

'No!' For once James Stewart was vehement, decisive. 'No' Dunfermline! I'll no' have it. I told him so lang syne. It's no' to be, no' suitable. If he sent you seeking Dunfermline frae me, Mary…'

'Not so, Your Grace. He does not know that I am with you. He would be but ill-pleased, I think, if he knew that I told you of it. But he is powerfuly set upon Dunfermline. He believes that it should be his, yet. That my lord of Huntly should not have it. Like a sickness it is with him, eating away at him. He even plans to take the Earl of Huntly to the Court of Session for it. And for that he needs more money.'

The King wagged his head in agitation. 'No' Dunfermline,' he wailed. 'It's no' like other places, you ken. It's the brawest property in a' the realm. When Patrick was forfeited, he lost it. He got it frae yon ill man Arran, some way. I canna just let him ha' it back. Would he ha' me look a right fool? Maybe I'll see what can be done for him wi' some other place, but no' Dunfermline. Na, na – it's no' to be thought of. Geordie Gordon doesna deserve to keep it, to be sure – but there's plenty wanting it! Johnny Mar. Aye, and the Earl o' Moray. Och, I'm thinking the Chancellor himsel's after it! I canna let Patrick have it. They'd a' be at my throat like a pack o' hound-dogs!'

'I know it, Sire. So, surely, must my uncle. Yet he seems mazed about this matter. Not like himself. Foolishly determined…' She paused, as though suddenly an idea had occurred to her. 'Sire – there is a way that this could be resolved, I think. That Uncle Patrick may be turned away from it – and the others likewise. Give Dunfermline to your new Queen, as a marriage gift. Then none can seek it.' 'Lord save us!'

'Yes. Would that not be best, Sire? Uncle Patrick would be weaned from his trouble. He could not sue the Queen, and waste great moneys. Your lady would take it most kindly – and you would have the spending of its revenues.'

Her companion had halted, blinking, licking his lips. 'Precious soul o' God, lassie – here's a notion! A right notable notion!' he exclaimed. 'Aye – Huntley's forfeit now. I can take it. For Anne. But… but Patrick? What o' Patrick? When he hears. He'll be fair scunnered at me! He'll plot and scheme against me, the man. He'll no' help me wi' Elizabeth and my pension, I swear…!'

'He will be very hot when he hears,' she agreed gravely. 'But… he need not hear until too late. If he was not here. If he went on this embassage to England at once. Before your lady arrives. And… ' She tipped her red lips with pink tongue prettily. '… if he was to receive some compensation. Some small lands somewhere. And, perhaps, some part, some portion of the moneys that he wins for you from Queen Elizabeth? That would much sweeten him, would it not? Siller that he could use to build Broughty. In exchange for his hopes of Dunfermline. A thousand gold pieces, perhaps – if he could win Your Grace two thousand. Or three. That would be but fair, would it not? And greatly encourage him in his dealings with Queen Elizabeth.'

'Lord ha' mercy on us – who taught you to think this way, girl?' James whispered. 'Who taught you, a lassie, the likes o' this?'

Surprised, she considered that. 'I do not think that anyone taught me, Sire. Save Davy Gray, of course.' And suddenly she trilled a laugh, happily, at some thought of her own. 'Yes – it must have been Davy Gray. Dear Davy Gray!'

Wonderingly the King looked at her, shaking his head. 'Yon dour man…?' he doubted. Then he changed his head-shaking to nodding. 'But you ha' the right o' it, Mary – 'deed aye. The embassage to Elizabeth it shall be – and at once. Aye, forthwith. Before… before my Anne comes, belike. We shall see to it. Our special envoy to the Court o' Saint James, the Master o' Gray – celeriter'

The girl nodded her head, satisfied. 'I have always wished to see London,' she said. 'And to see Elizabeth the Queen.'