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

Chapter Fourteen

IT was not really dark enough to suit the King. But truly dark nights are rare in Scotland in July. It requires heavy cloud, storm perhaps – the sort of weather with which Satan had plagued James heretofore. Now, of course, night after night, there were clear pale skies and never a breath of wind. Satan's adversary was not surprised.

The royal party was congregated in a deep hollow of the sand-dunes at the west side of the great sandy bay of North Berwick. It was exactly half-past eleven, and the King was much agitated lest they be too late – for these affairs, he asserted, always started at midnight, the witching hour. But Patrick was adamant that they would spoil all by being too soon. The church was on what amounted to an island, a bare peninsula of rock jutting into the sea, offering only the one covered approach. To arrive there before all the coven had assembled would almost certainly end in their discovery, the abandonment of the meeting, aid therefore the ruin of their plans.

'There is time yet, Sire,' he pointed out. 'We can cross this bay in but a few minutes. Let them be started.'

'Satan will see us coming, belike, and warn them.'

'If that be so, he could have warned diem any time since we left Edinburgh, Your Grace.'

There were five of them in the royal party besides James; Lennox, Sir James Melville of Halhill who was Sir Robert's brother, Master David Lindsay the King's chaplain, and, much overawed by the company he was keeping, Bailie David Seton of Tranent. In a nearby and larger hollow was a score of the royal bodyguard, standing by their horses.

James was actually trembling with excitement. The great round timepiece which he carried shook as he consulted it, unhappily raising it to his ear in case it had stopped.

'Guidsakes, it's an unchancy business this!' he exclaimed, not for the first time. 'I pray the Lord God will see us right! It's His work, see you. Master David – will you gie us another bit prayer, man?'

Nothing loth, the divine obliged, his stern voice a little less confident perhaps than usual. Patrick nudged Ludovick in the ribs, and grimaced.

Their due devotion occupied them until midnight, the Kirk being equally strong on volume as it was on intensity. James was in major agitation, on the horns of the dilemma of offending God or being too late for the Devil, when Lindsay finally panted to a close.

Leaving the escort and horses, with strict instructions as to what to do on seeing certain signals and flares, the six men emerged from their hiding-place. They did not head straight across the open beach, but crept round the side in the shadow of the dunes. It was not dark enough wholly to hide them, but undoubtedly at any distance they would not be noticed. Patrick led the way.

Very soon he had to slow down. James, never very good on his feet, was stumbling and puffing. Melville and Lindsay were both middle-aged and found the soft sand heavy going. The bailie was a lean and hungry-looking character of a sour and sanctimonious expression, but nimble enough.

It was nearer the half than the quarter-past midnight when they reached the rocks wherein nestled the harbour of North Berwick and on which stood its ancient whitewashed kirk. High above the tide it crouched, amongst scattered graves that were scooped out wherever there was sufficient soil in pockets amongst the rocks. The place was silent, seemingly closed up – but from its windows a faint flicker of peculiar light glimmered.

4Up to the east end,' Patrick, who had prospected the site two days previously, whispered. 'Behind the altar.' He coughed, apologetically glancing at Master Lindsay. 'Behind the Communion Table. The windows are low. To see in. Keep away from the door, at the other end.'

They crept up over the rocks and between the hummocks of the graves. They began to hear faint sounds of music coming from the church.

Crouching under the easternmost windows, they gradually raised their heads, to peer inside.

The King's croaking gasp of alarm ought surely to have been heard within. Whatever any of them had been expecting, indeed, the sight that met their gaze was sufficient to catch their breathing – even Patrick Gray's. The church was almost full – fuller no doubt than the minister was accustomed to seeing it on a Sabbath. It was not a large church admittedly; there might however have been one hundred and fifty persons present. Of them all, fully nine out of ten were women. This was entirely obvious, for though otherwise fully clothed, indeed seemingly dressed in their best, their bosoms were wholly bare. It made a quite extraordinary sight, all those breasts, large and small, young and old – a scene most aggressively, intimidatingly female. The few men, in fact, seemed quite pathetically humdrum and feeble, looking painfully normal save that they all wore hats in the pews, and highly self-conscious expressions.

Patrick had the temerity to hush his monarch, who was babbling something incoherent and disgusted about cattle; James never had been much of an admirer of the opposite sex.

The church was lit with a ghostly light, by candles – ghostly in that they burned with a blue flame, the candles themselves being black, not white. Four burned on the Communion Table, where a cross stood upside-down amongst a litter of flagons, obviously empty.

But it was towards the pulpit that all eyes were turned. There, flanked by two more of the black candles, stood an extraordinary apparition. Tall, commanding, clad wholly in black, with a cloak over tight trunks, a black mask over his features, a close-fitting hood over his head out of which rose two small curving horns, this individual was clearly reading aloud from a great book, by the light of the blue flames, although the watchers outside could only hear the murmur of his voice, deep-toned, sepulchral enough to be one of the luminaries of the Kirk.

The King chittered and mouthed. Master Lindsay groaned deep within him, and Lennox crossed himself. Patrick Gray was less affected.

'A pity that we cannot hear,' he mentioned. However, the reading stopped almost at once, and the congregation rose and proceeded to turn round and round before the speaker, all in their own place, widdershins – that is, contrary to the movement of the sun – in a slow and stately fashion, the women six times, and the men nine, most peculiar. Then a young creature with fair hair, notably well-developed, came forward to the pulpit steps and producing a tiny instrument known as a Jew's-harp, proceeded to thrum and twang a strange and haunting melody with a catchy and mischievous lift at the end of each verse. The entire company sang to this in hymn-like fashion, solemn and dignified – save that at the end of each stanza the women all lifted their skirts high and executed a skittish dancing-step and shook their breasts. The effect was quite original.

Although the chanting was slow and in unison, it was difficult outside to follow the actual words. That it was a travesty of some sacred cantata, however, was apparent. Repetitions of the strange phrase:

'Cumer go ye before,

cummer go ye,

Gif ye will not go before,

cummer let me.'

kept recurring. It was a pity that no sense could be made of this.

When this was over, the masked individual in the pulpit descended to the floor of the kirk, and moved forward to the table. There, with some ceremony, he removed his tight-fitting black trunks and hose before the assembly. And, lo – his flesh beneath shone as black as the rest of him. He thereupon hoisted himself up on to the table itself, clearing away up-ended cross and bottles to do so, and sat so that his sooty posterior projected a little way over the far or eastern edge, not a dozen feet from the wide eyes of the hidden watchers. Then he waved imperiously towards the congregation.

'Christ God save us!' James gasped. 'See his… see his…!'

'No tail, you'll note,' Patrick observed, more prosaically, to Ludovick.

Led by the young woman with the Jew's-harp, the company now formed itself into a long and orderly queue, and moved forward in single file.

The plump girl, rosy-cheeked and comely, came up to the table, turned widdershins six times once more before it, and then moving round to the rear, bowed low and kissed the out-thrust black bottom. One by one the entire assembly filed up and followed suit.

Master Lindsay began to pray again, with muted fervour.

This lengthy proceeding over, and everybody back in their seats, the satanic Master of ceremonies pulled on his trunks again, and returned to the pulpit. He raised his left hand, made the sign of the crooked cross, and loudly announced the curious text:

'Many comes to the fair, and buys not all wares'

This could even be heard by the watchers without. It was Patrick's turn to groan. He had never been an appreciator of sermons, and obviously one was now to follow.

However, this sermon was mercifully brief, though not loud enough to be intelligible outside. From the deliverer's manner and gesticulations it seemed to be a rousing affair, with perhaps even a certain amount of humour about it. It ended very abruptly, with the preacher suddenly producing a black toad from under his gown, and pointing thereafter towards the door, clearly urging some action upon the company.

His commands were obeyed with alacrity – so much so that the watchers had to go scrambling downhill amongst the rocks in undignified haste in order to avoid being discovered as the congregation came flocking out of the church, the King yelping his fright. Fortunately the crowd did not make for this eastern end of the precincts. Nor did they stream off landwards, however. Splitting up into groups, they went, laughing and joking, towards various parts of the rocky peninsula, spades and mattocks being picked up as they went. Two parties, all women, came uncomfortably near to where the King's party hid, and removing any remaining clothing which might have encumbered their upper parts, set about digging at a couple of graves quite close together amongst the rocks – which, by the darker soil rather than green turf which outlined their oblong mounds, were evidently of recent construction. The women took turns with the spades, and went about their task with vigour and gusto.

It was not long before something long and pale began to appear from the nearest of the graves – obviously a corpse in its white winding-sheet. Amidst skirling laughter and cackles, this trophy was unrolled, no attempt being made to lower voices or smother hilarity – the noise of the waves, of course, would cover the sound at any distance. In only a moment or two the stink had penetrated even the two-score yards to the watchers, that warm summer night

The stench had no ill effects on the women however. With cries of delight and satisfaction they stretched out the body of what appeared to have been a youngish man not very long buried. Knives materialised from under skirts, and with these, certain of the party set upon the remains, encouraged by the others rapturously. Two went to work at the groin, and others at each of the hands and feet. Whether or not these were practised butchers it was impossible to tell, but before long they were holding up grisly objects in triumph, presumably toes and fingers as well as less public members. Roughly bundling up the ravaged cadaver, the others returned it to the grave, covered it over, and stamped down the soil.

The group at the next lair were equally busy; it was impossible, from the watchers' stance, to see what they had achieved, however.

Lennox licked dry lips, muttering his horror and disgust. 'Foul harpies! I could vomit!'

'Spare yourself,' Patrick advised him. 'They are not finished yet.'

'We have plumbed the depths of hell this night!' Melville averred. 'Wait you, Sir James!'

'Deus avertat!' James said. 'Quieta non movere!' Presently the twanging of the Jew's-harp sounded as a signal, and all the congregation began to wind up their activities and stream back to the church. It took some time for them all to finish their various tasks however, and an impatient shout, presumably from their sable leader, hastened the stragglers. At last all were inside again, and the door was shut.

Without delay the six men hurried back to their former vantage point.

Now a most fantastic scene was being enacted. The horned master of ceremonies had taken up his stance behind the Communion Table. In front of it an aged crone was extracting from a sack, held open by other women, a clawing and frightened black cat, oblivious apparently to the bites and scratches she received.

The unfortunate animal was placed on the table, and held down there. Strangely enough it lay almost completely still, gripped by the old woman presumably in such a way as to

render it nerveless. Then, from a horrible and gruesome pile of objects on the table beside it, certain choice items from the dead bodies were selected by the masked individual, and tied by the woman to the corresponding parts of the cat – finger-joints to the forepaws, toes to the rear legs, an ear round its neck, genitals round its middle.

Thus bedecked, the animal was returned to his sack, and the remaining trophies shared out amongst the congregation. This indeed was the only undisciplined incident of the entire performance so far, as the women fought and clawed at each other to obtain these most unattractive mementoes. What they would do with them beggared the imagination.

Thereafter there was a caricature of a benediction, with the master of ceremonies making rude signs with his raised fingers, and the assembly turned widdershins, chanting some sort of antiphon. This time the watchers had due warning, and were safely hidden before the company emerged into the open. Even so there was some alarm when, led by the tall black figure and the Jew's-harper, the crowd came surging in an easterly direction. However, they kept to the highest part of the rock, and were clearly not in the least concerned with searching for possible spectators. Seemingly they were heading for the ultimate point of the peninsula. Letting them get well past, the royal party followed on discreetly.

At the extremity of the headland the people clustered, while their leader made another of his orations, gesturing towards sea and sky. Unfortunately, since he faced in that direction, his words remained unintelligible from a distance behind. Never long-winded, however, he was soon done. Then the old woman with the cat descended alone to the tide's edge, and stepping gingerly on to something low, small and dark tethered there, sat down.

'Hech, hech – the sieve!' James exclaimed. 'Yon'll be her sieve, Seton man.'

'Nae doot, Your Majesty,' the bailie agreed. His unfortunate maid-servant Geilis Duncan, under severe pressure, had informed her determined questioners that the witches of North Berwick habitually sailed in sieves.

'It could be only a raft,' Lennox pointed out, reasonably.

'Houts, Vicky – wheesht!' the King decried. 'Dinna mock.'

To further chanting from the company, the crone and her cat were pushed out from the rocks, and whether by supernatural means or merely by the action of the outgoing tide, the strange craft proceeded seawards, unpropelled by oars or sail. It was not long before it faded from their sight, in the gloom. Soon after, there was an unearthly screech, from out on the water, high-pitched, penetrating, and then silence.

'Christ preserve us!' James prayed. 'Was yon the cat or the auld wife?'

'Here they come again,' Patrick warned.

Their business at the sea evidently completed, the crowd came trooping back. Once again the watchers had to hide. Now a distinctly different attitude seemed to prevail amongst the coven. The solemnity was gone. All was jollity and capering. Back at the kirkyard, the buxom harpist mounted up on to the back and wide shoulders of her horned master, and from this lofty perch, white thighs gleaming on either side of his dusky masked features, strummed her strange music while her cavalier jigged beneath her with an astonishingly light and graceful step, and all around the graves the company skipped and danced.

'See the wicked strength o' him!' the King whispered. 'Carrying yon big heifer like she was a bit birdie!'

'A notable physique,' Patrick agreed. 'Tall. Broad of shoulder. But with no great flesh to him. And a deep voice. H'mmm. Also, did I detect a slight lisp?'

Lennox looked at him sharply. 'I did not note it,' he said.

'No? Perhaps your ears are less sharp than mine, Vicky?'

The dancing continued, growing ever wilder.

A council developed around the King. Melville proposed that one or more of them should get down into some hidden corner, facing westwards, and light the signal flare which they had with them, to summon the Royal Guard hotfoot. To catch the entire coven before it could disperse.

'This will be the end of it,' he foretold. 'They will work themselves into a frenzy, and afterwards go home.'

'Think you…? Think you…?' James peered doubtfully, biting his nails. 'Is it no' ower dangerous? There's that many o' them. Our royal person…?'

'We must smite them hip and thigh, Sire!' Master Lindsay urged. 'As Samson smote the Philistines. It is no less than our duty.'

'Unfortunately we are unprovided with asses' jawbones,' Patrick mentioned. 'His Grace's safety must be our first consideration.'

Even Ludovick looked surprised; such caution was scarcely in character for the Master of Gray.

'You would not let them all go free?' Melville wondered.

'Why, no. I propose to wait here, and follow one or more of these beauties back to their lairs. Alone. Unseen. It should not be difficult. Then when we know who they are, where they live, the rest will be simple. And all with no danger to His Grace.' He paused, for a moment. 'No further danger.'

'Eh…? Danger, Patrick? Mair danger…?'

'That cat, Sire. We must believe that this curious proceeding of the cat was done for some purpose. And since it seems that Your Grace is Satan's immediate target, the purpose is against your own royal person, perhaps. I would counsel a speedy return to Edinburgh and the safety of the palace.'

'Against my person!' James stammered. 'You think it, man?' He gripped Patrick's arm. 'Another storm, belike? I didna like yon o' the cat. Aye, you're right, Patrick – you're right. It's a gey long ride back to Emburgh. Let's awa', let's awa'.'

'But, Your Grace, we cannot be sure that the Master of Gray will be successful in following these evil folk,' Melville pointed out. 'If he loses them, then all our vigil is fruidess.'

*Na, na – no' fruitless, Sir James. We ken a deal that we didna ken before. Certes, we do! Patrick has the wiselike head in these matters. And you'd no' hae me further endangered, man?'

'No, Sire. But…'

'Come, then. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Mind that. We mustna' waste mair time. Back to the horses. Will I send you some o' the Guard, Patrick?'

'No. I am better alone.'

'I shall come with you,' Lennox said.

'No Vicky – your place is with His Grace. One man will more easily follow these others unseen than will two.' 'You're no' feared, Patrick?' the King asked. 'It is not me that Satan seeks to overwhelm is it, Highness?'

'Waesucks – no! That's right. It's me. Aye – let's awa' frae here. Quick, now.'

'I shall report to you in the morning, Sire,' the Master assured. 'I trust that no storms develop on your road home…'

Mary Gray sat on the grass and played with a daisy, as Ludovick paced up and down on the turf before her, high on the green flank of Arthur's Seat that towered above the grey palace of Holyroodhouse and all the jumbled roofs of the burgh of Canongate. She watched him thoughtfully.

'You believe it – and yet you disbelieve?' she said. 'It was evil – but you could not quite credit it?'

'Some of it,' he nodded. 'Something did not ring true. I do not know. But I felt it…'

'You felt perhaps that they were not true witches, Vicky?'

'How can I tell? Are there true witches? Do they indeed exist? These women were shameful, disgusting. All that they did was ill. Devil's work it may have been. But…'

'But it was not the Devil who directed it?'

'I think not. Certainly the black man with the horns but played the part.'

'Yet the King believes that it was Satan himself?'

'To be sure. James went expecting to see Satan – and saw him. As did, I think, Melville and Lindsay.'

'But not Uncle Patrick, I warrant!'

'Patrick was strange. In many ways. It was almost as though he himself was play-acting.'

'Yes. I can believe that. Tell me, Vicky, what he did. What he said.'

'It was scarcely what he said and did. It was his manner, Mary. As though he knew what was to happen. Almost as though he was privy to it all.'

'He went to North Berwick two days before, to spy out the land.'

'It was more than that. He knew much more. He told us when there was more to come. Worse things to be seen. He seemed to be surprised by nothing. The evil of it scarcely seemed to touch him.'

'Perhaps because it was play-acting? Perhaps because he had arranged it so, for the King?'

'But why?'

'That I do not know. You said that the King was expecting to see the Devil. Uncle Patrick perhaps produced the Devil. For some purpose of his own. Always he has a purpose of his own. You say that he did not return with you?'

'No. That also I did not understand. When the others would have signalled for the Guard, he would have none of it. He held that there was danger for James. Until then he had not seemed to think it. All must hasten away – save himself. He would watch on, and follow some of these people to their homes. To discover who they were. I would have gone with him, but he would not have it. I found it strange.'

'Yet did not the Lady Marie say that Uncle Patrick was home before the King?'

'Aye, we were much delayed. By a sea-mist. Near the Saltpans of Preston. Thick mist in which we could scarce see our horses' ears. James swears that it was the cat's doing – that Satan sent it instead of a storm. So that he should perchance ride over a cliff, like King Alexander of old. Patrick got none of it. He followed a man home to Kilmurdie, a place near to Dirleton, helped himself to one of the man's horses, and rode back to Edinburgh bareback. He took the inland road, by the Gled's Muir, and saw no mist, he says.'

'This man that he followed – he was not the one who played Satan?'

'No. That one had a horse waiting. Not far from the kirk. And a groom, Patrick said. So that he might not follow him.'

'He was of the gentry, then – if he had horses and groom. Did you not learn anything of him? Who he might be? Even masked as he was.'

Ludovick shook his head. 'It was not possible. Besides the mask, he was all over blackened. And the light was but dim. All that we could see was that he was a tall man, well made but not fleshy. And of much strength, for he danced with a young woman on his shoulders. He had a deep voice, And… ah, yes – Patrick said that he spoke with something of a lisp. Although myself I did not hear that.'

'Do you think, then, that Uncle Patrick knew this man? If it was play-acting, and he was the leader…?'

'Who can tell? But I do not believe it play-acting in the true sense, Mary. These people were practising evil, denying God, insulting Christ. And they were well versed in it. They had done it many times, to be sure. It may, as you say, have been arranged last night especially for James. But it was no mummery. It was a coven practising its wickedness – that I'll swear. It was most vile.'

The girl scanned his face. It was not often that Ludovick Stuart was moved to this extent. 'What will the King do now, think you, Vicky?' she asked, presently.

'Why, send for this man Hepburn, no doubt. To put him to the question. To see what he may tell. Of the others… '

'Hepburn…?'

'Aye. The one that Patrick followed. To Kilmurdie. He is Hepburn of Kilmurdie – a small lairdship near to North Berwick.'

'Hepburn – that is my lord of Bothwell's clan.' Suddenly Mary Gray sat up straight. 'And… and Bothwell speaks with a slight lisp, Vicky! A lisp! And his castle of Hailes is but a few miles from North Berwick!'

They stared at each other.

'Bothwell is tall and strong and wide of shoulder,' she went on.

'Aye, and deep of voice, too, by God! Could it be? Could it? Always he was crazed, wild…' Mary was silent.

'Bothwell!' Ludovick repeated, almost breathlessly. 'One of the greatest in the land. The King's cousin, also. Who could think it…?'

'Perhaps only the Master of Gray!' she said, slowly. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, Vicky, that the Earl of Bothwell insulted Uncle Patrick yon day at Leith, when the Queen came. That was a dangerous thing to do!'

Askance he eyed her from under down-drawn brows.

'He called him a jumped-up wardrobe-master, before all. I feared for him, even as I listened. Now, I fear the more!'

'But, if it be the truth…?'

Mary got to her feet and set off downhill without another word.