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

Chapter Sixteen

LUDOVICK STUART came long-striding up the steep grassy hillside, breathing deeply. Mary Gray waved to him as he approached, from where she sat on a green ledge amongst the yellow crowsfoot and the purple thyme. But she did not smile.

'I thought… that I might… find you here,' he panted. 'I searched all the… palace for you. None had seen you. Jean said… Jean said that you would be with my page, Peter Hay. But I did not believe her.'

'The Lady Jean is of that way of thinking, Vicky. So works her mind.'

'Yet you are a deal away from the palace these days, Mary.' He stood before her, hands on padded hips, his Court finery as usual looking somehow out-of-place and alien to his sturdy stocky figure. 'Is it ever here you come? All this way?'

'Not always. But often, yes.'

'And alone?'

'Alone, yes. Although sometimes the Lady Marie comes with me. And little Andrew. To escape… to get away, for a little, from, from…' It was not often that that young woman left her sentences unfinished or lacked due words – save perhaps when she had occasion to play the part of an innocent girl.

Involuntary both of them turned to look out across the deep trough where acres and acres of jumbled roofs and spires and turrets, part-hidden in the swirling smoke of a thousand chimneys, climbed the crowded mile from the grey palace of Holyroodhouse up to the great frowning fortress of Edinburgh Castle on its lofty rock. If they did not actually see more and different smoke drifting down from that grim citadel's forecourt, they did not fail to sense it, smoke tainted with a smell other than that of wood or coals.

'Aye,' the young Duke said heavily. 'I also. Often I could choke with it. The palace, the whole town, stinks of death. Aye, and fear. I would be out of it all, Mary – away… '

'Yes,' she said. 'I knew that smell in London. Elizabeth's fires at the Bridewell. I had not thought to smell it here in Scotland. Madness, it is – cruel madness… ' She paused. 'Once I feared that it might be the Spanish Inquisition's fires that would burn on the Castle-hill of Edinburgh! Now…!'

For three weeks the fires had blazed on the windy plateau before the gates and drawbridge of Edinburgh Castle. For three weeks the screams of the condemned had rung through the crowded vennels and tall stone tenements of the capital. For three weeks the citizens had daily been gorged with the spectacle of justice most evidently being done, of strings of the Devil's disciples being led in chains through the streets to the wide and crowded castle forecourt, there to be part-strangled publicly by teams of lusty acolytes and then tied to stakes to burn, for the confounding of evil and the greater glory of God. Day in, day out, and far into the night, the work went on, King James himself personally supervising much of it, especially the examining, determined, indefatigable, confounding his archenemy Satan. There was no lack of material for his cleansing fervour; sufficiently questioned, almost all suspects could be brought to the point, not only of confession to the most curious activities, such as sailing die Forth in sieves, and turning themselves into hares, hedgehogs and the like, but also of denouncing large numbers of their acquaintances as equally guilty of these disgraceful practices. These, apprehended and similarly questioned in turn, could be brought to implicate ever greater numbers more. It was extraordinary how, once the rope was sufficiently twisted round their heads, names would come tumbling from their lips. The process was cumulative, the good work ever widening its scope and ramifications, growing like a snowball – to the notable enlargement and improvement of the King's monumental book on demonology. Seldom indeed had an author been so blest with the supply of excellent research material.

The citizens had long lost count of the numbers of culprits, after it had run into hundreds – mostly women, but with a fair sprinkling of men, and even children. Clearly the abominable cult and practice of witchcraft and warlockry was infinitely more widespread than anyone had dreamed. North Berwick and that part of Lothian had soon ceased to be the centre and hub of activities; the net was spreading far and wide over Scotland. To cope with the alarming situation, King James hit on the ingenious expedient of granting Royal Commissions throughout the land, with power 'to justify witches to the death' without further formality – stipulating only that all interesting occult revelations should be passed on to himself. Fourteen such Commissions had indeed been granted in a single day. There seemed no reason to suppose that the momentum would not further increase and the harvest expand.

The Earl of Bothwell meantime remained warded in the fortress, still not brought to trial – but warded as befitted his rank and standing, with his own suite of rooms and his own servants.

'Madness indeed,' Lennox agreed, thickly. 'I fear that Patrick may have been right, yon time. That James is indeed mad. Either mad or a monster. And yet, if he be so, so many others are likewise. James leads, yes – but he has no lack of followers.'

Mary shook her head. 'I do not believe that he is mad. Nor yet a monster. I think that he is a man frightened. Fearful of so many things. Unsure. His head so full of strange learning that he cannot comprehend. If he is working a great wickedness, it is because he is what men's wickedness has made him. And he is so very lonely.'

A little askance the Duke looked at her. This sort of talk was beyond him.

'All kings are lonely,' the girl went on. 'But James is the most lonely of all. He has never known mother or father, brothers or sisters. Always he has been alone, close to none -but watched by all. Trusting none, and for good reason. Yet greatly needing others close to him. More than do many.'

'He has a wife now, Mary.'

'I cannot think that the Queen is the wife that he needed. She has a hardness, a sharpness. She will not pretend for him, as he needs – pretend that he is a fine gallant, a notable poet, a strong monarch.'

'And she has the rights of it – for he is none of them!' the young man said bluntly.

'No. But a wife could aid him to be more of them. A wife should aid her husband,' Mary averred. 'And James needs aid greatly. You, Vicky, are closer to him than is the Queen, I think.'

'Not I. I will be close to no man who delights in blood and torture and burnings.'

'But if you could help to wean him away from these evil things, Vicky? The Queen will not do it. She cares not, it seems. But he still thinks well of you.'

'Think you that I have not tried? He will not heed me, Mary. He treats me like a child – he who is but five years older than I. I am near eighteen years, see you…'

She smiled. 'But nearer seventeen! Do not forget that we are almost of an age, Vicky.'

'What of it? I am a man. Man enough to be Chamberlain of Scotland and Commendator of St. Andrews. To have been President of the Council. Man enough to marry… ' His expression changed. 'Mary,' he said urgently, 'enough of all this of James. He will not change for me. And I cannot breathe at Court, these days – or in this Edinburgh itself. Nor can you, it is clear. Let us away, then – together. You and me. Marry me, Mary – and let us leave all this. Forthwith. Marry me.'

Troubled she searched his face. 'Vicky – why do you hurt us both? You know that I cannot marry you. You know that it is impossible. I am not for such as you. A great lady you must marry, with name and lands and fortune.'

'I wish only to marry you. How many times have I told you so? Come away with me, Mary – away from this Court, from cruelty and fear and the smell of death. From plotting and lies and intrigue. Come to my castle of Methven, on the skirts of the Highland hills, where we can be free and live our own lives. Together. I can find a priest to marry us – a minister. Tonight, if need be. Then it will be too late for James to say no. Too late for others to arrange my life for me!' That was eloquence indeed for Ludovick Stuart.

She reached up to touch his arm, her fingers slipping down to catch and hold his own. But she shook her head. 'You are kind, Vicky – most kind. I thank you for it. But it is not to be -however much we could wish it. We are born into very different degrees, different places in the world – and nothing that we may do will alter it. Besides, I cannot leave the Court. Not just now…'

'Why not? What keeps you here? You hate it. The Queen will do very well without you, I swear.'

'It is not that…'

'It is Patrick again, I suppose? Always it is Patrick Gray! This world turns round that man!' Ludovick ground his heel into the turf.

'Yes, it is he. While I can serve him, I must, Vicky.'

'Serve him! Think you that he needs your service? Or any? Think you that Patrick Gray requires any but himself? That he cares for any but himself? The Master of Gray is sufficient unto himself, now and ever. Damn him!'

Mary stared, and her hand slipped out of his. Never had she heard Lennox speak so; about anyone, but especially about Patrick. 'You are wrong, Vicky,' she protested. 'Grievously wrong. He needs friends also – much, he needs them. Against himself, most of all. He needs his wife. I think that he needs even me. And you. Yes, you. Are you not his friend? Always you have been that.'

'Always I have been, yes,' the other repeated bitterly. 'But has he been mine? Is he any man's friend, the Master of Gray – save his own? How say you – is he?' Almost the young man was fierce.

Mary looked away and away, and did not answer.

'I will tell you how much he is my friend,' the Duke went on, hotly. 'The King has commanded me to marry the Lady Sophia Ruthven! Aye, marry. And it is on the advice of the Master of Gray.'

The young woman sat up straight, now, stiffly, eyes wide. For a long moment she did not speak. Then her breath came out in a quivering sigh. 'So-o-o!' she said.

'Aye, so. His cousin. His uncle Gowrie's daughter. His mother's brother, Gowrie, the Treasurer, who was executed. Patrick has gained the wardship of her and her sister Beatrix. Did you know that? Profitable wardship. Beatrix is to be lady to the Queen, in place of Jean Stewart, whom Anne will have no more of. Jean is to marry Leslie of Lindores forthwith… and I am to marry Sophia Ruthven.'

'I see,' Mary Gray said, quietly.

'Do you see? All of it? I see, likewise! The Earl of Gowrie, you'll mind, lost his head and his lands, for treason. Six years ago. There are plenty say that the Master of Gray had a hand in that. His lands were forfeit. But he had lent much money to the Crown. Private money, expended by him as Treasurer – through the Master of Gray. A dangerous practice. They say that the Crown owed him?80,000! Though how much got past Patrick Gray's hands is another matter! It was when Patrick was acting Chancellor. So… Gowrie died. And now I am to marry his daughter.'

'Who has been telling you all this?'

'Who but his son, the young Gowrie. He is still not of age, and still has not the use of his father's estates. Or what is left of them. Gowrie was one of the richest lords in the kingdom.'

'I see,' she said again. For that young woman her voice was flat, level, but still calm. 'Sophia Ruthven. Why, if you must marry, my lord Duke, it might as well be the Lady Sophia. She is gentle and, and guileless… as well as rich.'

'She is sickly and plain, and scant of wits! But do you not see? I am but to be made use of! Married to me, Patrick and the King think to control her wealth. I, her husband, will be no trouble to them! Until her brother Gowrie is of age, they will have their hands on all the Ruthven wealth. The bills for?80,000 are not like to be claimed! It is but a covetous plot -with me the fool, the clot-pate!'

'You are sure that this is Uncle Patrick's work?'

'Young Gowrie says that it is. He is but fifteen years, but he should know. Patrick has been dealing with him. He is to be sent away to Padua. To the University there. For study. By the King's kindly command. But by Patrick's arranging, who was there but a year or so ago, in his exile. Has it not all every sign of the Master's hand behind it?'

'It may be so,' she admitted. 'But he could be acting your friend still, Vicky. Thinking for you, also. And for her, perhaps. After all, many a great lord would be happy to wed the Lady Sophia. So rich, and of so powerful and ancient a family. Knowing that you, Scotland's only duke, must needs marry some such, it may be that he seeks to serve you well by recommending Sophia Ruthven. She is his cousin. And his ward, you say – though that is new…'

'If it was a kindness to me, might he not have consulted me? Me. If I am to marry her!'

'He knows… ' She hesitated. 'He knows that… '

'Aye – he knows that I would only marry you. Which does not suit his plans.'

She sighed. 'He knows, as do all others save only you, Vicky, that that is impossible. Surely you must see it?'

'I see, rather, a man selling his friend. As some say he sold my father. Selling me to the King. Or, better, buying himself back into James's favour, through this marriage project. All know that James has been cool towards him since these witch trials began. Somehow his plot to bring down Bothwell has failed. Something has gone amiss. I know not what. And James frowned on him.'

'I think that I know,' Mary said evenly. 'Uncle Patrick has many faults, no doubt – but he has many virtues also. He is a plotter, but there is no savagery in him. He is not cruel. He could not stand by and see women tortured, I think that he never actually believed in the witchcraft himself. He but sought to make use of the King's fear of it, for what he calls statecraft. He sought to bring Bothwell down, yes. But when he saw what hurt and evil was being visited upon these unhappy women, he would have none of it. He is sorry now, I believe, that he ever took a hand in the business…'

Tt may be so. But that does not explain how Bothwell has escaped. What went amiss with the plot. There is more here than that Patrick mislikes these questionings and burnings. Bothwell must have more potent friends than was believed, arrogant and unfriendly as he is. James, it seems, is afraid to bring him to trial. Why? It is said that my lord of Moray spoke strongly for him. Had some information which saved him. Moray, who was Patrick's friend. And yours.' Ludovick looked at her direcdy. 'You have become very friendly with Moray, Mary, have you not? I have seen you much in his company, of late. I do not like the way that he looks at you.'

'Moray looks at any woman that way.'

'But you see over much of him.'

'He is much about the Queen. And I am the Queen's servant.'

He sighed. 'Well… know you what is at the bottom of it all? Why he turned against Patrick?'

'Perhaps he but seeks to save Uncle Patrick from a, a foolishness? The act of a friend indeed.' She changed the subject. 'When must you marry the Lady Sophia?'

'When? Why, never – if you will but come away with me. Marry me first. Once I am married to you, Mary, I can laugh at James's royal commands. And Patrick must needs think of a new plot to control the Ruthven siller!'

She shook her head. 'Do not cozen yourself, Vicky. It would not serve. The King, and the Kirk, would annul your marriage. Nothing would be easier. We are both under age. Nothing would be resolved.'

'Let them, then. Let them annul our marriage, if they can. But what matters it if we are beyond their reach? We shall go, not to Methven, but to the far Highlands. Clanranald is my friend. We could go to his far country, where James could never reach us. Better even, we could flee to France. I am a noble of France as well as of Scotland – the Seigneur D'Aubigny. I have lands and houses there.'

'You could give up all this for me, Vicky. All your high position and esteem, here in Scotland? Your dukedom, your Priory of St. Andrews, your castle of Methven, the office and revenues of Lord Chamberlain? All – for Mary Gray, the bastard?'

'Aye, would I! And more. All that I am and have. Did I not promise you, long ago, that I would give up life itself for you -swore it on my sword hilt. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You only, I have wanted, always. None other and naught else. You, my true love – the truest, fairest, most kind, most gentle woman in this land. Or any land…'

'Hush, Vicky – hush!' The girl's voice actually broke as she stopped him, and she turned her face away so that he would not see how it worked and grimaced. 'You are wrong, so wrong!' she exclaimed. 'I am not what you think, Vicky -believe me, I am not! I am far from so true, so gentle, so kind. I am two-faced and a deceiver. A dissembler. I am Patrick Gray's daughter indeed, and like him in much. I also am a plotter, an intriguer – so much less honest than you are. In some ways the life of this Court that you hate suits me very well. Here I can pit my wits against others, intrigue with the best. You are deceived in me, Vicky. You must not esteem me as other than I am.'

He craned his neck, to look at her curiously. 'I am not deceived,' he declared. 'I have known you too long for that. You are much that I am not, yes – clever, quick of wits. But true. Unlike Patrick, true. But… why do you tell me all this?'

'Because I would not have you believe that in not having me you were in aught the loser.' That was level again, flat.

'Loser? Not having you? Then… you will not come away with me? You will not many me? Whatever I say? Whatever I do? Wherever I go?'

'No, Vicky, I fear not.' She swallowed. 'Go you and marry Sophia Ruthven. You could do a deal worse, I think. Keep the King's regard and your high place in the realm. You need not play Uncle Patrick's game thereafter.'

There was a silence.

'And that is your last word?' he said, at length.

'It is, yes. I… I am sorry, Vicky.'

'Then I am wasting my time.' He straightened up, then suddenly turned back to her. 'It is not… it is not Peter Hay? My page?' he demanded.

'No, Vicky. It is not. Nor any man.'

'Aye. Well… so be it. I bid you good-day, Mary.' Stiffly, awkwardly, ridiculously, he bowed to her on her grassy ledge, and swung away abruptly to go striding back down die steep green side of Arthur's Seat, whence he had come.

Mary Gray sat looking after him steadily, dry-eyed, tight-lipped, motionless. Motionless but for her hands, that is; her fingers plucked at and tore to shreds stalk after stalk of the tough coarse grasses that grew there, methodically, one after another, strong and sore on her skin as they were. Long she sat there, long after the tiny foreshortened figure of the Duke of Lennox had disappeared into the busy precincts of Holyroodhouse, before signing, she rose and went slowly downhill in her turn.