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

Chapter Seventeen

LUDOVICK OF LENNOX did not flee to France – nor even to the distant Highlands. He remained at Court, although in no very courtly frame of mind, and in a few days the announcement was made from the palace that King James had been graciously pleased to bestow on his well-beloved cousin in marriage the hand of the Lady Sophia Ruthven, sister to the Earl of Gowrie and ward of the Master of Gray. The wedding would be celebrated shortly.

This was not to say that the young man was reconciled to his fate, however. According to Peter Hay, his page, he spent a large part of each night pacing up and down the confines of his bedchamber, unapproachable, disconsolate. Nor by day did his attitude typify the eager bridegroom. He spent an inordinate proportion of his time riding, tiring out horseflesh and himself by furious and otherwise purposeless galloping about the countryside, apparently with no other object than working off pent-up feelings and spleen – a notable change in one so normally level-headed and straightforward. He was barely civil to any with whom he came in contact – although he avoided as many as he could – including his monarch and cousin. The Master of Gray he sought to ignore completely. To the Lady Marie, whom still he appeared to trust, he confided that he was only remaining because he could not drag himself away from the vicinity of Mary Gray.

In Mary's company, however, he was only a little more civil than in others. Without being actually rude, he was aloof, abrupt, jerky, most obviously ill at ease, seeking her presence yet rebuffing her when he had gained it. She, for her part, sought to be no different from before with him, even kinder perhaps – but found this to be impossible. He would have none of it. Frequently she would catch him gazing at her with reproachful eyes, but when she made a move towards him he shied off like an unbroken colt.

That behaviour such as this on the part of so prominent an individual as the Duke of Lennox did not arouse more stir and comment than it did, might be accounted for by the fact that there was so much else to occupy the attention of the Scottish Court that summer of 1590. The witch trials went on, and had reached new heights of sensation with the naming, arrest and putting to the question of two ladies of some quality, Barbara Napier, sister-in-law of the Laird of Carschoggil, and Euphame MacCalzean, daughter of former Lord of Session Cliftonhall. That such as these should be implicated, sent a tremor of new and more personal excitement through all. At this rate, who was safe? Could any, save the most highly placed, be sure that the accusing finger might not next point at themselves? What had been a mere subject for gossip, speculation and some entertainment at Court, became suddenly a matter for serious thought, for discreet precautions, for assessing one's neighbours and acquaintance – even one's friends. Clearly the King's new obsession was becoming more than a joke.

Then there was the intriguing business of the Earl of Moray and the Master of Gray. These two seemed to be beginning to clash at all points – no one quite knew why. They had been esteemed as friends after the London embassage, but that obviously no longer applied. Some said that the rift dated from Moray's unexpected support of Bothwell – who still lingered in ward, though comfortably enough; but the more popular theory was that it was over rivalry for influence with Queen Anne. The King's preoccupation with witchcraft, the black arts and book-writing, left Anne with much time on her young hands, and she was apparently of a nature to interest herself in sundry affairs of state – which by no means suited Chancellor Maitland. Those who deplored Maitland's power and influence, therefore tended to encourage the Queen in this, and something of a Queen's party gradually developed. In this, two men, Moray and Patrick Gray, were from the first preeminent. To both Anne turned for guidance, support, company. But it was noted by those particularly interested in such things that whereas in matters of statecraft, appointments and suchlike, she was apt to lean more heavily, naturally, on the experienced Master of Gray, in matters personal she seemed to delight rather more evidently in the younger Earl of Moray. After all, at thirty-two Patrick was twice her age, whereas Moray was nine years younger. Which, according to these acute observers, was a situation not to be borne by the handsomest man in all Europe, for whom women in general were to be expected to swoon and prostrate themselves. Another suggestion was that Moray, while dancing attendance on the young Queen, was interesting himself quite notably at the same time in her much more delectable tire-woman, Mary Gray – to the Master's disapproval.

Whatever the truth or otherwise of these intriguing theories, there could be no doubt that these two ornaments of the Court, the quite beautiful Master of Gray and the so bonny Earl of Moray, were no longer on the best of terms. They displayed this in very different ways, needless to say, the Master being exceedingly polite with only occasional viciously barbed remarks open to various interpretations, while Moray could be frankly scurrilous.

Then there was the Queen's supposed pregnancy to add spice to the situation. The Court was fairly evenly divided in opinion as to whether or not she was indeed with child. She showed no physical signs of it – but acted as though she was. King James himself, too, was for ever making knowing references about an imminent heir, winking towards his wife, and somewhat crudely playing the expectant father. Certain close to the royal couple, however, asserted that it was all pretence – notably Jean Stewart, formerly Lady-in-Waiting, although she might indeed have been prejudiced.

There was much speculation, also, about Bothwell and his probable fate. He had been warded now for months without trial. It seemed to many that the King was in fact afraid to bring him to trial. Yet determined and persistent questioning brought to bear on others, had produced evidence quite sufficient to incriminate him – as indeed was scarcely to be wondered at – including two especially valuable testimonies, from a matronly dame named Agnes Sampson, known as the Wise Wife of Keith, renowned for good works, and from Doctor Fian, the schoolmaster of Tranent. Both these had testified, after due persuasion, that Bothwell had approached each of them with requests for the means whereby he might encompass the death of King James by witchcraft. Mistress Sampson said that she had produced the well-tried method of making a wax image of the monarch, which was passed round the coven, each saying in turn 'This is King James the Sixth, ordained to be consumed at the instance of a noble man, Francis Earl of Bothwell,' and thereafter melted in fire. Doctor Fian had aspired somewhat higher, and roasted alive a black toad in place of the King – much to his sovereign's subsequent indignation.

All this may have seemed a trifle elementary for someone so notably close to Satan himself – and moreover, markedly unsuccessful. But at least it was testimony to high treason, and many had died for a deal less – including, needless to say, the two informants. That, even so, Bothwell remained untried could only mean that he had friends sufficiently powerful to prevent the King from forcing the issue.

Mary Gray came to this conclusion rather sooner than did most, perhaps. Frequently she pondered the matter, and wondered how Patrick saw it all and how he might react. He had not taken her into his confidence, on matters of any import, for many a month.

It was Patrick himself however who brought up the subject with her on a notable occasion – or at least on the day thereof. It was indeed the day of Ludovick's marriage, in the Abbey

church of Holyrood, beside the palace. Mary, for perhaps one of the few times in her life, shirked an issue, and pleaded a woman's sickness as excuse for not attending in the Queen's retinue at the wedding, remaining in her own room when all others flocked to the ceremony. Few, probably, wondered at this, for she was generally esteemed to have been Lennox's mistress, and so might tactfully have absented herself; but Patrick Gray at least was surprised, knowing her quality. He was concerned enough to leave the marriage festivities early, and come back to the Master of the Wardrobe's quarters of the palace, where he found Mary on hands and knees on the floor of her own room, playing a game with young Andrew, now a lusty boy of eighteen months.

'Ha! So I need not have concerned myself for your health, my dear!' he commented, smiling down at her. 'You make a pretty picture, the pair of you, I vow – and far from sickly!'

'And you, Uncle Patrick, a most splendid one!' she returned, unabashed. 'I like you in black velvet and silver. And to see you smile again. You have smiled at me but little, of late.'

'M'mmm.' He eyed her thoughtfully, as she rose to her feet. 'You have not done a deal of smiling yourself, Mary, I think.'

She shrugged. 'Perhaps not. They have not been smiling times. But – the wedding? Did all go well? You are back betimes. There were no… hitches?'

*None – save that the bridegroom might have been at his own funeral, and the bride a ghost!' he told her. 'The feast now proceeding lacks something of joy and gaiety in consequence. I have seen wakes more rousing!'

'Poor Vicky,' she murmured. 'Poor Lady Sophia, also.'

Patrick stroked his chin. 'Do not waste your compassion on Vicky, my dear,' he advised. 'He is none so unfortunate. Amongst such as might marry the Duke of Lennox, Sophia Ruthven stands high. She has more to commend her than most. And as husbands go, Vicky I have no doubt, will serve her well enough.'

'No doubt,' she agreed, a little wearily. 'So all do assure me.'

He reached out to rim a hand lightly over her dark hair.

'Mary, lass – you are not hurt, in this? It is not like you to avoid the wedding to feign sickness. I know well that you are fond of Vicky. You have been friends always – since that first day I gave him into your young hands at Castle Huntly. But you have always known, also, that this must happen, that he must marry. That he was…'

'That Vicky was not for such as me,' she completed for him, evenly. 'Yes, I have always known it. Do not fear, it is not for myself that I grieve. It is for Vicky. He is unhappy.'

'He will get over it – nothing more store. He is very young -little more than a boy, indeed. Young even for his years. He has a deal to learn. High rank, high office, demands much…'

'All that I know well,' she interposed. 'I but preferred not to watch a marriage in which there was no fondness. You will mind that I did not attend his sister's to my lord of Huntly, either. Tell me – did Master Bruce preach a sermon? Did the King make a speech?'

'Both, woe is me! And belike we shall have to sit through it all tomorrow when Jean weds Leslie of Lindores.' He groaned. 'Ah, me – the folly of it! This flood of words that poor old Scotland drowns in! I heard Johnny Mar bewailing that he was not shut up safely in ward like Bothwell, so as to be spared further attendance at such!' He stopped, as though the name of Bothwell had given him pause, and took a pace or two across the room. 'I wonder, now…?' he said slowly, looking out of the window.

Mary followed him with her eyes. 'You wonder about Bothwell – or my lord of Mar?' she asked.

'About both,' he answered. 'The way that slipped out, from Mar. I would say that he does not therefore esteem Bothwell to be in great danger. A small thing, but…'

'And do you so think, Uncle Patrick?'

'Why no. Not now – not any more.' He turned back to her. 'Why? Are you interested in Bothwell, moppet?'

'I have wondered much about him. He has been held so long imprisoned in the Castle, and not brought to trial. Despite the wicked deaths of so many others. Does the King no longer seek his life?'

'The King would have his head tomorrow, if he dared!' Patrick told her.

'That means, then, that my lord has powerful friends. As I thought.'

'The most powerful, it seems!' the man agreed grimly. 'The Chancellor? My lord of Moray? They were not formerly his friends.'

'More powerful than these.'

'More…? But, are there such? The Kirk? Surely not the Kirk? Bothwell has been no friend to the Kirk.' 'More powerful even than the Kirk.' 'Then there is only… only…?'

'Aye – only Elizabeth! Only the Queen of England. That good lady chooses to interest herself in Bothwell's fate.'

'But why? Did she not ever speak only ill of him? Call him a brigand? Write that he treated her borders like his own backyard?'

He shrugged. 'All true, my dear. But she is a woman, and may change her mind. She must have some reason – but I have not fathomed it. I have seen a letter from her to the King, urging clemency, saying that he is but a young man misled, that there is no real ill in him. She offers no reason for this change of face – but needs none. James dare not controvert her – if only for his pension's sake! That is why my Lord Chancellor has turned Bothwell's friend. Although I cannot think that it is Moray's reason.'

'So he will not die?'

'Not, at least, on this occasion, I fear!'

'How long then, will he stay in ward?'

'As for that I neither know nor care,' the Master said, with a snap of slim fingers. 'Until he rots, if need be! Not,' he added sardonically, 'that he is in any present danger of rotting, I believe.'

'No,' she agreed. 'I hear that he is very… comfortable.' Mary came over to take his arm. 'Uncle Patrick,' she said. 'Do you not think that you might serve yourself better, over my lord of Bothwell?'

'Eh? Better? How do you mean better, girl?'

'Better than now. Better than by leaving him there, to rot. You brought him low, did you not, for your own purposes? Now, raise him up again, also for your own purposes.'

He gazed at her, scimitar brows raised. 'I brought him low…?' he repeated.

'Yes. Over the North Berwick witchcraft plot,' she answered factually, calmly. 'Now you say that the King will not dare to try him. So that you can gain nothing more with him. Can you? In ward. Because of his powerful friends. But if his friends are so strong, why fight them? Become one of them, rather. Aid Bothwell now, Uncle Patrick. Once you told me that it was a fool who fought a losing battle. And also that in statecraft a man could not afford to keep up private enmities.'

Still-faced the man considered her, silent.

'Aid Bothwell now,' she repeated. 'He has paid sufficiently for what he said at Leith, yon time – has he not? And gain much credit with his powerful friends.'

Patrick was actually smiling again. 'It warms my heart to see you so!' he declared. 'To hear you. I' faith, it does.'

'Perhaps… but laugh at me at your peril!' she warned. 'For I am very serious. Does what I say not make good sense? By your own measure, Uncle Patrick?'

'I do not know – yet. It will require thought. But, on my soul, if you are for teaching me my business, child, will you not spare me this uncling? Uncle Patrick! Uncle Patrick! Will you uncle me all my days? Can you not call me but Patrick, as others do?'

'Why, yes, Patrick – I shall,' she agreed. 'If you will spare me the child. You scarce consider me a child, yet, do you?'

'By God, I do not! You are right, young woman. It is a bargain! No childing, and no uncling!' He folded his arms. 'Now Mistress Mary Gray – what would you have me do with Bothwell?'

'You could seek to have him released. Do better than these so powerful friends of his.'

'And lose more favour with the King? That I cannot afford, my dear.'

'Then… could you not aid his escape from ward? From the Castle. Others have won out of Edinburgh Castle ere this, have they not? With assistance. Secretly. Might it not be arranged?'

He tipped his lips with his tongue. 'You are… quite a little devil, are you not, Mary my pet?'

'You are not jealous?' she wondered seriously.

He laughed musically. 'Perhaps I should be! Instead, damme, of being… well, just a little proud!'

'Of me? Then, you think well of my suggestion?'

'Say that I see possibilities in it – no more,' he told her lightly. 'Possibilities, sweeting.'

'Yes,' she nodded, satisfied. 'That is what I thought. Now – go you back to the wedding-feast, Patrick. Or your absence will be noted… and the unkind will say that you are plotting some ill! Which would be very unfair, would it not?'

He took her chin in his hand, and considered her quizzically. 'Witch!' he accused. 'If our King Jamie seeks true witches, he has not far to look for one!'

Her lovely face clouded at his words, and she turned away. 'How can you jest about so terrible an evil?' she demanded.

'Why, girl, sometimes I jest that I may not weep.'

'Yes. I am sorry. Go then, Patrick – and thank you for your coming. It was kindly. Will you tell Vicky that I wish him very well?'

'Aye, if you say so.' He grinned. 'That should much aid his bridal night! A kiss, now, moppet…'

The officer unlocked the great door at the foot of the turnpike stair, and raised his lantern to point down the further steep flight of stairs.

'Yonder is the room, sir,' he said, handing Patrick a key, and also the lantern. 'My lord may be abed by this. His man has left him for the night, and sleeps in the guard-room above, with my fellows. You will find me there when you are finished.'

'My thanks, Captain. I may be some little time.'

Patrick went down the remaining steps to the door at their end. Some perhaps misplaced courtesy made him knock thereon before fitting the key to the lock. The door opened to a darkened chamber which the lantern revealed to be vaulted, fair-sized, and though walled and floored in bare stone, to be furnished in reasonable comfort. On a bed in one corner a man lay, in shirt and breeches, blinking and frowning at the light.

'A God's name, Wattie – what ails you?' he snarled. 'What do you want at this hour?'

'Here is no Wattie, my lord,' Patrick answered pleasantly, 'But another, more… effective.'

'Eh…?' Bothwell sat up. 'What is this? Who, i' the fiend's name, are you?'

'I wonder that you are still so free with the Fiend's name, at this late date, my lord!' Patrick observed, laughing. 'I would have reckoned that you might have had your bellyful of him!'

'I know that voice,' the other cried. 'It's Gray, is it not? That ill-conceived and treacherous scoundrel, the Master of Gray?'

'Your tongue would seem to lack both accuracy and charity – but there is nothing wrong with your ears! Gray it is.' Patrick held the lamp high. 'I see that they have given you a better chamber than they gave me three years agone!'

Bothwell rose to his full height. If captivity had weakened his frame or blanched his cheek, it did not show in the lantern's light. Tall, muscular, hot-eyed, angry, he stood there, swaying slightly.

'Curse you!' he spluttered. 'You it is that I have to thank that I am here, they tell me!'

'How mistaken you are, my lord. That is wholly the King's doing, in his diligent assault on witchery and warlockry. Poor James – he is much upset…'

'Liar!'

Patrick shrugged. 'Have it your own way, my friend. But I would urge that you do not make my mission here tonight of no avail.'

'Aye, what are you here for -reprobate!'

'Your release, my lord – what else?'

That brought the other up short. 'Release…?'

'Release, yes. Or, more exacdy perhaps, your escape. At any rate, your abstraction from these present toils.'

Bothwell was staring at him. 'Mockery becomes you no better than does lying!' he said, but with less of conviction.

'I no more mock than lie. But perhaps you do not choose to leave the security of these four stout walls, my lord?'

'Fool!' the other jerked. 'Come – say what-you came to say, and be gone!'

Patrick sighed. 'For one so ill-placed as yourself, I confess that I find you much lacking in civility. You are a hard man to be friends with, it seems! I am almost minded to leave you to your fate.'

'Out with it, man – out with it.'

'Very well. I am prepared to aid your escape out of this place. It can be done.' 'A trick, I vow!'

'No trick. What would it serve me to trick you in this?' 'I do not know. But I know that I do not trust you one inch, Gray.'

'Then remain here and die, my lord.'

'I will not die, I think. But why should you seek to aid me?'

'Why, that one day you may aid me in return, my friend.'

This frankness may have commended itself somewhat to Bothwell, for he considered his visitor with at least more attention. 'What do you want?' he asked.

'Let us leave that, for the moment. Say that I feel sure that you can be of more benefit to me out of ward than in it, my lord. Now – to get you out of here, I believe, three items only are required. A rasp, a rope, and a bold courage. The first two can be supplied. The third you must contribute for yourself.'

'My courage, sir, has never been called in question. A rope, you say…?' Bothwell's eyes swung towards the two small barred windows.

'Aye.' Dryly the Master glanced in the same direction. 'It is a long drop, my lord. Some forty or fifty feet of walling, and then a couple of hundred feet of good Scottish rock. But a knotted rope of ample length, a clear head and a stout heart -and helping hands to aid you on the rock – and heigho, it will be your own Borderland for you again!'

The Earl said nothing.

Patrick strolled over, and raised his lantern to look more closely at the window bars. 'Aye – nothing here that a stout rasp will not cut through in an hour or so. Nor is the space so small that you could not win through. There should be no difficulty, my lord.'

'Save getting the file and the rope to me, here! The rope in especial. How are you to get that past the guard, man? Enough rope…?'

'It must needs be a very slender cord, I fear – but sufficiently strong, for it would be a pity if it broke, would it not?' The visitor's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. 'I fear that you must just trust the jumped-up wardrobe-master for that, my lord! Slender enough to be wound around a man's person many times, under his clothing as an officer of the King's Guard. He will bear also a rasp, of course – and a letter for you with the King's seal. Also an order to see you, bearing the signature of my lord of Moray, Captain of the Royal Guard!'

'But… a pox! Moray would never do that! Put his own head in a noose! For me?'

'I did not say that he would – did I?' The Master smiled. 'Just have a little faith in your treacherous scoundrel, my Lord Bothwell. I have achieved much more difficult tasks than this. Give me a few days – a week – for I would not wish this my visit to you to be linked with the business. That would serve neither you nor me, you will agree?'

Bothwell remained silent, suspicious.

'That is all, then, I think. Wait you for a week. Do not disclose to any, even to your man, that you think to be leaving these quarters. The letter will tell you when to assay the escape. Also where men will be waiting for you, with horses, below the rock. All will be dealt with, never fear.' Patrick laughed. 'And the rope will be long enough and strong enough, I promise you!'

'And the price, Master of Gray? Your price for this service?' Bothwell got out at last.

'That can wait. Let us not haggle and chaffer like hucksters. We neither of us are merchants, my lord – both men of the world. Say that I may seek your aid at some later date – and hope not to be rejected!'

Still the other did not commit himself. 'We shall see,' he said, cryptically.

'Undoubtedly. I give you goodnight, my doubting friend. When next we meet you will be a free man.' He sighed. 'Or a dead one!'

The King was all but in tears. 'It must ha' been Moray, I tell you!' he cried, thumping his hand on the table. 'Here is the warrant, signed in his ain hand, to admit the bearer to visit the Earl o' Bothwell on the King's business. On my business, waesucks! It's treason, I tell you – blackest treason!'

The hastily-assembled members of the Council, such as could be gathered together at short notice thus early in the day, eyed their dishevelled monarch and each other with various expressions of unease, resentment and blank sleepiness. Most had barely got over the last night's potations, and were in no fit state to deal with high treason before breakfast. James himself was only part-dressed; after long studies later into the night than usual owing to the Queen's absence, on witchcraft and the writing of his book, he was blear-eyed and unbeautiful. Never apt for early rising save when hunting, today he had been awakened with the dire news of Bothwell's escape from Edinburgh Castle, and nothing would serve but an immediate meeting of his Council, assured that his royal person was in imminent danger.

'I cannot believe that my lord of Moray would be a party to this escape, Sire,' Sir James Melville declared. 'He is not a man for such ploys. He does not concern himself with affairs of the state. His interests are, h'm, otherwhere! He is no dabbler in plots and treasons. He spoke for my lord of Both-well yon time, yes – but he was never Bothwell's friend.'

'Aye,' his brother Sir Robert agreed, and yawned.

'They are full cousins,' Chancellor Maitland observed briefly.

'Aye, but so are they both cousins o' my ain!' James took him up. 'God's curse – I've ower many cousins!' He flapped the paper with Moray's signature. 'This bears his name. None could ha' gained Bothwell's escape but through this officer o' my Guard he sent yesterday – the traitorous carle!'

'Who was the officer, Sire?' his uncle Orkney asked shortly. 'Have him in. We'll soon ha' the truth out o' him.'

'But nobody kens who it was, man!' James wailed. 'It wasna one of my usual officers. But dressed in my royal colours, mind. An imposter, just, I swear. Wi' this letter frae Moray. And Moray is Captain o' my Royal Guard!'

'An appointment, Sire, of which I never approved,' the Chancellor reminded, sourly. 'I ever say that such beautiful men are seldom honest!' And he shot a baleful glance at the Master of Gray sitting far down the table.

'At least he was a more honest beauty than the last Captain of the Guard – my lord of Huntly!' the Earl of Mar snorted.

James flushed. 'Is there no man I can trust?' he asked, broken-voiced.

Patrick spoke. 'Your Grace – might I see the pass-letter?' When the paper was passed down to him, he scrutinised it closely. 'It is certainly like my lord of Moray's hand o' write. Such is familiar to me – after our embassage to London. But… it could be a forgery, Sire.'

'Eh…? How should it be a forgery, man?'

'There are not a few expert forgers in this town, I think -even in this Court! At my own trial, of unhappy memory, forgeries were produced to damn me – most admirable likenesses of my own writings. Were they not, my Lord Chancellor?'

'Sire – this is intolerable! The Master of Gray was condemned by his own writings, and the sure testimonies of others. Including Queen Elizabeth. Not by forgeries. Just as, I swear, this is no forgery. Why should it be a forgery?'

'Have him in, then. Ask him.' Orkney said impatiendy. 'Where is Moray?'

'He's no' here,' James declared. 'He's awa' to Fife.'

'He is escorting the Queen to Dunfermline, my lord,' Patrick informed his father-in-law easily. 'To inspect the progress of her new house at the Abbey there. The house I myself started to build, one time!' He smiled. 'They left yesterday. Her Grace was very concerned to see the house. And my lord of Moray is entirely attentive to Her Grace's wishes, is he not? His Highness being… otherwise occupied.'

The King peered at the Master in new alarm. 'You're… you're no' saying…? You dinna mean, Patrick, that she… that my Annie…? That Moray…?'

'No, so, Sire – of course not! Never think such a thing. The Queen is entirely safe with my lord of Moray, I vow. His love for her is most fervent, as we all know.'

James swallowed, and achieved only a croak.

Orkney hooted rudely.

'Moreover, have they not his Countess with them, Sire. Have no fears.'

'Yon addlepate…!' the King muttered.

'Sire – is not this profidess talk?' Mar interjected. 'Moray can wait. He will deny this signature, anyway. Is it not more needful to be considering Bothwell? What he will do. He will be an angry man – and he is crazed enough when he is not! I wager he will now be a man beside himself. And only Huntly can field more men-at-arms.'

'Aye – I ken, I ken!' James quavered. 'Is that no' why I called this Council? He'll be rampaging the Borders, now. Raising the Marches against me!'

'Or nearer – at Hailes Castle, raising Lothian and the Merse.'

'Or nearer still, at Crichton, ready to descend on this Edinburgh!'

'My lords – Your Grace!' Patrick protested. 'Bothwell only made his escape last night. He can raise many men, yes -but they are scattered. It will take him time. He is hot-headed – but despite some of the testimony we have listened to, he is but human! He cannot descend upon His Grace, whether from the Borders or Hailes or Crichton, today or tomorrow – if such is his intention. Men take time to assemble – as most of us know from experience. We have time, therefore – a week, at least.'

'Aye, maybe,' James conceded. 'But time for what, man Patrick? I canna trust my Royal Guard, after this. Can I assemble men as quick as can Bothwell? And whose men…?'

'Have I not ever urged, Sire, that you should seek to enroll many more men? Not merely to increase the Royal Guard, but to have a force always ready. Your own men, for the sure defence of your realm. Other monarchs have such, and do not depend only on the levies of their lords…'

'But the siller, man – the siller! Where's it to come frae? To pay them. Elizabeth's that mean…'

There is siller, Sire in your own Scotland – not a little. And there are means of winning it. But now is not the time for that…'

'I rejoice to hear the Master of Gray admit that, at least!' Maitland remarked.

Patrick ignored him. 'Increase your Guard, yes. Appoint a new Captain. Have the Provost call out the City Bands.' 'I misdoubt if I can trust them!'

'They hate Bothwell, Sire. He has ridden roughshod down their High Street too often…'

The Lord Chancellor intervened again. 'Highness – all this will be done, without the Master of Gray's advising. You may entrust your safety to my hands.'

'Ooh, aye,' James acknowledged doubtfully.

'Heigho – then all is settled securely!' Patrick laughed, pushing back his chair. 'All will now be well. We have the Lord Chancellor's word for it! Surely we need no longer delay our breakfasts, gentlemen?'

Uncertainly they all looked at each other.

'Na, na,' die King objected. 'What's been decided? I dinna ken what's been decided?

Orkney guffawed. 'Why – that we adjourn. Maitland, here – a pox! I forgot. My Lord Maitland o' Thirlestane. My lord will attend to all. He kens our mind. To breakfast, then -before our bellies deafen us!'

The Privy Council broke up forthwith, however uncertain the monarch or frosty the Chancellor. As the members streamed out, Patrick stooped to the crouching King's ear.

'Sire,' he said quietly, 'the stags are fat and free of velvet in Falkland woods. You have been neglecdng them! Overmuch study, overmuch witchcraft, overmuch work, is serving you but ill. Move the Court to Falkland, Your Grace, and chase the deer again, instead of warlocks. You are further from Bothwell there. The Queen then can watch her house abuilding at Dunfermline, without bedding away from your side. And my lord of Moray, at Donibristle, is under your eye. To Falkland, Sire! Leave this Edinburgh to my Lord Chancellor.'

James Stewart looked up, and almost eagerly he nodded his heavy head.