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

Chapter Eighteen

MARY GRAY pulled up her sweating, foaming mount, and peered from under hand-shaded eyes into the already declining October sun. This ought to be the valley, surely? She had forded the River Earn fully five miles back, at Aberdalgie, and the land was obviously falling away, in front, to the next strath, that of the Almond she had been told, with the Highland hills rising beyond. Methven was this south side of the Almond, all agreed. Where then was the castle? This green land of wide grassy slopes and identical rounded knolls was confusing.

Stroking the mare's soaking quivering neck, she urged the tired beast on. She herself was tired, but this was no time to acknowledge it. For almost five hours she had been in the saddle – for foolishly, she had got lost amongst the Glenfarg foothills.

Rounding one more of the grassy knolls a mile or so further, she heaved a sigh of relief. Ahead, the hillocks seemed to draw back to leave a broad open basin of fair meadowland, cattie-dotted, and gently rising pasture, wide to the south but hemmed in and guarded on the north by the frowning ramparts of the blue heather hills. And on a tree-scattered terrace between meadows and upland, bathed in the golden rays of the slanting autumn sunlight, stood a large and gracious house, its red stonework glowing like old rose.

At first sight of it, Mary found a lump risen in her throat. Often she had visualised Methven Castle, Vicky's home, the place that he had besought her so often to come and rule as mistress. In her mind's eye she had seen it as little different from all those other castles which she knew so well, Castie Huntly where she had been born, Broughty, Foulis, Craigmillar, tall frowning battlemented towers of rude stone, small-windowed, picked out with gunloops and arrow-slits, stern, proud, aggressive. But this was quite other, a smiling place of pleasing symmetry, of slender turrets and many large windows reflecting the sun. A sort of royal dower-house for generations, and never a grasping lord's stronghold, James had given Methven to Ludovick in a fit of eager generosity on his first coming to Scotland from France, as an eight-year-old boy. Like a magnet it beckoned to the lone rider now.

Nevertheless, as Mary rode into the fine paved courtyard on the north side of the castle, enclosed by wings of domestic buildings, she gained no sense of welcome, no feeling of reception of any sort. The house itself was nowise unfriendly, quietly detached, serene, rather; but of human reaction there was none. No grooms came churrying to her horse's head, no men-at-arms lounged about the yard, no faces looked out from the ranks of the windows. The great front door stood wide open, certainly, and white pigeons strutted and fluttered and cooed about the courtyard, but otherwise the place might have been deserted. Autumn leaves had drifted in heaps in many corners, and no single plume of smoke rose above any of the numerous chimneys.

Mary's heart sank, as she dismounted stiffly

Leaving her mare to stand in steaming weariness, she moved over to the open doorway. After a moment or two of hesitation, she raised her voice in a long clear halloo. Other than the echoes, and the sudden alarm of the pigeons, there was no response.

She stepped in over the threshold, into a wide vestibule. It was lighter, brighter, in here than in any of the houses that she knew, with their thick walls and small windows. At either end of it a broad turnpike stairway arose – two stairs, an unimagined luxury. Yet even in here dead leaves had blown. The great house was entirely silent; only the soft murmuration of the pigeons broke the quiet.

Somehow Mary could not bring herself to shout out again, inside that hushed place. Biting her lip, she was moving over to one of the stairways when she perceived a cloak thrown carelessly over a chair in a corner, most of it trailing on the floor. Her heart lifted at the sight. She recognised it as one of Vicky's cloaks, and certainly it was thrown down in his typical fashion. The familiarity of it, so simple a thing as it was, warmed her strangely. Kilting up her riding-habit, she ran light-footed up the winding stair.

From the wide first floor landing long corridors stretched right and left, lit in patches by the yellow beams of westering sunlight slanting in from sundry open doors. The first such that she peered in at showed a fine panelled room, with a splendid painted coved ceiling in timber, depicting heraldry and strange beasts. The grey ashes of a dead fire littered the handsome carved stone fireplace, and the rugs of skin on the floor were scattered haphazard. At one end of a great table were the remains of an unambitious meal.

The next room was even larger, but was only partly furnished and gave no impression of habitation. The next door again was locked.

Frowning, Mary was for moving over to the other corridor, when she stopped. Faintly she heard a dog barking – or rather, the high baying of a hound.

Hurrying through the first room to its south-facing window, she peered out. Away to the south-west, across the water-meadows, a single horseman rode, flanked by two loping long-legged wolf-hounds. He rode at the gallop, high in his stirrups, hatless, towards the house, scattering the grazing cattle left and right. Mary knew that stance, that figure. Thoughtfully she considered it, before she went tripping downstairs.

Ludovick of Lennox came clattering into the courtyard, still at a canter. His glance lighted on the drooping mare, still standing there, and swung at once to the front doorway. At sight of the young woman waiting therein, his eyes widened, and he reined up his mount so abruptly that its shod hooves scraped long scratches on the paving-stones, showering sparks. Before the beast, haunches down, could come to a halt, he had thrown himself from the saddle and came running.

'Mary! Mary!' he cried, amidst the agitated flapping of pigeons and the excited yelping of his hounds.

The girl herself started forward, hands outstretched – and then halted. But no such discretion could halt the young man. Upon her he rushed, arms wide, to enfold her, to hug her to him, to lift her completely off her feet. His lips found hers, and clung thereto, as together they staggered back against the door jamb.

Mary did not struggle or protest in his arms. But when, panting for breath, he lifted his head for a moment to gaze into her dark eyes, before seeking her mouth again, she raised a hand between their lips, so that it was her fingers that he must needs kiss. She did not trust herself to words.

'Mary, my dear! My dear!' he exclaimed. 'How come you here? From where? Are you alone? How good it is to see you. Oh, my dear – how good!'

'And you, Vicky – and you!' she whispered.

'It has been so long. An eternity!'

'Silly – a bare month. No more.'

'An eternity,' he insisted. 'Each hour a day, a month… '

Gendy she disengaged herself from his closest grip. 'Here… here is no talk for a wedded husband, Vicky!'

He snorted a mirthless laugh. 'Whatever else I am, that I am not!' he declared.

'Hush, Vicky…!'

'It is the truth. But… how are you here, Mary? And alone? But one horse…?' He still held her arms.

'Yes. Alone. I have ridden from Falkland. To see you.'

'Falkland! That is thirty miles. Forty…'

'More – as I rode it! Foolishly, I lost myself. In the hills beyond Glenfarg.'

'You should not have done it, Mary! A woman, alone…'

'Tush – I am not one of your fine Court ladies. I can look after myself. I had to come, Vicky. Matters go but ill.'

'When did they do other?' he asked, a bitter note in his voice, new to that uncomplicated young man. 'And why from Falkland?'

'The Court has moved there. Did you not know? After Bothwell's escape.'

'I heard that Bothwell had escaped from ward, yes. All the land knows that. But… come inside, Mary. You must be weary, hungry. What do I dream of, keeping you standing here! I will tie the horses for the nonce – and bait them later.'

'You will bait them…?'

'Why, yes. I am alone here.'

She stared at him. 'Alone…?' she echoed.

'I prefer it that way. I sent the servants back to the village. It is but a mile off. And Peter Hay has ridden to Edinburgh for me, two days agone. He carried a letter. For you… '

'But…' She searched his face. 'The Duchess?'

'Sophia? She is not here.'

'But, Vicky – why? Where is she?'

'I sent her home. To Ruthven Castle. It is not far. Near to St. John's Town of Perth. It is better that way.'

Mary bit her lip. 'Oh, Vicky – I did not believe that you could be so cruel.'

'Is it cruelty, Mary? I think not. Sophia Ruthven has no more joy in this marriage than have I. And she is sick, very sick. She coughs. She is never done coughing. She coughs blood. She is better with her mother at Ruthven.'

The young woman was silent for a little. 'I did not know,' she whispered, at length. 'Did not know of her sickness. Poor lassie.'

'Nor did I. But Patrick knew. And the King knew, I swear. And yet…!' Scowling, he left the rest unsaid.

Unhappily Mary eyed him. 'I am sorry,' she said. 'So very sorry. But… does she not merit the more kindness? Need you have sent her away… so soon?'

'I deemed it kinder that she should go. She wished to go. She wanted nothing that I could give her. We did not once sleep together.'

'How much did you… offer her, Vicky?'

'God – would you have had me force her? You?'

She shook her head. 'Never that. Only a little of kindness, of patience, Vicky. You are man and wife. You took vows, in the sight of God…'

'Is that how you name what was done to us in yon Abbey of Holyrood?'

She drew a long breath. 'No. Perhaps not. Vicky – do not let us talk to each other thus. It is… not for us. Forgive me.'

'And me. This is folly. You are tired, Mary – and I keep you standing here. Come you inside.'

'We shall see to the horses together, first. I am none so tired. Not now.'

'What brought you here then, Mary?' he asked as they entered the great stables, empty save for two other horses. 'You said that matters went ill?

'Yes. I need your help, Vicky. That is why I came. I am not so clever as I thought myself, I fear. I… I am frightened.'

So little in character was this for Mary Gray that Lennox paused in his unsaddling, to stare at her. 'You?' he said. 'You are frightened?'

'Yes. For what I have done. For what may happen because of what I have done. Because of my presumption. This time. I fear that I have been too clever, and a great evil may follow.'

'Patrick again?' he asked.

She nodded. 'I led him to effect Bothwell's escape. Yes, it was my doing. Thinking at least to aid one man, to undo one wrong. Perhaps even to help bring these evil witch-trials to an end. Hoping that with Bothwell free, the King might relent, might even be afraid to go on, to fear what Bothwell might do if he continued.' She looked away. 'Patrick said, did I think to teach him his business? God forgive me, I think that perhaps I did! If it is so, then I have my reward. For Patrick but used my conceit to bring down another. My lord of Moray.'

'Moray? And Bothwell? How comes Moray into this?'

'He is Captain of the King's Guard. Or was. Bothwell was the King's prisoner. He could be held responsible. But, worse – the escape was gained through a man dressed as an officer of the Royal Guard, and bearing an order supposedly signed by Moray, as Captain, to gain him admittance to Bothwell on the King's business. A forgery, of course. But ample for the occasion. Ample to poison the King's mind. Moray's denials count for little.'

'Who was this man? This officer of the Guard?'

'Nobody knows… or will tell. But he was dressed in the royal colours and livery. And only one close to the Guard could have gained him that. Or close to the Wardrobe!'

'I see. So Patrick cries down Moray, now? Why?'

'Not so. He is loud in Moray's defence. Too loud. Making excuse for him in this. But also in the matter of the Queen. It is for this last that I am frightened, Vicky. This of the Queen.'

'You fear for the Queen, Mary? Surely not that? Not even Patrick could…'

'The Queen, yes. Although not so much as for Moray. I fear for them both. Together. Patrick is very attentive to the Queen. But she has Dunfermline, that hateful place that he had set his heart on. He will never have it now – and I think that he will never forgive her. And, sorrow – that was my doing also. It was I who urged the King to dower her with Dunfermline Abbey. To prevent Patrick from ruining himself to get it. I was clever again, you see – so very clever. So I bear responsibility for both, for Moray and the Queen, Vicky

'I think that you blame yourself overmuch, Mary.' He frowned. 'But… I do not understand. How comes the Queen into this matter? Of Moray and Bothwell? What do you fear for her, in it?'

'It is not that. It is that the Queen is seeing overmuch of Moray. From the first she has liked him well, as you know. But it becomes too much. In especial since coming to Falkland. And Patrick is effecting it so, I am sure. Falkland is not far from both Dunfermline and Donibristle, Moray's house in Fife. The Queen is ever going to Dunfermline, to see to her house building there, while the King is hunting or at his books and papers. Moray is in disgrace, and banned the Court meantime – but he is much at Dunfermline, and the Queen at Donibristle.'

'You think that they are lovers?'

'No. Not that. Not yet. But Moray is… Moray. And very handsome. And the Queen is lonely, and very young. And Patrick, I think, would have the King come to believe it. To Moray's ruin.' She sighed. 'I have spoken to him, of course. He but laughs at me, denying it. But as one of the Queen's women I see much. I see how he ever entices the Queen to Dunfermline, with new notions for her house, new plans for the pleasance she is making, for the water-garden, for new plenishings that workmen he has found for her are making. When she would have the King go with her, I have seen how Patrick works on him to do otherwise – a deputation to receive, a visit to Cupar or St. Andrews or Newburgh, new papers to study, or some notable stag spied on Lomond Hill. He is always with the King, closer than he has ever been. With Moray and Bothwell and Huntly banished the Court, the Chancellor still in Edinburgh, and many of the lords at their justice-eyres – aye, and you away here, Vicky – thus there are few close to the King to cross Patrick's influence. Only Mar, who is stupid. And Atholl, who is drunken.' She paused, almost for breath. 'I fear greatly for Moray and the Queen,' she ended flady. 'And I must blame myself.'

'You blame yourself for too much, Mary. This is Patrick's doing, not yours.'

'But I – I thought to outplay Patrick at his own game. That there is no denying.'

He carried an armful of sweet-smelling hay to the manger. 'Patrick is nearer to the Devil than ever was Bothwell!' he said.

Her lovely face crumpled as with a spasm of pain. 'Do not say that, Vicky!' she pleaded. 'Never say it.'

'It is the truth,' he declared bluntly. 'The man is evil.'

'No! Not evil. Not truly evil. My father – Davy Gray -said that he had a devil. I did not believe him. Yet he loved him – loves him still. Perhaps he is right – perhaps he has a devil. Perhaps he is two men – one ill and one good. There is much good in him, Vicky – as you know, who are his friend.'

'Was his friend,' Lennox corrected briefly.

*Was and are, Vicky. You must be. True friendship remains true. Even in such case.'

'May a man remain friends with evil, and still not sin?'

'I think he may, yes. Is it sin for me to love Patrick still, as I do. Not the evil in him, but Patrick himself.'

'He is your father…'

'I do not love him because he sired me. Davy I love as my father. I love Patrick… because he is Patrick.'

'Aye.' Ludovick sighed. 'So do we all, God help us! Come – into the house with us.'

'Then – you will come back with me, Vicky? To Falkland? To help me? To try to save Moray. And the Queen. And Patrick from himself. I know that you hate the Court, Vicky -but come.'

'Lord!' Almost he smiled. 'All that! So many to save! I will come, Mary – but cannot think to achieve so much. I am no worker of miracles, as you know well. Or you would be my wife here in Methven. But come I will – since you ask it. As you knew I would – or you would not have come, I think.'

'As I knew you would,' she agreed, gravely. 'Thank you, Vicky.'

Later, with a well-doing fire of birch-logs blazing and spurting on the heaped ash of the open hearth, filling the handsome room with the aromatic fragrance and flickering on the shadowy panelled walls, Mary sat, legs tucked beneath her skirt, on a deerskin rug on the floor, and gazed deep into the red heart of the fire, silent. It was indeed very silent in that chamber, in all the great house, in the night that pressed in on them from the vast and empty foothill country. The only sounds were the noises of the fire, the faint sigh of evening wind in the chimney, the occasional call of a night-bird, and the soft regular tread and creak of floorboards as Ludovick paced slowly to and fro behind her. They had not spoken for perhaps ten minutes, since she had cleared away the meal that she had made for them, and he had lit the fire against the night's chill.

The young man's voice, when it came, was quiet also, less jerky and self-conscious than was his usual. 'This… this is what I have always dreamed of, Mary. You, sitting before my fire, in my house. Alone. And the night falling.'

She neither stirred nor made answer to that. His steady but unhurried pacing continued at her back, without pause.

'You are so very small,' he mentioned again, presently, out of the shadows. 'So slight a creature to be so important. So small, there before the fire – so slightly made, yet so perfect, so beautiful. And so strong. So strong.' That last was on a sigh.

'I am not strong, Vicky,' she answered him, after a long moment, calmly, as out of due consideration. 'No, I am not strong.'

'Yes, you are,' he insisted. 'You are the strongest person that I know. Stronger than all the blustering lords or the frowning churchmen. Stronger than all who think that they are strong – the doctors and professors and judges. Aye, stronger even than Patrick Gray, I swear.' He had halted directly behind her.

She shook her head, the firelight glinting on her hair, but said nothing. Nor did she look round or up.

'Why should the woman that I want, and need, be so strong?' he demanded, his voice rising a little. 'When I am not strong? Why should it have been you… and me? In all this realm?'

'I do not know, Vicky,' she told him. 'But this I do know… that I do not feel strong this night.'

'You mean…?' Looking down on her, he opened his mouth to say more, and then forbore, frowning. When she did not amplify that statement, made so factually, he resumed his pacing.

An owl had the silence to itself for a space.

'All men want you,' he said, at length. 'I watch them. See how they look at you. Even some of the ministers of the Kirk. Even James, who is fonder of men than of women. All would have you, if they could. Yet you look to care for none of them. You smile kindly on all. On many that deserve no smile – ill, lecherous men. But yourself, you need none of them?' That last was a question.

'You think that?'

'I know not what to think. I wonder – always I wonder. You keep your inmost heart… so close.'

'You make me sound hard, unfeeling, Vicky. Am I that?

'No. Not that. But sufficient unto yourself, perhaps. Not drawn to men. Yet drawing men to yourself.'

'I mislike the picture that you paint of me. Is it true, then?'

'It cannot be – for I would paint you as the loveliest picture in all this world, if I could, Mary – if I but knew how.'

'Dear Vicky.'

'Mary.' Abruptly he was standing directly above her again, his knees all but touching her back. 'Have you – have you ever given yourself to a man? So many must have tried to have you. Have you let any take you?' That was breathlessly asked.

'Why no, Vicky. I have not.'

He swallowed, and was silent

She turned now, to look up at him. 'Why do you ask? Do you fear that I am cold? Unnatural? That I find no pleasure in men, perhaps? And think that this may prove it?'

'No, no – never that, Mary. I am glad. Glad. I hoped…' He paused. 'You see, neither have I ever had a woman.'

Slowly she smiled. 'No?'

'No.' Something, perhaps her faint smile, made him add, hurriedly, almost roughly, 'I could have had, Mary. Many a time. Many would have… that Jean Stewart…'

She nodded. 'I know it, Vicky. The Duke of Lennox need never lie lonely of a night.'

'But I do, Mary – I do!' he cried. 'There's the nub of it!

And it is your doing.'

'I am sorry,' she said flatly.

The silence resumed, and Ludovick's pacing with it.

Presently, and very quietly, the girl began to sing, as though to herself, an age-old crooning song with a haunting lilt to it, as old as Scotland itself. Softly, unhurriedly, deliberately, almost as if she picked out the notes on a lute, she sang, eyes on the fire, swaying her body just a little to the repeated rhythmic melody. The song had no beginning and no end.

Gradually the young man's pacing eased and slowed, until he was halted, listening, watching her. Then, after a minute or two, he came to sink down on his knees on the deerskin beside her. His hands went out to her.

'Mary!' he said. 'Mary!'

Turning her head, she nodded slowly, and smiled at him, through her singing. She raised a finger gentiy to bar his lips. Her strange song continued, uninterrupted. The two wolfhounds, that had sat far back in the shadows, crept forward on their bellies into the circle of the firelight, until they lay, long heads flat on outstretched forepaws, on either side of the man and woman.

A quiet tide of calm flowed into and over that chamber of the empty house, and filled it.

Her singing, in time, did not so much stop as sink, diminish to a husky whisper, and eventually fade away. Neither of them spoke. Ludovick's arms were around her now, his face buried in her hair. Presently his lips found her neck below her hair. In time a hand slipped up to cup one of her breasts.

She did not stir, nor rebuke him.

More than once words seemed to rise to his exploring lips, but something in the girl's stillness, the positive calm of her, restrained him. He held her close, while time stood still.

It was the sinking of the fire, the need to replenish it with logs, that changed the tempo. Lennox, after throwing on more wood, became imbued with a new urgency. His lips grew more daring, his hands roved wider. At last Mary stirred, sighing.

'Vicky,' she said, 'this way lies sorrow, hurt. For us both. You must know it.'

'Why, Mary? Why should it? We shall not hurt each other, you and I. And we are not children.'

'Not children, no. But you have a wife, Vicky. I cannot forget it.'

He frowned. 'In name only. I have told you. And many men have wives… and others.'

'Yes, my lord Duke,' she said. 'And others!'

'Lord – I am sorry, Mary! I did not mean it that way.'

*No. But that way the world would see it, Vicky. Not that I greatly care what the world thinks of me. But I care what I think of myself. And of you. Moreover, I will not further hurt your Lady Sophia. In this house, where she should be.'

He shook his head, wordless.

'We must not think only for the moment,' she added.

'Moment!' he jerked. This marriage of mine is not for any moment. It may be for years – a lifetime! I cannot wait for that. I have warmer blood than that!'

'And you think that I have not?'

'I do not know. I only know that you are strong. So much stronger than I am.'

'Do not talk so much of strength,' she said, low-voiced. 'If I was so strong, I would not be here in this great empty castle with you now. I would have gone back, forthwith, late as it was. When I found you alone. Not to Falkland but at least to St. John's Town. Or even to the inn in your village here. If I had been so strong.'

Uncertainly he eyed her, surprised at her sudden vehemence.

'I have told you before, Vicky – I would not have you think me other than I am.'

'Will I ever know you?' he demanded. 'Know you as you are?*

It was her turn not to answer.

'Are you unhappy, Mary? Here. Alone in this house, with me?' 'No.'

'You are not frightened? Not of me, Mary? Never of me!'

'No, Vicky. I do not think that I could ever be frightened of you. Only of myself, perhaps.' She paused. 'So… so you will help me, will you?'

He stared at her, swallowed, and could find no words. But after a few moments his arms came out again to encircle her but protectively this time, and so remained, firm, strong.

Her little sigh might have been relief, relaxation, or even just possibly, regret.

Presently she settled herself more comfortably on the deerskin, leaned her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

She did not sleep. But after a while Ludovick did, his weight against her becoming heavier. Long she crouched thus, supporting him, growing cramped, sore, although with no discontent thereat showing in her features. Indeed frequently a tiny smile came and went at the corners of her mouth. Sleep overcame her, at length.

Sometime during the night she awakened, stiff, chilled. Ludovick lay relaxed, arm outflung, but shivering slightly every so often in his sleep. The fire had sunk to a dull glow, and the hounds had crept close about them for warmth. Smiling again a little at the thought of forty empty beds in that great house, Mary carefully reached over to draw up another of the deerskin rugs that littered the floor. Settling herself as best she could, she pulled it over them, man, hounds and all.