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

Chapter Twenty-two

SCOTLAND seethed like a cauldron on the boil. The bonnie Earl of Moray was dead, slain foully by Huntly, by the King, by the Master of Gray, by the Catholics. Moray was of the kirk's persuasion, if less than zealously. From every pulpit in the land thundered furious denunciation, protest, demands for retribution, fierce attacks on the King. Moray, the idol of the faithful, must be avenged. The Papists must be crushed. Huntly must die. Parliament must assemble and express the people's horror and detestation.

Moray, of course, had been a notable performer with the football, the boxing-glove, the tennis-racquet and the golf-club. Even Mary the Queen's death at the hands of Elizabeth, five years before, had not aroused such a clamour.

James dared not appear in the streets of Edinburgh for fear of being hooted and jeered at, even having refuse pelted at him. Moray's hacked and battered corpse was brought to the family burial ground at Leith for public display in the kirkyard there, by his mother, displaying her own singed grey hair and refusing burial for her son until she was granted vengeance. A Campbell, daughter of MacCailean Mhor himself, Earl of Argyll, she was not one to be content with half measures.

On Patrick Gray's advice James persuaded Huntly to ward himself in the West Lothian fortress of Blackness Castle, meantime. It was not truly a warding, of course, for Huntly swaggered there in style with all his men, indeed kept up almost princely state within its extensive walls and went out hunting in the adjoining woodlands, inviting James as his guest. But it did enable the King to declare that he was taking steps, and that justice would be done. He also announced that he had evidence linking Moray with Bothwell's treasonable attempts, and that was why Huntly had been sent to arrest him. This scarcely satisfied many, needless to say, but it made a gesture towards public opinion. More effective, again on Patrick's advice, was James's announcement that he had sent Lennox hot-foot after Huntly as soon as he had heard rumours that the Gordons might carry out the arrest over-vigorously. Unfortunately, the Duke had arrived too late. Moray had resisted lawful arrest, fired on Huntly from his tower, and largely ordained his own fate.

Since there was nothing to be gained by bringing the King into lower public estimation than he enjoyed already, Ludovick kept quiet. He did not leave James, or Patrick Gray either, in any private doubt however as to his opinions and feelings. The rift between them widened.

Lennox had gone back to Dunfermline that dire night, eventually. On hearing his news, Queen Anne had taken to her bed, and had there remained for almost an entire week. She ate little or nothing, permitted only her closest women near her, and received no single visitor – save, strangely enough, at the end of the week, Patrick Gray. He came to comfort her, and to urge a prompt return to her husband's side, pointing out that this separation did not look well in view of the popular slanders anent herself and the late lamented Moray. All who had the privilege to know Her Grace realised how baseless was such talk, how true and leal was her devotion to her royal and loving spouse; nevertheless, undoubtedly monarch and consort being parted at this difficult time was arousing comment and speculation. Also it would much please her devoted admirers, Patrick Gray in especial, if Her Highness would restore to them the sun of her presence at Holyroodhouse. Anne agreed to consider the matter.

It was as Patrick left the royal bedchamber that Mary Gray awaited him.

'Can you spare me a moment, Patrick?' she asked, even-voiced.

'Why, my dear – need you ask? Always I can do that, and more. It is my pleasure.'

Without answering, she showed him into an anteroom, and closed the door behind them.

Ruefully he eyed her. 'Do I sense, moppet, that in some way I have transgressed? Displeased you? Of what am I to be convicted, now?'

She turned to face him. 'Any displeasure of mine matters nothing,' she said. 'If your conscience does not convict you, how shall I?'

'Conscience?' he repeated. 'Ah, me – a chancy and unreliable witness! What is conscience, my heart? An irrational sense of guilt, largely affected by what one ate for supper the night before? Regret for aspects of failure? One is seldom conscience-stricken, I find, over successes! Fear of consequences? I am suspicious of too active a conscience, Mary.'

'Words, Patrick,' she gave back, levelly. 'Easy and fine words. Always you have them in plenty. But words will not serve to bring back my lord of Moray to life. Words will not undo what has been done.'

'Why no, lass. But should not you address your homily to Huntly? He it was, I understand, who unfortunately made an end of the so popular Moray. Not your erring sire.'

'Was it? she asked flatly.

He raised slender brows at her. 'That was my impression.' 'But not mine, I fear. Would that it was. Nor Vicky's. Huntly's was only the hand that struck the blow, I think.

Your's was the mind that planned it so, was it not?'

His beautiful features, that so nearly mirrored her own, went completely expressionless. 7 think that you go too fast, my dear,' he said softly. 'Too fast and far.'

She shook her head. 'I have watched you working for months to pull Moray down. As you have pulled down so many. You conceived him as in your way. Now he is dead. Whether you ordained his killing or no, I dunk that you knew that Huntly intended his death. And did naught to stay him. I see blood on your hands, therefore.'

'You see phantoms! Vain imaginings, girl,' he returned, more sharply now. 'You, in your wisdom, think this and think that! How can you tell what I know or plan or intend? How could I know that Huntly intended the death of Moray -if he did?'

'Vicky saw his parting from you. At the hunt. He heard the King's instructions. You were at the King's side. Vicky said…'

'Aye – Vicky! Always it is Vicky! That young man that I cherished is, I fear, become a viper in my bosom! It seems that I shall have to deal with Vicky.'

'No!' she cried, alarm widening her eyes. 'Not that! Never Vicky

'Then tell him to keep his fingers out of my affairs, Mary.' Patrick recovered his smile. 'With all suitable parental diffidence, my dear, I would suggest that you might even do the same! For your own sweet sake, if not mine!'

'You… you are warning me, Patrick?' she put to him. 'Warning me off?'

'Why, not so, my heart. I would do nothing so unseemly. I but plead with you not to meddle in affairs beyond you, lest you burn your pretty little fingers. Which I would not like to see. You cannot label that a warning, I vow!'

'No? Then let me offer you a similar plea, Patrick,' she said, calm again. 'Do not seek to bring any more men low. Cast down no others. You used Huntly to bring down Moray. Now, brute-beast as Huntly is, I fear for him. As I fear for Bothwell still. Sometimes, I even fear for the King himself!'

Their eyes met, and held. He did not speak.

'Oh, Patrick,' she exclaimed, in a different voice. 'Will you not stop it? Make an end of it. For Marie's sake. For little Andrew's. And Davy's. And mine. Who love you. Will you not?'

He drew a long breath. 'You dream, girl,' he said. 'You deceive yourself.'

'No. For I know you, you see.'

'How do you know?'

'I know you, because I know myself. We are none so different, perhaps, you and I. So, I beg you, I entreat you, I urge you – hold your hand. Lest… lest…'

'Aye,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'Lest what?'

'Lest I forget that I am your daughter. And do… do what I conceive to be right. My duty, Patrick.'

Long he looked at her, searching her lovely elphin face, staring deep into her dark eyes, as though to probe to the very core of her being. Then abruptly, without another word, he swung about and left her there, striding to the door and out.

She stood alone, trembling a little, gazing blindly at the open door.

Anne returned to Holyroodhouse two days later, and Mary with her. James made a great show of welcoming her, riding out with half his Court as far as the Queen's Ferry, to escort her to the city and the palace. To emphasise their happy conjugal bliss a touching ceremony was organised at the West Port, where carefully selected representaives of the citizenry presented the allegedly pregnant young Queen with items of baby-wear, and James made a speech in Latin, with droll obscenities in Greek and Hebrew, initimating the joys and privileges of fatherhood, and the realm's felicity in anticipating the arrival of an heir to the throne. He even patted his wife's stomach, in an excess of enthusiasm – although it had to be admitted that Anne, pale and drawn and unsmiling, had never looked slimmer.

Unfortunately the cosily domestic atmosphere engendered by this scene was rather spoiled by the appearance in the crowd of some rude fellows leading a horse on which was displayed a man-size picture of the Earl of Moray. It was no ordinary picture this, for the Lady Doune had had it painted of her son lying outstretched on the ground, naked save for a loin-cloth, and most obviously and unpleasantly dead, his body hacked, slashed and punctured with major realism. Queen Anne all but swooned away at the sight of it – indeed she would have fallen from the saddle had not Patrick Gray ridden alongside to catch and support her bodily. From immediately behind, Mary Gray spurred her mount forward at the same time, and across the Queen's swaying person man's and girl's eyes met for an instant, tensely.

James, ever affected drastically by the sight of blood, even painted blood apparently, gobbled in horror, dug spurs into his horse's flanks, and slapping high hat hard down, went galloping off down towards the Grassmarket, scattering the crowd right and left, and leaving wife and entourage behind.

The royal procession took a deal of reorganising thereafter.

The ball which had been hastily arranged for that night at Holyroodhouse, was as hastily cancelled on account of the Queen's indisposition.

In the weeks that followed, the bonnie Earl of Moray continued to make a greater impact on the affairs of the realm in death than ever he had done in life. Various determined folk saw to that. The Kirk promoted him to the status of Protestant martyr, and inspired true believers to make pilgrimage to the kirkyard at Leith, where his unburied body still was on gruesome display, with an armed guard of the faithful on duty day and night to ensure that the King's men did not spirit it away or unsuitably inter it. Parallel with this beatification of the martyr of Donibristle, came a steady series of demands to the King and Privy Council that rigorous steps should be taken against Huntly; Catholicism should be proscribed and made a penal office; and Parliament called to enact laws to make Presbyterianism the official church government for all time coming, and to remove all bishops, abbots and commendators from the seats they held in Parliament.

The Lady Doune was tireless in keeping her son's memory not so much green as red. She paraded the streets, not only with her painting, but with Moray's rent and blood-stained shirt as banner, picqueting the Holyroodhouse gates day after day. She involved her brother Argyll and much of Clan Campbell in the business. It was said that she kept re-singeing her own and her daughter's hair, to counteract the healing effects of time.

As well as oratory, art and pageantry, poetry and literature also seemed to gain new life out of the death of Scotland's posthumous hero. The country was flooded with printed verses, songs, lampoons and pamphlets on the subject, extolling the virtues and beauties of the deceased, his royal blood, proclaiming that he was the Queen's true love, and hinting that in the circumstances the hand behind Huntly's was not far to seek. Since printing was a new and expensive process, the quantity and distribution of these compositions held its own significance.

Mary Gray, watching the Master these days like any hawk, came to the conclusion that for once he had made a grievous miscalculation in his statecraft, had quite failed to estimate public reaction to Moray's death. Until, that is, one day the Lady Marie showed her a scrap of paper which she had found in the pocket of one of Patrick's doublets, given to her for cleaning. It was in his own handwriting, and consisted of a couple of verses of a typical – if better composed than usual -panegyric on Moray, insinuations of the King's guilt, and demand for vengeance. Certain words had been scored out here and there and improved upon, in the same hand. And Maitland's name was included amongst those who were to be held responsible for the tragedy.

Obviously here was much food for thought.

James was forced, in varying degrees, to bow to pressure. A judicial enquiry was at last ordered into the allegations against Huntly – and in due course and not unnaturally, found that nobleman innocent of any greater offence than over-zealousness in discharge of his appointed duty. With Gordons innumerable parading Edinburgh streets, hands on dirks, such a verdict was entirely realistic. The Cock o' the North emerged from Blackness Castle vindicated, and after a single high-spirited demonstration in Edinburgh, sensibly set out for his own North, where Protestant lords like Atholl, Forbes, the Marischal and Grant had been at play while the cat was away.

The Lowlands heaved a premature sigh of relief.

Lord Chancellor Maitland, who had been keeping much in the background of late anyway, came to the conclusion that overwork was affecting his health, and with the King's permission retired to his house of Thirlestane in the Borderland for a vacation of unstipulated duration. No acting-chancellor was appointed but the Master of Gray, with all his wide experience, was at the realm's disposal at all times.

A Parliament was called for June, to consider the Kirk's demands on church government, bishops and the like, and other weighty matters. One of these, curiously enough was a claim put forward by the Master of Gray against the royal treasury; a notably large claim amounting to the peculiar sum of no less than?19,983 – pounds Scots, of course, since there was nothing like that sum in gold or English pounds in all the land. This claim, it transpired, was reimbursement and interest allegedly due to the Master for private monies expended on the nation's business during his previous period of acting-chancellor six years before. The King had signified his assent to this substantial requisition – indeed there were rumours that he was much more deeply involved, and that the whole thing was merely a plot on the part of Patrick and himself to lay hands on a deal of ready money that had recently accrued to the treasury through a spate of fines and forfeitures, to share it between them. Be that as it might, the Lord Treasurer, the unco-operative Master of Glamis, had his reservations, and the matter was to go before the Parliament.

Embalmed now, the corpse of the Earl of Moray remained unburied at Leith, a symbol and a challenge.

With Huntly safely out of the way and fully occupied in the North, Bothwell re-emerged from the wilds of Liddesdale, and took up his threat against the King more or less where he had left off. He was said to be at Crichton, at Hailes, in the Merse with the Homes, at Fast Castle with Logan of Restalrig. True or false, peaceable folk groaned in spirit.

It was only a day or two before the Parliament that Lennox came seeking Mary Gray in the Queen's quarters of the palace. Without ceremony he extracted her from the company of her colleagues, and taking her by the arm led her into the privacy of a tiny turret chamber.

'Sakes, my lord Duke!' she exclaimed. 'You are exceedingly ducal today! Should I be honoured? I so seldom see you now. You are so ducally busy. Closeted with my lord of Mar, with Master Andrew Melville, consulting with the Earl of Atholl, and, they say, with Chancellor Maitland away at Thirlestane.

Even, whisper it, while you are down in those parts, with Bothwell himself…!'

'Who said that?' he jerked. 'Patrick?'

'Why, no. Patrick no longer honours me with his confidences. I had it from the Master of Orkney, the Lady Marie's brother. He hears most of what goes on at Court, I have found.'

'I'd liefer you discussed my affairs with others than that lecherous clown, Mary,' he said stiffly.

Surprised, the girl eyed him. 'Vicky – this is strange, from you. He was but idly gossiping. About all and sundry… '

'What else did he gossip to you? About me?'

'So! There is something in it all then, Vicky? I did not believe it…'

'Well?'

'He said that you were set on being named second man in the kingdom. By this Parliament. Next heir to the throne. I could not credit that. It did not sound like you, Vicky. Do not tell me that it is true?'

'Aye,' the young man said heavily. 'It is true. In some measure. Not that I care anything for such, myself. As you well know. It is but to forestall the Lord Hamilton. He is known to be going to claim that position. His great-grandmother was a daughter of King James the Second. Why he is making the claim, I know not. But it is feared that he has ill designs. I am closer to the Throne than he, so this has been projected. That Parliament should name me as next heir, lacking issue of the King. Lest Hamilton and his friends make trouble…'

Mary all but moaned. 'More of it!' she whispered. 'This… this sounds like Patrick again, Vicky. Is it? Is he behind this intrigue? I vow it was never the King's doing. It smells of Patrick!'

'No. He has no hand in it. He has few dealings with me, now. He may be behind Hamilton's claim – I know not. But not this of mine. It is Atholl who led me to it. And Master Melville. The Kirk party do not trust Hamilton. It appears that they trust me. They believe that they can carry sufficient votes in this Parliament…'

'Yet Patrick is seeing a deal of my lord of Atholl, these days.

And he dined with Master Melville but two nights ago. Oh, Vicky – have naught to do with it! I suspect it. I do so… '

'It is but for the good of the realm, Mary. It is only a gesture. To give Hamilton pause. Anne will have a child – even if she is not pregnant yet. Besides, it is gone too far for me to withdraw now. And it but states the truth. That I am the next heir if James lacks children – as we have always known.'

'It is dangerous,' she insisted. 'I feel it, I sense it. Do not lend yourself to plots and intrigues, Vicky – whosoever concocts them. They are not for you.'

'I am Chamberlain and Admiral of this realm, Mary. I have been Viceroy. I cannot shut my eyes to what concerns its weal… ' Abruptly he abandoned the lofty and dignified tone that came so unnaturally to him, and was at once his normal, urgent and unaffected self again. 'Mary,' he declared, 'heed none of all this. Not now. It is not important. For us. It is not what I came to tell you. I… I… Mary – Sophia is dead!'

'Sophia Ruthven! Your… your wife! She is dead? Oh, Vicky!'

'I have just had word. Her mother, the Lady Gowrie, is new come from Ruthven. She was buried four days back. Of a flux of blood. A consumption.'

'I am sorry, sorry. She was so young. So unhappy. To die alone! You had not even seen her? Her mother did not send for you?'

'No. She did not want me. Her mother says it, and I know it. We meant nothing to each other. You know it, also. I am sorry for her, Mary – sorry that she suffered so. But she was ill when we were wed. She should never have been married. Now she is gone. I cannot mourn her – else I make myself a hypocrite. I think her better dead, indeed, than as last I saw her – coughing in her pain, weeping in her misery… '

The young woman nodded, sighing. 'I know, Vicky. I am sorry – for you both. It was a hard thing for both of you. But worse for her. Always it is worse for the woman. A bad marriage, a marriage without affection and trust, is for a woman utter woe and disaster.'

'Is that what you fear, Mary?' He took her shoulder, and turned her to face him. 'Do you fear a bad marriage? To me?'

'To you, Vicky? No – no, not that. That is not what I fear. How can I fear the impossible? We cannot marry… '

'But we can. I am free, now. To marry again. To marry you, Mary.'

Unhappily the young woman shook her head. 'You are not, Vicky – you are not! Nothing has changed. You must see it. Do not shut your eyes. Do not be blind to what all others can see. We can never marry, you and I. A moment ago you were reminding me of who and what you were. Great Chamberlain of Scotland. Lord High Admiral. Next heir to the throne. How can you be all these, and marry the daughter of Davy Gray, the land-steward?'

'All know that you are in fact the Master of Gray's daughter. His mother was Gowrie's sister. So you are indeed cousin to Sophia, once removed.'

'Removed by a great gulf. Not legitimate. Either I am the steward's daughter, and honest. Or I am illegitimate. Neither will make a wife for the Duke of Lennox. That is certain. The realm, whose weal you would serve, would not allow it. Ever.' Her voice quivered. 'Accept it, Vicky. As I do. I thank you for your… your devotion. Your love. And for asking. But do not ask it again, I beseech you. Never again. For, for I cannot bear it!'

It was Mary Gray's turn to cut short an interview. She turned in a swirl of skirts, and ran from that little chamber, blindly enough to collide with the door-post as she went.