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

Chapter Twenty-five

IT was grey morning before Mary saw Lennox. The previous evening she had deliberately avoided all contact with others, after coming in from the summer-house, even pleading a headache to excuse herself from her duties with the Queen, and retiring early to the bed which she was to share with the Lady Beatrix Ruthven, to hide herself if not to sleep. Now, darker-eyed than ever and just a little drawn and wan, she sought out the Duke in the little high turret chamber which was all that Bothwell had found for him in that crowded house.

Surrounded by his usual untidy clutter of clothes and gear, the young man was in his shirt-sleeves, brushing dried mud from his tall riding-boots, as the girl knocked and entered.

'Mary!' he exclaimed. 'I sought you last night – when I heard that you had come. With the Queen… '

'I was tired, Vicky. I went to bed.' She glanced around her. 'I see that Peter Hay is not back yet – since you clean your own boots.'

'No. It is strange. Where he is gone, I know not. He came with the Queen, and then…'

'It was my doing, Vicky. He went on an errand. For me. He rode to Lauderdale. Last night. To the Chancellor's house at Thirlestane.'

'To Maitland? Peter? For you? Sakes, Mary – what is this?'

'It was necessary. Something that I had to do. It… it is an ill story, Vicky.' Involuntarily she was picking up and smoothing out and tidying the strewn clothing of that little apartment, as she spoke. 'Patrick is gone.'

'Patrick? Patrick Gray? Gone? Gone where? What do you mean – gone?'

'Gone away. Left Scotland. Last night.' Listlessly she said it. 'He rode for Berwick.'

Astonished, he regarded her. 'But why? What is this? Is it some new plot?'

She told him, then, baldly, in jerky broken sentences. She did not spare Patrick, nor yet herself. Starkly, she declared what she had done to her father, and why.

Ludovick heard her out with growing wonderment, his blue eyes devouring her strained face.

'I faith, Mary – here is a marvel!' he declared. 'You did all this? You brought him low. Unaided. And… by all that is wonderful – you did it because of me?'

'Yes,' she admitted, simply.

He stepped forward, to grip both her slight shoulders, to stare down at her. 'But… what does it mean?' he demanded. 'What does it mean, that you should do this? Tell me, Mary.'

'It means many things, Vicky. But, for you, it means that my eyes are open. That I have made my choice. At last.'

'Mean for me…?'

'Yes. You have been very patient. So faithful.'

He moistened his lips, although his grip on her tightened. 'I do not understand you, Mary. Speak me plain, for God's sake! What do you say?'

'I say that you were right, Vicky, and I was wrong. Not only about Patrick. About the life of the Court. About what is best for us, what is good and right and fair. I mean that I am done with courts and kings and queens. Done with deceits, intrigues and glittering follies. I want no more of it. I have finished with this life, Vicky – finished.'

'You mean that you are going home? To Castle Huntly?'

'No. Not unless I must. I had thought to go to another castle than that. To Methven Castle, Vicky.'

'What…!' Mary! What are you saying? Dear Lord – what are you saying?'

'I am asking that you take me away, Vicky. Will you take me away from it all? To your quiet green Methven. There to stay, to abide. You and me, together. As you have wished for so long… '

She got no further. The young man's arms enclosed her, swept her up off her feet, crushed the breath from her lovely body, held her fast, while he gabbled and gasped endearments, joy, praise and utter foolishness – when he was not closing her soft parted lips with his own urgent ones.

So different an embrace than that of the night before.

At last, breathless and panting, even trembling a little, Ludovick released her at least sufficiently to allow her to speak.

'My heart! My love! My sweet Mary!' he cried, 'So you will marry me, at last? Oh, my dear – we shall be wed. Soon. At once. Here is the most joyful day of my life. Here is…'

Shaking her head, but smiling, Mary extricated one hand, to raise it and place a forefinger over his eager mouth. 'Not so fast, young man,' she told him, tremulous only in her breathing. 'A truce, Vicky – one moment! Hear me, please.' And as he began to nibble at her finger, her face grew grave. 'I will not marry you, Vicky. I cannot. You are still the Duke of Lennox, the King's cousin. And I am still Mary Gray, the bastard. Nothing is changed, there. If we marry, in despite of the King and the Council, our marriage would be annulled forthwith. They would part us. They must. You must see it? So long as we do not marry, none will part us. None will see shame in a duke taking a mistress; but to marry out of his rank and style – that would be unforgivable!'

'But… but… I care not…'

'But nothing, Vicky. My mind is made up, quite. You want me. I want you, likewise. Take me, then. Take me to Methven with you. I shall be your wife in all but name. I shall keep your house for you. I shall cherish you always. I shall bear your children, God willing. But… I will not be Duchess of Lennox.'

'Heaven save us – this is beyond all!'

'No. Heed me, Vicky. I have thought long and deep on it. In God's eyes we may be man and wife, I pray – but not in man's. I shall cleave to you, never fear. Always. I shall keep your from the life of the Court as much as I may – for it suits you nothing. But some business of state you must perform, for you are born to it. In that I shall not interfere – for I have learned my lesson. I… I… ' She swallowed. 'I shall endeavour not to be jealous when you marry again – assuredly you shall. You must. To some lady of high degree.

To produce an heir to your dukedom…' 'Damnation, Mary – have done!'

'Hear me,' she commanded. 'I shall need help, then, Vicky – for I am only a weak woman. And she, whoever she may be, must have her rights. Although she must know, before she weds, that I am what I am.'

'A plague on it!' Almost he shook her. 'Do you know what you say? What this makes you? A courtesan, no more. That is what all will name you. Lennox's courtesan!'

'Why not? That is what I shall be, indeed. There are worse things, I think. Can you not stomach the title, Vicky – for me? Is it too high a price to pay for our happiness? Tell me – is it?'

Helplessly he stared at her. 'God knows,' he muttered at length. 'I do not.'

'God knows, yes,' she agreed, firmly, decisively. 'And there you have it. God knows what we are to each other – and I care not what any other says or thinks. So long as we are together, you and I. You will take me to Methven, Vicky, my love? On these terms. It is a compact?'

He drew a long breath. 'Aye,' he said. 'If that is your will, Mary.'

'I shall make it yours also, my heart,' she whispered