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

P.'

Mary Gray had worked her way once through this peculiar epistle, and, wide brows wrinkled slightly, was part-way through a second reading, when a sound from the open doorway drew her glance from the paper. David Gray stood there, frowning, lips tight, a more formidable figure than he knew.

The girl did not start guiltily, nor drop the letter. She did not even look discomposed. That had ever been the problem with her from earliest childhood – how to assert parental authority and suitable sway over one so strangely and basically assured, so extraordinarily yet quietly judicial, so patently quite unassertively master of herself and her immediate situation. Even my Lord Gray himself did not attempt to impose his imperious will on her; indeed, he had always spoiled her shockingly.

'What do you mean by reading that letter, girl?' David Gray demanded, jerkily. 'It is not for such eyes as yours. Is nothing private to me, even in my own chamber? Can I not leave my table for two minutes, but you must come prying, spying? I did but go to speak to the foresters…' He stopped. Not for him to explain to this chit of a girl. 'Put it down, child! Think you that all my affairs must be business of yours? I will have you know otherwise, 'fore God! I lock my door from such as you?'

He went on too long, of course – and knew it. Too much school-mastering, too much the petty tyrant as my lord's steward. At the clear and unwinking regard of those deep dark eyes, he cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his cleanshaven chin.

She ignored all that he had said – or perhaps not so much ignored as listened to it, considered it, and dismissed it as irrelevant.

'What does Uncle Patrick mean, Father, by the lady whose price was above a ruby? He calls her accursed. And the ready-forged sword of justice? I think that I understood some of his letter – but not that. Nor this, where he writes of craft replacing craft? What means that? And who is H.C.M. and H.H.? And all those others? "Both dear M.'s", of course, means Mother and myself. But these others? Tell me, if you please.'

There it was, the almost imperious demand, none the less infuriating for being quite unconscious, quite devoid of any undutiful intent, any impertinence, yet ridiculous, insufferable in a girl still in her teens. So might a born queen speak and look – not the bastard daughter of a bastard, however lofty the standing of three of her grandparents. Davy Gray's problem, self-assumed, for fifteen years. Or one of them.

The man stepped over to the table, and took the letter out of her hands. He was a stocky plain-faced youngish man -extraordinarily young-seeming to play the father to this burgeoning beauty. At thirty-two, indeed, he showed no single grey hair, no sign of thickening about the belly, no physical corroboration of the staid man of affairs, the schoolmaster, steward of a great estate, father of three, the man who had shortly rejected King Jamie's proffered accolade of knighthood but a year previously. Somewhat blunt-faced, heavy-browed, strong-jawed, grey-eyed, his hair worn short, and dressed in simple and well-worn homespun doublet and breeches and tall riding-boots, he looked perhaps a harder man than he was. Swordless despite his position of steward to the fifth Lord Gray, his father – and despite all the notable swording that was credited to him in days not so long past – he looked like a man who might be seeking the sober, the settled and the respectable rather before his time, and by no means always finding it.

'I shall tell you no such thing,' he said. 'On my soul, did you not hear me? I said that it was not for your eyes. It is naught to do with you.'

'It is from him. From my Uncle Patrick.'

'Aye.' For some reason his glance dropped before hers. 'Aye, more's the pity! But what he speaks is of no concern of yours, child. Nor…' David Gray sighed heavily, 'nor of mine either, indeed. Nor of mine!'

'Surely it is, Father? For I think that it concerns the King. 'Young J.' – that is King Jamie, is it not? Who else would he name our errant young friend J.? He is to be informed after these others. It is what he is to be informed that I do not understand.'

'God be good, Mary – I… I…!' Her father swallowed. 'Have done, girl, I tell you. Will you never heed what I say? You are too young. Fifteen years – a mere child…'

'At fifteen years you married my mother, did you not? Carrying me within her.' That was calmly, factually said.

David Gray drew a deep quivering breath, blinking grey eyes quickly, but found no words.

She went on, as calmly. 'I am not a child any more, Father. I am a woman now. You should know that.'

'I know that you are an upstart, saucy malapert, a hussy, a baggage! And that my letters are no concern of yours, d'you hear?'

'This letter greatly concerns my Uncle Patrick.' She paused on the name, and then repeated it carefully. 'My Uncle Patrick. Therefore it concerns me, does it not?'

David Gray opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He turned away from her, and took a few paces across the bare wooden flooring to the window, to stare, not down into the cobbled courtyard of the great castle, but out over the wide, grassy, cattle-dotted levels of the Carse of Gowrie and the blue estuary of Tay beyond, gleaming in the brittle fitful sunlight of a February noon stolen from spring. South and south he gazed, as though he would look far beyond Scotland, beyond England even, to sunny France or Spain or wherever his damnable, disgraced and yet beloved half-brother presently spent his banishment. And however hard he frowned, his grey eyes were not hard, at all.

In three light running paces, Mary was at his side, her hand on his arm, her lovely face upturned to his wistfully, all winsome tenderness now. And in such mood no man whom she had yet encountered could resist her.

'Forgive me, Father,' she said softly. 'You are my true father, my only father. And always will be. You have my devotion always. You know it. But… I must know of him. I cannot help myself, you see. What concerns him, I must know. Do you not understand?'

'Aye.' Licking his lips, David Gray turned to her, and his arm slipped up around her slender shoulders. His voice shook a little. 'Aye, lass. He is… what I can never be. Well I know it. And you are so like him. So… so devilish like him, child. Sometimes I am frightened…'

'I know,' she whispered: 'I know it. But never be frightened, Father. Never – for me. There is no need, I think.'

He considered her, all the quality of her that made him feel like a plough-horse beside a Barbary, a bludgeon beside a rapier; that made her unassuming country wear of scarlet homespun waisted gown, aproned and embroidered underskirt and white linen sark or blouse, in fact as simple as his own attire, appear as apt and as strikingly delectable as any court confection. He sighed.

'Aye, Mary – you are a woman now, in truth. Folly to shut my eyes to it. Yet, all the more you need guidance, counsel, protection, my dear.'

She nodded her dark-curled head, accepting that. 'But not from Uncle Patrick, I think?'

He hesitated a little before answering her slowly. 'I would that I could be sure of that.'

She searched his face intently. 'Mother says that you always have been less than fair to Uncle Patrick,' she observed. 'Do you think that is true?'

'Your mother knows him less well than I do, girl.'

'And yet… you love him, do you not?'

'Aye.' Sombrely he said it. 'Although it might be better -better for us all, I think – if I did not.'

'No.' She shook her head decidedly, rejecting that. 'No.' Then she smiled again, in her most winning fashion. 'You love me, and you say that you love him, Father. Yet you will not explain his letter. To me. When he says not to deny me and Mother his worship and devotion. And responsibility also, does he not say?'

David Gray ran a hand over brow and hair. 'Och, Mary, Mary – the letter is an ill one, a dangerous one. Better that you should know naught of it..

'But I do know some of it. Much of it, I think. I know that it concerns King Jamie, and therefore that it must concern us all, all Scotland. And if young J. is indeed the King, then will not the accursed woman be the Queen of England? Elizabeth? And will not that make the other unfortunate lady, on whom the fates waged war, our own good Mary the Queen, whom Elizabeth murdered? If I know all this, is it not better that I should know the rest? And I know that it is dangerous, for does he not say to doubt it all at your peril?'

'That is not the danger that I meant,' the man said. 'But let it be.' He shook his head over her again. 'I sooth, you are shrewd, child. Quick. Sharp as a needle. Your… your father's daughter, indeed!' He shrugged. 'I suppose, yes, having gleaned so much you may as well learn all. Mayhap it will teach you something… something about the Master of Gray. That you ought to know.' He spread out the letter. 'But… this is for your ears alone, mark you. You understand, Mary? No one else must know of it. Do not discuss it, even with your mother. She knows of the letter, but not all that it portends. She has ever misliked secrets. Nor would she understand much of it, besides. She frets. Some things it is better that she should not know.'

"I do not mislike secrets,' the girl said simply. 'And can keep them.'

He glanced at her sidelong, almost wonderingly. 'That I believe. Else I would not tell you this.' He tapped the much-travelled paper, soiled by the tarry paws of seamen and heaven knew what furtive secret hands in France or Spain or Italy. The missive bore no address.

'Patrick – your uncle – has not changed in a year,' he said heavily. 'Nor ever will, I believe. Ever he must dabble in affairs of state. It might have been thought, to be condemned to death for treason and only to have escaped with his life by the breadth of a hair, that he might have been cured of such folly. But, no. A few brief months after his banishment for life – eight months, no more – and he is back at it. I suppose that to have ruled Scotland in all but name is too much for him to forget, to renounce… although he said that never did he wish to bear the rule. And that I think he meant, in truth. And yet… I do not know. I cannot understand him, what makes him what he is…'

Gently she brought him back to the letter. 'He says that the accursed lady will meet her deserts within three months, does he not? What is this of a ruby? A price above a ruby?'

'That is Elizabeth Tudor, yes. The ruby was one that he sought to buy her with. A great gem. Elizabeth had ever a passion for such things. It was Mary's of course – our own Queen's. Sent her by the Pope, years before. First he used it to discredit Arran, when he was Chancellor, and then he took it to Elizabeth. She accepted it… but she did not keep her side of the bargain.'

'He bargained it – this jewel – for Queen Mary's life?'

David Gray looked out of the window again. 'No. That is not what Patrick bargained for, I fear. Something… other! But that is an old story. He mentions it here only that I should know for whom he speaks. This letter – I know not where he writes from. The last was from Rome…'

'And you did not answer him.'

'No. I… it was better that I should not. Better for all – himself also, I think.'

'You mean that it is dangerous? To deal with one who is convicted of treason? If the letter should come into the wrong hands? The King's hands? That then you would be endangered?'

'No, it is not that…'

'But that is why Uncle Patrick writes as he does, is it not? In this strange concealed fashion. So that you shall not be implicated…?'

'It is not for fear of implicating me that Patrick writes so! Indeed, he means that I shall be implicated – very much so. He would avoid evidence – written evidence he fears. He has tasted of its dangers, already! Written evidence can condemn, where nimble wits and a honeyed tongue would otherwise save. It is himself that he seeks to spare – not me!'

'But he is safe. In France. Banished…'

'Aye – so it might be thought. So Scotland thinks. But… does he not say that we may see him sooner than we think? Where he may be, even now, the good Lord knows! I know not where he writes from – notably, he does not say. The last letter was from Rome – but clearly he has been in Spain but recently. And what he has seen and heard in Spain convinces him that Queen Elizabeth's days are numbered.'

'Spain? Not France? Always it was France, was it not, Uncle Patrick dealt with. The Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine? Our Queen Mary's cousins. I thought that it would be these, perhaps, whom he meant by the two most catholic…?'

'No. The two most catholic are just what he says – H.C.M., that is His Most Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain; and H.H., that is His Holiness the Pope of Rome. It is of these he speaks. They have decided it, he says – decided that justice, as he calls it, will be done, and that Elizabeth of England will meet her deserts.'

'For killing our Queen?'

David Gray's heavy brows lowered in a band across his face. 'I would not swear, child, that such is what he means by justice – whatever Spain and Rome may mean. Would that it was. Rather, I think, it is because Elizabeth betrayed him, broke their wicked compact over Queen Mary, and denounced his part in that vile execution to Chancellor Mait-land and the Council of Scotland. For that, I think, he will never forgive her. Elizabeth, I vow, made a dangerous enemy the day she wrote that letter betraying the Master of Gray.'

The girl drew a long breath. 'You do not sound… as though you loved him,' she said.

'You do not understand, Mary. Indeed, how could you? Himself I love. Patrick, my brother.' His lips tightened. 'My half-brother. The noble brother of my lord's bastard! I cannot help myself. We have been very close, always. Strangely, for we could scarce be more different. Himself I love, then. But what he is, and what he does, I hate! Hate and fear, do you hear me? Hate and fear.' The paper was trembling a little in those strong hands. It seemed as though almost with relief he came back to it, back to the letter. 'In Spain, then, Patrick saw sufficient to convince him that Elizabeth's days are numbered. It can only have been the ships, the great armament, that King Philip is long said to have been preparing. Armada is the word that they use for it – a great fleet of galleons, and great armies of men, to invade and subdue England. There has long been word of it, rumours – but Patrick must have seen it with his owns eyes, and have been satisfied that it is great enough, powerful enough, to serve its purpose. The downfall of Elizabeth's England. Beyond a peradventure, he says. For him to be sure, the armament must indeed be vast and very terrible. And nigh ready to sail, since he says within a three-month. Unless…'

'Invasion of England – before the summer!' Mary said, with slight difficulty. 'So soon. Yet a year too late!'

'Eh…?'

'To save Mary the Queen.'

'Aye. That is the truth. One short year. Or, perhaps… I do not know… but perhaps there is a reason for that. It may be that Philip of Spain prefers to invade England with Mary safely dead rather than invade to save her life. In her testament she named him, not her son James, as heir to her two kingdoms of England and Scotland, you will mind. She did it, I think, more as a threat to make Elizabeth keep her alive, than as her true desire – for when we saw her at Wingfield Manor only a year before her death, she spoke most warmly of young Jamie – warmer than he deserved, 'fore God! Still, she died leaving Philip of Spain her heir, by this testament -and now he is prepared to claim his inheritance!'

'And Scotland? Surely that could never be? Not here…?' The girl's great eyes widened. 'Is that what Uncle Patrick means when he says that…? Here it is… He says "you will agree that an overdose of good things is seldom a kindness. Moreover, we have our young friend J. to consider". He means, then, that Scotland must be saved. Saved from King Philip and his invasion. That is it?'

David Gray nodded. 'Something of the sort, he suggests. Although not all would say, I think, that it was for the saving of Scotland! He would have me inform the Early of Huntly of all this – that is "our blustering northern cousin H." of course. With the Earl of Erroll, the High Constable, and the Lord Seton, and others of the like kidney. In other words, the Catholic lords. These to brace themselves – to muster their forces, to arm. Then, and only then, when they are ready and assembled, to inform King Jamie.'

'Why that? Should not he be the first to be told?'

Her father smiled, but not mirthfully. 'We are dealing here with the Master of Gray, child – not some mere common mortal! The King then to write to Philip of Spain – or to send an ambassador, belike – offering a treaty of alliance, to aid in the invasion of England. On the condition, need I say, that Scotland is left free. Assuring him that a Scottish army is assembled and waiting. And, of course, to add that if Philip refuses to agree, he, James, will be compelled to inform Elizabeth of all – even to join forces with her. Which assuredly would much distress His Most Catholic Majesty.'

The girl swallowed. 'I… I see.'

'That is your Uncle Patrick! That is what the letter means. Scarcely apt intelligence for a chit of a girl?'

'Perhaps not.' She took the letter and gazed down at its curiously untidy yet vital, forceful handwriting. 'But I do not see, Father, why you say that it is no concern of yours, either? Is it not of the greatest importance?'

'He would have me esteem it so, I agree.'

'But is it not, indeed? For us all? For all Scotland?'

'I do not know.' David Gray moved away from the window, to pace up and down the little bare room. 'It could be -indeed, probably it is – but one more of his many conspiracies. A plot for the furtherance of his own affairs. Like so many.'

'But… the invasion of England! That is no private plot!'*No. But what he would have transpire here in Scotland might well be, girl. He would have this done now – this of Huntly and the rest. Philip of Spain's armament, this Armada, may not be so near to sailing as he says. There have been rumours of it for long. He could be using the threat of it for his own purposes. To stir up trouble again in Scotland. He knows that Huntly is a firebrand, ever ready to rouse the north…'

'Yet he writes this not to my lord of Huntly, but to you, Father.'

'Aye. Huntly, the great turkey-cock, would not make head nor tail of such a letter! Patrick would use me – use me as he has done before, times without number. I had thought that we had done with such. I have done with such, by God! I'll no' do it – I will not!' The man thumped clenched fist on his table as he passed it.

Thoughtfully, gravely, the girl looked at him. 'How can you say that?' she asked. 'He declares roundly that this is no mere conspiracy. Not to doubt him. The King, and the whole realm, must be endangered if the Spaniards invade England. None can question that, surely? Uncle Patrick has pointed a way of escape, has he not? For Scotland. How can you refuse your aid? If not for his sake, as he says, for the King's sake. For all our sakes.'

'I can – and do! You hear?' Almost he shouted at her – which was markedly unlike David Gray: 'I will be entangled in no more of Patrick's plots and deviltries. I swore it – and I will hold to it. I have seen too much hurt and evil, too much treachery and death, come of them. No – I will not do it.'

She shook her dark head slowly, and turned back to the paper in her hand once more. 'What is this about an office?' she enquired. 'An office to be set up on Castle-hill? Here, does he mean? This castle…?'

'No. He means the Holy Office, so called. The Spanish Inquisition. Set up on the Castle-hill of Edinburgh. He would chill my blood…'

'The Inquisition!' Mary Gray stared at him now, wide-eyed, something of the terror of that dread name quivering in her voice. 'Here? In Scotland? No – oh, no! That could never be! Not… that!'

Her father did not answer her.

She came over to him almost at a run. 'Father! Father – if that could happen, the Inquisition here… then… then…' She faltered, gripping his arm. He had never seen her so moved. 'You would never stand by and see that happen? Anything would be better than that, surely? You – a true Protestant? You cannot stay your hand from what he would have you do – from what this letter says, if that could be the outcome? You cannot!'

'Mary – can you not understand, child?' he cried. 'Cannot you see? What Patrick here proposes could well bring that very evil about! Bring the devilish Inquisition to Scotland, to Edinburgh. You talk about saving Scotland – about Patrick saving Scotland, thus. Do you not perceive, lass, that this is in fact most like a conspiracy to overthrow the Reformed religion in Scotland? The Catholic lords are to muster and arm. Secretly. Not until they are assembled is the King to be told. Not even then the Chancellor and the Council – that is what he means by James's tutors and servitors. The Protestants around the King are not to know of it. Until too late. Think you that this Catholic army will do the young Protestant King's biding? He will become its prisoner. Then James is to make a secret alliance with Catholic Spain. Against Protestant England. Do you believe that the Kirk could ever agree to that? So the Kirk will have to be put down – by Catholic arms. What will remain, then, of Protestant Scotland? Would the Catholic lords keep out Philip's Inquisition? Could they? Do you not see what it means?'

She stood still, silent.

Tt is not easy, straightforward,' he went on, sighing. 'Nothing about Patrick Gray is ever easy or straightforward.'

'Yet you cannot leave it thus, Father,' she said. 'You cannot just do nothing.'

'What can I do? Other than act as he demands? Which I will not do.'

'You could tell the King, could you not? Without telling the Catholic lords. He used to rely on Uncle Patrick's advice in matters of state. Is the plan itself not a good one? Apart from putting Scotland in the power of the Catholic lords. If it was the Protestant lords who armed and assembled instead? The King could still treat with Spain, with an army at his back. It is a sound policy, is it not? The only way to preserve the realm in this evil pass? Uncle Patrick has the cleverest head in Scotland – often you have said it. Use it then, for Scotland's weal, Father. But… use your own likewise. Let it be the Protestant lords who arm – but otherwise the same.'

It was the man's turn to stare. Almost his jaw dropped as he considered what was proposed – and who proposed it. Was this the infant that he had petted and played with? The child that they had brought up? What had they nurtured, Mariota and himself?

'You… you do no discredit to your sire, I think,' he said, a little unsteadily.

'It is best, is it not? That you should go to the King?'

'It is not, I' faith! I cannot go to the King, girl. His last words to me, yon day at Holyroodhouse, were that he wished never to see my face again. Nor Patrick's either. An ill and graceless breed, he named us…'

'The same day that he would have made you knight?'

'Aye. But that was before I had abused him. I spoke him hard that day – as no subject should bespeak his prince. No base-born subject in especial… like Davy Gray the Bastard! I threatened him sorely. The King. For Patrick's sake. He will never forget it, will James Stewart. I have cut myself off from the King.'

'If you told him that the safety of his realm depended on hearing you? The safety of his person – for it is said that he is heedful for himself? Surely he would see you.'

'You do not understand, Mary. Kings are not to be approached thus. I cannot see him, or speak with him, without he summons me…'

'But, Father – even I used to speak with the King. He said that I was a bonny lass, and that he liked me well. He thanked me for being kind to Vicky – to the Duke of Lennox.'

'That was different, lass. Then your Uncle Patrick was a power in the land. Acting Chancellor of Scotland, and Master of the King's Wardrobe. I was his secretary. We were part of the royal Court. Ever about the King. Now… ' He spread his hands. 'I cannot speak with James without he summons me. And that he will never do.'

'The King, it is said, is not one whose mind cannot be changed…!' she began when her quiet voice was drowned.

There was a great clattering of hooves, clangour of armour, and the shouting of commands, from close outside. Man and girl moved back to the window. Through the arched doorway under the gatehouse streamed into the inner courtyard of Castle Huntly a troop of heavily-armed riders mounted on the rough garrons of the country, shaggy and short-legged but sturdy horses whose hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones of the enclosed square and echoed back and forth from the tall, frowning walls of great soaring keep and flanking-towers. Amongst them all, conspicuous because of the height of his handsome Flanders roan, rode a heavy florid man of middle years, dressed in richly embossed half-armour, black and gold, dark doublet and trunks, and long riding-boots. On his massive greying head was clapped a flat old-fashioned velvet bonnet instead of the more fashionable high hat and plume – the only man there not wearing a steel morion helmet.

Throwing himself down off his horse, this paunchy bull-like man started to shout as soon as his boots touched the cobbles -and at his bellowing, all other voices soever fell discreetly silent.

'Davy! Davy Gray – to me, man!' he roared. 'A pox on you – where are you? Where in hell are you skulking, i' God's name? Poring over dusty books and papers, I'll be bound…' He glanced up at the round north-west flanking-tower, and perceived the figures at the window. 'There you are, damn you! Down with you, man. Would you ha' me stand waiting your pleasure like some carle frae the stables? Me – Gray! Did you no' hear my horn? Are you deaf, man – as well as heedless o' my affairs and well-being…?'

'My lord sounds as though restored,' David Gray said to the girl, drily. 'His gout is improved, undoubtedly – and therefore he must needs burst a blood-vessel with his shouting!' But he raised a hand to the window in acknowledgment of the summons, and folding the letter, tucked it away carefully in his doublet, and turned to the stairway – but not in any urgent haste.

The fifth Lord Gray's voice neither awaited his arrival, nor lessened its volume. 'And where is my moppet? Where a pest's

Mary – my ain Mary? God's mercy – is this a house o' the dead, or what? Must Gray come to his ain, and naught but doos and jackdaws greet him? Mary!' he bawled. 'Mary Gray -haste you, lass. Would you hide frae me? Bairnie – where are you?' Although the noise of him had nowise diminished, the tone and tenor had altered significantly; almost there was a chuckling, wheedling note in the vociferation now, if that can be imagined, distinctly ridiculous in so notable a tyrant.

Smiling gently, the girl turned to follow her father down the narrow winding turnpike stair. And for all her curious calm and serenity of manner, she tripped lightly as might any child.

When she emerged, my lord was hectoring her father in front of all the fifty and more grinning men-at-arms.'… trees down all along the Inchture road, dykes broken and beasts straying! But two nights gone, and I come back to this, Davy Gray! I make you steward o' half the Carse, the more fool me, and here's you roosting in your tower moping over papers…'

'Last night's storm was notably strong, my lord… '

'What of it, man? Must trees lie where they fall because o' a skelp o' wind? And my beasts stray, because you canna keep your nose out of books and parchments?'

'I have men clearing the trees and mending the dykes,' David declared, his voice flat, nor noticeably apologetic. 'I set them to the home parks first, believing that you would have it so.' His glance flickered over the ranks of armed retainers. 'If your lordship would travel with a wheen less of escort, more men there would be for clearing your trees!'

'Insolent, on my soul! You to speak me thus! You – a chance by-blow!'

'Exactly, sir. But yours And with my uses – where secrets are to be kept!'

Father and son eyed each other directly, choleric yet shrewd pig-like eyes in that sagging, dissipated face, meeting level grey ones. This was an old battle, almost a formality indeed, something of a game to be played out.

'The godly business of the Kirk prospered at Perth, I hope, my lord?' the younger man went on, as evenly. 'Knowing its import, we scarce expected to see you home for a day or two yet. Or, should I say, a night or two?'

The other frowned, black as thunder, but before he could speak, a trill of laughter came from the small tower doorway where Mary stood watching.

'Was the Lady Murray unkind, Granlord… or just unwell?' she called, dark eyes dancing. 'Or perchance did her husband come home oversoon from the Court?'

'God be good – Mary, you… you ill-tongued hussy! You shameless baggage!' my lord spluttered, but with the frown vanished from his heavy brows like snow before the sun. He went limping forward, all jingling spurs and clanking steel, arms wide, ridiculous. Into them the girl came, not running, indeed with a sort of diffident hesitancy of pace, so at variance with her dimpling, smiling assurance as to be laughable, and was enfolded, swept up off her feet, and chuckled and crooned over. 'Och, lassie, lassie!'

She gurgled something into his neck above the steel gorget.

'Lord – it's good to have a grip o' you! You're the bonniest sight these eyes have seen in a score years!' he told her, nuzzling his gross empurpled features in her hair.

Her laughter pealed out. 'Bonnier than the Lady Murray? Bonnier than the Provost's wife at Dundee? Or Mistress Moncur? I have not her great paps, Granlord!' And she kissed him full on the lips.

'Och, wheesht you, wheesht you, wench! The randy wicked tongue o' you!' her grandfather gasped. 'Damme, you're a handful! Aye, God – an armful is nearer it, eh? An armful getting, I swear!' And he squeezed her comprehensively.

She bit his ear, quite sharply, so that he yelped.

David Gray looked at his father and his daughter from under puckered, downdrawn brows. Always this was the way of it – always it had been. The child, conceived in shame, born in disgrace, fathered on himself, could do what she would with this bellowing bull of a man, one of the proudest, most arrogant and powerful lords of all the arrogant strutting nobles of poor Scotland, where none other could do anything. She alone, of all within his wide orbit, not only seemed to have no fear of him, no revulsion, but actually seemed to love him, taking outrageous liberties with him, as he with her. Sometimes he feared for her in this also – for David Gray cherished no illusions as to his potent sire's character and appetites, pillar of God's Reformed Kirk as he was. The great stot, drooling over her, pawing her… aye, and letting her call him Granlord, that silly childhood name she had given him. Why did she never act so with himself, Davy Gray – who would give his right hand for her, his life indeed, any day? Who had cherished her and brought her up, and loved her as that sodden, whoring wind-bag of a lord could never conceive? Himself, her father -at least, in all but blood – she seldom hugged and laughed with and rained kisses upon.

Abruptly, the stern, sober, soft-hearted Davy Gray swung on the watching leering ranks of my lord's unmannerly and uncouth men-at-arms, and waved a peremptory hand at them.

'Off with you! Away with you!' he commanded. 'Gawping idle gowks! There are trees to be cleared. Dykes to mend. Cattle to herd. And see you look to those beasts, your horses. That they are rubbed down and baited. No watering till they are cooled, d'you hear? The brutes are lathered wickedly. Ridden over hard, and for no need. Horseflesh is scant and dear…'

'Hark at him!' my lord hooted. 'The right duteous steward… now!'

'He looks to your affairs very well, Granlord,' Mary Gray said, gravely, shaking the older man's arm. 'Well do you know it, too. Better than ever did old Rob Powrie.'

'As well he might! Did I no' pour out my siller to put him through yon college at St. Andrew's? Him, and that… that graceless, prinking jackanapes, that simpering Popish coxcomb who…'

'Hush, my lord!' The girl's voice went cool, aloof, and she sought to withdraw herself from her grandfather's embrace. 'That is an ill way to speak of one who…'

'Who has brought shame on my head and hurt on my house, girl!'

'Who is your son and your heir. And could a coxcomb and a jackanapes have raised himself above all others to be the King's right hand in Scotland?'

'Eh…?' Lord Gray looked at her askance. 'What way is this to talk to me, child? I… I…'

'Your Uncle Patrick was never highly regarded in this his own home, Mary,' another voice said, tightly, from behind them. 'Save… save perhaps by me! You know that.'

Unnoticed by the others, a woman had come across the courtyard to them from the main keep, a very lovely woman, and still young. Tall, auburn-haired, high-coloured, a satisfying, well-made, deep-bosomed creature, she had fine hazel eyes that were wide and eloquent and anxious. Those eyes, ever wary, questioning, prepared to be startled, like the eyes of a deer, told their own story, despite the determined resolution of an appealingly dimpled soft round chin. Even yet they could turn David Gray's heart over within him, in an access of protective affection, however hard he might seek to disguise the fact. Compared with the inherent calm and composure of her daughter, Mariota Gray was essentially the child, the uncertain one. Lovely as they both were, indeed, mother and daughter resembled each other in little or nothing.

'Woman – hold your tongue!' my lord barked. 'How should you ken aught o' the matter? Who are you to judge – save, belike, between your legs!' He snorted coarsely. 'And there, nae doubt, Patrick's regard is high, high!'

Flushing hody, and biting a quivering lip, Mariota turned to her husband, instinctively, those gentie eyes quickly filmed with tears. David Gray spoke harshly, set-faced.

'My lord – I'd urge you to mind that you speak to my wife!'

'D'you think I forget it, man? Waesucks, yon's no' a thing any o' us could forget, I swear!'

'Then I'd have her spoken to with the respect that is her due. And mine. Or…'

'Aye, then… or? Or what?'

'Or you can seek a new steward, my lord.'

'Ho, ho! So that's it, by God? Hoity-toity, eh? I can, can I?'

'You can, yes. Nor find one so cheap, who will save your precious siller as I do. Nor write your letters to certain proscribed and banished lords!'

His father's swiftly indrawn breath all but choked him.

Both women turned to him, as quickly – Mary keen-eyed in speculation, her mother unhappy, alarmed.

'No, no, Davy!' Mariota cried. 'Not that. Pay no heed to it…'

'I heard him. Not for the first time. And paid heed. As I urge my lord to do now!'

Mary spoke. 'Granlord – you are tired. From your journey.

And hungry. I can hear your belly rumbling, I vow! Come you. Mother and I will have your table served before you have your harness off. Come.'

Lord Gray looked from her, past her mother, to his son, and meeting David's eye directly, swallowed audibly.

'Och, be no' so thin-skinned, Davy!' he said huskily. 'You're devilish touchy, man, for a… a… Houts, Davy – let it be, let it be.' The older man flung his arm around the girl's slender shoulders. 'Aye, lassie – you have the rights o' it. As usual. Come, then – and aid me off with this gear. Aye, and feed me some victuals. Thank the good Lord there's one with some wits in her head…!' And muttering, the Lord Gray stalked off limping towards the guarded doorway of the great keep, Mary seeking to match her pace at his side.

David Gray muttered also – more to himself than to his bonny agitated wife. 'Patrick! Patrick Gray!' he whispered. 'Still you can do it. Set us all by the ears. Every one of us. Wherever you are. Still you pull the strings, be it from France or Spain – and we dance! Damn you – are we never to be quit of you?'

But that last was breathed on a sigh.

It was evening before Mary Gray saw her father alone again, with my lord safely carried to his bed in a drunken stupor, and the girl on her way to her own little garret chamber high within the keep's dizzy battlements. On the corkscrew stone staircase they met.

'I know how we must gain the King's ear, Father,' she said, without preamble. 'With Uncle Patrick's tidings. I had thought that my lord would be able to speak with the King. He is great with the Kirk and the Protestant lords. But he is so bitter against Uncle Patrick… ' She took David's arm. 'You have not told him, I think? Of the letter?'

'I have not. Nor shall. But what of it, girl? It is no concern of yours.'

She ignored that. 'Moreover if Granlord has been writing letters to banished lords – that is what you said, is it not? To banished and proscribed lords? Or, since he writes but ill, you wrote them for him? That could be treasonable, could it not? So my lord may not stand over well with the King, after all.

Any more than do you. Father. So…'

'Lord!' the man gasped. 'What has come into you, child? All this of statecraft and affairs of the realm! Grown men's work, lords' work – not lassies'. Put it from you, Mary. Forget that you ever saw yon letter. Off to your bed, now…'

'Somebody must do something, Father,' she insisted. 'And I know what to do.'

Uncertainly he stared at her, by the smoky light of the dip that he carried, flickering in the draughty stairway and casting crazy shadows on the bare red stone walls.

'We must tell Vicky,' she said. 'And he will tell the King. Vicky Stuart, the Duke of Lennox.'

David Gray blinked rapidly, and moistened his lips. He did not speak.

'Is it not the best way, and the surest?' she went on. 'Vicky liked me well. And King Jamie likes Vicky. He is closer to the King than is anyone else, he says – even the Chancellor. And he sides with the Protestants – though he knows not the difference in one belief from another, I vow! And he was brought up a Catholic, was he not?' She smiled.

The man pinched his chin. 'All this may be true, girl. But… the Duke is ever at the King's side. To reach him will be as difficult, belike, as to come to the King himself. And he is young, little more than a laddie – young even for his years…'

'Is that not all the better, Father? He will do as I say.'

'As you say! You flatter yourself, child, do you not? Lennox likes you well enough, in a way, I dare say. You are bonny, and you played together as bairns, yes. Although, then I mind, you thought him dull…'

'He still is dull,' she agreed, frankly. 'But he is kind and honest.' Mary Gray's dark eyes gleamed amusedly. 'And he says that he would die for me!'

Her father gulped. 'Die! For you? Lennox? What… what nonsense is this, mercy on us?'

'It is not nonsense, Father. At least, he swore it on his heart and the cross of his sword!'

David Gray sought for words. 'I… I… you… Dear God – he must be clean daft! Duller even than we knew! But this would be but child's talk – when he was a laddie indeed?

Bairns playing together.'

'Not so. It was not long since. And does he not write it anew, in each letter?'

'Letter…? Lennox? The Duke writes letters…?'

'Indeed, yes. He is a better writer than a talker is Vicky! He writes very well.' She laughed. 'As do I, of course, likewise.'

The man shook his head, completely at a loss. 'You? How can this be? Letters! You… you are cozening me, child. How can you write to the Duke? 'Tis more bairns' make-believe…'

Almost pityingly she regarded him. 'It is the truth.'

'But… how could you send letters? Have you a messenger, a courier? You?'

'No. But Vicky has. Indeed, he uses the King's couriers, and so do I.'

'On my soul, Mary… you… ' Her father had difficulty with his respiration. 'You use the King's couriers? For your exchange of letters? You – Mary Gray – and young Ludovick of Lennox! Lord – this is beyond all belief!'

'Why should it be? It is very simple, Father. The King, or the Council, are ever sending couriers to the Master of Glamis, that is Lord Treasurer, at Aldbar. Or to the Sheriff of Forfar. Or to my Lord Ogilvie at Airlie. These must needs pass here. Vicky, who is on the Council likewise, gives the man a letter for me, also. He leaves it at the mill at Inchture. Cousin Tom there brings it to me. I leave mine at the mill for the courier to take up, on his way back. Could aught be more simple?'

The other's head wagged helplessly. 'I' faith, it is beyond me! Beyond all. Tom Affleck in it, too – and therefore his father. Whom I shall speak with, 'fore God!' David Gray's own mother had been Nance Affleck, the winsome daughter of the miller of Inchture. 'And does it… does it stop at writing letters, girl?' he got out.

'Oh. no. We meet. But only now and again. Not so oft as Vicky would have it, I assure you.'

'You… meet!' Easy simple words to make such a croaking over. 'He was here – Lennox was here – three months past, yes. On his way to my Lord Innermeath at Redcastie… '

'He was here last week,' the girl amended demurely. 'We have an arrangement. The King is often at Falkland, hunting. Vicky can ride to Newburgh in little more than an hour, he says, from Falkland, cross the ferry to Enroll, and be here in another hour. He rides fast horses – the King's own. It takes him but little longer from his own castle of Methven, the other side of Saint John's town of Perth…'

'Damnation – will you be quiet, girl! I care not how long it takes him, how he comes hither to you! Do you know what this makes you, child? You – our daughter? Meeting secretly with the second man in the realm, the King's cousin? You, a common clerk's daughter – at least, in the eyes of men. A bastard's daughter. It makes you a… a… ' He stopped, regaining partial control of himself somehow – and it was seldom indeed that David Gray required to do that. 'You have not…? He has not…? Och, Mary lass – he hasna…?'

Calmly, almost sadly, she met his urgent demanding gaze. 'He has not had me, no – if that is what you mean.'

'Thank God for that! But, the danger of it, the folly… '

'There is no danger, Father. He is gentle, simple almost. When we meet, I am master – not Vicky. Always it was so.'

His mouth opened, and then closed, as he considered her. She had David Gray silenced.

'So, you see – it will not be difficult. Whether the King is at Falkland or Stirling or even Edinburgh, I shall have a letter to Vicky in but a few days. We shall meet, and he shall bring me before the King. He will do as I ask, never fear. And so Uncle Patrick's warning shall not be lost. Nor the Protestant cause either. It is the best way, the only way – is it not?'

'God save us all…!' her father prayed.

'Yes. But we must do our own part also – so good Master Graham says, at the kirk. We cannot just leave Uncle Patrick's letter to God, can we?'

'Would that I knew, girl.'

'But we do know. You said yourself, did you not, that in Spain Uncle Patrick must have seen sufficient to be sure that Queen Elizabeth's days are numbered? Seen with his own eyes. Therefore Scotland is endangered also. And must act if this realm likewise is not to fall to the Spaniards. So that we must act. And quickly.'

'I vowed…' he began, but wearily.

'Yes, Father – I know. But I did not. Is it not most fortunate?'