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

Chapter Two

THE four riders sat their fidgeting, steaming mounts within the cover of a thicket of scrub birch and holly, and waited. The cover was to shield them from view, not from the rain, for the shiny holly leaves sent down a cascade of heavy drops upon them with each gust of the chill wind. It was no better a day for hanging about in wet woodland than it was for hunting -but King Jamie cared nothing for the weather so long as there were deer to chase. In season and out of season – as now – day after day, storm or heat or snow, he must hunt the heavy woodland stags, in what had become little less than a mania with him – to the sorrow and discomfort of most of his Court, who would have preferred more seasonable and less active entertainment.

The riders looked out, across a broad grassy ride, to the reed-fringed border of Lindores Loch. Their stance was a strategic one, and had been as carefully chosen, at short notice, as the difficult circumstances would allow. All day they had been moving across trying and broken country, hill and bog and forest, seeking to keep in touch with the royal hunt, without being seen or scented thereby – no easy task, for James, with some reason, had a great fear of being ambushed or attacked on such occasions, by some coalition of his ambitious and arrogant nobles, and always sought to maintain a screen of armed guards in attendance. The watchers were now, wet and weary, on the skirts of rocky Dunbog Hill, in north Fife, fully seven miles from the King's palace of Falkland. The hunt had killed for the third time near Inchrye, and as the light was already beginning to fail, James would be satisfied. He did not like to be out in the dark, being much aware of the forces of darkness, human and otherwise. Almost certainly the royal party would return to Falkland this way. The steep hillside and Lindores Loch would confine the cavalcade to this woodland track before them. So declared the groom, sent by the Duke of Lennox. The man had been ferrying back and forth between his master and the little party of three all day, to keep them informed and to have them in readiness and available when and wherever the energetic monarch should make his final kill. It had been a testing time for all – and not least, undoubtedly, for Ludovick, Duke of Lennox.

David Gray glanced at his daughter. Tired she must be, inevitably, but she at least showed no signs of it. Upright, alert within her enveloping cloak, she sat her stocky mud-spattered garron, even humming a little song to herself, eyes gleaming like the raindrops that glistened on the dark curls escaping from her coif, eager and watchful still despite all the similar waits and false alarms of the day. Almost, she might be enjoying herself. Which was more than her father was doing – or either of the Duke's men, by the look of them.

The situation did not fail to bring to David's mind that other occasion, six years earlier and distinctly similar to this, when he had waited, hidden likewise, for another of James's hunts, near Ruthven in Perthshire, waiting to effect a rescue of his youthful monarch from his cynical captors of the Raid of Ruthven. The Master of Gray had been behind that venture also – had indeed planned it all from far-away France. He himself had been merely the fool, the poor puppet, who carried it out, with thanks from none! Nor did he anticipate either gratitude or satisfaction from this day's work – save perhaps in the mind of this strange girl whom he called his daughter and whom he now wondered whether he knew at all. David Gray waited by Lindores Loch, not only against his inclinations but really against his better judgment.

'Vicky said that the men-at-arms will come first, as they ride back to Falkland,' Mary declared. 'We are to let them past, before coming out – else they might attack us and the King be alarmed. I hope that he and Vicky are not too close behind the soldiers. It may be difficult, a little… '

Her father nodded grimly. He had never seen this entire project as anything else but difficult. At their early morning secret rendezvous with the young Duke, he had impressed upon them the need for quite elaborate care and planning. James was as nervous as an unbroken colt, and sensed treason and violence in every unusual circumstance – as indeed he had reason to do. So many attempts had been made on his person, in his twenty-one years, as on his executed mother and assassinated father before him, that such wariness was only to be expected, and precautions highly necessary. The wonder was that he should persist with this incessant hunting, which provided opportunities for the very attacks that he dreaded.

'Let us hope that the Duke keeps his wits – and uses them,' David said. 'As well that he is less excitable than his royal cousin!' He turned to the other of the two attendants, Lennox's tranter or under-falconer. 'Your master is to have his hands bare, is he not, if all is well? As signal for you to ride out. If he is gloved, you are to remain in hiding?'

The grizzled servitor nodded. 'Aye. We dinna move if he is wearing his gloves.' These two men were known to the King, and dressed in the Duke's livery, bearing his colours of red and white. It was hoped that they would not alarm the apprehensive monarch as they issued suddenly from cover.

'I hope that we shall be able to see him clearly – and he us,' Mary said. 'That there is not a throng round the King, so that we cannot see…'

'Och, never fear, lassie,' the tranter assured. 'My lord Duke kens fine what's needed. He decided it, did he no'?'

'It is not what the Duke does, nor yet the King, that so much concerns me,' David Gray observed. 'It is the men-at-arms, in front. And people about the King. If the guards hear you, and turn back. Or if the others rush out from behind, fearing an ambush…? I do not want the lass here embroiled in any clash or tulzie…'

'Na, na, master – dinna fret, man. They all ken the Duke's colours. Ken us, too. Dand, here, has been riding back and fore to the Duke all day, has he no'? They'll no' be feart at him and me and a lassie, just. Eh, Dand?'

The short dark groom appeared to be otherwise preoccupied. 'Och, quiet you!' he jerked. 'I heard them, I think… ' He was gazing away to the right, through the tracery of the dripping branches.

They all strained their ears.

Sure enough, the faint beat of hooves, and even the slight jingle of arms and accoutrements could just be distinguished above the sigh of the trees in the wind. Waiting was over, at last.

Riders appeared on the track to the right, northwards. They came at a jog-trot, two by two, for the track was not broad. Although dressed proudly enough in the red-and-gold of the royal livery, they looked jaded, weary, spume-flecked from the mouths of tired and hard-ridden horses. A score of them, perhaps, they rode loosely, slouched in their saddles, witness to the exhausting service of their restless and anxious master. None appeared to be examining the track before them with any great vigilance, much less scanning the flanking woodland.

In a few moments, they jingled past the hidden watchers without a glance in their direction.

The latter need not have worried about the King coming too close on the heels of his escort. There was a distinct interval before the next group of riders appeared – and then it was three huntsmen, leading each a garron on which was tied the carcass of a stag, their burdens jouncing about with the uncomfortable trotting pace.

'The kill coming before the King!' David exclaimed. 'Here is a strange sight! I hope that he comes. That he has not delayed. Or gone some other way, perhaps.'

The tranter pointed. 'Yonder's the reason, master. See yon last beast? The head o' him! Fourteen points if he has a one, I warrant! A notable kill. His Grace will be right pleased. He'll no' be able to keep his eyes off yon stag, will Jamie. Aye -there he is now. I've seen him do the like before, mind. He'll be proud as Auld Hornie! Aye – he'll be in good fettle this day, will His Grace.'

'Good!' Mary commented. 'See – Vicky rides beside him. And his hands are bare.'

Two horsemen came trotting no great distance behind the third and most heavily-laden garron, with, at their backs, the beginning of a lengthy and motley cavalcade emerging into view round a bend of the woodland track. They made a markedly different impression from that of the previous riders, this pair – or indeed from those who followed them. They looked very young, for one thing, little more than boys, beardless, slight, and with nothing jaded about their appearance. Richly dressed, though less than tidy, and superbly mounted on identical lathered black Barbary horses, they rode side by side, with nothing of the aspect of weariness that afflicted the men-at-arms in front or the generality of the straggling if colourful company behind, even though they were inevitably travel-stained, mud-spattered, with clothing disarranged, like all the others. Yet there was but little of similarity about themselves – indeed they contrasted with each other in most respects. Where one was trim and and slimly upright, sitting his mount almost as though part of it, the other sprawled loosely, in an ungainly, slouching posture that was as unusual as it was undignified. Neither youth was handsome, nor even conventionally good-looking; but the upright one was at least pleasantly plain, whereas the other's features were almost grotesquely unprepossessing, lop-sided and ill-favoured generally, only the great expressive, almost woman-like eyes saving the effect from being positively repellent. James, by the grace of God, King, was singularly ill-endowed with most other graces.

His companion, while paying respectful attention to the other's seemingly excited talk, was looking about him keenly, watchful. His glance kept coming back to the projecting clump of evergreens and birches ahead.

As the huntsmen and the laden ponies swayed and ambled past, the grizzled falconer raised his hand. The groom nodded. Together they urged their horses forward. Between them, Mary Gray was only half a length behind. As she went, her father muttered a brief God-be-with-you. He himself remained where he was.

James was not so deep in chatter as to fail to notice the trio the moment that they emerged into view. He jerked his spirited black in a hasty dancing half-circle, as quick as thought, sawing at the reins, his words dying away in immediate alarm. 'Vicky! Vicky!' he got out, gasping.

Lennox was almost as prompt in his reactions. 'My own lads it is, Sire,' he called loudly, reassuringly. 'Never fear, Cousin. It is but Patey and Dand, see you. And they have found a lady for us, by the Mass!' Ludovick Stuart seldom remembered to adhere to only Reformed oaths.

'Eh…? Oh, aye. Aye. So it is. Patey, aye – Patey and yon Dand. A… a p'plague on them – jumping out on me, like yon!' the King gabbled, slobbering from one corner of a slack mouth. He had been born with a tongue just too large for his mouth, and had the greatest difficulty in controlling it, especially when perturbed. He was peering; James was not actually short-sighted – indeed he saw a deal more than many either desired him to see or knew that he saw – but he was apt to peer nevertheless. 'It's no' a lady, Vicky – it's just a lassie,' he declared. 'A lassie, aye – wi' your Patey and Dand.' That came out on a spluttering sigh of relief. Majesty drew up his thin, skimped and twisted body in the saddle. 'What… what is the meaning o' this, eh? They're no' to do it. I'll no' have it, I tell you. I… we'll no' abide it. Jumping out in our royal path like, like coneys! Who is she, man?' That last was quick.

'A friend of mine, Sire – and of yours. An old friend of yours,' the Duke assured, waving Mary forward. 'I crave your permission to present…'

'I ken her fine,' the King interrupted. 'She's no friend o' mine. She's the lassie o' yon ill man Gray!' He sniggered. 'I didna say his daughter, mind – just his lassie! No friends o' mine, any o' that breed o' Gray.'

'You are wrong, Sire.' Clearly, unflurried, the girl's young voice came to them, as she rode up, her attendants having dropped back discreetly. 'It is only because I am your Grace's friend, your true friend, that I am here.'

'Na, na. I ken the sort o' you – fine I do. Ill plotters. Treasonable schemers. Both your fathers!'

'Sire – what she says is true,' Lennox asserted urgently. 'It is to do your good service that she is here. I would not have countenanced it, else.'

'Aye – so you've countenanced it! This is your work, Vicky? I'm no' pleased… we are much displeased wi' you, my lord Duke. We are so. We had thought better o' you… '

'Do not blame Vicky, Highness. Do not blame the Duke,' Mary pleaded. 'I greatly besought his help. For your Grace's weal. For the weal of your realm. It is very important…'

'Does this young woman annoy your Grace? Shall I have her removed?' a deeper voice intervened. Behind them the long cavalcade was in process of coming up and halting, not so close as to seem to throng the King but not so far off that the front ranks should miss anything that was to be seen or heard. The speaker, a big, red-faced, youngish man, too elaborately dressed for hunting, searched the girl's lovely elfin features boldly, calculatingly. 'You may safely leave her to me, Sire…'

'Not so, my lord of Mar!' Lennox said, his open freckled face flushing. 'The lady is a friend of mine. She has private business with His Highness.'

'That is for His Highness to say, sir.' The Earl of Mar looked slightingly at the younger man. Ludovick Stuart was just sixteen, and by no means old for his years, a snub-nosed, blunt-featured youth, not nearly so sure of himself as he would like to have been, and an unlikely son of his late brilliant and talented father, the former Esme, Seigneur D'Aubigny and first Duke, Chancellor of Scotland. Mar, nearly ten years his senior, did not attempt to hide his disrespect.

James plucked his loose lower lip, and darted covert shrewd glances from one to the other. 'Oooh, aye. I'ph'mmm. Just so,' he said, non-committally. At twenty-one he was already an expert at playing his nobles off one against another, at waiting upon events, at temporising so that others should seem to make decisions for him – for which they could be held responsible afterwards, should the need arise. His survival, indeed, had depended on just such abilities. With the ineffable Master of Gray out of the country, Queen Elizabeth of England's astute and well-informed advisers, Burleigh and Walsingham, believed this extraordinary, oafish and tremulous young man, so often considered to be little more than a halfwit, to possess in fact the sharpest wits in his kingdom.

Mary Gray spoke up again. 'His Grace's safety is in no danger from such as me, I think, my lord,' she said. 'Could a girl drag her King to Ruthven Castle – even if she would?'

King James's suddenly indrawn breath was quite audible -as indeed might have been Mar's own. She took a risk in naming Ruthven Castle in such company and in such a place. But a calculated risk. It had been when out hunting, as now, from Falkland Palace six years before, that the King had been attacked, forcibly abducted to Ruthven and there held prisoner by a group of power-hungry Protestant lords. And John, Earl of Mar, had been one of those lords. The Ruthven Raid was not a thing that had been mentioned at Court for quite some time, James preferring not to be reminded of those days of humiliation – and others equally wishing them forgotten.

'M'mmm. Ah… umm.' The King peered at her from under down-drawn brows, gnawing his lip. His head was apt to loll at curious angles, seeming to be too big for his ill-made body, too heavy for the frail neck that had to support it. Now it drooped forward, and served His Majesty fairly well to hide those great tell-tale eyes of his. 'Ruthven, eh? Aye… Ruthven. Yon was an ill place. Aye.' He swung round in his saddle abruptiy. 'Eh, Johnnie?'

'Er… yes, Your Highness. Indeed it was. Certainly – most certainly… ' The red-faced earl was assuredly redder.

'Aye. I mind it so – mind it well.'

'It was my father who gained Your Grace's freedom from that toil, was it not?' the girl went on, gently pressing her advantage. 'He was none so ill a friend then. And would be again… from another danger.'

'Eh? Danger?' The King's voice squeaked. 'What danger? Fiend seize me – tell me, lassie! What danger?' That word could ever be guaranted to arouse James Stewart.

'I would prefer to tell Your Grace in private.'

'Private. Aye, private. My lord of Mar – leave us. Leave us.' James waved a suddenly imperative hand.

Mar cast a narrow-eyed vicious look at Mary, curled his lip at Lennox, and bowing stiffly to the King, swung his horse's head around savagely and trotted back to the waiting throng.

'Ride on a little, Cousin,' Lennox advised.

'Now, girl – this danger. Speak me plain,' the King commanded.

'Yes. It is danger for your person, your throne, for your whole realm,' she told him earnestly. 'From Spain.'

'Spain, you say? Tcha, lassie – what nonsense is this?'

'No nonsense, Sire. It is the King of Spain's invasion. His Armada…'

'That for the King of Spain's Armada!' James snapped long, strangely delicate fingers. 'A bogeyman he is, no more! Yon Philip has talked ower long o' his Armada. Forby, his invasion is no' for me.' He leered. 'It is for my good sister and cousin, Elizabeth – God preserve her!'

'Yes, Sire. Elizabeth first But who thereafter? When King Philip has England? Mary the Queen, in yon testament, left him heir to Scotland likewise, did she not?'

James all but choked. 'That… that… God's curse upon it! Foul fall you – it's no' true! It's lies – all lies. A forgery it was, I tell you! A forgery.' Gabbling, he banged his clenched fist on the pommel of his saddle. 'Never say yon thing in my hearing – d'you hear me? I'll no' have it! She… my mother… she never wrote it, I swear. A plot, it was – a plot o' yon glowing fiend out o' hell Walsingham, Elizabeth's jackal! I ken it – fine I ken it!' The last of that was scarcely coherent or intelligible, as the King lost control of his tongue, and the saliva flowed down unchecked in a bubbling stream.

Wide-eyed, startled by this passionate outburst, even sickened a little by what she saw, Mary instinctively drew back in her saddle, glancing quickly at Lennox. That young man stared distinctly owlishly at his cousin, and produced neither mediation nor guidance.

The girl, small chin firming, did not further flinch. 'That may be true, Sire – but King Philip holds otherwise. We have word, sure word, that he intends to have Scotland as well as England.'

'Then the Devil burn him! Roast and seethe him everlastingly! Precious soul o' God, I… I…' With an obvious effort James controlled himself, if not his twitching mouth and flooding spittle. 'Folly!' he got out. 'This is folly! D'you hear, girl? All folly. For Philip willna win England – much less Scotland.' He rounded on Lennox. 'You, Vicky – you ken it's folly! He shouts loud, does yon Philip – but he'll never reach London. Na, na – he's been shouting ower long, the man. His Armada's all but boggarts and belly-wind! For years he's been threatening it…'

'A great fleet of ships, Sire, takes long to build, does it not?' Lennox pointed out.

'Tcha! These ships are but spectres, I warrant. And didna the man Drake burn a wheen o' them no' that long past…?'

'Drake could not burn spectres,' his cousin pointed out reasonably.

'Houts, man! Forby, doesna Elizabeth build ships, too? She is a hard woman yon – but she kens how to hold her ain. Soul o' God, she does! She builds fine ships, too – bonny ships…'

'Will they be ready in three months, Your Grace?'

'Eh…?' James goggled, as much at the calm factual way that the girl asked it, as at the question itself. 'Three… three months?'

'Yes. For that is when they will be needed. So says my Uncle Patrick. The Master of Gray.'

'A-a-ah!' The King's breath came out part-sigh, part-snort 'So that's it! Yon limb o' Satan! Yon apostate knave! Yon… yon arch-traitor!' His eyes darted and rolled with seemingly enhanced urgency, as though their owner looked to see the Master of Gray materialise there and then from behind some tree, from the very ground at his feet. 'So he is in it, eh? Where? Where is he? Here's a plot, then – a black plot, if yon one's in it. You'll no tell me otherwise… ' The royal gabble faltered and died in a harsh croak, as James abruptly raised a padded arm, and jabbed a pointing, trembling finger. 'Who's yon?' he demanded, out of his incoherences. 'Guidsakes -who's yon? There's a man in there – a black man in yon bushes. Watching me! Hiding! It's… it's a plot. Treason! God be good – treason, I say!'

He was pointing straight at David Gray in the thicket, as his voice rose towards panic. His questing glance was proved none so short-sighted: their move forwards, away from the throng of courtiers, had in fact brought the trio into a position that partly invalidated the cover of that thicket.

'No treason,' Mary said quickly, but quietly still. 'That is but my father. Davy Gray, whom you know well.'

'Davy Gray! Davy Gray! A rogue, then! A base-born limmer! A knave… watching me…!'

'Not so, Sire. But the same man who saved you from Ruthven!'

'He means no ill, Cousin,' Lennox put in. 'He but brought his daughter. That she might warn you of all this… '

'What does he hide for, then? Yonder. Peeking out at me? Spying on me?'

'He but waits for Mary, here. You have forbidden him your royal presence, he says. So he could not come before you himself

'Have him out, then. Here wi' him. I'll no' be spied on, I tell you…'

At the Duke's wave, David Gray rode out from his bushes, slowly, reluctantly, set-faced. Doffing his humble blue bonnet, he came up to them, inclined his bare head stiffly to his monarch, and so sat.

but not humbly. That was Lord Gray's constant complaint against this by-blow of his; he was never suitably humble, in any circumstance. Sometimes indeed he seemed to have more unseemly pride than even the nobly-born Grays, soberly stern as he was. He did not speak, now.

James seemed to find it difficult to look at him directly. 'Well, man – well?' he said impatiently. 'What's the meaning o' it? Hiding in there like a tod in a cairn?'

'Twelve months back, Your Grace – less – you said that you never wished to set eyes on me again.' David answered evenly. 'I would not seek to oppose your wishes – in that, or in any other matter.'

'Haughty-paughty yet, man! Aye, you were right ill-mouthed yon time – rude and unbecoming in a subject,' the King declared, plucking at lip and chin. 'You were aye a hard uncourtly man, Davy Gray – dour and frowning.'

'No doubt, Sire. But at least I was honest in your service. More than others who were… more courtly. And you used to trust me.'

'More fool me, maybe! When it came to the bit, Davy Gray – who did you serve? Your king or yon traitorous knave, Patrick Gray?'

'It was for my brother's life, Highness. In the end, a man must do his all to save his brother.' He paused briefly. 'Or… his mother! Must he not?' Directly his level grey eyes sought to meet and hold the other's liquid flickering gaze.

James however looked away, anywhere but at his questioner, his sallow features flushed. 'You… you presume, by God! Greatly you presume!' he stammered. 'As you did yon time. I could have had your head for yon, man. You threatened your king. Yon is… is lese-majeste, I tell you. Aye, and it was misprision o' treason too, man!'

David swallowed. 'No doubt, Sire. Perhaps I misjudged my duty.' He managed to make his voice no less stiff than heretofore. 'Others have done that likewise – in the matter of Your Grace's royal mother in especial! But I am seeking to redress it now. Redeem my loyal duty. As is the Master of Gray

'Yes, yes – what o' this? Come to your point, man.' Hastily, the King interrupted him. 'What is this folly? The lassie prating o' His Majesty o' Spain and his ships. Some talk of three months…?'

'That is the time that my brother says, Your Grace. I have just received a letter. From Spain, I take it. He says that within a three-month England will indeed be invaded. He says that with his own eyes he has seen King Philip's preparations, now all but ready, that they are enough. Beyond a peradventure, he says. Invincible, he calls this Armada. And all is in train. Within three months he assures, Elizabeth will be under attack.'

'Houts, man! We have heard that sort o' talk before. In plenty.'

'Not from the Master of Gray, Sire. Say what you will of him – did you ever know Patrick to make a mistake anent matters of fact? Was his information ever wrong – whatever his policies?'

James explored his nostrils with nervous fingers. 'Maybe no', maybe no'. You say he has been in Spain himsel', the ill limmer?'

'Yes. He has seen it all with his own eyes, he says. Satisfied himself. Spoken with the King of Spain, indeed, it seems…'

'Treasons, no doubt, then – treasons, for a surety!'

'At least he would have me warn Your Majesty.'

'Aye – but why, man? Why?' Shrewdly the King peered. 'He doesna love me, does Patrick Gray! He loves nane but himsel', I swear. If he's that close with Philip? And he's a Papist, as all men ken. And banished my realm for his treason. Eh? Why warn me?'

David hesitated, moistening his lips. 'I do not search his reasons, Sire – only the facts. That this invasion endangers Scotland as well as England.'

Mary Gray spoke. 'Is that not your answer, Your Grace? That he can still love Scotland?' she asked simply.

'Eh…?' James frowned, wriggling in his saddle. 'I am Scotland,' he said. No one spoke.

Into the pause the beat of hooves sounded, as the escort of men-at-arms belatedly came pounding back along the track, to discover what had happened to their royal charge. James waved them away again, peremptorily. At the other side, the clustered seething company of his lords and ladies and courtiers kept up an unceasing hum of talk and conjecture as they gazed inquisitively, suspiciously, resentfully, at the little group beside the monarch. The Earl of Mar in especial looked and sounded angry, not minding who perceived it apparently. Undoubtedly he had not forgotten Davy Gray and his part in the rescue of Ruthven.

James grimaced at the colourful noisy throng and turned his puffed and padded shoulder on them. 'Forby,' he said, returning, with one of his lightning changes, to his former querulous, weasel-like probing. 'Why did he no' write these tidings to me, mysel', man? Tell me that. He's aye writing me letters, is Maister Patrick.'

David stared, at a loss. 'He is…? Patrick? He writes to you? To the King? Still, Sire…?' Incredulity was evident in every word of him.

'Aye, he does.'

'But what…?' He bit his lip, pausing. A subject could scarcely demand of his King what even his half-brother might write to the monarch – though the brother had been condemned to death by the same monarch less than a year before, and only had his sentence reduced to banishment for life by a hair's-breadth, through certain unseemly pressure on the part of the present questioner. David wagged his head helplessly. 'Patrick… is a law unto himself, Your Highness,' he said.

'Aye. The last letter was from Rome. Wi' a message from the Pope himsel'. Ooh, aye – your Patrick rides a high horse, for a felon! Vaunty as ever! He sends me advices, whispers, intelligences, from a' the Courts o' Europe. Aye – and in return would have Dunfermline back! Guidsakes – he has the insolence, the shameless audacity, to demand the revenues o' Dunfermline Abbey be returned to him! For his decent upkeep and reasonable dignity, as he names it! God in Heaven – was there ever sic a man?'

Involuntarily, David Gray exchanged glances with his daughter – though whether she recognised the enormity, as well as the vital significance of this revelation, he could not know. The Commendatorship of the Abbey of Dunfermline, once the richest church lands in all Scotland, the prize plum for all the hungry Scots lords after the Reformation, had eventually and most skilfully been acquired by Patrick, Master of Gray at the downfall of Arran the Chancellor. At his own downfall, in turn, they had been the main price that had had to be paid for the necessary intervention of the powerful Earl of Huntly on his behalf, David acting as go-between. Huntly was now Commendator of Dunfermline, and held its rich revenues. That Patrick should be working to get them back, though a forfeited exile, and so soon, not only indicated an extraordinary impertinence and double-dealing, but showed that he was seeking to conduct a campaign against Huntly, his own relative, with the King. Yet, this letter that had brought them here to the Wood of Lindores, had as its ostensible purpose the saving of Scotland by means of Huntly and his Catholic colleagues. Or at least the implication of Huntly in a Catholic rising, to control the King, dominate the land, and engineer a strategic alliance with the Catholic King of Spain. Could it be… could it be, after all, only a conspiracy? A deep-laid and subtle device to discredit and bring down Huntly, and so win back the riches of Dunfermline? Good God, it was possible – so possible, with Patrick! David Gray, frowning blacker than he knew, sought an answer, racking his wits. He needed time – time to think this thing out, to winnow down through the dust and chaff to the secret inner core of his brother's intention. Heaven save him – he had to think…!

His daughter gave him a moment or two, at least. 'If Uncle Patrick wrote to you from Rome, Sire,' she said, 'then that would be before he went to Spain. Before he saw the Spanish ships. Therefore he could not tell you of it.'

'Houts, lassie – why write to you to warn me, then? Why no' send the letter to me, the King? There's an ill stink in this somewhere, I swear. I smell it…'

The girl looked from her father to Lennox, and received no help from either. 'Would your Grace have believed it?' she asked.

'A pox! If I believe not him, why should I believe you, with his tale, woman?'

'Because the Master of Gray knows that you will esteem my father honest. Whatever he said to you yon time. All men know David Gray as honest, do they not?'

So artlessly, apparently innocently, entirely naturally and yet authoritatively did she come out with that, that she left her hearers, somehow, with no option but to accept it. They stared at her – her father longest.

'So it is true,' she added, with a sort of finality. 'And there is little time. But three months.'

'Aye – three months. This three months…?' Majesty nibbled his fingernail. 'Little time – if it is true. What can I do eh? What can I do in three months?'

David found his voice. Whatever his brother's real intentions, they must go through with this now. The substitution of a Protestant instead of a Catholic muster at arms would prevent any involvement of Huntly anyway – and so wreck Patrick's plot, if that indeed was his aim. 'The Master of Gray, Sire, has his suggestions to make,' he said. 'For Your Grace. Have I your permission to put them?'

'Suggestions, eh? From him? Aye, man – out wi' them. Waesucks – what does the rogue suggest?'

David cleared his throat. 'The project is simple – and, I think, the wise course in the circumstances, Sire. Possibly the only course that could save your realm in the event of a successful invasion of England. It is that you call upon the lords to muster their forces, the Protestant lords of course. Within the month. The Spanish ambassador will quickly acquaint his master of the fact. Then you send a message or an envoy to King Philip, suggesting a secret treaty of alliance against England. On the condition that Scotland is left free and unassailed. Offer a Scottish expedition over the Border at the same time as his Armada sails, to weaken Elizabeth's arms. And, if Philip should reject this – then the word that Your Grace would be forced to inform Elizabeth of all. And to send your assembled forces to join her own… in the defence of the Protestant religion!'

'Good God in Heaven!' Lennox exclaimed.

King James seemed considerably less startled. 'A-a-aye!' he breathed out. 'So that's it! Guidsakes – it sounds like Patrick Gray, to be sure! Aye, i'ph'mmm. Here's… here's notable food for thought. 'Deed, aye.' Keenly he peered at David. 'But the Master's a Papist, we a' ken. Here's unlikely Popery, is it no'?'

The other looked away, in his turn. 'My brother, I think, has never taken matters of religion with… with quite the seriousness that they deserve,' he said.

James actually giggled. 'Aye.' He nodded the large top-heavy head. 'I can believe that.' He glanced over towards the restive throng of his followers in the hunt, growing the more impatient as the rain grew heavier. 'We'll have to think on this. Think closely. It's no' that simple, mind. The lords… they'll likely no' be that eager to muster their strength. It's costly, you ken – costly. No' without I tell them what's toward wi' Spain. And then yon woman… then my good sister Elizabeth would hear o' it in a day or two. She's right well served wi' her spies, is Elizabeth.' The great unsteady, luminous eyes narrowed. 'A pox – I canna ken which o' a' these pretty lords there will be writing to her frae my ain house o' Falkland this night!' And he gestured towards the overdressed company. 'Or how many! For she pays them better than she pays me, the auld…' He swallowed, adam's-apple bobbing. 'How am I to get the lords to muster, without I tell them this o' Spain – and have Elizabeth champing at my door?' The King of Scots suffered under the major handicap of having no sort of standing army of his own, other than the royal guards, so that he must depend for any real military force upon the feudal levies of his haughty lords.

It was Mary Gray who answered him promptly, simply. 'Tell them that you fear a Catholic rising, your Grace. In favour of the King of Spain's plans.'

Her father caught his breath. Here was thin ice for even light feet.

'Aye. Uh-huh. Well, now… ' James paused. 'But… would they believe it?' 'They would, would they not, if the Catholic lords did indeed likewise muster? If your Grace was to write to my lord of Huntly and the other, privily, that they muster quietly. In case… in case perhaps of a Protestant rising to aid Protestant England against Spain.'

All three of her hearers made strange noises. The Duke of Lennox's plain and homely face was a study as he stared at the girl. King James's high-pitched laughter burst out in a whinny. David Gray chokingly protested.

'Mary – be quiet, child!' he exclaimed. 'What fool's chatter is this? Have you taken leave of your wits…?'

'Na, na, Davy!' the King chuckled. 'Leave her be. It's nane so foolish, on my oath! Sakes, it's easy seen whose daughter this is! I can see profit in this – aye, I can.'

'And dangers too, Your Grace. Dangers of civil war. With your realm an armed camp. Both sides facing each other, sword in hand.'

'Och man, if it came to that, some small blood-letting, a few lords the less, might no' be just a disaster for my realm, you ken!' The monarch licked his hps. 'But – och, that needna be. I could keep them apart. Huntly and the Catholics are mainly in the north. I could have the Protestants assemble in the south – along the Border.' James smote his wet knee: 'Aye – along the Border! And how would our good cousin and sister o' England look on that? Wi' Spain threatening? Guid lack – I might even win Berwick back! And never a shot fired!'

'Your Grace will do as you think best. But I would advise that you muster only the Protestant lords,' David said heavily. 'Lest you light a bonfire that you canna douse!'

'Aye, well. I'ph'mmm. We'll see…'

'Cousin, the lords would rise – the Protestant lords – fast enough, I vow, if it was to make a sally to avenge the Queen your mother's execution. Over the Border.' Young Lennox made his first contribution. 'Have I not been asking for such a thing this six-month past? Ma foi – I myself will raise and arm five score brave lads for such a venture! Marry that to this matter of the Spaniards, and do you not shoot two fowl with one arrow?'

'M'mmm. Well, now…'

'Why, yes,' Mary nodded. 'Then, with your army on the

Border, Sire, are you not well placed? No need, surely, to draw sword at all – to shed blood. If the King of Spain will treat with you, all is well and Scotland is safe. And you will have Berwick again, no doubt. He will know that you are assembled ready, and could march south to Queen Elizabeth's aid. So he will indeed treat, I think.' She paused for a moment. 'And so, I think, will Queen Elizabeth.'

'God's Body – you are right, girl! So she would, I swear.'

'Yes. But… ' Mary looked, with touching diffidence, at her father, and smiled, at her most winsomely appealing. 'I am only a lassie, I know, and understand little of affairs of state. But… would it not be wise to have my lord of Huntly and some of his Catholic forces with you, Sire – lest while you are away over the Border, maybe, with the Protestants, the Catholic lords should indeed arise and seize Scotland?'

The three men took some seconds to assimilate that. James found words first – or rather, he found a guffaw which rose and cracked into a less manly tee-heeing.

'Save my soul – here's a right Daniel! A bit female Daniel! Lassie – I should have you at my Court. I should so…!'

'No, Sire – you should not!' Harshly, almost in a bark, that came from David Gray. 'My daughter's place is in my house – not in any Court. I have seen enough of Courts! She is young – a mere child. However forward, malapert! She is but fifteen years…'

'Och, she's no' that young, man. At fifteen was I no' ruling Scotland? And without a Regent. And… and you could come wi' her, Davy. I'd owerlook yon time. I'd… we would exercise our royal clemency, maybe, and admit you back to our Court and presence. Aye…'

*No, Sire. I thank you – but no. I am a simple man. I do very well as a schoolmaster and my lord's steward. I know my place. And Mary's. Her place is in my house, with her mother.'

'But Master Gray,' Lennox exclaimed. 'Here is a notable opportunity…' 'For whom, sir?'

'For her. For Mary, Mon Dieu…' Mary Gray silenced the Duke with a touch of her finger on his wrist. She looked at the King, however. 'Your Grace is indeed kind. But my father is right, I am sure…'

'Of course I am right, girl! God grant me patience! Your Grace – have I your permission to withdraw? We have done what we came to do – acquainted you with my brother's tidings and advice. The matter is no further concern of ours.'

'Aye, Master Davy – you may go. I… we are grateful. Grateful, aye. For your tidings. We shall consider it well. Closely. And take due action.'

'The Chancellor… ' Mary whispered to her father, but loud enough for the other to hear.

'Eh…? Ah, yes – the Chancellor.' David frowned. 'Sire -my brother also has it that it would be best, safest, if Your Highness dealt with this matter yourself, without informing Sir John Maitland, the Lord Chancellor. Especially the letter to King Philip. I take it that he believes that the Chancellor would not approve.'

'Aye. Belike he wouldna, Sir John! The more so if he kenned that Patrick Gray was at the back o' it! They never loved each other yon two, eh? We'll see, man – we'll see. I canna promise you anything, mind. It's a matter o' state…'

'Exactly, Sire. For myself, I care not which way it goes. It is no more concern of mine. Nor of Mary's. Our part is done.'

'Just so, just so. Aye. Off wi' you, then. Time, it is. Johnnie Mar is glowering there black as a Hieland stot! Hech, Vicky -you'll hae to think o' some matter to tell him we've been discussing on. Some matter to do wi' Lord Gray, belike. Aye, maybe anent his Sheriffdom o' Forfar. That will serve… ' The King held out his not over-clean hand. 'Our thanks to you, then, Master Davy. And to you too, lassie. We are indebted to you, and… and shall weigh it generously against your former misdeeds. Aye. You may leave our presence.'

Stiffly indeed David leant over to offer but a token kiss of the royal fingers. Mary was more suitably dutiful, even warm. As she straightened up in her saddle, she said quietly. 'I greatly thank Your Grace for asking me to your Court. It is true that I am too young, as my father says. But… would you not be better served to have back my Uncle Patrick to your Court? Much better. He is a clever man…'

'A plague on him – too clever by half! Tush, lassie -enough o' that! Yon one will serve me better in France or Rome or Spain itsel', than here in my Scotland. Be off wi' you.'

'Come, Mary.'

'I shall accompany you some way on your road, Mary?' Lennox suggested.

'Not so, my Lord Duke,' David jerked. 'Your place is with the King – not with my lord of Gray's steward and his brat! Besides, I am very well able to look after my daughter, I assure you – very well able!' Reaching out, he took the reins of Mary's garron, and pulled his own beast's head round hard. 'Your servant, Sir… and my lord Duke!'

'Farewell, Vicky!' Mary called, as they trotted off.

Her father clapped his blue bonnet back on his wet head.

Past all the staring supercilious courtiers they rode, northwards, the man gazing straight ahead of him, the girl eyeing the chattering fashionable throng with frankest interest, unabashed.

It was not until they were well past and on their way, alone, towards Lindores village and the Tay, that David spoke. 'I do not know what to make of you, Mary – on my soul, I do not!' he said.

'Must you make aught more of me than you have made already, Father?' she asked fondly. 'Some would say, I think, that you have wrought not ill with me hitherto – you, and Mother… and Uncle Patrick!'

David Gray uttered something between a groan and a snort. 'God help me… I'