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

Chapter Four

THE new heir to Gray was born in the icy mid-January of 1589 – not at Castle Huntly but in the somewhat raffish and ramshackle establishment of the Lord Robert Stewart, Earl and Bishop of Orkney, in the old eastern wing of the Palace of Holyroodhouse which King James allowed his carefree but never debt-free, permanently impecunious, illegitimate uncle. No festivities were held, no bonfires lit on the hill-tops flanking the wide Gray lands in the Carse of Gowrie, as was normal on such auspicious occasions. The Lord Gray had reverted to his former attitude towards his daughter-in-law, and would have none of her.

Undoubtedly my lord was disappointed. The worthy, hopeful and ingenious scheme for the Navarre match had come to nothing. Admittedly it was still being mooted in certain quarters and Queen Elizabeth had declared herself in favour. But James himself had become quite definitely opposed. Which was very strange, for at first it had been quite otherwise. When the Mistress of Gray had arrived at Holyroodhouse in October, it had not taken long for the entire Court to buzz with the exciting news that King Jamie was veering away from the proposed Danish match and was much intrigued with this new notion of marrying the sister of the man who was heir presumptive to France and might very well shortly be king thereof. James indeed began drawing elaborate heraldic doodlings and designs incorporating the Lilies of France into the Royal Arms of Scotland, and calculating the shining possibilities of himself, or at worst his heir, succeeding eventually to the throne of France as well as that of England – since Henry of

Navarre, although married for seventeen years, had no legitimate children. James was even said to have made up a lengthy and romantic poem to dispatch to the lady.

Then, all of a sudden and without warning, all was changed. James lost interest. Word spread through the Court that the King had discovered that Princess Catherine was in fact old, ugly, crooked and of doubtful morals. Whence and how this intelligence had reached him was not known, although it was noted that the Duke of Lennox, who, being half-French himself, had at first been strongly in favour of the match, quite abruptly became as strongly against it, James following suit. Indeed so offended was the King that he went further, and promptly reverted to negotiations with Denmark once more -where, as it happened, King Frederick, having given up Scotland, had pledged his elder daughter the Princess Royal to the Duke of Brunswick in the interim; however, he still had his younger daughter, the fourteen-year-old Princess Anne available. She was prettier than her sister, too, he pointed out – though naturally the dowry would be smaller in consequence.

So Lord Gray's hopes of credit and profit through being intimately connected with a resounding Franco-Scottish union faded almost entirely.

The Master of Gray perforce remained an exile. But it was a very near thing. Letters of recall from the King and the Chancellor were in fact bringing him home to Scotland, when suddenly they were countermanded without explanation. Had bad weather not kept his ship storm-bound at Dieppe, he might indeed have beaten the ban. As it was, he did not allow receipt of the royal edict, which reached him actually on shipboard, wholly to demolish his plans, for by February information reached Scotland that the Master was in London, and apparently cutting high capers at the Court of Saint James.

The ageing Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer of England, wrote a letter to Sir John Maitland, Lord High Chancellor of Scotland, to the effect that that realm would much benefit by the speedy return of the talented Master of Gray, and suggesting that the said excellent Chancellor should advise his royal prince to that effect.

The royal prince maintained, as so frequently was his habit, a masterly inactivity.

There was further correspondence – a deal of it now, a flood. Sir Frances Walsingham, Principal Secretary of State to Elizabeth, and the most sinister figure in Europe, wrote to Mr. William Ashby, English Resident at the Scots Court, desiring him to urge King James to countenance and receive back to favour the notable Master of Gray, whose love for His Majesty was as well known as his services were assuredly valuable. Archibald Douglas, lifelong enemy of Patrick's, and Scots Resident at the Court of Saint James, informed Chancellor Maitland by letter that he truly believed the Master to be far changed in his fashions and moreover filled with goodwill towards the said Chancellor to whom he might be of considerable use if he was permitted to return home. Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor of England, wrote to the Vice-Chancellor of Scotland, Sir Robert Melville – he refused to have anything to do with Maitland – indicating that Patrick, Master of Gray had an excellent head for figures and that he had put certain financial proposals before himself which, if he was allowed to bring them to fruition might well greatly advantage King James and his realm. Lord Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England, wrote to the Earl of Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland thanking him for his belated congratulations on the defeat of the Armada, and in a postscript recommending to him the useful Master of Gray with whom he was sure he would have much in common.

Chancellor Maitland's prim lawyer's mouth was almost permanently down-turned these spring days of 1589, and his royal master nibbled urgenty at his ragged nails, wagged his great head, and sought the patience of the Almighty God whose earthly vassal and vice-regent he was. Doing nothing can tax even the most expert, at times.

At the end of April, Queen Elizabeth herself had occasion to set her royal hand to paper. Walsingham's minions had been successful in intercepting letters from the Earls of Huntly and Erroll and other Catholic lords to the King of Spain and the Duke of Parma, lamenting on the defeat of the Armada and promising to share in another attempt against England, provided 6,000 Spanish troops were landed in

Scotland. Elizabeth's reaction was vigorous, clear and by no means restricted to diplomatic terminology. Was ever a realm plagued by such neighbours, she demanded? Was this to be borne? Good Lord, she wrote, her quill spluttering ink, methinks I do dream! No king a week could bear this! Was James a king indeed? Her last paragraph, however, ended on an abruptly different note. Obviously her well-beloved but youthful cousin of Scotland could do with more sage counsel and seasoned advice about his government and realm, and to such end she could not do better than recommend the return of Patrick, Master of Gray, of whose good intentions, probity, and agility of mind she was now heartily assured. With this admonition she committed James to God's especial care and guidance.

That young man, sorely tried, took himself away for a prolonged bout of hunting in Ettrick Forest.

Lastly the Master of Gray himself wrote to his monarch, privily, and enclosed the letter in one to his wife. Significantly, it was addressed from no farther away than Berwick-upon-Tweed. After assurances of his undying devotion and loyal service, he mentioned that while in London, having had some conference with Queen Elizabeth and sundry of her ministers, he had been deeply shocked to learn that His Grace's pension from that princess, negotiated by himself a year or two before, was much in arrears and moreover sadly inadequate to the situation. He had certain proposals for tie rectifying of this deplorable state of affairs, consonant with the dignity of all concerned, and believed that he had convinced Her Highness and her Lord Treasurer in the matter. It but remained to lay his proposals before His Grace. Moreover, in a purely personal matter he craved the royal indulgence. His son and firstborn, whom as yet he had not had the felicity to behold, was now four months old and notably in need of christening. It was suitable that the boy should be received into Christ's true and Reformed Kirk of Scotland, for the eternal salvation of his soul, a ceremony at which he, the unworthy father, had perhaps understandable ambitions to attend. If His Grace would exercise his royal clemency so far as to permit the devoted petitioner to be present at such a humble ceremony, this would surely provide a suitable occasion to discuss the aforementioned financial matter, and also the additional suggestion that he had made to the Queen of England that Her Highness might decently invest her heir and successor with an English dukedom as token and earnest of responsibilities to come. Etcetera.

No mention was made of the Princess Catherine of Bourbon.

James, by the grace of God, King of Scots, Duke of Rothesay, Lord of the Isles, and Defender of Christ's Reformed Kirk, saw the light belatedly – in the warm glowing reflection of English gold pieces as well as in the saving of an innocent young Catholic brand from the burning. He capitulated, inditing a note in his own intricate hand, permitting his right worthy and truest friend and councillor Patrick, Master of Gray to re-enter his realm of Scotland forthwith. He personally appended the royal seal – omitting to inform the Lord Chancellor – and despatched it by close messenger to Berwick-upon-Tweed.

It was exactly two years, almost to the day, since the royal sentence of beheading for high treason had been reluctantly commuted to banishment for life.

The great banqueting-hall at Holyroodhouse presented a scene of which Mary Gray, at least, had never seen the like. In the hall at Castle Huntly she had witnessed many an exciting and colourful occasion, but never on such a scale and with the atmosphere of this one. It seemed to her, from her point of vantage in one of the raised window-embrasures which she shared with her father and mother and a life-size piece of statuary, that there must be hundreds of people present – not one hundred or two, but many. Every hue of the rainbow shone and revolved and eddied before her, jewellery flashed and glittered in the blaze of a thousand candles. The noise was deafening, everybody having to shout to make themselves heard, so that the music of the royal fiddlers and lutists in the ante-room was almost completely drowned. The smells caught the throat – of perfumes and perspiration, the fumes of liquor and the smoke of candles. The cream of Scotland was here tonight – the Protestant cream, that is – by royal command and in its most splendid apparel. Chancellor Maitland, in sombre black, who must pay for it all out of a chronically impoverished Treasury, frowned sourly on one and all from beside the high double-doors at the top end of the vast chamber. Few heeded him, however, for his frown was part of the man.

The small Gray party was very quiet and dully-clad compared with the rest of the gay and confident throng, in their best clothes as they were although none would call dull the flushed and ripe comeliness of Mariota Davidson, a mother for the fourth time, all tremulous wide-eyed unease; and Mary's lip-parted, utterly unselfconscious excitement, wedded to her quite startling elfin attractiveness, drew innumerable glances, admiring, intrigued, speculative and frankly lecherous. As for David, his frown almost matched that of the Chancellor as he partly hid himself behind the statue that had been one of Mary the Queen's importations from her beloved France – for too many of the faces that he saw here tonight he knew, and had no wish to be recognised in turn. All this had been his life once, all unwillingly – and he had hoped, indeed sworn, never to tread the shifting-sands of it again. They were in Edinburgh, at the Lady Marie's earnest request, for the christening on the morrow; and here tonight only to please the urgent Mary, who had engineered a royal summons for them through Ludovick, Duke of Lennox.

Abruptly the din of voices was shattered as, from the top of the hall, a couple of trumpeters in the royal livery blew a fanfare, high-pitched, resounding, challenging. Chancellor Maitland stepped aside, and footmen threw open the great double doors. From beyond strode in the Lord Lyon King of Arms, baton in hand, with two of his heralds, brilliantly bedecked in their red-and-gold tabards and plumed bonnets. This, it appeared, was to be a state occasion.

Behind paced, preternaturally solemn and looking extraordinarily youthful, the Duke of Lennox, newly appointed Lord High Chamberlain, a position once borne by his father, not quite sure whether to wield, carry or trail his staff of office. Dressed in plum-coloured velvet, padded and slashed, he took very long strides and appeared to be counting them out to himself. At evidently a given number of paces, he halted, turned, cleared his throat in some embarrassment, and then thumped his staff loudly on the floor.

Mary Gray gurgled her amusement.

In the succeeding hush they all heard the King sniffing, before they saw him. He appeared beyond the open doorway presently, shambling in a hurried knock-kneed gait, almost a trot, peering downwards and sideways as he came, fumbling at the stiffening of his exaggeratedly padded trunks. He was overdressed almost grotesquely, in royal purple doublet barred with orange, stuffed and distended about the chest and shoulders inordinately, pearl-buttoned and hung with chains and orders. His lolling head seemed to be supported, like a joint on a platter, by an enormous ruff, soiled already with dribbled spittle, whilst round and about all this he wore a short but necessarily wide cloak, embroidered with the royal monogram and insignia, edged with fur, and boasting a high upstanding collar encrusted with silver filigree. To top all, a fantastically high-crowned hat, fully a score of inches in height, ringed with golden chain-work and festooned with ostrich feathers, sat above his wispy hair. The effect of it all, above the thin and knobbly legs, was ludicrously like an over-blown and distinctly unsteady spider. It could now be seen that the reason for the regal preoccupation was the extraction of a handkerchief from a trunks pocket, less than clean.

A woman giggled, and somewhere from the back of the throng came a choked-off guffaw. Then, as the monarch came shuffling over the threshold, Lennox bowed deeply, if jerkily, and thereupon the entire concourse swept low in profound obeisance, the men bending from the waist, the women curtsying, remaining so until James spoke.

'Aye, aye,' he said thickly. 'I… we, we greet you warmly. Aye, warmly. All of you. On this, this right au – auspicious occasion.' His protruding tongue had difficulty with the phrase. 'You may stand upright. Och, aye – up wi' you.'

With a very audible exhalation of breath the noble company relaxed again, amidst an only moderately subdued murmur of comment and exclamation, not all of it as respectful as the occasion might have warranted.

'I do not like his hat,' Mary mentioned judicially. 'It is too high, by far.'

'Hush, you!' her father told her, glancing around uneasily.

'Yes. Is not Vicky ridiculous with all that padding?'

'Ssshhh!'

Servitors brought in a gilded Chair of State, on which the monarch sat himself down. The Chancellor moved up on one side of it, Lennox to the other, while the Lord Lyon stood behind. The music resumed, and so did the noise and chatter, while certain notables were brought forward by the heralds, and presented by either Lennox or the Chancellor. James, fidgeting, extended a perfunctory nail-bitten hand, eyed them all sideways, and muttered incoherences. He kept glancing from Lennox to the far end of the room, it was noted, impatiendy.

Presently, while still there was a queue of candidates for presentation, James leaned over and plucked at his cousin's sleeve, worrying it like a terrier with a rat. 'Enough, Vicky – enough o' this,' he whispered, but loud enough for all around to hear. 'On wi' our business, man.'

Lennox nodded, waved away the queueing lords, and thumped loudly on the floor again with his staff. The musicians in the ante-room were silenced.

'My lords,' he said. Clearing his throat again, and as an afterthought, 'And ladies. His Grace has asked… has commanded your presence here tonight for a purpose. An especial purpose. A notable undertaking. His Grace is concerned at idle talk that has been, er, talked. About his royal marriage.' Ludovick ran a finger round inside his ruff. 'Unsuitable talk and inconvenient… '

'Aye – blethers, just. Blethers,' the King interrupted, rolling his head.

'That is so, Your Highness. To still such talk…' Lennox swallowed.'… such blethers, His Grace has been at pains to, to prove otherwise. Quite otherwise. In his, ummm, royal wisdom he has decided to seek the hand… '

Sir John Maitland, pulling at his wispy beard, had stooped to the King's ear. James, nodding vigorously, reached over to tug at Lennox's sleeve again. 'Heir,' he said. 'Our royal heir, man.'

'Mais oui-the heir. Pardonnez-tnoil the Duke observed, little harassed. 'His Grace, recognising the need for an heir, not only to this throne and realm, but that of England also, has decided that this matter should be arranged. Arranged and settled forthwith. Accordingly, he has chosen and elected to seek the hand of that Protestant princess Anne, daughter to the illustrious King Frederick of Denmark in, in…'

'In royal and holy matrimony,' James finished for him enthusiastically, producing a lip-licking leer that went but curiously with the phrase. 'I've wrote a rhyme… we have turned to the Muse in this pass, and have indited a poem. Aye, indited a poem, I say…' He began to search within his doublet, muttering.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

'His Grace has written this poem. To the Princess,' Lennox went on, far from confidently, as the search produced much but no papers. 'A, h'mm, noble poem, setting forth in verse, good verse, excellent verse, his royal offer for her hand. To convey this to the lady, it is decided…'

'Och, mair'n that, Vicky – mair'n that! I've expounded on her beauty – for she's right bonny, the lassie. And on her virtue and chastity – for she's but fourteen years, and no' like to be much otherwise!' The royal whinny of laughter tee-heed high. 'No' like… no' like… ' James gulped, and went on hurriedly.'As to her wit – och well, I'll teach her that mysel'.' He looked down, as at last he managed to extract some crumpled papers from his doublet, breathless now from the contortions inevitable in a hunt through his over-padded and stuffed casing. 'Here it's. Aye – this is it. I'll read it to you. To you all. For it's good, mind – as good as any I've done. Guidsakes – there's no' that many crowned monarchs could write the like! No – and fewer, I'll be bound, who could put it down in the Latin and the Greek as well, forby! You see, I dinna ken if the lassie kens our Scots tongue. Belike they dinna, in yon Denmark. So I've wrote it out in all three. Aye -well, I'll read it to you. I've named it The Fond and Earnest Suite and Smoking Smart of James the King. Aye. I'll read the Scots first…' Quite carried away, James got to his unsteady feet, smoothing out the crushed papers.

The great company did not actually groan, of course, but the restraining of such in a hundred throats, and the stirring of innumerable feet, sounded like the moaning and rustling of a lost wind in a forest.

Lennox at one side and Maitland at the other, moved in on the King, whispering. "The Marischal, Sire!' 'The Ambassador…!'

'Eh…? Ooh, aye. Uh-huh. I forgot. Aye.' Somewhat crestfallen, the sovereign looked down regretfully at his epic, tipped his tall hat forward over his brow to scratch at the back of his bulging head, sighed audibly, and sat down again. 'Hae them in, then,' he said.

The Duke resumed. 'In order that His Grace's intentions and royal suit be worthily and courtly presented before the Princess and His Grace of Denmark, it is the King's pleasure that an embassage carrying suitable gifts shall…'

'And the poem, man – the poem!'

'And the poem, of course, Sire. An embassage shall depart for Denmark forthwith. Tomorrow indeed, if wind and tide serve. This embassage shall consist of my lord the Earl Marischal and a noble retinue, with Master, er, Herr… with the Danish envoy. They now wait without. His Grace will now receive them, read to them his poem, entrust them with its delivery and the royal gifts, and wish them God-speed.' That all came out in something of a spate, as though a lesson learned and thankfully got over. Lennox thumped the floor loudly. 'In the name of King James – admit the King's guests.'

James himself, craning round his Chair of State, signed to the trumpeters to render a flourish.

At the far end of the great hall, double doors were thrown open. To the ringing echoes of the fanfare the colourful concourse seethed and stirred, as some pressed backwards to open a lane, an avenue, down the centre, and others pressed forward the better to see.

After a moment or two of delay, in through the doorway walked a single man, unhurriedly.

'Waesucks!' came a croak from the Chair of State. 'Christ God be good!'

Something between a shiver and a shudder ran through the entire chamber, electric, galvanic. Chancellor Maitland reached forward, gropingly, to steady himself against his master's chair. Lennox looked the merest boy, his heavy lower jaw dropped.

Silence descended, complete but throbbing.

In that silence the only sounds were the steady, deliberate, yet almost leisurely click-click of high-heeled shoes, punctuated at regular intervals by the tap of a stick.

All eyes were riveted on the walker – almost to be described as a stroller. As well they might be. Of medium height, slender but graceful, the man was dazzlingly handsome, with a radiance of good looks that could only be called beauty – redeemed, however, by a basic firmness of line from anything of femininity. Cascading wavy black hair, worn long, framed a noble brow above brilliant flashing eyes. The delicately-flared nostrils of a finely-chiselled nose matched the wicked curving of a proud scimitar of moustache, to balance a warmly, almost sweetly smiling mouth. A tiny pointed beard enhanced the firm but never aggressive chin.

If the tension in that great room was such that all seemed to hold their breath, the same could not be said of the spectacular newcomer, by any manner of means. Unselfconscious, urbane, confident yet with a sort of almost gently mocking deference toward the Chair of State, he moved without haste between the lines of silent watchers, dressed dazzlingly yet simply, all in white satin save for the black velvet lining to the miniature cape slung negligently from one shoulder, the black jewelled garter below one knee, the black dagger-belt, and the black pearls at each neat ear. His spun silk white hose, half as long again as any other in that place, lovingly moulded an excellently-turned and graceful leg almost all the way up the thigh, to disappear into the briefest trunks ever seen in Scotland, verging on indecency back and front; across shoulders and chest hung the delicate tracery of the chain and grand cross of some foreign order of knighthood.

Almost as much as the man himself, and his elegance, it was the staff that drew all fascinated eyes – and the manner of its use. Tall, shoulder-height indeed, slender as its owner, white as ivory save for its deep black ferrule and bunch of black ribbons at its top, it was as different from the Chamberlain's thick rod-like stick of office as it was from the Lord Lyon's short baton. Never had any of his watchers seen such a thing. Nor such casual but extraordinarily effective flourish as the way in which its owner walked with it, swinging its ribboned head forward in an eye-catching wide figure-of-eight movement at every second pace, so that its ferrule made one loud and authoritative tap to each of the two lighter tap-taps of the notably tall-heeled satin-covered shoes. It was impossible not to compare it with Lennox's awkward handling of his own stick.

Some few of the company, who had been close enough to notice the little Gray party in their alcove, turned now to gaze from the newcomer to Mary Gray, eyes wide. To say that Mary's own dark eyes were wide and shining would be a crass understatement. She stood on tip-toes, lips parted, bosom frankly heaving, one hand convulsively clutching David's arm. That man stood as though graven in stone.

It was a long apartment, with fully a hundred feet of floor to cover between the lower doors and the position of the throne-like chair. King James and his immediate supporters therefore had ample time to adjust themselves, to cope with the situation, to give orders to heralds and servitors, even to summon the Captain of the Guard standing nearby. That they did none of these things was strange, a token of the depth of their surprise perhaps, or an involuntary tribute to the calm assurance of the new arrival. James blinked owlishly, jaw going slack, lips twitching. He half rose to his feet, gripping the arms of his chair and crushing the papers of his poem, and so waited, almost crouching. Maitland tugged at his beard, glanced right and left uncertainly, and then, stooping, began to whisper agitatedly in the royal ear – and was completely ignored. Lennox merely stared – although something like the beginnings of a grin appeared at the corners of his wide mouth.

There was some slight commotion back at the bottom end of the room, where a group of gesticulating individuals, one actually bearing a sort of banner, had appeared at the still-open doorway – but no attention was paid to them. All eyes were fixed on the progress of the man in white. He reached a point two or three yards from the Chair of State, paused, and smiling brilliantly, placed his staff, with an elaborate brandish, slantwise against his delectable person, and extending one foot behind him, sank low in the most complicated genuflexion King James had ever received. His smile advanced to what was almost silent laughter as he held this extraordinary stance, head up, regular white teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. He did not speak before the monarch.

James found words, if incoherent, ill-formed ones, as he sank, or rather shrank, back into his chair. 'Guidsakes, Patrick man… you shouldna… this isna right. It's no' correct. Where… how did you come here, this way? I didna… we gave you no summons, man – no royal summons. It wasna you we were looking for…'

'Alas, Sire – do I disappoint, then? Heigho – and me foolishly hoping, believing, that after all these weary months of absence from the sun of your royal presence, I might win the bliss of a regal smile, the kind accolade of your kingly generosity!' The Master of Gray's voice was in tune with the rest of him, attractive, warm, lightsome, musically modulated – and clear for all the room to hear as he straightened up. 'Ah, me – is it not to be so? Alack-a-day – must I return banished, Your Grace, to outer darkness? Where I have dwelt so long? When you so raised my poor hopes…?'

'I didna. I didna do that, man. Na, na. You mistake me. You werena to come here. No' to our Court and presence. And I… we are employed, see you. Busy. Aye, transacting business. Important business. We were looking to see the Marischal. And yon manikin frae Denmark…'

'The Marischal, Sire? Why, I saw my Lord Marischal back there on the stairs. As I came up. Throng with business, he looked, too, i' faith! Laden with packages and merchandise, like any packman! Never fear, Sire – he is about your palace somewhere…'

'Yon were my royal gifts to Denmark,' James protested, spluttering. 'I'll thank you, Master o' Gray, no' to name my favours and offerings to the Lady Anne of Denmark as merchandise!'

Patrick Gray's laughter held a gay and carefree note. 'Is that what it was, Sire? Here's felicity, then – here's joy! Is it permitted for a most humble and unworthy subject to congratulate his sovereign on his happy choice?'

'Aye, it is, Patrick – it is,' the King nodded. He glanced up, risking a brief direct look. 'But it was no' your advising, mind! You were for a mare frae another stable, eh? Nor ower nice anent her parts and aspect, I'm told. In especial her teeth, man – her teeth!' James produced something between a snort and a snigger.

The other inclined his dark head. 'I but considered Your Highness's interests in the matter of a large dowry. And a notable alliance with the power of France. And the lady is… kind. But, Sire, 't'was only a notion. Your own choice must be the joyful choice of us all. And the Princess Royal of Denmark no doubt is a notable-enough match. Even for the King of Scots.'

'Aye.' James coughed. 'But… it's no' just the Princess Royal. No' now. It's her sister. The Princess Anne. Anne, it is.'

'Anne!' Something like consternation showed on the Master of Gray's expressive features. 'Only the second daughter! For you – king of a greater realm than Denmark. To be King of England, also…!'

'Och, well – it wasna to be helped, see you. He'd given the other lassie to Brunswick. Elizabeth, they call her… '

'Brunswick! A mere German dukedom! Dear God – on whose advising was this done, Sire? For but a second daughter! The dowry? What of the dowry?'

The King licked slack lips. 'The Marischal is to see to that, Patrick…'

The Chancellor came to the rescue of his master. 'Highness,' he broke in. 'Suffer not this insolence! It is intolerable. This man is a convicted felon, an arch-traitor, condemned for highest treason. Sentenced to the axe for the death of your royal mother. Of Your Grace's undue mercy rather than wisdom he was spared – but banished your realm for life. Here, against your commands and those of your Council, he has returned to Scotland. He has the effrontery to force himself into your royal presence. The dignity of your crown and throne, Sire, requires not only that he shall not be heard, but that he be warded securely forthwith. Committed to the castle, to await his further trial. Permit that I summon the Captain of the Guard to his duty, Highness.'

'Aye. Oh, aye, Sir John. Nae doubt you're right, man – nae doubt. But bide a wee – just bide a wee. Master Patrick's done ill to break in this way, to intrude – aye, to intrude. But it's maybe no' just necessary to ward him…'

'Sir John was ever a great one for the warding, Majesty, was he not?' the younger man observed pleasantly. 'Like the laws of the Medes and Persians, he changeth not. Even when circumstances are notably changed. God keep you, my Lord Chancellor. I hope that I see you as well as you merit?'

'Highness – this is not to be borne!' Maitland exclaimed. 'The verdict of Your Grace and Council cannot be set aside…'

'Cannot, Sir John? Cannot, eh? Cannot is no' a word to be used to anointed monarchs, man. What we have said, we can unsay. What we decreed, we can un-decree. No' that I'm saying that we'll do that, mind. We shall hae to consider…' James darted glances between the two men. 'Consider well

'Exactly, Your Grace,' Patrick agreed. 'And there is so much to consider, is there not?' He lowered his voice confidentially. 'The matter of your royal pension, for instance. My negotiations with Her Grace of England.'

'Aye, Patrick – what o' it?' The King sat forward, eager now. 'How does she say, the woman? It hasna been paid – no' a plack o' it. No' since you left, man…'

'Sire,' the Chancellor interrupted heavily, harshly. 'It is inconceivable that this question, the matter of Your Grace's royal dealings with the Queen of England, should be traded and chaffered over by an outlawed miscreant! Her Grace would never countenance such a thing. This man but seeks insolently to cozen Your Highness…'

'You forget, Chancellor, that it was Master Patrick who arranged my pension with Elizabeth in the first place. Aye, maybe you forget it – but I dinna.' The King pointed a nail-bitten finger at the Master of Gray. 'Would you seek to cozen me, man? Would you?'

'Your Grace must be the judge of that,' Patrick declared simply. 'I would have brought the tokens and proofs of my, er, trade and chaffering with me into this your chamber, Sire -save for its weight. Gold, you see, is heavy stuff!'

'Gold!' James cried. 'Gold, you said. You have it with you, man? You brought me gold?'

'Only a token payment, Sire. Not the entire pension. I convinced the lady, I believe, that three thousand gold pieces would be a more suitable and worthy pension for her heir than two. It is but the extra thousand that I brought with me, I fear.'

The King gulped and swallowed convulsively – but even so the saliva flowed copiously down his doublet. 'A thousand gold pieces! Extra! God's splendour – the pension is increased, you say? You have a thousand gold pieces for me, Patrick man? Here? Is it the truth?'

'Outside. In your own palace, Sire. In my Lord of Orkney's lodgings. The rest is promised within the month.'

James was so moved that he got to his feet and reached out to grip the Master of Gray's white satin arm, his poem falling unnoticed to the floor.

Sir John Maitland's sallow features were wiped clean of all expression. He actually moved back a little way from the Chair of State. He knew when, for the moment, he was beaten.

Without seeming to fail in support of the royal grasp, Patrick stooped low to retrieve the fallen papers. To do so he had to use the long staff as prop, so that the ribboned top of the thing was just under the King's nose. James blinked at it.

'You've… you've done well, Patrick,' he said thickly. 'I…. we shall accept the gold from our sister, gladly. Aye, gladly. It's no before its time, mind. But you've done well. And… and yon's a bonny bit stick, you have. I've never seen the like.'

'The latest folly at Versailles, Sire. His Grace of France uses one such. You admire it? Then it is yours. Take it.'

'Eh…? Me?' Flushing with pleasure, the King reached for the staff. 'Thank you, thank you. Man, it's a bonny stick. But…' He giggled. '… I'll no' ken what to do wi' it, Patrick.'

'I will show you, Sire. Privily. It is very simple. When you can spare the time. There are other matters for your royal ear, also, when you can spare the time. This dukedom… '

'Ooh, aye – I'll spare the time. I've plenty time.'

'Perhaps then, Sire, you will graciously spare a little of it tomorrow? To attend the christening of my son?'

'M'mmm. Oh, well – maybe…'

'I was hoping, Highness, that you would consent to be godfather to the boy.' That came out a little more hurriedly than was usual in the utterances of the Master of Gray. 'Since he is, in blood, second-cousin to Your Grace. And in order that his reception into the true Kirk and Protestant faith may be… unquestioned. Alas, my own faithful adherence has been so oft and shamefully doubted by my ill-wishers! And you are God's chosen and dedicated Defender of the Faith, are you not?'

'Aye, I am.' James was very proud of that title.

'For the saving of the innocent mite's immortal soul… '

Tph'mmm. Ooh, aye. Well… maybe. Aye maybe, Patrick. We'll see.' The King was twisting and poking the staff this way and that.

'Your Grace – I am profoundly, everlastingly grateful!' Patrick bowed low, to kiss the royal fingers. And, straightening up, 'You dropped these papers I think, Sire.'

'Oh, aye. My poem. M'mmm. For the Princess Anne. I wrote a poem. For the Marischal to take wi' him to Denmark. Aye… my Lord Marischal. He's down there yonder waiting yet, the poor man. And the wee envoy frae Denmark. Vicky -my Lord Chamberlain – summon the Marischal again, man.'

The Duke beat his tattoo on the floor once more, and gestured to the heralds, who in turn moved down to usher in the impatient and injured party at the door. The buzz of excited talk and comment from the company hardly sank at all, now – although some laughter sounded.

James sat himself in his chair again, but clung to his new staff, which he laid across his knobbly knees. Patrick strolled over to Lennox, smiling warmly, to grasp the youth's padded shoulder.

'Vicky!' he declared. 'It does my heart good to see you again – I vow it does! And Lord Chamberlain too, i' faith! On my soul, you are a grown man, now!'

The Duke looked at the other with a frank, almost doting admiration. 'I thank you, sir,' he jerked. 'It is good to see you also.'

James, close by, did not miss the admiration in his young cousin's tone – and glowered his jealousy. 'Quiet, you!' he commanded. 'The Marischal…'

Patrick and the Duke of Lennox exchanged conspiratorial grins, and stood side-by-side waiting, as the little procession, that was the object of and reason for the entire assembly, approached. Indeed, the Master of Gray appeared to have become an integral and prominent part of the proceedings and royal committee of reception.

George Keith, fifth Earl Marischal of Scotland, a tall soldierly figure in early middle age, dressed it would seem rather for the battlefield than the ballroom, came first, looking angry, with at his back his standard-bearer carrying the red, gold and white banner of his house and office. Next strutted a tiny dark bird-like man, the Danish Envoy, richly but sombrely dressed. Behind followed perhaps a dozen lordlings, lairds and pages, bearing a variety of boxes, chests, parcels and bundles.

Coming near to the Chair of State, the Marischal bowed stiffly, his splendid half-armour creaking and clanking at the joints. The little Dane bobbed something remarkably like a curtsy, fetching titters from the body of the company. The others variously made obeisance.

At a cough from James, Lennox suddenly recollected his duty. 'Your Grace's embassage for Denmark,' he announced.

'Aye,' the King said. 'We greet you well, my Lord Marischal. And you, Master… er… Bengtsen. Aye, all o' you.'

'Sire – we are here by your royal command,' Keith declared, his deep voice quivering with ill-suppressed ire. 'We have been waiting… we were misled! Yon man Gray… he misdirected Master Bengtsen, here. Aye, and sent these others off. Down to your stables, Sire. His wife kept me in talk… '

'Ooh, aye, my lord – just so,' James acknowledged, head rolling but eyes keen. 'Nae doubt. A… a mischance, aye. A misadventure. But nae harm done…'

'But, Sire – it was very ill done. 'Fore God, it was! I am not to be made a fool of…'

'Na, na, my lord – never think it. The Master o' Gray wouldna ken what was toward. New come to the palace. You'd no' intend any offence – eh, Patrick man?'

'Indeed no, Sire,' that man assured, pain at the thought and kindliest bonhomie struggling for mastery on his beautiful face, in his whole attractive bearing. 'If I have transgressed against my lord in some fashion, I am desolated. I tender profoundest apologies. But… I must confess to be much at a loss to know wherein I have offended?'

'Damnation – you made a mock of me, did you no'?' the

Marischal seethed. 'You named Skene, here, a pedlar! You sent Master Bengtsen to the other end o' the house, and these others to the stables! Deliberately, I swear, in order to…'

James, leaning forward, banged his new stick on the floor reaching it out almost to the speaker's feet, and then made a poking motion with it at the earl's middle. 'Enough, my lord – enough!' he protested, his voice going high in a squeak. 'You forget yoursel'! We'll hae no bickering in our royal presence. Aye.' He rose to his feet. 'Now – to the business. I… we now, my Lord Marischal, solemnly charge you to convey these our gifts and liberality to the Court of our cousin King Frederick o' Denmark, in earnest and in kindly pledge o' our love an affection. Aye – that's towards himsel', you ken. But more especial towards his daughter, the Princess Anne, wi' whom it is our intent and pleasure – pleasure, mind – to ally oursel' in holy and royal matrimony. In token o' which, my lord, you will gie to the said lady this poem and notable lyric which I have wrote wi' my ain hand. Aye.'

With a curious mixture of urgency and reluctance, James thrust the crushed papers into the earl's hand.

Blinking, Lennox cleared his throat. 'Sire – are you not to read…?' he wondered.

'No.' That was a very abrupt negative for James Stewart. His glance flickered over to the Master of Gray, however, and away. Poets were scarce indeed about the Scottish Court – but Patrick Gray was a notable exception.

The Earl Marischal, the arranged programme thus further disrupted, eyed the papers doubtfully, glanced around him, and then, for want of better to do, bowed again.

'Aye, then,' the King said, scratching. Tph'mmm. Just that.' He seemed, of a sudden, desirous of being finished with the entire proceedings. 'Er… God speed, my lord. And to you, Master Envoy. To all o' you. Aye. God speed and a safe journey. You will convey the Princess Anne to me here, wi' all suitable expedition. Expedition, you understand. Tell her… tell her… och, never heed. You hae our permission to retire, my lords.'

'But… the gifts? The presents, Sire…?' the Marischal wondered.

'Och, I ken them a'. Fine.' James waved a dismissive hand. 'You may go.'

Schooling their features to loyal if scarcely humble acceptance, the bridal ambassadors proceeded to back out of the presence – a trying business, with a long way to retire and all the gear and baggage to manoeuvre. James let them go only a bare half-way before he rose and hurried over to the Master of Gray.

'Man, Patrick,' he said, turning his back on the assemblage at large. 'This o' the dukedom? Think you… think you she means it, this time? Elizabeth?'

The handsome man smiled. 'I think that Her Grace meant it… when I left her, Sire,' he said gently. 'It is for us to see that she continues to mean it!' He gave just the slightest emphasis to the word us.

'Aye. She… she seems to think highly o' you, Patrick. Why?' That last came out sharply.

There was nothing sharp about the reply. 'Your Grace – I have not the least apprehension. Not a notion!'

'U'mmm.'

It was some little time before Patrick Gray was able to detach himself from the King and from the many others who came clustering round him – the ladies in especial. It was noticeable, of course, that quite as many others did not cluster around him, or greet him in any way, other than by hostile stares, muttered asides and coldly-turned shoulders – amongst these some of the most powerful figures in the land, such as the earls of Mar, Glencairn, Atholl, Argyll and Angus, the Lords Sinclair, Lindsay, Drummond and Cathcart, the Master of Glamis who was Treasurer again, and numerous black-garbed ministers of Christ's Kirk. One man who dithered betwixt and between, in evident perplexity and doubt, was the splendidly-attired Bishop of St. Boswell's, Andrew Davidson. Towards him, Patrick cast an amused smile, but by no means sought the cleric's company.

Dancing in progress, the Master of Gray threaded his graceful way through the throng, greeting and being greeted, all amity and cordiality, but not permitting himself to be detained for more than moments at a time. As directly as he might, he made for the raised window alcove wherein he saw his wife standing, with three others.

As he came close, those in the near vicinity moved aside, as by mutual consent, to allow him space. Scores of eyes watched, intently, curiously.

The newcomer's eyes were intent also. After a swift, searching initial glance up at all four occupants of that embrasure, he gazed at one and one only – young Mary Gray. For once his brilliant smile faded – which was strange, for the girl was beaming, radiant.

None in that circle spoke. Never, surely, were a man and a woman so alike – and yet so different.

'Mary!' the man got out, throatily, almost hoarsely.

'Uncle Patrick!' the other cried, high, clear and vibrant, and launched herself down off that plinth and into the white satin arms.

David Gray stared straight ahead of him, grey eyes hooded, lips tight. The Lady Marie reached out a hand to press Mariota's arm.

They kissed each other, those two, frankly, eagerly, almost hungrily, as though unaware of all the watching eyes. They were in no hurry. There was no pose here, no seeking after effect, no calculation. It could have been this, rather than anything that had gone before, that had brought the Master of Gray across most of Europe, moving heaven, earth and hell itself to make it possible. Long they embraced, elegant, magnetic man and lovely eager girl – as though magnets indeed held them together.

Then Patrick as with an effort put her from him, at arm's length. But still he could not take his dark eyes off her face. For once he had no words to speak.

'Oh, it is good!' Mary said, for both of them. 'Good! Good!'

He nodded, slowly, as in profound agreement. Then, still holding one of her hands, he turned to face the others.

'I rejoice… to see you,' he said, the so eloquent voice unsteady, uncertain. 'All of you.'

His half-brother inclined his head.

'Oh, Patrick – Patrick!' Mariota exclaimed, breathlessly. 'Thank God! It has been long. So long.'

'Aye, long,' he agreed. 'Too long. You are very beautiful, Mariota my dear. I had almost forgot how beautiful. And how warm. Kind. And Davy… Davy is just Davy!'

'Aye,' that man said. He stepped down, to hold out his hand. 'Aye, Patrick.'

Still holding Mary to him, the Master slipped his free hand from his brother's grasp and up around his wide shoulders, there to rest. 'God help us – what a family we are!' he murmured.

The Lady Marie laughed, though a little tremulously. 'You see, Mariota,' she said. 'Those three will do naught for us. We shall have to climb down from here as best we may – for these men scarce know that we are here!'

The ladies were assisted to the floor, and more normal greetings exchanged. Mary was agog, however, for information, for explanations, for secrets.

'Uncle Patrick,' she demanded, just as soon as she had opportunity, dropping her voice conspiratorially. 'How did you do it? You were not expected until tomorrow. How wonderful was your entrance here! How did you affect it? Did you know? Know that it was all arranged for the Danish mission? Did you?'

He touched her hair lightly. 'What think you, my dear?'

'I think that you did! I think that you conceived it all – and deliberately upset all the King's plans. So that you should be the one to whom all looked – not the King. And not the Marischal. I was sorry for my Lord Marischal. And the little Danish man. That was scarcely kind of you, Uncle Patrick. But… I think that you are very brave.'

'M'mmm,' he said. 'You appear to think to some effect, young woman. What else do you think, eh?'

'I think that King Jamie, though he may seem to have been won, though he smile on you now, will not love you any the better for this night.' She shook her head seriously, dancing roguery gone. 'He planned all, that he might read his poem for the Danish princess. To us all. For he esteems himself to be a notable poet, does he not? But then, you came. You upset all – and he dared not read it. For he knows full well that you are a much better poet than is he. I think that he will not readily forgive you for that, Uncle Patrick.'

'Say you so?' The Master of Gray fingered his tiny pointed beard. 'It may be so. Perhaps you are right. It may be that I was a trifle too clever. Who knows? I can be, you know.'

'Yes,' she nodded gravely. 'As in the matter of the Navarre lady.'

His finely arched eyebrows rose. 'Indeed!' he said. 'Mary, my heart – what is this? What has come to you? Here is unlikely thinking for, for a poppet such as you! What is this you have become, while I was gone?'

'I am… Mary Gray,' she told him quietly, simply.

Into the second or two of silence that followed, both Mariota and her husband spoke.

'Do not heed her, Patrick,' her mother declared, flushing. 'She is strange, these days. Foolish. Perhaps it is her age…'

'She is no longer your poppet, brother – or mine!' David jerked. 'What she has become, I know not. But… she concerns herself with things a deal too high for her – that I do know. Nonetheless, Patrick – she is right in this, I fear. The King will not love you the more for this. And you have made an enemy of the Marischal – when you have enemies enough.'

'The Marischal, Davy, is off to Denmark tomorrow – and by the time that he wins back to Scotland, it will matter not.' The Master, speaking softly, guided his little company into a corner where at least they might not be overheard. 'It was necessary, see you, that I should be received back at Court -and be seen by all to be so received. Before my enemies could know that I was here, and could work against me with the King. James did not summon me to Court – only permitted my temporary return to Scotland – and that reluctantly indeed. For the christening. Tomorrow. So I wore out relays of cousin Logan of Restalrig's horses getting here tonight. I am here before the courier who brought me the King's letter could himself win back! Think you that Maitland and the rest of the Protestant lords would have permitted that I be received? By tomorrow night, I swear, my body would have been floating in the Nor' Loch, rather! And an outlaw, none could be arraigned for my death. But now – I am received, admitted, one of the elect once more! They dare not touch me now – not openly. I have the King's ear, the King's protection… for so long as he needs something that I can give him. One thousand golden guineas! And, he is to pray, more to come! A deal of good money – but cheap at the price, I vow!'

'Cheap…? The price? What price? To you? It is Elizabeth's money…'

The Master's laughter was silvery. 'Why, Davy – I thought that you at least would know our Elizabeth better! That gold was hard-earned – but not from Elizabeth of England. It came from less lofty sources – at no little cost to me. Methinks that she will not deny credit for it one day, nevertheless! Heigho -we cannot have chicken-soup without immersing the chicken! Cheap at the price I esteem it, yes – and moreover have we not achieved a royal godfather for young Andrew! Which also may have its value, one day. But… enough of this whispering in corners. It looks ill, furtive. And I am never furtive, am I – whatever else I am, God help me! I see my lord of Mar eyeing me closely. He grows ever more like a turkey-cock, does Johnnie Mar.' The Master of Gray was of a sudden all smiling gaiety again. 'See – it is a pavane that is being danced. I am partial to the pavane. In good company. Now – which of you ladies will do me the honour…?'

It was at Mary Gray that he looked.

A moment or two later they moved out together to the stately measures of the dance, eyes in their hundreds watching, dazzling satin and humble lawn. Mary Gray danced like a queen.