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

Chapter Five

A bare three weeks after Patrick Gray's dramatic return to Scotland, the country was in a turmoil. The Catholics had risen again. All of Scotland, north of Aberdeen, was said to be in revolt, and the Earls of Huntly and Erroll declaring that they would march south forthwith and would be in the capital to rescue their King in a week or so. The departure of the Earl Marischal for Denmark was said to be the immediate cause of this; he was the Protestant's strong man in the north, and co-lieutenant with Huntly for the King's rule in those vast and unmanageable territories. There appeared to be more than just this in it, however, for the madcap Earl of Bothwell, with the assistance of the turbulent and widespread Border clan of the Homes, had assembled what amounted to an army near Kelso, and threatened to march on Edinburgh from the south should the royal forces move north against Huntly. This was curious, for Bothwell and the Homes were no Catholics. What was their objective in this affair was not clear – though it was assumed that the downfall of Maitland the Chancellor and his friends from their positions of power around the King, must be the aim. There were those in Court and government circles, nevertheless, who did not fail to point out that, equally curiously, the Master of Gray, only two or three days after his son's christening, had disappeared off in the direction of the Borders, ostensibly to visit his disreputable cousin Logan of Restalrig and his aunt, the former Lady Logan, now married to the Lord Home – and had been away for a full week.

However, base suspicions on this score were lulled, if not altogether scotched, when, on word of Bothwell's threat reaching Edinburgh, Patrick, newly returned to town, sought audience of the King – and, strangely enough, of the Chancellor. He urged that a strong and vigorous gesture be made forthwith against the unruly Borderers, whereupon, he vowed, Bothwell would not actually fight. Moreover, he was able, loyally and almost miraculously, to warn King and Chancellor of a nefarious conspiracy to seize their persons, by certain ill-willed folk about the capital – who, when arrested and suitably put to the question, admitted that such had been their aim, and were thereafter satisfactorily hanged. Since James had an almost morbid dread of such plots, and Maitland was a deal more at home with clerkly administration than military action, the Master's advice was taken, if doubtfully, and a force of the levies of Protestant lords in the Lothians hurriedly assembled. And lo, as prophesied, Bothwell's force, which had meantime reached as near as Haddington, seventeen miles from Edin-burg, promptly melted away, shrinking, it was reliably reported, to a mere thirty horse.

Flushed with this demonstration of the value of firm action, the King smiled upon the useful Master of Gray, and called upon all leal lords, the Kirk, and his faithful burghs, to provide him with a sufficiency of armed men to march north to deal with the much more serious threat of the Catholic rising, at the same time issuing a proclamation ordering all men to forsake the service of the Earls of Huntly, Erroll and Bothwell, on pain of treason.

This Catholic threat had indeed cast its shadow elsewhere than on the Court and Capital. Dundee was the nearest large Protestant city south of Aberdeen and of Huntly's domains. When reports of Catholic columns reaching as far south as Bervie and Montrose, and of raiding Gordon bands pouring down the Angus glens, began to reach Dundee, the Provost and magistrates and ministers of the kirk of that God-fearing city perceived the need for drastic action. Walls were hastily repaired, gates strengthened, citizens called up. Dudhope Castle, the town's fortress, was stocked and garrisoned, and a deputation sent hot-foot to call upon the Lord Gray to urge that Broughty Castle, the key to the city from the east and seaward, be likewise garrisoned and put in a state of defensive readiness forthwith.

My lord, in some agitation and with no little reluctance -for his castle of Broughty, for one reason and another, was not in a good state of repair – and the expense of doing what was necessary would undoubtedly fall wholly upon his own pocket – agreed to see what could be done. In no sunny frame of mind, and at the almost feverish pleadings of the Provost and Sir John Scrymgeour, the Hereditary Constable of Dundee, he set off for Broughty, hailing David Gray his steward along with him.

This was the distinctly involved and dramatic situation prevailing when, the very next morning, on a sunny and sparkling July day, the Master of Gray, with his wife and baby son, attended by only two servitors belonging to Marie's father, returned, unexpected and unannounced to his birthplace, onetime home, and presumably future seat of Castle Huntly, after an absence of years – for he had been estranged from his father for long before his trial and banishment. In the absence of my lord and Davy, Mary Gray greeted them, and joyfully, all laughter and delight. She explained that her grandfather and father had been at Broughty Castle since the day before, and it was not known when they would be back. Patrick announced that, much as he would have preferred to stay at Castle Huntly with herself and her mother, it was his father that he had come to see, and as the matter had some urgency, he would ride on to Broughty forthwith. Mary, despite the attractions of cosseting and cherishing the baby Andrew, declared that she also would ride to Broughty with him – her Uncle Patrick nowise objecting. The Lady Marie was glad enough, apparently, to remain with Mariota, having ridden from Megginch that morning.

Pensively the two women watched the man and girl ride off eastwards, thinking their own thoughts.

The larks carolled, the sun shone, the countryside basked, and Patrick Gray seemed to have not a care in the world this fine morning. He was barely out of earshot of the castle gatehouse before he began to sing. He had an excellent lightsome tenor voice, and plunged straight into some gay and melodious French air which seemed to bubble over with droll merriment. It took only a few moments for Mary to catch the lilt and rhythm of it, and to add her own joyful trilling accompaniment, wordless but effective. Thereafter they sang side by side in laughing accord, clear, uninhibited, neither in the least self-conscious, caring naught for the astonished stares of the villagers of Longforgan or the embarrassed frowns of the two Orkney servants who rode well to the rear as though to disassociate themselves from the unseemly performance in front.

After the village there was a long straight stretch of road before it reached the coast at Invergowrie, and with a flourish Patrick smacked his horse into a canter. Not to be outdone, Mary prompdy urged her own mount to a round gallop, passing the man with a skirled challenge, hair flying dark behind, her already short enough skirt blown back above long, graceful legs. Shouting, the Master spurred after her, gradually overtaking, until neck and neck they thundered together, raising a cloud of brown dust all along a couple of miles of rutted highway, whilst cattle scattered in nearby fields, folk peered from cot-house doors and the grooms behind cursed and made pretence of keeping up.

Just short of Invergowrie they pulled in their frothing beasts to a trot once more, the girl panting breathless laughter and pulling down her skirt. Patrick reached out, to run a hand down her flushed cheek and over her shoulder and the heaving curve of her young bosom.

'We are sib… you and I… are we not?' he said.

'Indeed, yes,' she agreed, frankly. 'Would it not be strange if we were not… since you sired me?'

'M'mmm.' Sidelong he looked at her, silenced.

She turned in her saddle. 'You did not think that I did not know, Uncle Patrick?' she wondered.

'I… I was uncertain. Your father… h'mmm… my brother, Davy Gray – he has never said…'

'Not to me. But I knew, years ago. Many made sure that I knew.'

'Aye, many would! But… ' He smiled again. 'God bless you – it was the best thing that ever I did, I vow!'

'A better would have been to wed my mother, would it not?'

It took him a moment or two to answer that. 'Perhaps you are right, my dear,' he admitted, quietly for him. 'I… I do not always choose the better course, I fear.'

'No,' she agreed simply. 'That I know also.'

Again the swift sidelong glance. 'You are like me, child, God knows. But… in some ways, curse me, you're devilish like Davy also! Like your, your Uncle Davy.'

She nodded seriously. 'I hope so, yes. For he is the finest man in this realm, I do believe. But… he is Father, not Uncle Davy. He, he fathered me, whilst you but sired me, Uncle Patrick. There is a difference, is there not?'

The Master of Gray looked away, his handsome features suddenly still, mask-like. 'Aye,' he said.

They rode in silence, then, through Invergowrie, and kept down by the shore-track thereafter to avoid the climbing narrow streets and wynds of hilly Dundee.

As they went, they could see men busily engaged in building up the broken town walls, and at the boat-harbour others urgently unloading vessels.

'It is an ill thing when people must fear their own folk, their own countrymen, because of the way that they worship the same God, is it not?' Mary observed. 'I do not understand why it should be.'

Tt is one of the major follies of men,' her companion acceded. 'A weakness, apparently, in all creeds.'

'Yes. A weakness that, they say, you use for your own purposes, Uncle Patrick. Is it so, indeed?'

He puckered his brows, wary-eyed – for Patrick Gray seldom actually frowned. 'I must use what tools come to my hand, my dear.'

'For your own purposes, always?'

'For purposes that I esteem as good, child.'

'Good for whom, Uncle Patrick?'

'Lord, Mary – what is this that you have become? You talk like a minister of the Kirk, I swear! How old are you? You cannot be more than just sixteen – for I am but thirty-one myself! Here is no talk, no thoughts, for a girl. You should be thinking of other things at your age, lass. Happier things. To do with clothing and pretty follies. With lads and wooing. With courting and marriage, maybe…'

Direcdy she turned to face him, clear eyed. 'Like King Jamie, perhaps?'

Patrick touched mouth and chin. 'The King's wooing is of rather more serious import, my dear. So much may depend upon it. An heir to the throne, the peace and prosperity of the realm, the weal – perhaps even the lives – of many.'

Gravely, almost judicially, she inclined her head. 'That is what I thought, yes. That is why, Uncle Patrick, I sent word to the King about the Princess of Navarre.'

'You… what?'

'I sent word to the King. Through Vicky. Through the Duke of Lennox. Vicky does what I say, you see. I sent him word that the lady was ill-favoured and old and would bed with any. As the Lady Marie told Father.'

'Precious soul of God – you! It was you? You who turned James against the match? After all my labour, my scheming…!'

'Yes.'

'But this is beyond all belief! That you, you my own daughter, should think to do such a thing! And why? Why, in God's name?'

'Because it was not good. Surely you see it? The Lady Marie is true and honest She would not lie – not to Davy

Gray. If the Princess is bad, and old, and ugly, then she should not be Queen in Scotland. King Jamie is but ill-favoured himself. With an old and ugly queen, would not the Crown be made to seem the more foolish? Weak, when it needs rather to be strong? If she is old, it might be that there would be no child, no heir to the throne. And that is important, is it not? Did you not just say so? Moreover, if she is but a whore, it could be that if a child there was, none would know who sired it. I think that would have been but an ill turn to Scotland, Uncle Patrick. So I sent word to Vicky. And that the little picture was ten years old, and a flattery.'

The Master of Gray let his breath go in a long sigh. He did not speak.

'I am sorry that you are angry,' she went on, reaching over to touch his arm. 'Do not be angry. Was what I did wrong?'

Slowly he turned to consider her, all of her, vital, lovely, pleading, yet somehow also compassionate, forbearing, so unassumingly sure of herself. Swallowing, he shook his head.

'I am not angry,' he said. 'And, Heaven forgive me, you were not wrong!'

Mary smiled then, warmly, nodding her head three or four times as though in confirmation of what she already knew.

They were not much more than half-way to Broughty Castle, but already they could see it rearing proud and seeming defiant on its little peninsula that thrust out into the estuary four or five miles ahead. Something of a fortress this, rather than an ordinary castle, the Grays had used it for generations, in conjunction with another at Ferry-Port-on-Craig on the Fife shore opposite, to command the entrance of the Tay, thus narrowed by headlands. Theoretically it was for the defence of Dundee and other Tay ports, but in fact had been used to levy tolls and tribute from all shipping using the harbours – a notable source of the Gray wealth. My lord's father, the fourth lord, had shamefully surrendered it to the English under Somerset nearly forty years before, during a disagreement with the Queen Regent, Mary of Guise; and my lord himself, two years later, had gained his limp and almost lost his life seeking to retake it. The damage done then, by cannon-fire, had never been fully repaired – hence the present crisis.

As man and girl rode on along the scalloped coast, presently Mary began to sing again, a sweetly haunting melody of an older Scotland still. Patrick did not join in now, but he eyed her, time and time again, as she sang, wonderingly, thoughtfully, calculatingly – and when her sparkling eye caught his own, he mustered a smile.

It was seldom indeed that the Master of Gray did not set the pace in any company that he graced.

They came to Broughty Craig two hours after leaving Castle Huntly, and found it as busy as an ant-hill, with men re-digging the great moat which cut off the headland from landward, shoring up timber barricades against the broken battlements, filling in gaps in the sheer curtain-walling with its many wide gun-loops. It was a more gloomy frowning place than Castle Huntly, less tall but more massive, consisting of a great square free-standing tower of five storeys, immensely thick-walled and small-windowed, rising from an oddly-shaped enclosure, almost like a ship, which followed faithfully the outline of the rocky headland itself, this latter also provided at its corners with smaller round flanking towers. Around three sides the sea surged, and under the stern ramparts the harbour crouched – the ferry harbour, which was another source of my lord's revenues, since none might come and go across the estuary to St. Andrew's, without paying a suitable tax. Other ferries were effectively discouraged.

The newcomers found David in the courtyard superintending the hoisting of heavy timber beams up the outer walling to the dizzy parapet-walk at top floor level, doublet discarded and sleeves uprolled like any labouring man. He stared at his spectacularly clad brother, astonished, and then curtly ordered him to wait, and safely out of the way, while the delicate process of hoisting was completed. Then, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, he came over to them.

'What brings you here, Patrick?' he demanded. 'My lord is here. Within. Talking with your brother Gilbert, and the Provost…'

'What of it, Davy? May a man not call upon his father, on occasion? Even such a father as ours? And Gibbie – Lord, I have not seen Gibbie for years. Eight years. Ten. He will be a man now, also, of course.'

'He is laird of Mylnefield, and a burgess and bailie of Dundee.'

'All that? Young running-nosed Gibbie! It makes me feel old, I vow! Well, well – let us within.'

'Patrick – think you it is wise?' David sounded hesitant, uneasy. 'My lord – he is in no sunny mood. With all this expense…'

'The more reason that she should be gladdened by the sight of his missing son and heir – if not his firstborn, Davy! Besides, I can save our skinflint sire some of this foolish expense – ever the sure road to his heart! Come.'

Patrick led the way in at the door of the keep, Mary and David following. The girl slipped her hand within her father's arm.

'Uncle Patrick is not afraid, Father,' she murmured. 'So why should you be? He has faced more terrible folk than Granlord, I think.'

'It is not your Uncle Patrick for whom I am afraid, girl!' David answered briefly, grimly.

They heard voices from the great hall on the first floor, and mounted the worn steps thereto. The place was less large than might have been expected, owing to the great thickness of the walls, and only dimly lit by its small deep-set windows. Moreover it was but scantily furnished with a vast elm table in the middle of the stone-flagged floor, and a few chairs and benches. My lord had always least liked this castle of the many that he had inherited – partly no doubt on account of the shattered knee-cap, won here, that he had carried with him for forty years – and maintained it was only a keeper-cum-toll-gatherer and a few men, none of whom used this great central keep. It was cool in here however, at least, after the mid-day July heat outside – although the musty smells of bats and rats and damp stone caught the throat. Two men sat, with tankards in their hands but all attention, at the great table, and the third limped back and forth before them, declaiming vehemently.

At sound of the newcomers, my lord looked around, though he halted neither his pacing nor his harangue at first. Undoubtedly the dim lighting denied him identification -although the younger of the seated men got slowly to his feet, staring at the doorway. Probably it was this that made the nobleman glance again, and he perceived at least Mary Gray there, with Davy and the superbly dressed visitor. His heavy sagging features lightened, and if the growl did not go right out of his voice, it developed something of a chuckle.

'Ha – my poppet! My ain pigeon! Is that yoursel', lassie? What brings you, like a blink o' sunshine, into this thrice-damned sepulchre o' a place? Eh? And who's that you've got wi' you bairn…?'

'Can you not see, Granlord? Is not this splendid?'

'Does blood not speak louder than words, my lord?' Patrick asked pleasandy. 'I rejoice to see you well. And active in, h'm, well-doing.'

'Christ God!'

'Scarce that, my lord – just your son Patrick!'

The older man groped almost blindly for the support of the table. His thick lips moved, but no sound issued therefrom. Mary ran to his side, to take his other hand.

Patrick and David came forward. 'It is some years, sir, since we have had the pleasure, is it not?' the former went on, easily. 'You wear well, I see. And is that Gibbie with you? Brother Gibbie – a man now, a sober, respectable, man, I vow – and scarce like a Gray at all, at all! Greetings, brother. And to you, Mr Provost.'

My lord smashed down his fist on the table-top. 'Silence!' he barked, though his voice broke a little. 'Quiet, you… you mincing jackdaw! You mocking cuckoo!' As Mary tugged at his arm, whispering, he shook her off roughly. 'Fiend seize me – what ill chance brings you here? How dare you darken any door o' mine, man?'

'Dare, sir? Dare? Why, I am a very lion for daring. That at least I inherit from my sire – if naught else. Yet!' Patrick smiled. 'I dare, my lord, because I would see you, have word with you – who knows, even possibly come to terms with you!'

'Never, curse you – never! I told you yon time – never did I want to see your insolent ninny's face again. I meant it then, by God – and I mean it yet!'

'My lord… ' David began, but Patrick silenced him with a gesture.

'My face, sir, may not please you – since it is vastly unlike your own… which no doubt contents us both well enough! But, I had thought that you at least would wish to look on the face of your eventual heir. The seventh Lord Gray, to be. You did not grace his christening. So I have brought him to Castle Huntly, that you may see him there.'

'Then you may take the brat away again – and forthwith!' the older man returned. 'I want no more sight o' him that I do o' you, d'you hear? I ken you, you crawling thing, man! First you would come to me hiding behind a woman's skirts. Now, behind a suckling's wrappings. I'll no'… I'll no'… ' The Lord Gray all but choked to silence, his face congested, purple, his heavy jowls shaking. He staggered a little, and the hand which reached out for the table again trembled noticeably.

Mary ran back to his side, to hold him, biting her lip.

The Master's slender ruffled wrist was gripped strongly, as in a vice. 'Enough,' David said, low-voiced but commanding. He will take a hurt. He is your father – and mine. Enough, I say.'

Patrick slowly inclined his handsome head. 'Very well,' he murmured. And louder, 'These family pleasantries over, then – I come to business, my lord. Private business, and pressing.' He turned to the two men at the other side of the table. 'Mr Provost – you will excuse us? You too, Gibbie, I think. Yes -go please.'

Both sitters rose, the younger, thin, dark-featured, long-chinned, frowning. 'Sir… Patrick…!' Gilbert Gray protested. 'This is… this is insupportable! You'll no' treat me like a lackey… and in my father's house!'

'Lord, Gibbie -1 treat you like I do the Provost, here. With great respect, but scarce requiring your presence in the private business, affairs of state, that I have to discuss with my lord. So – off with you both to somewhere else.'

The Provost, a fat and perspiring bald man, ducked and bowed and mumbled in alarmed reaction to the authoritative, indeed imperious, orders, moving hastily if sidelong towards the door. Gilbert Gray, almost involuntarily did likewise, but more slowly and looking to his father.

My lord was staring glassily straight ahead of him, breathing stertorously, aparently heeding none of them.

As they reached the door, however, Patrick suddenly stopped them with a snap of his long fingers. 'Stay, Provost -a moment. You may as well hear this first. Before you go. You may spare your worthy citizens their unnecessary labours, man. Their hammerings and stone-masonry and running to and fro. Likewise, my lord, your distressing activities here. There is no need for such extremities. All unnecessary. Huntly is not coming south.'

They stared at him, all of them.

'Tut – do not gawp! You have jumped at shadows. Your panic is superfluous. Save yourself further troubles, gentlemen. And expense. Huntly will not move. His outliers will retire on Aberdeen by nightfall. Already they will have turned back. There is no danger to your douce town of Dundee.'

'But…but…?'

'How do you know this, Patrick?' David jerked.

'I have my sources of intelligence, Davy. As you know.' Patrick smiled. 'Moreover, the King and a great Protestant host, filled with holy and Reformed zeal, will be beyond Strathmore and Jordan… or the Esk… by this! I left His Grace at Perth yesterday noon, rumbling martial thunderings from lips and belly. So there is naught to fear.'

'My lord… honoured sir…,' the Provost gabbled. 'Is this… is this sooth? You are assured o' it…?'

'A pox, fellow – do you doubt my word! You?'

'Na, na – och, never that, sir! Never that…'

'Then be gone. And you, Gibbie. Every minute will save money, will it not?' It was perhaps noteworthy that though the Master of Gray dismissed his lawful brother thus cavalierly, he did not make any similar gesture towards his bastard half-brother. Nor, for that matter, towards young Mary. Turning his elegant back on the pair from Dundee, he addressed his father, who appeared to be recovering. 'Perhaps you should sit down, my lord,' he suggested. 'That we may discuss our business in… ' – he glanced around him distastefully -'… in such comfort as this rickle of stones allows.'

'I have… no business… to discuss… wi' you!' my lord rasped throatily, harshly – 'Now, or ever.' He did not move from his stance by the table.

'Ah, but you have sir, I assure you. On a matter close to your heart, I vow. Siller, my lord – siller! Sillibawbys, merks and good Scots pounds! Sink me – have I not already saved you a pretty purseful by this intelligence that I bring? You no longer need spend a plack on this rat-ridden ruin. Send all your drudges home. And let your pocket thank me – even if naught else does!'

From under heavy brows his father gazed at him, like a bull dazed and uncertain. 'This… is certain? About Huntly? And the King? We are safe, now?' he got out.

'Now – and before. You never were in danger. Huntly makes a demonstration – that is all. For, shall we say, a variety of excellent reasons. He never had any intention of descending upon the south. The King of Spain, God preserve him, has sent Huntly a consignment of gold ducats, and he must make pretence of using them to good effect. Moreover, Huntly does not love my lord of Bothwell, and considers that his wings needed clipping. This achieves it. So King Jamie marches valiantly north, and will enjoy a notable, a resounding victory – since none will oppose him. Oh, some Highland caterans will be slaughtered and a few Aberdeen burghers hanged, no doubt, for dignity's sake – but Huntly will speak loving peace with His Grace, and some few of the ducats will belike find their way into Jamie's coffers…'

'God's death – what mad rigmarole is this?' his father cried. 'Are you crazed, man?'

'Hardly, sir! Do you really think it? Indeed, I humbly suggest otherwise. For, you see, good is served all round is it not? Elizabeth of England, perceiving the great stresses and dangers King Jamie lives under, in preserving the sacred cause of Protestantism, must needs increase her contributions towards the upkeep of a stronger and truly loyal guard in this happy realm. The matter is vital – for the Reformed faith, you understand. Already, indeed, the couriers are on their urgent way to London, to that effect. Heigho – all things work together for good, as I say, do they not?'

My lord was speechless.

It was David Gray who spoke, in a whisper. 'So soon!' he said. 'So soon! We are back where we were, i' faith! Nothing is changed. The… the Devil is come back to Scotland!'

'Come, come, Davy – you flatter me! Besides, no harm is done. Quite the reverse, I vow. Are not all advantaged – or nearly all? Which brings me, my lord, to the matter of our business – so that we shall be advantaged also. The matter concerns the Abbey of Dunfermline.'

'A-a-ah!' Lord Gray said, despite himself.

'Exactly! I intend, you see, to recover my commendatorship and the revenues thereof. George Gordon of Huntly has enjoyed them quite sufficiently long for any small service that he effected. He is proving stupidly obdurate, however. Always George was stupid – do you not agree? And our Jamie is something of a broken reed in the matter, I fear. Indeed, I suspect His slobbering Grace. So, I propose to sue George for Dunfermline in the High Court. And believe that, with a little forethought and judicial, er, preparation, I shall win. For Huntly has few friends amongst His Grace's judges – who are all good Protestants, of course!' Patrick sighed, a little. 'Unfortunately, such processes of law cost money. Siller, my lord – siller. A commodity of which I am, at the moment, somewhat short, more is the pity. Hence this approach… and your good fortune, sir.'

His father gaped like a stranded fish. 'You… you…? Me…? Siller…?' With difficulty he enunciated consecutive words. 'Ha, you gon plain gyte, man? D'you think to win siller frae me? Me!'

'I do, naturally. And for good and excellent reason. I do not come to you out of mere, shall we say, family affection and esteem, my lord – admirable as are such sentiments. This is a matter of business, of lands and heritable properties. Heritable, I pray you note, is the significant word. Since, one day in God's providence, I or my son shall inherit from you the Gray lands, merest foresight and common prudence indicates that it is to you that I should offer Balmerino. So that, heigho, in the said God's time I shall have it back again! Balmerino, my lord – Balmerino!'

Lord Gray was so much moved that he groped his way round the table, Mary supporting him, to sink into one of the chairs. He never took his eyes off his beautiful son – although from his expression the sight appeared to afford him only extreme distress.

Well might the Master harp on that word Balmerino, of course. Balmerino Abbey, or the ruins thereof, with its little town and port, lay almost exactly across the Tay estuary from Castle Huntly. Its lands were extensive and fertile; more important however, from Lord Gray's point of view, was the fact that owing to the shallows and shoals of the firth at this point, its port commanded the ship-traffic of the upper reaches of the estuary. Taken in conjunction with the Broughty Castle and Ferry Port toll barriers, it could completely dominate all trade, internal as well as external, along the entire causeway, with a judiciously-placed cannon or two. Long had the Grays looked across at Balmerino in North Fife with covetous eyes. Its possession could vastly increase their revenues.

Patrick answered his father's unspoken question. 'I have arranged with Sir Robert Melville an exchange of Balmerino for the Durifermline pendicle of Monimail near to his own lands of Melville. When I win back Dunfermline, Balmerino will be mine. Or rather, yours, my lord – for one thousand silver crowns. A bargain, you will admit!'

His father uttered a groan of sheerest agony.

'You perceive, my lord, how necessary it is that I come to you, rather than to any other? Balmerino is worth a score of times more to Gray than to anyone else in the kingdom. Am I not a dutiful son, after all?'

'No!' the older man croaked. 'No! No!' he banged fist on the table time and again.

'But yes, sir. You would not throw away Balmerino for a mere thousand pieces of siller?'

His father was grimacing strangely. Undoubtedly it was the hardest decision of that nobleman's life, striking to the very roots of him. But he made it. 'Damn you… no! Never!'

Patrick was still-faced, curiously blank-looking for a moment. But only for a moment or two. 'I am sorry,' he said, then, shrugging.

"I… I vow you are, foul fall you!'

'But, yes. I would be as foolish not to be so, as are you in throwing this aside, my lord. Blinded by… by whatever so blinds you. I can get the money elsewhere, to be sure – but not so profitably for Gray.'

'Then get it, man – get it! For you'll no' win a plack frae me. All your days you've wasted and devoured my substance.

You'll do it nae mair. You can beg for crusts in the vennels o' Edinburgh, for a' I care, d'you hear? You and your woman and your brat can starve…'

'Oh, Granlord – no!' Mary cried.

'Here are but doubtful fatherly sentiments, my lord! You scarce ever doted on me, I think – but it seems… excessive. What new ill have I done to you since last we met, I pray?'

The other rose slowly to his feet, with something of dignity now. 'You butchered your Queen,' he said. 'You were the death o' the bonny Mary, that I loved well.'

There was complete silence in that dim and musty chamber, for seconds on end.

It was young Mary who broke it. 'It is not so, Granlord,' she said urgendy. 'Not so. He went to save her, and could not. That is not the same. Queen Elizabeth it was who killed our Queen. Not Uncle Patrick. He was not able to save her. But then, neither was Father. Neither was Sir Robert Melville, who went too. None could.' Her young voice seemed to echo desperately round the gaunt vaulted cavern of masonry, pleading.

None of the men either looked at her nor answered the question behind her words.

'Why must you be so hard on each other?' she asked. 'So cruelly hard?'

'Mary – it would be better, I think, that you should leave us, child.'

'No. No, Father. Do you not see…?'

My lord spoke through her pleas. 'Go!' he commanded -but not to the girl. 'Go, Judas – and never let me see your false face again! I want nane o' you – nane, d'you hear? Judas!'

The muscles of the Master's features seemed to work and tense. For once, there was little of beauty or attractiveness to be seen thereon, as glittering-eyed, ashen-lipped, he faced his father. 'For that word… you will be sorry!' he got out 'Sorry!'

'Go…!'

'Oh, yes – I shall go. But first, I will have my rights from you. What you will not give in love and affection, even in decency, you will yield as of right. For I am Master of Gray – heir to this lordship. I have never asked for it before – but I demand it now. I want my portion.'

My lord belched rudely. 'That for your portion, man!'

This crude coarseness seemed to have the effect of steadying the younger man, of enabling him to revert to something of his usual assured air of mastery of any situation. 'I think not,' he said, actually smiling again. 'The heir to Gray has certain rights, beyond the mere style. I have not sought them of you…'

'Any such you ha' forfeited long since. You ha' squandered my siller…'

'I refer, sir, not to your precious siller, but to more enduring claims. My patrimony. Properties. You have, I understand, settled Mylnefield on Gibbie. Brother James, I am told, has Buttergask and Davidstoun. William is in Bandirran. I am not wholly uninformed, my lord. Myself, I require the heir's portion.'

His father was breathing deeply, purpling again. 'Curse you – you'll get nothing! Nothing, I say. Knave and blackguard that you are! I… I…' Of a sudden, my lord's heavy features seemed to lighten a little. 'Or… aye, I have it! That's it. Your portion, my bonny Master o' Gray! You have it, man – you're standing in it! This is your portion – all you'll get, while I am above the sod! Broughty Castle!' Hooted harsh laughter set the older man coughing. ' 'Tis yours, Patrick – all o' it, yours, by God!' he spluttered. 'See to it, Davy. The papers and titles – to Patrick, Master o' Gray, in life rent, Broughty Castle. The building only, mind. No' a stick or stone else. No' an inch o' land. No' a penny-piece o' the tolls. A rickle o' stones you named it, Patrick? Aye – then take it, and I pray to God it falls on your scoundrelly head and makes your sepulchre!'

Pushing Mary aside roughly, the Lord Gray stalked heavily past his sons without a further word or glance, and out of the arched doorway to the winding stairs.

Tears were trickling down the girl's face from brimming dark eyes, though she made neither sob nor sound.

'I shall build up these crumbling wall, I tell you – raise new towers and battlements. I shall root out these mouldering

boards and rotting beams. I shall open up these wretched holes of windows, and let in air and light. I shall hang these bare walls with Flemish tapestries and cover the floors with carpets from the East, and furnish these barren chambers with the finest plenishings of France and Spain and the Netherlands, such as not another house in this realm can show!' The Master of Gray was striding back and forward across the uneven bat-fouled flagstones of Broughty Castle's hall, set-faced, eyes flashing. 'I shall make of this stinking ruin a palace, I swear! A mansion which every lord in the land shall envy. Where the King will come to sup and wish his own. I shall make it so that Castle Huntly seems a hovel, a dog's kennel, by comparison, and its proud lord shall come here seeking admission on his bended knees! I swear it, I say – and swear it by Almighty God!'

'Uncle Patrick – don't!' Mary Gray said. 'Please don't. Please.'

David and the girl were watching the extraordinary, almost awesome spectacle of the most handsome man in all of Europe, the brightest ornament of the Scottish scene, the most talented gallant in two realms, in the grip of blind unreasoning bitter hurt and passion, tormented, distraught. Helplessly they watched him, listened to him, anguish and sorrow in their own eyes – for they loved him, both. Mary had never seen the like, although she had witnessed some shocking, savage scenes in that strange and contentious family. David had his arm around the girl's shoulders, holding her; he indeed had seen the like before – and it turned his heart sick within him.

Patrick Gray changed his tune. He stopped his pacing, and began to curse. Tensely, almost softly, but fluently, comprehensively, he commenced to swear in breath-taking ingenious ferocity.

David Gray acted. Leaving Mary, he strode up to his brother, grasped him by both elegant padded shoulders, and with abrupt violence shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. 'Quiet!' he commanded. 'Quiet, I say. Patrick – be silent! Mary – by God, mind Mary!'

The evil flow was choked back, partly through sheer physical convulsion, partly by a real effort of will. Gasping and panting a little, the Master stepped back, and the scorching fury in his gaze at his half-brother faded. Slightly dazed-seeming, he moistened his lips and shook his head.

'I… I apologise,' he said thickly. 'My thanks, Davy. I… Mary, my dear – forgive me. If you can.' He looked over to her, and the change in his expression was quite extraordinary.

She came to him, then, wordless, to take his hand.

'I think… that I lost my head… just a little,' he said, jerkily. 'Unedifying in the extreme, no doubt. Davy… well, Davy knows me. Too well. But you, Mary lass, should have been spared that. It shall not occur again.'

'Granlord was very cruel,' she said. 'But he was hurt, too. He torments himself in believing so ill of you. In thinking you capable of so much evil.'

Over her head, Patrick's dark eyes met David's grey ones. 'And you, child, see me rather as an angel of light?'

'Oh, no,' she told him, simply. 'Not so. I know that you can do ill things. Uncle Patrick. Very ill. As in the matter of the Princess of Navarre. And the plot for the Catholics to gain the King and all Scotland, before the Armada invasion of England. But I am sure that you are not as my lord thinks. That you do much good, as well as ill. We all do ill things as well as good, do we not?' Seriously, she put it to him. 'I think that the good that you do, Uncle Patrick, will be better than most. Just as the ill is… is very ill.' For Mary Gray, that last was hesitant.

'Thank you, my dear,' the other said, shaking his head, and clearly moved. 'I do not know that many would agree with you!' And again he met his brother's level gaze. 'But thank you.' He raised her small hand, and brushed it with his lips. 'I believe that you are… very good for me. God keep you so. But… a moment ago, girl, you spoke of a plot? A plot, you said. Before the Armada of Spain. To gain the King and Scotland for the Catholics. This is… interesting.' His glance swivelled round to his brother. 'What did you mean by that, Mary?'

"Just that I saw your letter. The strange letter that you wrote to Father.'

'Indeed. It was not meant for such eyes as yours.'

'No. But I perceived that the writing was yours, Uncle Patrick. So I must needs read it.'

His brows rose. 'I see.'

'Yes. It was a very clever letter.'

'But… you saw it as a plot? A Catholic plot.' Still it was at David that he looked. That man nodded.

'But it showed excellently well the way to save the realm,' the girl went on. 'Had the King of Spain triumphed in England. So… we told King Jamie, as you said. But that… that the Spanish Inquisition should not come to Scotland…' Mary bit her lip. 'Lest the Office be set up on Castle-hill – that was how you wrote it, was it not? That there should be no chance of that ill thing, we told the King that it was the Protestant lords who should be assembled. First. Otherwise the same as in your letter, Uncle Patrick.'

The Master actually stopped breathing for many seconds together.

'Was that wrong?' she pressed him. 'It was not what you intended. We did you hurt in that, perhaps? But… we could not countenance a Catholic plot. Could we?'

'God… help me! What…?' Patrick swallowed. 'What is this?'

David answered him, harshly, throatily. 'This is your daughter, Patrick. Your own flesh and blood. Risen up in judgment. Something that has stolen upon us all unawares. You could dispose of her mother as you would, you and my lord – but this is beyond you. Beyond us all.'

The other stared.

'Do not think ill of me,' Mary said – and it was to them both that she spoke. 'What I did was for the best. In all else it was as you advised, Uncle Patrick. And the King believed that all came from you. That you advised the mustering of the Protestant lords. So, you see, your credit stands the higher with him. He esteemed you Papist before – but this would cause him to doubt it. In that you are advantaged, are you not? It may be that he was the kinder to you at Holyroodhouse yon night, because of it. And why he attended Andrew's christening and stood godfather.' She nodded, as though to herself, satisfied. 'You see it, Uncle Patrick?'

It was Davy Gray who expostulated. 'Child – this is no way to talk! Subterfuge and guile and, and chicanery! Leave you that to others, 'fore God!'

'It is but the truth, is it not, Father? So it has come to pass…'

Patrick interrupted her, laughing, in a sudden return to something of his old gay assured self. 'Ha – do not chide her, Davy,' he said. 'Here is a pearl beyond all price, indeed! The wisdom of dove and serpent combined! And all in the comeliest small head and person that we are likely to find in the length and breadth of this kingdom! Do not rail at what the good Lord has wrought!'

'You – you to talk thus?'

'To be sure. Why not? Since it seems that I may claim some of the credit! And I need all the credit that I may summon up, do I not, Davy? I think… yes, I think that Mary and I might run very well in harness. I must think more on this. For, i' faith, I'd liefer have our young Mary as my friend than my enemy!'

'That you will have always, Uncle Patrick,' the girl declared gravely. 'But it would be easier if you were a Protestant again, rather than a Catholic, I think.'

'In the name of Heaven…!' David Gray exclaimed.

'Exactly, Davy – exactly! But, come,' the Master said, in a different tone of voice. 'It is time that we were hence. I do not know whether my esteemed and noble father will be returning forthwith to Castle Huntly – but I would not wish Marie to be the object of his further attentions in his present state of mind.'

'God forbid!' his brother agreed. 'You left her at the castle?'

'Yes. I must get her away from there, and under some more hospitable roof.' Patrick looked about him, grimacing. 'Since I may scarce bring her here. Yet.'

David nodded. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'Sorry for all of it. But sorriest for Marie, who deserves better things.'

'Aye. Deserves a better husband belike?' Patrick shot a quick look at the other. 'A husband such as the upright Davy Gray, mayhap?'

'That is ill said, brother,' David observed, even-voiced. 'Marie deserves better than any man I know. Remember it, I charge you! Come, then – we waste time here.'

There was no sign of my lord or Gilbert Gray or the Provost of Dundee outside. Already the workmen had abandoned their various tasks and were leaving the place.

As the trio mounted and rode off over the drawbridge and the half-dug moat towards the village and harbour, Patrick turned in his saddle and looked back.

'A task,' he said softly, as to himself. 'A notable task. And expensive. But worth it, I think. Aye, worth it.'

'You mean to do it, then? Still? To go ahead with it, Patrick? Restore this great ruin?' David asked. 'That would be folly, surely?'

'Folly?' His brother smiled. 'Living is folly, and dying the only true wisdom, Davy, is it not? But there is folly – and folly! This folly might well make a fool of still greater folly. We shall see. But… I shall be obliged for those papers and tides that my lord mentioned, Davy – before he changes his mind!'