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

Chapter Six

DAVID GRAY paced the floor of his own little circular chamber in the north-west flanking tower of Castle Huntly, set-faced. Once again he held in his hand a letter – and once again it was in his brother Patrick's dashing handwriting. When he had recognised the writing, even when the missive was still in the courier's hand, his heart had sunk; for Patrick's letters seldom left their recipients as they found them, unmoved or uninvolved. This one was no exception.

It was addressed from the Laird of Tillycairn's Lodging, The Canongate, Old Aberdeen, and dated 27th July, 1589 – three weeks after the clash at Broughty Castle. This was no coded nor cryptic letter like the last, but it made its demands, nevertheless. It read:

'My excellent Davy,

But a few days after we left you, His Grace summoned me here to Aberdeen. I was intrigued to know for why. I have been reappointed to my old and useful position of Master of the Wardrobe – though not yet to the Council, as is my greater requirement. But that will come, no doubt.

The reason for my summons north would appear to be, not so much that His Grace and the Chancellor cannot bear to be without my presence, as that they seem to hold unwarranted and base suspicions as to my activities and whereabouts when I am not under their eyes! I wonder how they came to gain the whisper that I had hastened south to the house of my lord of Bothwell whenever I left them at Perth that day? A strange calumny, was it not? But with its own usages. Since now I am secure at Court – in fact, in the Wardrobe! Take note, Davy – jama nihil est celerius!

All here is triumph and rejoicing. Even the poor, damned Catholic rebels rejoice, so felicitous is the occasion and so clement the royal victor. As previously arranged. The Battie of the Brig o' Dee will, I doubt not, go down in our realm's history as unique – in that scarce a blow was struck, our martial monarch's very presence striking terror into the hearts of all Catholics, heretics, and enemies of Christ's true Reformed faith! Huntly, Enroll, Montrose and the others have yielded themselves up to gracious Majesty – who, I rejoice to say, agrees that mercy should temper justice quite signally. So all is contrition, love and merriment indeed -save for the good Chancellor, who would have preferred a few heads to fall – with our eloquent prince preaching the Reformed evangel with potent zeal. I, of course, am one of his most promising converts. As young Mary so shrewdly advises.

The which, Davy, brings me to my prayer and request. I would crave you to permit Mary to come to Court. I well know your own mislike of such, but I think, if you are honest – and always you are notably that, are you not? -that you will admit that she is as though born for the Court. Fear not for her safety. I shall watch over her well, I promise you, as though – why, as though she were my own daughter! She will, of course, lodge with us, and Marie shall cherish and protect her. You need have no fears on that score. Although, think you not, Mary may be well able to protect herself?

Do not dismiss this plea in selfish haste, Davy. There is much to commend it. Mary will be good for me, I think. There will be a Queen again in Scotland ere long, and Maids of Honour and Ladies in Waiting are already being selected. This comes within the province of my Lord Chamberlain – and I understand that Vicky is not without his own plans in the matter. So, dear brother and self-appointed keeper of my conscience, should you think to refuse to let Mary come, as I pray, consider well how a royal summons could command her to attend at Court. My way, I ween, is the more suitable. I swear that if she likes it not, or if it is anyways in her interest to leave, she shall return to your good care forthwith.

Consider for her, Davy – not for yourself. The Court returns south for Edinburgh tomorrow. A sennight at Holyroodhouse for a Council and the trial of the miscreants. Then Falkland and Majesty's beloved stags. Let it be Falkland for our Mary, brother.

I send my devotion to you all.

Patrick

In a rounder and less spectacular hand was added, at the foot:

'Bear with us please, Davy dear. And guide Mariota to allow Mary to come. Even though it cost you both dear. Award the child her destiny. She might take it in her own hands, else.

Marie'

So David Gray paced his floor. He had got over the worst of it now, the pent-up fury, the hot resentment, the wrathful denial. David was just as much a Gray as either his father or his half-brother. The hurt, the pain, was with him still; but his head was cooler now, his reason functioning. Yet his expression grew the bleaker as he paced.

Could he hold her back? Should he? That was the question. Which way lay his duty to her? She was a child no more – but surely she yet required protection? More than ever, perhaps. And, God help her – what sort of protection would Patrick afford her? Marie, yes – but Patrick! And yet – did she have a deal of protection here at Castle Huntly? Watch for her as he would? She came and went as she wished. She could twist every man and woman in all the Carse around her little finger. Including her grandfather. My lord would not relish this. Indeed, he would forbid it if he could. But… was that not to the point? The old man had always doted on her – but now did so unpleasingly. Lasciviously. As a woman, no longer as a child. And where women were concerned, he was without scruple. He was not good for Mary…

And if young Lennox worked up on the King to summon her? As Patrick might well put him up to if he did not think of it himself? There could be no holding her then against the royal command. Better surely that she should go freely, and in Marie's care, at least.

But Patrick! As sponsor for the girl into that wicked, deceitful and corrupt world? Patrick, the falsest schemer and liar and betrayer of them all! And her father, save in name…

David came to stare out of his window. The leaves were already beginning to turn on the elms and birches, though not on the beeches and oaks, barely August as it was. So short a summer. Not that he saw any of them. He saw only a lovely, elfin face, great-eyed, wistful, grave, and true. And another, attractive also, smiling, handsome, and false. So like the other; so like.

It was the likeness that tipped the scales. Not merely the likeness of feature, of lineament. It was the inborn assurance, the air of breeding, the indubitable yet unpretentious quality of prescriptive right, that each wore like a casual easy garment. Something that was no more to be ignored than denied. Both had been destined by something more than mere birth for the great world of rule and power and influence. Who was Davy Gray the Bastard to say it nay?'

Sighing heavily, the man crushed that letter in his strong hand, and went downstairs to seek Mariota.

Mary Gray came to the royal burgh of Falkland on the eighth day of August. It proved to be a notably smaller place than she had imagined, a little grey huddle of a town, all red pantiled roofs, tortuous narrow streets and winding steeply-sloping alleys, crouching under the tall green cone of the easternmost of the Lomond Hills, and quite dominated by the turreted and ornate palace. This, although of handsome architecture, was itself of no great size for a royal residence, and the entire place, with the Court in residence, gave the impression of bursting at the seams. With David as escort, the girl had to force her garron through the throng that choked the constricted streets and wynds, a motley crowd of gaily attired lords and ladies, of lairds and clerics, members of the royal bodyguard and men-at-arms, grooms and foresters, hawkers and tranters, hucksters and pedlars, townsfolk, tradesmen and tinkers. People hung out of every window, as though being squeezed out by the press within, laughing and shouting to folk in the street, or across their heads to the occupants of windows opposite. Horses were everywhere, for the main business of Falkland was hunting, and followers might require three and four mounts in any hard-riding day. Hay and oats to feed the many hundreds of beasts crammed all available space, wagon-loads and sled-like slypes coming in constantly from the surrounding farms further jammed the congested lanes, together with flocks of catde, sheep and poultry to provide fare for the suddenly trebled population. The bustle was indescribable, the noise deafening – more especially as the church bells were tolling clamorously, it was said for a witch-burning – and the stench was breath-taking, particularly of dung and perspiration and pigs, this warm August day. Mary was no stranger to the crowded streets of Dundee and Edinburgh, but this concentration in little Falkland was something new to her.

Pushing patiently through the press, David shepherded his charge, with her bundles of belongings, towards the lower end of the little town, where the palace reared its twin drum towers, its elaborate buttresses and stone-carved walls above gardens, pleasances, tennis-courts and the wide island-dotted loch. Mary, all lip-parted excitement and gleaming eyes, assumed that they were making for the palace itself, when her father turned his mount in at a narrow vennel called College Close, just opposite the great palace gates. Thence, through a dark and ill-smelling pend, they came into a sort of back court of small humble houses, jumbled together, in one of which they found the Mistress of Gray installed, with the baby

Andrew. It took Mary a little while to realise, even after the first fond greetings, that this was where she was going to dwell meantime, in this low-browed and over-crowded rabbit-warren. Not that she was foolishly proud or over-nice in the matter; it was just not what she had anticipated in this business of coming to Court.

The Lady Marie, strangely enough, was quite delighted with these lowly quarters. It seemed that King Jamie's passion for hunting was rued by his courtiers not only because of the everlasting cross-country pounding and prancing but on account of chronic lack of accommodation at Falkland, where earls had to roost in garrets and bishops crouch in cellars. The French ambassador was, in fact, lodging next door, and Queen Elizabeth's new resident envoy, Mr Bowes, across the tiny cobbled yard. Only the Duke of Lennox's good offices had got the impoverished Grays in here, this being the house of his own under-falconer, Patey Reid, whose acquaintance Mary had already made one day by Lindores Loch.

'My sister Jean is here with us also,' Marie told them. 'She is chosen one of the ladies to the new queen. She and Mary will share this tiny doocot of a room in here, under the roof -and no doubt will fill it with laughter and sunshine! For Jean never stops laughing, the chucklehead.' Her expression changed, as she turned directly to David. She laid a hand on his arm. 'So you have brought her, Davy,' she said. 'You have made your sacrifice – as I knew that you would. Never fear for her, Davy dear – we shall watch over your precious one.'

'That is my prayer,' the man said heavily. 'I require it of you, Marie, by all that you hold true and dear.'

'Yes. So be it.'

'You will send me word immediately should anything threaten her? Anything, or anybody. You understand?' 'I do. And I will, Davy.'

Mary came and clasped him, laying her dark head against his broad chest. 'Why do you fear for me so, Father?' she chided, but gently. 'Think you that I am so weak? Or so simple? Or very foolish? Or that I cannot think for myself?'

'No,' he jerked. 'None of these. But you are a woman, young and very desirable. Men, many men, will desire you. Will take you if they can. By any means, lass – any means.

And at this Court means are not awanting, examples evil, and consciences dead. Dead, do you hear? You must be ever on your guard.'

'That I will, Father – I will.' Mary smiled then, faintly. 'But so, I think, should be some of the men you name, perhaps!'

Laughing, Marie threw an arm around each of them. 'And that is the truest word spoken this afternoon, I vow!' she cried. 'Lord – I know one who already walks but warily where this wench is concerned! One, Patrick, Master of Gray!'

'Aye. May he continue to do so, then – or he will have me to deal with!' his half-brother declared, unsmiling still. 'Where is he, Marie?'

'Closeted with the English envoy. Across the yard yonder. As so often he is.'

'M'mmm. With Bowes? I see. Then you will give him my message, Marie. He will know that I mean it.'

'You will not wait, Davy? Stay with us? Even for this one night…?'

'No. You forget perhaps, my lady, I am a servant and no lordling. My lord of Gray's servant. My time is not my own. My lord does not so much as know that we are here. He would never have permitted this – and it may be that he is right. I must be back to Castle Huntly this night – or Mariota will suffer his spleen…'

'Very well, Davy.'

They went down and out of the pend with him, to bid him farewell and watch him ride off with Mary's garron led behind, a sober, unsmiling, formidable man whose level grey eyes nevertheless gave the lie to most of what he appeared to be. There were tears in the Lady Marie's own eyes as she watched him go. Mary Gray's were not so swimming that they did not note the fact.

Coming down the narrow vennel from the street were three gallants escorting on foot a young woman whose high-pitched uninhibited laughter came before them to rival the pealing bells. One was but a youth, one a young man, and the third somewhat older; all were over-dressed. David's two horses, in that narrow way, inevitably forced them, from walking four abreast, to leave the crown of the causeway for the guttered side of it, choked with the filth of house, stable and midden. Whereupon the two younger men shook their fists at the rider, cursing loudly, but the older took the opportunity to sweep up the lady in his velvet arms and carry her onwards – albeit staggering not a little, for she was no feather-light piece. Moreover neither his pathfinding nor his respiration was aided by the fact that he likewise took the opportunity to bury his face deep in the markedly open bosom of his burden's gown, so conveniently close. Whereupon the laughter pealed out higher than ever.

Davy Gray rode on without a backward glance.

Breathless and stumbling, the gallant precipitately deposited his heaving, wriggling load almost on top of the Lady Marie, and would have fallen had he not had the girl to hold him up. He sought to bow, but the effort was ruined by the eruption of a deep and involuntary belch; whereupon his charge thumped him heartily on the back, all but flooring him once more. The vennel rang with mirth.

This, my dear, is my young sister Jean,' Marie informed, unruffled. 'Did I not tell you that she had an empty head but excellent lungs? Of these gentlemen, this, who is old enough to know better, is Patrick Leslie, the Commendator-Abbot of Lindores. The child there is my lord of Cassillis my nephew, and far yet from years of discretion. Who the other may be, I do not know – but he does not keep the best of company!'

'That is Archie, Marie,' the Lady Jean Stewart announced, giggling. 'Archie Somebody-or-Other. Very hot and strong! Like me!' She was a tall, well-made young woman, high-coloured, high-breasted, high-tongued, bold alike of eye and figure and manner, dressed somewhat gaudily in the height of fashion – an unlikely sister for the poised and calmly beautiful Marie. 'Who have we here?' She was staring now at Mary. As indeed were her three escorts.

'Somebody whom you are going to love, I think, Jeannie. Mary Gray.'

Mary sketched a tiny curtsy, and smiled. 'My lady.'

Impulsively the Lady Jean went up to her and threw her arms around her. 'Lord – how like him you are!' she exclaimed. 'You are lovely. I am crazed over him – so I shall be crazed over you, I swear!'

'Gray…?' Leslie jerked. 'This, then, is…?'

'Someone for such as you to meet only when you are sober, my lord Abbot!' Marie declared firmly. 'Be gone, gentlemen.' And, turning Mary around, with an arm about her shoulder, she led her forthwith back through the dark pend. Jean Stewart followed, laughing, leaving the three men gazing after them, distinctly at a loss.

Patrick Gray, roused by all the laughter and shouting, came out of another little house in the yard as they crossed the cobblestones, a tall bland-faced and richly-dressed gentleman at his side. Mary restrained her impulse to run into his arms, and dipped low instead to the gentleman, before searching Patrick's face from warmly luminous dark eyes.

The Master of Gray, who had been starting forward, likewise restrained himself, actually bidng his lip. Which was not his wont, for seldom indeed did that man require to amend or adjust his attitude, his comportment. Marie perceived it, with something like wonder.

'My dear,' he began, and paused. 'I… this is my brother's child. My half-brother, Mr Bowes. Mary Gray. Of whom I have told you. Come to Court. Mary – Mr Robert Bowes, Her Grace of England's envoy.'

'Ah? So! I congratulate you. Congratulate you both!' The tall suave man bowed, his smooth pale face unsmiling. Mary, meeting his glance, decided that his eyes were both cold and shrewd, and that she did not like him. 'Master Davy we know. And the Bishop of St Boswells we know likewise. His grand-daughter, I think?'

Patrick raised one eyebrow. 'You are well-informed, sir,' he observed lightly.

'As you say,' the other acceded. 'And as is necessary.'

'I believe that the Bishop of St Boswells would scarce thank you, sir, to remind him of the fact,' Mary said, without emphasis but seriously. 'Nor would such as I think to disagree with him.'

Patrick drew a quick hand down over his mouth, as his eyes gleamed. Lady Marie smiled, and her sister whinnied laughter. 'Indeed!' Mr Bowes said. 'Umrara… ah… is that so?' Demurely Mary moved over to the Master's side, and rising on tip-toe, kissed his cheek. 'I hope that I see you well, Uncle Patrick?' she asked.

The man tossed discretion overboard, swept an arm around her slender waist, and lifted her off her feet to kiss her roundly. 'Bless you, Mary lass – you see me vastly the better for the sight of you! Mr Bowes, I pray, will excuse us?' And nodding to the envoy, he reached out for Marie's arm also, and led them all over to their own little house.

Queen Elizabeth's representative looked after them thoughtfully.

All Falkland, it seemed, had been talking of the masque for days. Other intriguing matters occupied busy tongues of course – the King's unaccountable leniency towards the Brig o' Dee rebels, Huntly in especial, allied to his notable harshness towards my Lord of Bothwell; the rumours that Huntly was indeed a convert to Protestantism; the highly indiscreet behaviour of the young Countess of Atholl. The masque, however, maintained pride of place. It was being devised and was to be staged by the Master of Gray – and undoubtedly nothing like it had been seen in Scotland since those spectacular days of nearly ten years before when Esme Stuart of Lennox Duke Ludovick's father, and the young Patrick, had ruled the land in the name of the boy King James. Details were being kept a close secret, but it was known that, weather permitting, it was to be held out-of-doors on the night of the ninth, and that outrageous requests had been made to shocked Reformed divines to pray that it did not rain. Who was paying for it all was a matter for much speculation – for the Master himself, having been stripped of all his properties at his trial, was known to be in dire financial straits, and the King certainly was much too fond of gold to waste any of it on such nonsense.

Mary Gray's arrival only the day previous would not have precluded Patrick from inserting her conspicuously into the scene somehow, had not Marie put her foot down firmly, declaring that, knowing her husband, this affair was unlikely to be a suitable launching into Court life for the girl, and that also, any so early thrusting of her into prominence might seem ostentatious and unseemly. Reluctantly he bowed to his wife.

In another matter he was adamant, however. Mary should be dressed as she merited – or he was not the Master of the King's Wardrobe! One glance at the girl's best gown, extracted from her bundle, assured the need of his services, however gentle he was towards her susceptibilities in the matter, and however hard he was on the Lady Jean for her shrieks of laughter at the thought of anything so simple and plain being worn at Court. So, since time was short and the royal wardrobe not yet geared to the proper provision of clothing for women, the King's tailors and sempstresses were brought over to the falconer's house to adapt and cut down one of Marie's own dresses. Mary was almost overwhelmed by the situation – but not sufficiently to prevent her from selecting quite the least elaborate and unaffected of the choice before her, a creation of pale primrose satin, closely moulded as to bodice, with little or no padding on shoulders and sleeves, a high upstanding collar rimmed with tiny seed-pearls to frame the face, and skirts billowing out from padded hips, slit to reveal an underskirt of old rose. Marie recognised the unerring instinct and taste, however much her sister might decry this as feeble and exclaim over more ambitious confections. The neckline provoked a further clash, Mary being quietly insistent that it was much too low for her, an attitude which both Jean and the dressmakers declared to be patently quite ridiculous in that bosoms were being bared ever more notably each season – and this gown was fully three years old. No prude, Mary nevertheless maintained her stand, hinting that a little mystery at her age could be quite as effective as any major display, especially if display was otherwise the order of the night. Jean eyed her more thoughtfully, then. A yoke of openwork, diaphanous lace was therefore contrived, which had the desired effect, by no means hiding altogether the shadowed cleft of firm young breasts while at the same time intimating a suitable modesty – and which Jean cheerfully pointed out could conveniently be whisked out and discarded when the evening really got into its stride.

Marie smiled her slow smile from the background.

The evening sky was cloudy but, since rain withheld, Patrick declared this to be all to the good, providing a more effective dusk to screen preliminary activities and better to show off the fireworks. Patrick took a vociferous Jean away with him early, in noisy company. Mary, in due course, with Marie, found herself being escorted over to the palace gardens by the English ambassador and one of his gentlemen, Mr Thomas Fowler, a broadly-built Yorkshireman whose small round eyes lit up at the sight of the girl and who, while conversing with her politely enough in his strangely broad-vowelled lazy voice, almost seemed to devour her nevertheless with his busy unflagging gaze. Mr Bowes himself did not prevent his own glance from sliding very frequently in Mary's direction, the Lady Marie noted. The young woman's combination of modest discretion, youthful eagerness and calm assurance was as singularly engaging as it was unusual. She made no enquiries about the Duke of Lennox.

The gardens presented a kaleidoscopic and animated scene that set Mary actually clapping her hands, to the amusement of her companions. The shrubberies and fruit trees were hung with myriads of coloured lanterns of every hue and size and shape, and a double row of hundreds of pitch-pine torches blazed right down a long arboured rose-walk that led from the great gates directly to the lochside. Up and down this weirdly illuminated avenue, as well as on the grass and amongst the trees, the gaily-dressed crowd sauntered and eddied, presenting an ever-changing chequer-board of light and shadow, of pattern and colour and movement. Shining fabrics, gleaming bare shoulders, glittering jewels, and the motion of long silken hose, swaying skirts and glinting sword-scabbards, made a fairyland scene. Two great bonfires flamed at either end of the balustraded terrace between the long north front of the grey palace and the loch, casting ruddy leaping reflections on the dark water. Music drifted from hidden groups of instrumentalists near and far.

Mary, wide-eyed, seeking to miss nothing, yet careful to heed her escort's rather difficult conversation and suitably to greet those to whom the Lady Marie presented her, moved down to the loch, a broad shallow expanse of water, reed-fringed and dotted with many little islets. Here were tables laden with cold meats, cakes, sweets and fruits and flagons of wine and spirits – from which a pack of the royal wolf- and deer-hounds, as well as lesser dogs, were already being fended off by anxious servitors.

A fanfare of trumpets announced the King's arrival on the scene. James, clad in an extraordinary superfluity of velvets, fur, ostrich-feathers, gold-lace, filigree-work and jewellery, came down the steps from the palace, preceded by his own torch-bearers and heralds and followed by his great nobles, high clergy and ministers of state. Lolling his head in all directions, he waved an apple that he was munching towards sundry of the bowing and curtsying guests, but paused for none. Straight down across the grass to a sort of roundel or bastion of the lower terrace he hurried, throwing excited gabbled and unintelligible remarks over his grotesquely padded shoulders to his almost running retinue. At the roundel he gave his apple to the red and perspiring Earl of Orkney, his uncle and Marie's father, grasped a torch from one of the bearers, and promptly applied it to a large and ornamental rocket erected there especially on a wooden stand. Distressingly, in his trembling haste, James knocked the firework off its stand as he lit its fuse. Fumbling, he stooped to right it, thought better of it, and agitatedly signed to the torch-bearer to do so instead. That unfortunate hesitated in some alarm, but at his monarch's imperious urgings, gingerly picked up the spitting spluttering object, holding it at arm's length, to return it to its stand. Unhappily he held it fuse upwards, and thrust it thus on to the stand, leaping back therefrom immediately as though scalded. But even as James, voice rising in a squeak, pointed out the error, with a sudden whoosh the fuse ignited the charge and the thing went off. Sadly, of course, it went downwards, not upwards. It struck the paving of the roundel in a shower of sparks, and proceeded to dart and whizz and zig-zag furiously, unpredictably, like an angry and gigantic hornet, amongst the royal, noble and ecclesiastical feet, with notable effect. King James danced this way and that, cannoning into his supporters, seeking to get out of the way and the range of the erratic missile. Inevitably his entourage blocked the way of escape from the roundel – though not for long. Yelling with fright the King cursed them, and in as wholehearted and unanimous retiral as had been seen since the Rout of Solway Moss the flower of Scotland scrambled and scampered out from that corner of the terrace, stumbling over one another, leaping the fallen, some actually throwing themselves over the balustrade, more than one landing in the shallows below with a splash. Fireworks were as yet something of an unknown quantity in Scotland, and this rocket a large one – indeed the signal rocket for the entire masque. The monarch and the torch-bearer vied with one another to be second-last or better still, out of that distressingly confined space, and had only partly achieved this object when the unpleasant pyrotechnic blew up with a loud bang, exploding a galaxy of coloured stars about the heads and shoulders and persons of the royal retinue. King Jamie's screech could be heard shrilling above the uproar, mingled with the yelping of one of the shaggy wolf-hounds which somehow had got a proportion of the burning phosphorus embedded in its coat, and went bellowing through the gilded throng into the night.

The noise was quite phenomenal, what with the shouts of the fleeing, the cursing, the plethora of commands, pleas and invocations, the baying of hounds and the vast and unseemly mirth of the scores not actually involved – in which, it is to be feared, Mary Gray's girlish laughter pealed high and clear.

Higher and clearer still, however, above all the babel and confusion below, rose the pure and silvery note of a single trumpet, turning some eyes at least upwards towards the topmost lofty parapet of the palace's flag-tower. Here a cluster of lanterns had been lit to illuminate the royal standard on its staff, and beneath it, standing balanced on the crenellated paparet itself, an extraordinary partially-robed figure, luminously painted, with gleaming helmet sporting wings, a staff with an entwined serpent in one hand and a voice-trumpet in the other, notably large white wings also sprouting from bare heels. This apparition, through the speaking trumpet, announced in high-flown terms to all mere mortals there below that he was Hermes or Mercury, messenger of the gods, and that to their unworthy earth-bound eyes would presently be revealed the fairest and greatest of all the heavenly host, Zeus himself, in search of love. Another ululant trumpet-note, and the vision pointed outwards, lochwards, commandingly, and thereupon faded into the darkness as his lights went out.

It is to be feared that less than the fullest of attention was paid to this supernatural manifestation, in the circumstances.

Indeed no great proportion of the company was able to hear what was said on account of the noise below, where a more terrestial potentate was providing his own commentary, and earls, lords, bishops and dogs were in loud process of reinstating themselves in their own estimation. Even amongst those who received the announcement from on high, it produced only a mixed reception, guesses at the identity of Hermes vying with the loud assertions of a dark-clad divine near the English ambassador's party that this was shameful, a work of the Devil, sheerest paganism if not what worse, popery.

In consequence, no very large proportion of the assemblage at first perceived the dramatic developments proceeding a little way out on the loch. Hidden lights came on, one by one, amongst the many islets about one hundred yards out, lighting up the dark water; and out from behind a long and artificial screen of reeds and osiers and willow-wands there floated a silver galley rowed by hidden oarsmen, ablaze with lights. On a raised dais at the stern stood a tall slender woman, rhythmic-all brushing her long fair hair. It did not take a great many moments, thereafter, for this lady to draw most of the inattentive and preoccupied eyes in the sloping gardens in her own direction, for she was entirely naked, apart from a silver mask over her eyes, her body glowing greenish-white with luminous paint – although certain prominences were picked out in scarlet. Crouching at her feet but otherwise unclothed likewise save for masks, were three maidens, who stretched up willowy waving white arms towards their principal in adoration.

Music swelled from the islands as the silver galley moved slowly in towards the watching throng.

A great gasp swept the company, and out of it everywhere voices arose in wonder, admiration, speculation and condemnation. There was a notable surge down to the actual waterside, to shorten the distance between viewers and spectacle. The Kirk raised an almost unanimous shout of righteous indignation. King James sufficiently forgot recent misfortunes to call 'Bonny! Bonny!' out across the water in a cracked high-pitched voice. Everywhere men and women were disputing as to the probable name of the lady with the hairbrush. Mary, clasping her hands together, gazed raptly, almost forgetting to breathe. Nearby a group of men were loudly asserting that they could identify at least two of the masked maidens, offering detailed reasons for their beliefs, the Abbot-Commendator of Lindores being particularly vehement that he would recognise the high globe-like breasts of Jean Stewart of Orkney anywhere and in any light.

Another trumpet note from aloft presaged the announcement that Leda, Queen of Sparta and daughter to King Thestios of Aetolia approached. As a revelation this scarcely satisfied most of the company. The ladies present, at least, managed on the whole to withdraw their gaze in order to scan their neighbours to see, if they might, who was missing.

Then, as another and more orthodox rocket soared skywards from one of the islets, a great clashing of cymbals rang out, followed by much-enhanced musical accompaniment suddenly loud and martial, seeming to fill the night – not all of it immediately in time and key. And from behind every islet and the screen of greenery burst forth brilliant cascades of scintillating light, streams of blazing darts, fans of soaring sparks, shooting stars, flaring fizgigs that burst on high to send down showers of shimmering tinsel. Loud explosions succeeded, with lightning flashes, to drown the music and shake the very ground. On and on went this dazzling percussive display, to the amazement and delight of the watching crowd. Or perhaps, not quite all of it, for though the head-shakings of the divines could be taken for granted, Mary at least heard still another reaction. Just behind her, Mr. Bowes muttered to Mr. Fowler that this was altogether too much, that they might have known that the fellow would overdo it, and did he think that silver crowns grew on trees? To which Mr. Fowler replied something that Mary did not catch save for the last broad phrase to the effect that Sir Francis might not scan the account too close so long as the goods were delivered in good shape.

Mary neither turned round nor showed signs of listening.

As the hangings and thunderings mounted to a crescendo, quite battering the ear-drums and overwhelming all other sound, they were abruptly stopped short, cut away, finished quiic; the sparkling, spraying fireworks also. And into the throbbing, almost painful, silence that followed, thin strains of sweet and gentle music gradually filtered. Out from the suddenly silent and darkened islands sailed into view a great swan, calm, tranquil, immaculate. The sigh that ran through the waiting gathering was as though a breeze stirred a forest.

The swan, lifelike, white as snow, graceful, with noble wings part-raised and arching, glowed with lights without and within. It might be perhaps five times life-size and appeared indeed to be coated with gleaming real feathers. Slowly, serenely, it came sailing shorewards, towards the waiting galley, its propulsion invisible, a mystery. The lady on the dais turned to watch its approach, stilling her brushing, the maidens likewise. These were no more than thirty yards from the shore now, and receiving their mede of admiration, some gallants being actually up to their knees in the water the better to show their appreciation.

As the swan, unhurried, came up to the silver galley, the trumpet sounded once more, and Hermes announced his rather Zeus, Ruler of the Heavens, Giver of Laws, Dispenser of Good and Evil, and Source of all Fertility. Up from between the arching white wings rose a glowing male figure, perfectly proportioned, poised, naked also save for a golden fig-leaf and a celestial pointed crown. Hair was lacquered silver to mould the head as in a smooth gleaming cap; at the groin too hair was silvered, otherwise body and face were clean-shaven. In one hand he held the dumbell-like symbol of the thunderbolt. No mask hid these beautiful, smiling and confident features. Patrick Gray was ever his own mask.

As the cymbals clashed again, Zeus leapt lightly from the swan up on to the dais of the galley. Low he bowed to Leda, who drew back, while the arms of the kneeling damsels waved in undulations about them both. Then, as the music sank to a low, rhythmic and seductive melody, the man commenced an extraordinary dance sequence. With but a few feet of platform on which to perform, he moved and twisted and insinuated himself amongst the white shrinking bodies of the women, at once suppliant and masterful, coaxing, pleading yet assured. Sinuously, gracefully determined, fluid in movement but wholly masculine, he postured and spun and circled, in sheerest desire, yet in perfect tune with the tempo and mood of the languorous melody. The maidens' fluttering, waving arms reached up and out to him, seeking to draw him away, to protect their mistress, stroking at his legs and thighs and belly in part-restraint, part-caress; but he would have none of them, spurning their silent urgings, his very body eloquently flicking away their anxious lingering fingers, concentrating all his frank and potent manhood on the more mature fullness of the tall, fair Leda.

One by one the younger women sank down level with the rush-strewn platform in defeat and rejection, throwing the central figures, pursued and pursuing, into high relief. And now the tenor and tone of the dance subtly altered. Pleading faded from the man's gestures, and command began to reinforce his coaxing. He was smiling brilliantly now, and every so often his fingers lighted on and loitered over the smooth flesh that no longer shrank from him. For the woman was cold no longer, but turning to him, commenced to respond to his vehement though still courtly advances. Quickly the movements of both grew more sensuously desirous, more blatantly lustful, above the bare backs of the low-bent girls, as the beat of the music mounted hotly. Tension could be sensed growing avidly amongst the watching company.

With every motion of man and woman working up to a controlled frenzy, the climax came suddenly. Holding up the golden thunderbolt that he had made play with suggestively throughout, Zeus twirled it in triumphant signal, pulling Leda to him by a hand on her swelling hips. Then he tossed the thunderbolt high, away from him, so that it fell with a splash into the water. The cymbals clanged and throbbed, and, a little belatedly presumably, firecrackers exploded their dutiful thunder. A cloud of pink smoke rose from the body of the galley, to envelope the dais, billowing and rolling, while the throng peered and fretted impatiently. When it cleared at last, it was to reveal the three damsels sailing away in the swan, waving swan-like white arms in mocking salute and farewell, while on the galley the two principals were posed in close and striking embrace, the woman bent backwards, hair hanging loose, bosom upthrust, the man leaning over her, lips fused to hers, one hand cupping a full breast, the other holding aloft her mask. Despite its felicity, it must have been a difficult pose to maintain.

Loud and long sounded the applause, tribute and exclamation – with a certain amount of rueful complaint that Zeus's head still enfuriatingly prevented the face of Leda from being seen and identified.

In a final fanfare of trumpets, all the lights were extinguished somewhat raggedly, and the two luminous-painted bodies now glowed ghostly and indistinct. There came a woman's breathless squeal from the galley, and then the clear mocking note of the Master of Gray's silvery laughter floated out across the dark water.

Not a few eyes turned thereafter to look at the Lady Marie, Mistress of Gray.

She was smiling, and offering Mary a sweetmeat.

The great voice of Master Andrew Melville, Kirk leader and Principal of St. Andrews University, could be heard declaiming to the King that these last ill sounds were the most lascivious and ungodly of all the disgraceful display – to which James answered obscurely in what was thought to be Latin.

Torches now sprang into ruddy flame on the galley, and it was seen to be rowing directly towards the land. Its high curving prow grounded on the reedy shore, and hitherto unseen oarsmen, mighty ordinary-seeming, jumped out into the shallows to run out a wide plank as gangway from the dais to the beach. Down this, hand in hand, and bowing, smiling, strolled Patrick Gray and the still unclothed lady – the latter, however, once again safely masked, indeed with a veil over her face also.

There was a near-riot as spectators hurried close, shouting questions, comment, witticisms, demanding the lady's name, making shrewd suggestions – all manner of suggestions. Only the torch-bearers and oarsmen kept a way open for the couple, less than gently, reinforced by Patrick's own laughing requests that they make passage to the King's Grace. Sauntering un-blushingly, unashamedly forward, the pair made barefoot, and bare all else, across the grass to where James stood doubtfully, plucking at his lower lip.

'Och, Patrick – this is… this is… och, man, man!' His Majesty faltered, his darting glance afraid to linger on the lady's charms at such close range.

'This, Highness, is Queen tonight from another age and sphere and clime. Spartan indeed, as you will perceive -though thank the good God it is a warm night! Eh, my dear?'

'Sire!' boomed Master Melville. 'You canna tolerate this. This scandal. You'll no' give your countenance further to this disgraceful ploy, sir? This… this shameless strumpet!'

'The Lady Leda has naught to be ashamed of… that I can see!' Patrick rejoined lightly, but ignoring the divine. 'Can Your Grace discern any imperfection?'

'Eh…? Na, na. Och – no' me, Patrick. Be no' so sore, Master Melville. Other days, other ways, mind. 'Tis but a dramaturgy, see you – a guizardry, no more. And a bonny one, you'll no' deny. Aye, wi' a right notable exode. Erudite, Patrick – most erudite. A credit to your scholarship, man. I'll say that.' James tapped Patrick's bare arm. 'Vita sine litteris mors est, eh? Aye, and hinc lucem et pocula sacra!'

'Precisely, Sire. Therefore, vivat Rex! Fama semper vivat!'

Delighted, James chuckled and nodded. 'Ooh, aye. Just so. Vivat regina, likewise!' He glanced more boldly at the lady, in high good humour now. James dearly loved Latin tags, and much approved of those who would exchange them with him. 'So we'll hope that she'll no' catch her death o' cold, man. Do I… do I ken the lady?'

'Not so closely as I would wish, Sire!' Leda answered for herself, giggling behind a hand raised to lips to disguise her voice.

'Hech, hech!' James whinnied, reached out a hand, thought better of it, and coughed. 'Aye. Well. I'ph'mm.'

'I have a notion, Sire, 'tis the Countess of Atholl,' the Earl of Mar suggested, at the King's side. 'I wonder if her lord is sober enough to know? Where is he?'

'I think not. The hair is unlike. So is… so is… I would suggest the Lady Yester,' Lord Lindsay put in.

'Na, na, man,' Orkney objected, chuckling fatly. 'The Lady Yester's borne bairns, and this quean hasna, I'm thinking. I jalouse the Lady Borthwick.'

'Gendemen, gentlemen!' Patrick intervened, but easily. 'How undiscerning you are! And how ungallant! Do none of you respect a lady's, h'm, privacy? Master Melville, here, I swear, is better disposed. Indeed he will be eager to assist, I think! May I borrow your cloak, sir?' Without waiting for permission, Patrick twitched off the good dark woollen cloak that the Principal wore over his sober habit, and flung it around the gleaming shoulders of the lady in almost the one graceful movement. 'Off with you, sweeting!' he said, and patted her bottom with genial authority.

As Principal Melville spluttered and protested, Leda dipped a brief curtsy to the King, kicked an impudent wave at the noble lords, and turning, ran off towards the palace in tinkling laughter, the clerical cloak flapping around her white limbs and seeming to make her distinctly more indecent than heretofore. Quite a pack of eager gentlemen ran after her.

'Vera incessu patuit dea!' Patrick murmured.

'Ho! Ha!' James guffawed. 'Apt! Right apt, 'fore God! Man, Patrick – it has been a notable ploy. Aye, and I'm… we are much diverted. We thank you. Your wit's none blunted, I warrant.'

'Your Grace is gracious…'

At the King's elbow Orkney spoke, low-voiced. 'It's a wit we could well do with on the Council, Jamie,' he said. 'We're no' that well founded in wit, yonder, I'm thinking!'

Mar overheard, and frowned, glancing at Lindsay and Glen-cairn. 'Your Grace… ' he began, but James overbore him.

'Aye, my lord – you are right. I was thinking the same. Certes, you are right. Patrick – we will have you on our Council again. Aye, we will. We'll welcome your advices there – eh, my lords? We ha' missed our Patrick's nimble wits and nimble tongue, to be sure. You are commanded, Master o' Gray, to attend our Privy Council henceforth, as before.'

'Your Grace is good – most generous. And I all unworthy…'

'Aye. Well. I'ph'mmm. Now – as to yon guizardry, Patrick. Wasna Leda mother to Castor and Pollux? Aye, and Helen. The fair Helen. You could ha' shown us these man. Another time, maybe – aye, another time. And I am wishful to see the swan. It was bonny…'

Presently the Master of Gray came strolling through the company that now concentrated largely on the laden tables, still naked save for his fig-leaf, but totally unconcerned. His progress was slow, for practically all the women present seemed intent on speech with him – whatever might be the reaction of their menfolk. His passage was accompanied, indeed, by an almost continuous series of shrieks, squeals and giggles, a situation which by no means appeared to embarrass him.

Almost breathless, he arrived at last at the little group which contained his wife and Mary, composing his laughing features to gravity, and carefully straightening both crown and fig-leaf with a flourish. 'Lord,' he exclaimed, 'never have I had to carry such weight of affection and esteem! Never to receive so many kisses and, h'm, even warmer tokens of enthusiasm, in so short a space! Ton my soul, I had no notion how many fair aspirants there were for the part of Leda!'

'No doubt but you will take note… for the future?' Marie observed gently.

'Exactly, my dear.'

'You were very adequate, Patrick. As always you are in such matters.'

'My thanks, heart of my heart.'

'But it would be a pity if you were to contract a chill in your exposed parts, would it not? Or to discommode or distress Mary here.'

'M'mmm.' Patrick turned to the girl – indeed his glance had all along tended to slide to her face. 'You… you were not outraged, my dear? Offended?'

'No,' she assured him simply. 'Should I have been? You are very beautiful so. I like you lacking your beard. But you should have stayed on your boat, Uncle Patrick.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes. You were king there, were you not? Here you are but a spectacle.'

Almost audibly the man swallowed, and Marie raised a handkerchief to her face. 'You… think so!' he got out.

'If your boat had come to the shore and waited, instead of you coming to King James, he would have come to you. On the boat. And all others after him. To touch you and be close to you both. It would have been a more fitting triumph I think. And the lady remained a queen and not become a trollop.'

'God save me!'

'Yes. Would you like a cloak, Uncle Patrick? I am sure that Mr. Fowler here would lend you his.'

'I… no. Not so. That will not be necessary.' The Master was clearly disconcerted. 'I thank you. I am not cold.'

'Nevertheless, Patrick, I commend Mary's advice,' Marie put in, seeking to keep her voice even and her face straight.

'Very well.' He was almost short. 'You, sir, have no complaints?' That was thrown at Mr. Bowes who stood a little back. 'Anent my procedures?'

That suave man inclined his head. 'It was featly done, sir. A notable achievement,' he said smoothly. 'Although… perhaps as much might have been achieved with less expenditure of costly fireworks?'

'Would you scrape…!' Patrick stopped, and then shrugged. 'At least it achieved its object,' he ended lightly again. 'I am restored to the Council.' And bowing sketchily to them all, he strolled away.

Bowes and Fowler exchanged glances, and drew a little way apart.

'Come, my dear – while any meats and wine remain,' Marie said, taking Mary's arm. 'You are a poppet indeed – an angel, straight from Heaven.'

'Who is Sir Francis, Aunt Marie?' the girl asked quietly, apropos of nothing.

'Eh? Sir Francis? Why, I know no Sir Francis, I think… save only, of course, Walsingham. Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth's evil Secretary of State. But he is far from here, thank God! Why, precious?'

'I but wondered.'

'So? There may be someone of that name. But… call me Marie, will you, my dear. I… I do not relish to feel so venerable.'

They had scarcely reached the now depleted tables when there was a stir, as all heads turned towards the palace once more. The occasion for this was a sound strange to hear these days in Lowland Scotland – the high wailing challenge of the bagpipes. Not a few smiling and carefree faces sobered abruptly at the strains – for little that was good was associated in Protestant and Lowland minds with that barbarous and wholly Highland instrument.

Out from a door of the palace issued first two pipers, clad in kilts and plaids of tartan, blowing lustily. Behind them came two very different-seeming gentlemen; one, large florid, proudly-striding, dressed in an extraordinary admixture of Highland and Lowland garb, bright orange satin doublet, somewhat stained, tartan trews right down to great silver-buckled brogues, wrapped partially in a vast plaid, hung with dirks, sgian-dubhs and broadsword, sparkling with barbaric jewellery, and on his dead a bonnet with three tall upstanding eagle's feathers; the other, most ordinary-looking, small, stocky and young – Ludovick, Duke of Lennox, Lord High Chamberlain, quietly dressed for riding, and evidently not a little uncomfortable beside his huge and highly colourful companion. Six more to be presumed Highland gentlemen marched behind them, all swords, targes and tartan, and then two more pipers playing approximately the same skirling jigging tune – if that it could be called – as the first pair. Though toes could have danced to that tune, The Cock o' the North' as it was called, none of the company there assembled showed sign of any such inclination.

Only King James himself started forward a little, as though to go to meet the noisy newcomers, recollected himself, and stood still, grinning and mumbling.

Mary Gray, much interested, whispered in Marie's ear. 'Who is that? That very strange man with Vicky? I have never seen the like…'

'That is my lord of Huntly,' Marie told her. 'A sort of cousin of yours, my dear.'

'Oh! The turkey-cock!' the girl said, smiling delightedly. 'I see why Father called him that.'

George Gordon, sixteenth Chief of his name, Gudeman o' the Bog, Cock o' the North, Lord of Strathbogie, Enzie and Gight, of Badenoch and Aboyne, Lieutenant of the North, fifth Earl of Huntly and principal Catholic of the realm, came stalking down towards his King with every appearance of one monarch joining another, his great purple-red face beaming. Never did Huntly travel without at least this small court of duine-wassails and pipers, never did he make an entry other than this – even when, as now, he was theoretically being brought in ward, for high treason, from nominal imprisonment in Edinburgh Castle. Only when he was within a pace or two of James did he doff his bonnet – headgear never removed for any lesser man, nor even in church, it was said – and produced what was apparently intended as a bow.

'King Jamie! King Jamie!' the Gordon boomed, not awaiting the Chamberlain's official announcement. 'God bless you, laddie! The saints preserve you! It does my auld heart good to see you.' Huntly was no more than thirty-three, but looked and acted as though twice that. He kissed the royal fingers, and then closed to envelope James in a great bear's-hug, kissing his face also. 'Man – what ha' you got on you?' he demanded, in mock alarm. 'Mother o' God – you're puffed and padded and stuffed so's I can scarce feel the laddie inside! Dia – it is Jamie Stewart, is it no'?' He bellowed great laughter, while all around fellow earls and lesser nobles, good Protestants all, frowned and muttered.

The King tried to speak, but could by no means outdo the bagpipes which were still performing vigorously at closest range. Huntly would certainly not have his personal anthem, The Cock o' the North, choked off before its due and resounding finish, so perforce all had to await, with varying expressions, until the instruments expired in choking wails.

James, strangely enough, was mildness itself, when he could make himself heard. 'Man, George,' he protested, ' 'Tis the latest. The peak o' fashion. Frae France. You wouldna have me no' in the mode?' He was stroking Huntly's arm. 'Waesucks, you've been long in coming, Geordie. I hoped I'd see you ere this. Vicky -1 told you to fetch him wi' all expedition, man

expedition.'

'We were delayed, Sire. By Sir John. By my Lord Chancellor Maitland,' Lennox began. 'He was not for releasing my lord, here. He said that it was ill advised.'

Huntly interrupted him. 'Precious soul of God! That snivelling clerk! That jumped-up notary! To seek to hold me -me, Huntly! Against your royal warrant. By the Mass, I'd ha' choked him with his own quills if I could ha' won near him for his guard. Your guard, Jamie – your Royal Guard! That pen-scratching attorney, that… that…' The Earl positively swelled with indignation, like to burst.

The King patted and soothed him as he might have gentled a favourite horse. 'Och, never heed him, Geordie – never heed him. He's a sour man, yon. Thrawn. But able, mind. Aye, and honest. Maitland has his points. Ooh, aye. He shouldna ha' spoke you ill, mind. And he shouldna ha' questioned my royal command. I'll speak a word wi' him as to that. But… never mind Maitland. It's good to see you, man. The pity that you missed the guizardry. The Master o' Gray's ploy. Och, it was right featly done…'

'No doubt, Jamie – no doubt.' Interrupting his monarch was nothing to George Gordon. 'But I will mind Maitland! I do mind Maitiand, by the Rood! And I'll be heard, whatever! As all yon guard heard his insults! God's Body – he had his men lay hands on me! On me! Your men! The Royal Guard. For that… for that I'll hae my recompense! Mother o' God, I swear it…!'

'Och, wheesht, wheesht, man. Take it not so. It's no'… it's no'… ' James was plucking agitatedly at his slack lower hp. 'See you, Geordie – here's it. Here's your recompense, then. I appoint you Captain o' my guard. Aye – that's it. Captain o' the Royal Guard. Is that no' right apt and suitable?'

If the Earl of Huntly took his time to digest this unexpected appointment, his fellow nobles around the King did not. Almost as one man, if with many voices, they protested loudly.

'Your Grace – this is impossible! Insufferable!'

'Sire – you cannot do it! Huntly is tried and condemned for treason!'

'Damnation – this is beyond all! The man's a rebel…!'

'He is a Papist, Highness. You cannot put a Papist over your Royal Guard. It's no' to be considered.' That was the Earl of Mar, stepping close. The King's boyhood companion, son of the royal guardian, who had shared to less effect the alarming George Buchanan as tutor, he frequently dared to take even greater liberties with his sovereign than did his peers.

'Aye – but he's no' a Papist. No' any more, Johnnie,' James declared earnestly. 'I have converted him, mysel'. Aye. I have been at pains to bring him to see the blessed light o' the Reformed evangel. Have I no', my lord o' Huntly?'

'Ah… just so, Sire. Exactly, as you might say. Amen. H'rr'mmm,' the Gordon concurred, eyes upturned Heavenwards, and stroking a wispy beard.

'God save us all!' somebody requested fervently.

'A pox – here's madness!' a less pious lord declared.

'Huntly converted? Not while Hell's fire burn!' a realist maintained.

'Do not be misled, Your Grace,' Mar urged. 'My lord of Huntly, I think, but cozens you. He would but humour you…'

'Not so, Johnnie – not so. My lord wouldna deal so wi' me. We have reasoned well together. Aye, long and well. At Edinburgh Castle. He couldna confute my postulations and argument. Eh, Geordie? I am assured that he will now be as a strong tower o' defence to our godly Protestant religion. Aye.' The King cleared his throat loudly, placed one hand on Huntly's shoulder and the other raised high. He raised his voice likewise. 'Hear ye, my lords. I have fetched my lord o' Huntly here this day to declare to you his devoted adherence to the Reformed faith and to announce to you that I… that we are pleased to bestow on him the hand in marriage o' the Lady Henrietta Stuart, our royal ward, daughter to our former well-loved cousin Esme, Duke o' Lennox, and sister to Duke Ludovick here present. Aye. In marriage.' James came to an abrupt end, coughed, and looked around him.

Into the silence that succeeded this announcement, pregnant and all too certainly disapproving, only one voice was raised, after a few seconds, a voice pleasantly melodious.

'How pleasant to be my lord of Huntly! How greatly to be congratulated.' The Master of Gray had returned, clothed, though with his hair still lacquered in silver. He spoke from just behind Marie and Mary – and probably only die former knew what anger and resentment was masked by those light and silky tones.

Or perhaps, not only Marie. Huntly himself turned around quickly. 'Ha – does that bird still sing?' he jerked. 'I'd ken that tongue anywhere.' He did not sound as though the knowledge gave him any satisfaction.

'The sweeter meeting for so long a parting, Cousin,' Patrick rejoined. It was the first meeting of these two since the Master's disgrace and banishment.

'Come, Patrick man,' James urged. 'Greet well my new Captain o' the Guard…' He was caressing the Gordon's hand.

'The King seems very loving towards my Lord Huntly,' Mary said.

'Loving is… accurate!' Marie returned dryly. 'Uncle Patrick, I think, was ill-pleased.'

'Ah – you perceived it also! He will be the less gratified.'

The Master of Gray's re-arrival on the scene had drawn the Duke of Lennox's glance in their direction. Rather abruptly excusing himself from the King's immediate presence, he came hurrying.

'Mary!' he exclaimed. 'Mary Gray! You, here! I' faith, is it yourself?'

'Your eyes do not deceive you, my lord Duke,' she agreed, curtsying.

'But – here's joy! Here's wonder! When…? How…? I knew naught of this. Are you but new come? To Court? Your father…? He allowed it? 'Fore God, you look beautiful, Mary! You look… you look…'

'Hush, Vicky!' She indicated the Lady Marie. 'Here's no way to behave, surely?'

'Ah. Your pardon, Mistress of Gray. I… your servant.'

'I doubt it, my lord Duke – when you cannot even serve me with a glance! Not that I blame you. You approve of Mary coming to Court? You approve of her looks? You approve of how we have dressed her? Indeed, like us, you approve altogether?'

'Yes,' he agreed, simply but vehemently. He sought to hold Mary's arm, as they stood side by side.

Gently but firmly she removed his hand. She smiled at him, however.

After a brief interval indeed with the King and Huntly, Patrick rejoined them. 'Ah, Vicky,' he said, nodding. 'My congratulations to the so happy bridegroom will scarcely extend to the bride, your unfortunate sister! And you I can scarcely congratulate on your errand to Edinburgh. If I had known… ' He shrugged, and took his wife and Mary by their arms. 'Come, my dears – the air further off is the sweeter, I vow!'

The Duke stolidly stuck to Mary's side. He seemed the merest boy in the presence of the other.

'This upraising of Huntly cannot but set back your plans, Patrick?' Marie said. 'As to Dunfermline. I am sorry.'

'It will make my course more difficult,' he admitted. 'James has kept it all devilish secret. He had need to, of course. If the Council had known, it would never have been permitted.

Had Maitland known in advance, Huntly would have been found dead in his quarters in Edinburgh Castle, I have no doubt! But… Captain of the Guard! It is a shrewd move. Now Huntly can surround himself with armed men, here in the Lowlands, as he does in the North. Until he is unseated from that position, Maitland cannot reach him.'

'Until…? Who can unseat him, Patrick?'

'The Council can. And no doubt will, in due course. No Papist may hold any office of authority under the Crown save by the Council's permission.'

'But he has professed the Protestant faith. Did you not hear? The King says that he has converted him!'

'That, my dear, can be satisfactorily controverted, I think.' Patrick produced his sweetest smile. 'Matters of religion should not be turned into a jest, should they? Have you not said as much frequently, my love?'

His wife looked at him thoughtfully. Then she inclined her fair head in the direction of Lennox. 'Ought you not to be more discreet, Patrick?' she suggested calmly.

'Vicky? Lord, Vicky's all right. He is no more overjoyed at his sister being given to Huntly than am I, I warrant?'

'I was not asked,' the Duke agreed, frowning. 'James told me only to bring Huntly here.'

'And was the Lady Henrietta asked?' Mary put in.

'I cannot think it likely,' Patrick said.

'I doubt if she has so much as met him,' Lennox added.

'That is wrong, surely,' the girl declared, very decidedly. 'She should refuse such a marriage.'

'Ha!' Patrick smiled. 'There speaks a rebel. It is not hers to refuse, my dear.'

'I would refuse to marry any man save of my own choice,' Mary said quietly.

'So you are served due warning, Patrick!' Marie observed, laughing.

'Indeed? But then, Mary lass, you are neither a duke's sister nor a king's ward.'

'For which I am well pleased.'

'I would make you a… a…' Lennox began, and then fell silent, biting his lip. The Master of Gray looked at him keenly. 'What would you make of her, Vicky?' he wondered.

'Vicky would forget that he is Duke of Lennox and near heir to the throne,' Mary answered for him. 'And that I am a land-steward's daughter.' That was firmly said. And in a different tone. 'Uncle Patrick – is the King my Lord Huntly's catamite?'

Even the Master of Gray gulped at such frankness. 'Lord, child!' he gasped. 'Here's no question to ask. In especial not at this Court! Sink me, I did not know… I would not have believed that you possessed such a word! Knew of such things…'

'The Carse of Gowrie is not the Garden of Eden, Uncle Patrick – nor is Dundee the end of the world. As I think you know well.'

'M'mmm.' Patrick glanced sidelong at his wife, who pulled a comic face. They had stopped by the lochside.

'I have heard it said that the King is so inclined,' Mary went on. 'If it is true with my Lord Huntly, then I think it is your plain duty, Vicky, to preserve your sister from him. And you, Uncle Patrick, to aid him.'

'Me…?'

'Yes. Surely such is the duty of all decent men?'

'You see, Patrick,' Marie said. 'As a decent man, your path is now clear. Has anyone ever before flattered you so?'

'A pox!' the Master groaned. 'What sort of a reformer have I brought to this Reformed Court?'

'I will speak with James,' Ludovick said. 'But he is not like to heed me. And… Hetty has to marry someone. There are worse than Huntly, I think.'

Almost pityingly she looked from one to the other. 'Poor Henrietta!' she commented.

A herald came hurrying through the throng, seeking Lennox. 'His Grace requests your presence, my lord Duke, forthwith,' he announced.

As the young man moved off, reluctantly, Mr. Bowes, who had been hanging about nearby, came close, obviously desirous of speaking to Patrick without the Duke's presence. For once his smooth brow was distinctly furrowed.

'This of Huntly, Master of Gray, is the very devil!' he declared. 'I can scarce credit it. My princess will take this but ill, sir. Huntly is… anathema.'

'I am sorry for that, Mr. Bowes. We can but seek to do what we may in, er, rectification.'

'You must do that indeed. And without delay,' the Englishman said sharply.

'But, of course.'

Mary Gray considered them both, grave-eyed.

Mr. Fowler came, almost running. 'Excellency,' he said to Mr. Bowes, 'the French Ambassador. He is speaking close with the King and the Duke. He has news, I vow – important news. He is most exercised.'

Others apparently had heard the same rumour and were moving in towards the group around the King. Patrick and Mr. Bowes did not linger.

James was looking distinctly upset. Plucking at his lip, he was blinking at the spider-thin but painfully elegant figure of the elderly M. de Menainville, Ambassador of His Most Christian Majesty who, gesticulating vehemently, was pouring out words. Huntly and the other lords, their differences seemingly for the moment forgotten, were gathered close, intent, their expressions various.

Lennox detached himself from the group and came over to Patrick's side, 'It is the King of France,' he announced. 'He is dead. We brought the French courier with us from Edinburgh. With a letter for de Menainville. This was the tidings.'

'Indeed,' the Master of Gray said, inclining his head.

Mr. Bowes was a deal more exclamatory. Tonight, his suavity was being sorely tested. 'Dead? Henri? My God -here's a to-do! He is… he was not old…'

'In God's gracious providence, it is the way of all flesh!' the Master observed piously.

James was raising his hand for silence. 'My lords, my lords,' he mumbled. 'I… we are much afflicted. Sair troubled. Our royal uncle, His Grace o' France, is dead. Aye, dead. Our ain mother's gudebrother. We… we much regret it. Aye, deeply. We must mourn him.' Vaguely he looked around him. 'We… we'll ha' to see to it, aye.'

M. de Menainville said something very rapidly in French,

eyes upturned to the cloudy sky. No one else knew what comment to make – for Henri Third of France had been a weak and treacherous nonentity, wholly under the potent thumb of his late aged tyrant of a mother, Catherine de Medici, and an unlikely subject for grief on King James's part. Yet that the King was distressed was most patent.

The Master of Gray was nowise perplexed or in doubt. 'God save King Henri the Fourth – late of Navarre!' he called out mellifluously. 'Happy France!'

'Ah. U'mmm.' James caught his eye. 'Ooh, aye,' he said.

Hurriedly the French Ambassador demonstrated diplomatic agreement in a torrent of words and gestures.

There was a vibrant silence in that garden, as all eyes turned on the Master. He had had many triumphs in his day, as well as reverses – but this was quite the most unexpected, unheralded and peculiar, and quite undeniable despite its barrenness of all advantage save to his own prestige. If James had taken his advice not so long ago, a mere few months, he would now be betrothed to the sister of the King of France – who moreover had not produced an heir in seventeen years. The cause of their monarch's distress became apparent to all.

Orkney, blunt as always, put the thoughts of many into words. 'It's no' too late to hale back the Marischal frae Denmark, is it?' he suggested.

'Aye, bring him back.'

'Put off the Danish match.'

James was gnawing his knuckles. 'I canna,' he wailed. 'It's no' possible. It's ower later, ower late. I… we… the Chancellor… we sent my lord o' Dingwall to Denmark six days syne. To marry the lassie. By proxy. For me. It was… in view o' the delay… we deemed it advisable…' The royal voice faded away.

Only a few had been privy to the Lord Dingwall's mission. Patrick himself had learned of it only two days before.

It was Patrick, for all that, who came to the King's rescue. 'It is unfortunate,' he agreed. 'But Your Grace could scarce guess that King Henri Third would thus meet an untimely fate. The Danish precaution was entirely understandable, all must admit.'

Gratefully James looked at him. 'Aye, Patrick – that is so.

We werena to ken. But… you were right, man. Waesucks, you were right!'

'It so happened that way, Highness, on this occasion. Another time… ' The Master shrugged, and smiled kindly. He had made his point – or had it made for him – for all that mattered in Scotland to perceive. And gained doubly in virtue by his forbearance from saying 'I told you so'. Undoubtedly his credit was well restored – and his position on the Council would be the stronger.

All recognised his triumph – even though not all rejoiced in it. Only Mary Gray expressed her foolish feminine doubts a little later when the company began to move into the palace banqueting hall for the dancing.

'Uncle Patrick,' she asked seriously, at his elbow. 'Are you not glad, really, that the Princess Catherine of Navarre is not to be queen in Scotland? Old and ugly and unchaste as she is?'

He looked down at her, and said nothing.

'And you said, did you not, that the King of France met an untimely fate? I do not understand why you should have said that.'

The man's face for a moment or so went very still, expressionless. Then he raised a hand to touch and pat his lacquered silver hair. 'Did… did I say that Mary?' he asked, taut-voiced.

'Yes. I thought it strange, when Vicky and the King only said that he was dead. Also, you were not surprised, I think. You knew already, did you not?'

'No!' he jerked, glancing around swiftly, to ascertain that none overheard them. 'God's eyes – how should I know, girl? And, a pox – what is it to you? Fiend seize you – I'll thank you to mind your own affairs!' When she did not answer or look up, he frowned. 'I am sorry. But… Lord, was I a fool to bring you here?' he demanded. 'To Court?'

'You may send me away again, if you will,' she pointed out quietly.

'No doubt. But… do you want to go, lass?' 'No, Uncle Patrick.'

'Then' – he mustered a smile again – '… then, my dear, my strange, shrewd and damned dangerous daughter – be assured to remain my friend, on my side, will you? For I would not like you as enemy, 'fore God!'

'How could I be that?' she asked simply.

Looking patient but determined, the Duke of Lennox came up to her. 'Mary,' he requested, 'will you dance with me?'

'Why yes, Vicky – in due course. But there is no music, as yet.'

'No. But…' – he waved his hand over towards a group of smirking gallants and lordlings who stood and jostled each other – 'these are speaking of you. They would dance with you. All of them. Say that you will dance with me, Mary.'

'That I will.' She laughed, and patted his hand kindly. 'I will. But not all the dances…'