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

Chapter Seven

THE Court moved back to Edinburgh in only a few days. This was a surprise, and much sooner than had been intended -sooner undoubtedly than the King would have wished, for James much preferred residence at Falkland or Stirling or even Linlithgow to adorning his capital city of Edinburgh. Nevertheless it was the King's own sudden decision. The Earl of Huntly was to be married, and as quickly as possible – and Edinburgh, at Holyroodhouse, was unquestionably the right and most suitable venue for a near-royal wedding.

The urgency of Huntly's nuptials was of course by no means occasioned by the usual stress of circumstance, the bride and groom scarcely being acquainted with each other. The need was pressing nevertheless, from the royal point of view. The Gordon's abrupt rise to favour was far from being accepted by the Court in general and the Kirk party in particular – the man's natural arrogance by no means assisting. Despite James's assertions, Huntly's adherence to the Protestant faith was openly scouted. He was shunned, save by sycophants, and termed a Highland barbarian – though in fact he was no true Highlander. Most serious of all, somehow Sir John Maitland got to know of the matter the very next day – which indicated that somebody had despatched a swift courier to Edinburgh that selfsame night – and he sent an immediate and strongly-worded protest to James, declaring that he would resign the chancellorship forthwith were Huntly not at least dismissed from the office of Captain of the Royal Guard.

The King, though much distressed, was stubborn. He confided in the sympathetic Master of Gray that all misunderstood and misjudged him. His elevation of Huntly was not merely out of affection for his well-loved Geordie Gordon, but for the betterment of the realm, the ultimate bringing together of the warring Catholic and Protestant factions, and the furtherance of the true religion. Without Huntly, the other Catholic lords, Enrol, Montrose, Crawford and the rest, would be leaderless. It was a serious exercise in statecraft, the mumbling monarch stressed. Patrick declared that he fully understood and concurred, but advised caution, with perhaps some temporising and dissimulation in difficult circumstances. He was even notably civil to Huntly himself. James at least was appreciative. But on one issue he was adamant; the marriage with the Lady Henrietta Stuart must go forward at once. A wedding, by the Reformed rites, with the King's close cousin and personal ward, would establish Huntly's position in the regime more securely than anything else. The Master, as ever, bowed to the inevitable with commendable grace.

So all repaired across the Forth to Edinburgh, and Mary Gray found herself installed in the Earl of Orkney's rag-tag and raffish establishment in the neglected east wing of the palace of Holyroodhouse which had formerly been part of the old Abbey buildings. Patrick, as Master of the Wardrobe, was to have quarters in the more modern part of the palace, but as yet these premises were not ready for him.

My lord of Orkney's household was an unusual one – and as stirring as it was singular. A family man par excellence, he liked to be surrounded both by his offspring and his current bedmates – and the latter were apt to be only a little less numerous than the former. This friendly and comprehensive suite demanded a deal of accommodation, for Orkney's reproductive prowess was famous, indeed phenomenal, and the thirteen legitimate progeny were as a mere drop in the bucket compared with his love-children, of whom no final count was ever possible or attempted – and only a percentage of whom could, of course, be conveniently housed in their sire's vicinity. All who could, however, lived together in approximate amity, along with a contemporary selection of lady-friends. To term these last as mistresses would be inaccurate and unsuitable; for one thing, there were too many of them – they could hardly all be mistresses; for another, seldom were any of them old enough aptly to bear such a tide; moreover mistress as a designation has overtones of dignity about it, of orderly arrangement – and assuredly there was nothing either dignified or orderly about the high-spirited, boisterous and lusty Orkney household. King James therefore, was thankful to turn over this decaying, rambling and far-out extension of Holyroodhouse to his chronically impoverished uncle, to be quit of him and his entourage – and to hope that the noise of it would not unduly disturb the more respectable quarters. It was noticeable, however, by the observant, that there was a not infrequent drift eastwards by some of the respectable, of an evening, for Robert Stewart was the soul of hospitality and prepared to share all things with practically all comers. How the Lady Marie, eldest of his legitimate brood, serene, fastidious and discreet, could have issued from this nest was a mystery to all who knew her. The Lady Jean, undoubtedly, was more typical.

The Master of Gray kept his own little menage as separate as was possible – and spoke to his father-in-law forcefully and to the point on the subject of Mary Gray, whose youth and loveliness made an immediate impact on the roving eyes not only of Orkney himself but of the regiment of his sons, sons-in-law and less certainly connected male dependents; though so positive and uninhibited a family-circle was not to be held at arm's length very effectively. Not that Patrick need have worried, it seemed – for Mary promptly if unassumingly adopted the entire extraordinary household as her own, apparently taking it and its peculiarities quite for granted. Clad in a sort of unconscious armour of her own, compounded of essential innocence, friendliness, self-possession and inborn authority, she was uncensorious, companionable and happy. If individuals, in the grip of liquor or other foolishness, sought to take liberties, she had learned well in her native Carse of Gowrie how to take care of herself, if in a fashion not usual amongst Court ladies – so that, indeed, only the second day after their arrival, the Master of Orkney, heir to his father, perforce went about with two long red scratches down his smiling face, and moreover enjoyed having them tended and cosseted by the forgiving donor into the bargain.

Huntly and the Lady Henrietta Stuart were wed only a week and a day after the return to Edinburgh, almost in unseemly haste. The bride, a pale quiet girl of sixteen, appeared to be entirely apathetic, and made considerably less impression than did her train of maidenly attendants, gathered together at short notice, including the Lady Jean Stewart and no fewer than four other high-spirited daughters of the King's uncle, these being conveniently to hand, and not fussy about religious allegiance – and all, it was pointed out, by different mothers. Mary Gray was to have been recruited for the bridal retinue, but surprised all by her refusal, polite but firm, unusual an honour as this represented for one in her position. Since she did not think that the marriage was right, she pointed out, it would ill become her to assist at it, even in the most minor capacity. From this peculiar attitude none could budge her, try as Patrick and Ludovick might. The fact that she seemed to be the only person at Court so concerned, including the Lady Hetty herself, made no difference.

Neither the ceremony itself nor the festivities thereafter were just as the King would have wished – whatever Huntly himself felt, who appeared to treat the entire business in a somewhat flippant and casual manner. Lack of time for due preparation was partly responsible, together with the fact that the royal treasury was ever insufficiently full for all the demands upon it – and James's own wedding celebrations, due in a month or so when his bride should have been brought from Denmark, must not be prejudiced. Huntly himself, of course, was rich enough, richer than his monarch undoubtedly, but he was perhaps understandably disinclined to go to any great expense to entertain large numbers of his enemies -which approximately would be the position, for his own friends were in the main far away in the north, and, being Catholics, unlikely to desire to attend any such heretical nuptials anyway. Moreover, the costs of a great marriage were traditionally the responsibility of the bride's family – and the Duke of Lennox lacked wealth. If the entertainment had to be on a modest scale, however, at least there was no embarrassing cold-shouldering of the occasion, no undignified paucity of guests; the King saw to that by the simple expedient of commanding the presence of the entire Court at the ceremony, rather than merely inviting it.

He was less successful over the officiating clergy, unfortunately, for the Kirk was made of stern stuff. Principal Andrew Melville of St. Andrews, the acknowledged leader of the militant and dominant Calvinist extremists, flatly refused, in the name of his Saviour, to perform the ceremony for such a notorious former enemy of Christ's Kirk and doubtful convert, and his reverend colleagues took their cue from him, so that even Master David Lindsay, the King's favourite divine and royal chaplain, found a convenient illness to excuse him. James had to fall back on Andrew Davidson, Reformed Bishop of St. Boswells and former holy Lord Abbot of Inchaffray -who, incidentally amongst other things was Mariota Gray's father and Mary's other grandfather, completely as he ignored the relationship. This prelatical celebrant was not just what the occasion demanded, admittedly – almost any of the sternly Calvinist divines would have been better – but at least he conducted the union on approximately Protestant lines and spared the restive congregation the usual two-hours sermon thereafter. Also, his rich crimson episcopal robes made a better showing against Huntly's barbaric tartan-hung and bejewelled splendour than would have the plain black gown and stark white bands of Geneva. The King himself gave away the bride, and surprisingly, the Master of Gray appeared as principal groomsman to his far-out cousin.

The banquet thereafter was a comparatively dull and sedate affair, Huntly's unpopularity, the King's role as host, and the inferior quality of the entertainment all combining to inhibit the traditional excesses of the bridal feast. Indeed, carefree horseplay was wholly non-existent, despite one or two gallant attempts by the Orkney faction, and even the public disrobing and ceremonial bedding of the bride and groom, normal highlight of the occasion, was dispensed with – for who would dare lay hands on the fiercely proud and unpredictable Gordon chief surrounded by his Highland caterans armed to the teeth? In consequence the thing degenerated into mere steady eating and drinking, interspersed with uninspired speeches which even the Master of Gray's barbed wit only spasmodically enlivened. So humdrum and disheartening was the cumulative effect of all this that something in the nature of a spontaneous migration eventually developed at the lower end of the hall towards my Lord Orkney's quarters, where no doubt more spirited celebrations were almost bound to develop as antidote and compensation. Soon only the inner and official group around the King and Huntly remained; the women, including the heavy-eyed bride, having been got rid of, these others settled down to an evening's hard drinking, with Highland toasts and pledges innumerable.

When Patrick was able decently to withdraw, the King being noisily asleep and Huntly becoming indiscriminately pugnacious, he strolled over to his own quarters, thankful for the fresh air, to find Orkney's wing in a vastly different state. The entire range of buildings appeared to shake and quiver with life and noise, not a window unlit, the place seemingly all but bursting with active humanity. Shouts, varied music, raucous singing, screams of female laughter, and an almost continuous succession of bangs, thumps and clattering, emanated from the establishment. Patrick had difficulty in even gaining an entrance, two unidentified bodies lying in close and presumably enjoyable union just behind the door, so that he had to squeeze in and step over jumbled clothing and active white limbs even to reach the stair-foot. Thereafter his progress up to his own modest attic chambers on the third floor took on the nature of an obstacle-course, the winding turnpike stairway providing a convenient series of perches, partially screened from each other, for sundry varieties of love-making, physical self-expression, intimate argument and bibulation, up, down and through which screeching girls were being chased by the more agile-minded. Few of the doors were closed, and within, the rooms were littered with wedding garments of many of the royal guests. Giggles, gruntings, and shrieks of not too urgent protest followed him all the way upstairs, and from somewhere indeterminate the great bull-like voice of the Earl and Bishop of Orkney bellowed for wine, wine – to which no one appeared to pay the least attention. The servants, it seemed, were as fully engaged as were their betters.

Patrick found his wife and Mary sitting together alone in one of their three attic rooms – although one of the others at least was patently much occupied. Marie was stitching at a tambour-frame, and the girl rolling hanks of the silken thread into balls. The baby, Andrew, slept undisturbed in his cradle. They made somehow an extraordinary picture in that setting, so entirely normal and respectable did they seem.

The man began to laugh, quietly, with real mirth. 'God save us – virtue triumphant!' he exclaimed. 'Was ever such propriety so improperly enshrined! My sweetings – how do you doit?'

'What would you have us to do, Patrick?' Marie asked.

'Lord knows,' he admitted. 'Just what you are doing, I suppose. But… one thing I do know – we must get out of this den if we are to have any peace this night. Your peculiar family is in fullest cry, my love. Gather together some night clothes and blankets, and we shall seek shelter elsewhere for the nonce.'

'Gladly. But where? We cannot go traipsing the streets of the town at this hour. And the palace is full to overflowing.'

'Save for one quiet corner,' her husband pointed out. 'I warrant our unpopular Lord Chancellor Maitland's quarters in the north wing are not overcrowded. They will be a haven of peace, I vow.'

'Maitland!' Marie exclaimed. 'The Chancellor? Your worst enemy…?'

'Whom worthy and righteous folk would say that I should love and cherish… would they not?'

She ignored that. 'But the man who worked your downfall? Who clamoured for your blood…?'

'The same, my dear.'

Mary spoke, without interrupting her winding. 'I overheard my lord Earl of Moray say, but yesterday, that he believed that the Master of Gray was privily seeing a deal of the Chancellor.'

'The devil you did!' The smile was wiped off Patrick's face. 'Moray? Say it to whom?'

'To Mr. Bowes, it was, Uncle Patrick.'

'A pox! I… I… ' He paused. 'You have devilish long ears, girl! You overhear too much!'

'Great lords and gentlemen think not to whisper when only such as I am near,' she pointed out, equably as frankly. 'When I do hear your name spoken, Uncle Patrick, would you have me not to listen?'

'M'mmm. Well… I suppose not.'

'Is it true, Patrick,' Marie asked, 'that you are secretly seeing much of Maitland?'

'What if it is?' he returned. 'In my present pass, I cannot afford to be at odds with the Chancellor of Scotland.'

'Knowing you, I suppose that I must accept that. Just as you made common cause with Queen Elizabeth, who so shamefully had betrayed you. It is Maitland that I do not understand. What can you offer him, I wonder, in exchange for his good offices?'

'Tush, woman – leave statecraft to those who understand it! A truce to talk of this sort.' It was not often that the man spoke thus to her. His glance shot warningly in Mary's direction. 'Gather you together the night gear and wrap up Andrew, and I shall go and apprise Maitland of your coming…'

'No, Patrick. You may be prepared to toady to Maitland, but I will not be beholden to the man who sought the execution of my husband… and who tortured Davy Gray!'

'Toady…? I mislike your choice of words, Marie – by God I do! And… Davy, eh? Perhaps the beating of Davy weighs even heavier against Maitland in your eyes than his impeachment of me?'

'Do you choose to believe so, Patrick?' That was calm, evenly said.

He bit his lip.

'It is none so ill here,' Mary intervened quickly. 'The noise will abate presently, to be sure. Already it is quieter than it was, I think…'

'Yes, there is no need to move,' Marie took her up. 'None are doing us hurt here…'

'You may be well enough,' Patrick rejoined. 'To you, after all, this is nothing new. You were reared in this extraordinary household. But with Mary…! I would not have this squalor even touch the hem of her skirt! What goes on in this house…'

'You are become exceeding nice, of a sudden, Patrick? And there are more kinds of squalor than one,' his wife pointed out. 'I make no excuse for my father's habits, for I have ever condemned them. But are there not worse ills for Mary to observe than the mere lusty sins of the flesh? Lies, intrigues, back-biting, dissembling, dishonour, treachery? Statecraft, if you prefer the word!'

The man went very white, dark eyes blazing. 'I'll thank you to be silent!' he jerked.

'Silent, yes. I have been silent for too long, perhaps, Patrick. Silence is a quality much in demand for the wife of the Master of Gray – and I do not come of a notably silent family, as you have observed! There are times when it would serve you but ill to keep silent – and I think that this is one. I know all the signs, Patrick – I have seen them so often ere this. You are about to launch some dark and underhand plot, some scheming subtle venture, in which someone will be direly hurt… for the benefit of the Master of Gray! Is it too late to ask that you stay your hand, Patrick? Too much to ask you to renounce it?'

'What nonsense is this? Have you taken leave of your wits, Marie, for God's sake? With an obvious effort, he controlled himself. 'See you, statecraft is none so ill a business. It cuts both ways – works much good for many as well as some small hurt for a few. The realm cannot be served without it. My life it is. I am on the Privy Council again…'

'The Council will hear naught of this that you are now plotting, I warrant! Or your meetings with Maitland would not be secret.'

'It is better that way. For the weal of the realm. For the King's peace.'

'The realm! The King! Oh, Patrick – who do you deceive? Not yourself, and not me. Not even Mary here, I think.'

Mary looked from one to the other gravely, hurt in her eyes. 'Do not speak to each other so,' she pleaded. 'Please do not.'

Both reacted to that, and at once. Patrick took a pace towards her, changed his mind, and turning strode to the door and out, without another word. Marie rose from her frame, and came to enfold the younger woman in her arms.

'My heart, my sweet Mary!' she cried. 'Forgive me. That was unkindly done. I was foolishly carried away. I do not know what made me behave so. I am sorry!'

Mary kissed her. 'Do not fret, Lady Marie,' she said. 'All will be well. I know it. Uncle Patrick must scheme and plot. As he says truly, it is his life. And he is very good at it, is he not? He will not stop it, I think. So… we must just scheme and plot also. So that whenever he makes a mistake, we may perhaps right it. You and I. Is that not best?'

Marie drew back a little, to stare at the girl, wonderingly. 'Oh, Mary my dear,' she exclaimed. 'Bless you. But… you do not know what you say. What you propose. What goes on in Patrick's handsome head.'

'I think that I do. I am very like him, you know – very like him indeed. My father – Davy Gray – says that we come out of the same mould. It may be that the same goes on in my own head. Good and ill, both.' She smiled, warmly. 'Is it not… convenient?'

'Lord…!' the Lady Marie said, shaking her head.

James was in high good humour. The hunt had found in the boggy ground around Duddingston Loch, a mere mile over the hill from Holyroodhouse; it would have been strange had they not, perhaps, considering the pains taken by the King's foresters to ensure that there were always deer in the royal demesne, however tame and imported – and however many Edinburgh citizens with a taste for venison must hang to discourage poaching. They had killed, after an excellent chase, up on the high ridge near Craigmillar Castle to the south, James himself striking the fatal blow. Moreover, his favourite goshawk, set at a pair of mallard from the loch against Johnny Mar's bird, had flown fast and true, stooped on the drake and brought it down cleanly, whilst Mar's hawk had gone bickering off after a heron to no advantage. So the King smirked and chuckled, railing his former playmate, and declaring that his fine Geordie Gordon should have been there to witness it – for Huntly, who had set out with the rest from the palace, had unfortunately been recalled by a messenger on seemingly urgent business, and had not as yet rejoined them.

It was almost certain that no further quarry would be found, save down in the great swampy area by the loch again, for this was no hunting country in fact, far too populous an area, too near to the city, for deer to lurk save in the marshy, reedy sanctuary west of Duddingston. The head forester, therefore, advised that they return downhill, and suggested that the scrub woodland around Peffermill was the likeliest place to try, with the wind south-westerly and the easten area already disturbed. James thought it would be better further west still, at Priest-field perhaps, but the Master of Gray agreed convincingly with the forester, pointing out the much more free run that they could have from Peffermill, leaving Priestfield for even a possible third attempt. The King's good humour, plus his intemperance for the sport, allowed him to agree.

It was Mary Gray's first royal hunt, this twenty-second day of August. Only the day before, James had made official announcement that, allowing for all contrary winds and possible delays, his special emissary the Lord Dingwall, acting as his proxy, should have wedded the Princess Anne in Denmark by now, and that therefore he, James, by the Grace of God, King, could be considered to be a married man, and Scotland to have a queen. That this queen was only the second daughter of the King of small Denmark, and not the sister of the childless King of mighty France, was a pity, but must be accepted philosophically. James therefore concentrated now on the youth – she was barely fifteen – and declared pulchritude of his bride, and asserted that he was madly in love. Contemporaneously with the royal announcement had come a proclamation from the Lord Chamberlain, publishing the names of the new queen's household. The Countess of Huntly would be principal Lady-in-Waiting, and amongst others, the Lady Jean Stewart one of the Maids of Honour, and Mary Gray an extra Woman of the Bedchamber. So now Mary held an official position at Court, and should begin to take a fuller part in its activities.

With Jean, she rode between Ludovick of Lennox and Patrick, up near the front of the colourful cavalcade, and even the King, who was apt to be more impressed by male good looks than by female, remarked on her fresh young beauty, and leeringly dug an elbow in the Duke's ribs and mumbled congratulatory jocularities. It was accepted by all, undoubtedly that she was Lennox's mistress.

Down the hill through the fields towards the low-lying marshland between Craigmillar and the great towering bulk of Arthur's Seat they streamed, the head forester and his assistants first, followed by a small detachment of the royal guard, then the King and his falconers. It was in the group of lords and their ladies, immediately behind, that Mary and Jean rode, thanks to the lofty status of their escorts. Further back straggled the field of fully three-score laughing, chattering riders, no great proportion of them vitally absorbed by the hunting, but only there because it was expected of them, it was the thing to do – and since it was their monarch's passion, because those who showed no interest in it might well offend the source of privilege, position and preferment. Some, having put in an appearance, would undoubtedly take the opportunity quietly to fall behind and make their way back to the city, rather than put in some further hours of pounding about the thickets and waterlogged unpleasantness of Duddingston Myres.

From the hamlet of Peffermill a causeway led out into the great green marsh area. The normal procedure would be for the hunt to wait here, while the foresters went in to try to find and rouse a skulking stag amongst the water-meadows, and force him out to hard ground for the sportsmen to chase. But James, timorous and hesitant in almost all else, was a paladin where hunting was concerned, frequently indeed himself doing the work of his foresters. Nothing would serve now, but that he and all others who called themselves men, should plunge into the morass and beat out the place thoroughly. Sighing and shrugging, his younger nobles and some of their more spirited ladies prepared to follow on. This had happened before. The dozen or so members of the bodyguard looked depressed.

As James clattered on to the causeway, past the last of the buildings, the millhouse itself, a stout figure came hurrying out, calling and waving and panting, apron still round a wide middle – no doubt the miller himself. The King frowned impatiently, and gestured a rebuff, for this was no time for petitions and the like. The Master of Gray, however, reined

up and over to the man. He exchanged a few words with him before hurrying on after the others.

'Heed nothing, Sire,5 he called out. 'Just some complaint of robbers and vagrants. As ever.'

The King waved back in acknowledgment.

Where the causeway forked, perhaps a quarter-of-a-mile in, was the obvious place to spread out. The foresters shouted to that effect, and James was ordering his reluctant guard to fan out left and right, with the group of nobles still a little way behind, when the green leafy place of tall reeds, alder spinneys and drooping willows suddenly seemed to erupt in noise and men. Out from the plentiful cover, as at a given signal, poured scores of unkempt and ragged figures, yelling, brandishing swords and clubs and daggers, some mounted, some on foot. The leaders notably were dressed in tartan and wore Highland-type bonnets.

'A Gordon! A Gordon!' range out on all sides. From somewhere unseen, a single piper skirled the rousing notes of The Cock o' the North.

All was immediate chaos amongst the hunting party. The guard was already spread out on either side, dispersed. James all but fell off his handsome black Barbary in alarm, staring wildly about him. This was of all things, indubitably, what he most dreaded, victim already of many abduction attempts. His hoarse cries were almost like those of a trapped animal.

Only a small part of the hunt cavalcade could see what was going on, owing to the windings of the causeway amongst the scrub woodlands, and its narrowness stringing out the company almost indefinitely. Indeed most, having few ambitions to act as bearers in a quagmire, were deliberately hanging back. Most of the lords in the foremost group, however, after a momentary hesitation, spurred on to the aid of their monarch, tugging at their swords. Even the readiest, however, must needs follow Patrick Gray who had his sword drawn almost as soon as the attackers appeared, and dashed forward with ringing cries.

'The King! The King!' he shouted. 'Save His Grace!' And then, 'Guard! Guard! Back here! To the King! Back to the King!'

The men-at-arms who had each more or less been riding at the nearest of the assailants, were somewhat confused by these gallant orders. Some turned back indeed, some hesitated, others pressed on. Those who came back became entangled with the hurriedly oncoming lords – for the level and firm ground of the causeway was narrow, and space for excited horses and riders circumscribed to say the least of it.

Confusion indeed reigned all around, and not only on the side of the defenders. The attackers themselves appeared to be almost as uncertain in their assault, however vigorously brandished their weapons and fierce their cries. If there was a concerted plan of action, it was not evident. Men rushed and darted, wheeled and dodged and sallied, by no means all pressing in on the King himself. The clash of steel, the thudding of blows, the high whinnying of horses, all rose to mingle with the monotonous chant of 'A Gordon! A Gordon!' and to all but drown that turbulent clan's challenging battle-anthem on the bagpipes.

One of the noblemen, at least, did not aid in the confusion. Instead of rushing forward with his elders, the Duke of Lennox reined his mount right round and came plunging back to Mary's side. There he drew sword, and so sat, his pleasant blunt features tense, jaw dourly set.

Mary, flushing, leaned over to grip his arm. 'No, no, Vicky!' she whispered. 'Not here. Up yonder – with the King. You should be with him there.' Uneasily she glanced round at the few other women, clustered together there. It was not often that Mary Gray looked embarrassed. Fear did not seem to have touched her, as yet.

'James is well enough served,' Ludovick returned. 'All run to his aid.'

'But…' Mary, noting that set look, did not press him. 'At least, look to these ladies. Not me only,' she urged, low-voiced.

With no very eager or gallant expression, the young man tossed a look at the small group of flustered and alarmed women. He nodded. 'Back,' he told them, gesturing along the causeway. 'Back to the others. Toward the mill.'

Most of them, with only uncertain glances forward toward their menfolk, did as they were bidden. Mary, however, sat her horse, one of the Duke's own, unmoving, gazing ahead with keenest interest rather than apprehension. Jean, after a few moments hesitation, elected to remain with her. Lennox placed his mount between them and the trouble in front.

It was very difficult to ascertain just what was happening, so congested was the causeway up there. The King, at any rate, seemed to be safe, back amongst a tight group of his nobles, and cowering in a state of near collapse. Fighting of a sort was proceeding at a number of points, so far without any noticeable casualties. The Master of Gray undoubtedly was foremost and most militant amongst the Court party, dashing hither and thither, sword waving, shouting instructions, urgings, threats.

The royal guard, although outnumbered and dispersed, appeared to be gaining the upper hand; at least, the attackers seemed notably averse to coming to grips with them. For that matter, there was a lack of close-quarters engagement all round. The famed Highland dash and ferocity was perhaps only largely vocal, after all.

Three rough-looking individuals, swathed in tartan plaids, came yelling down the line, their very third-rate horses splashing in the reeds and surface-water at the side of the causeway. At the martial gestures of the Earl of Mar and the Lord Yester, they drew away prudently and came on towards Lennox and the girls. The Duke, frowning and a little pale, prepared to take on all three.

More huntsmen were coming up from the rear now, however, bewildered but alerted by the women who had ridden back. The trio of bullyrooks presumably decided in the circumstances that a closer approach would be inadvisable, and contented themselves with standing where they were, shaking fists and weapons and chanting their slogan. Mary, when she perceived that they were not in fact going to attack, was not so frightened as to perceive some other things also; for instance that there was no sign of blood about these warriors, even on their swords; that their voices did not sound in the least Highland; and that under their plaids their clothing seemed to be quite Lowland and ordinary.

The winding of a horn from somewhere out of sight forward sounded high above all the shouting and clash. It had an extraordinary and immediate effect on the entire scene -indeed, not even the rockets of Patrick's pageant of Leda and the Swan were more salutory in their effect. On the part of the assailants, all fighting was broken off forthwith. With a unanimity and discipline that had been somewhat lacking in their advance, the attackers obeyed what was clearly a signal to retire. Men turned about in their tracks and went plunging back into the long reeds and waterlogged thickets of the myre, mounted and foot alike splashing away prompdy and wholeheartedly, heading into the cover nearest to them like so many water-rats released near their chosen habitat. If the assault had been a failure, there was no foolish reluctance about conceding the fact.

No single victim was left behind to witness to the fury of the attack.

Patrick Gray made the only gesture at pursuit. He rode a little way after one of the mounted men who elected to flee along the fork of the causeway eastward. He soon came trotting back however, sword still in hand, and actually laughing. Mary, now alerted to such things, noted that his sword was unblooded also.

He found the lords clustered round their trembling sovereign, congratulating him on his escape, inveighing against all traitors, dastards and poltroons, and preening themselves a little on prompt and effective action. Lennox and his two ladies rode forward to rejoin the group.

'All gone, Sire,' the Master of Gray called out, sheathing his sword at last with something of a flourish… 'Bolted like coneys for their holes! They will not return, I swear! You are not hurt? They did not reach Your Grace?'

Although James could not yet find words to answer, the others did, volubly. Loud and long were the assertions, questions, demands. Everywhere the name of Huntly was being cursed and reviled.

Patrick appeared to doubt the general assumption. 'I cannot believe that this was my lord of Huntly's work,' he said, when he could make himself heard. 'He would never so move against His Grace's royal person! 'Tis highest treason! After all the King's love for him? No, no. Moreover, Huntly surely, had he planned such wickedness, would have worked it to better effect. These, I vow, were but feeble warriors…'

'They were Gordons, man! Did you no' hear them, 'fore

God? Huntly's own ruffians!'

'Who else leads Gordon, but Huntly? That curst tribe!'

'Tartan savages they were! Hieland cut-throats!'

'Aye. And were they any more valiant at Brig o' Dee? They fled then, the arrogant Gordons…'

'My lords,' Patrick declared, waving his hand. 'It may be as you say. But let us not judge too hastily. Huntly is not here to answer for himself…'

'No, by God – he's no'! Where is he, then? Why turned he back…?'

'Aye – where is the forsworn Papist? He knew well no' to come hunting this day!'

Patrick shrugged elegant shoulders.

The King, unspeaking, was urging his tall horse through the press now, back, southward along the causeway toward Peffermill again, head down, eyes darting. He pushed and prodded his lords, to have them out of his way, all fear, hurt and suspicion. He answered none who addressed him, met no eyes, uttered no words although his thick lips seemed to be forming them. On he urged his mount, regardless of how many he forced off the causeway into the myre. In jostling disorder the strung-out hunt turned itself around and headed whence it had come.

Somehow Patrick Gray managed to draw ahead, and as they emerged on to the firm and open ground near the mill, went cantering towards the millhouse itself, authoritatively demanding wine and sustenance for His Grace the King.

James, still trembling almost uncontrollably, allowed himself to be persuaded to dismount, and shambled into the miller's house, supported by the Master of Gray and the Earl of Mar.

Lennox was about to follow the other great lords inside, when Mary laid a hand on his arm.

'Vicky,' she said quietly. 'Your sister, the Lady Hetty. How greatly do you love her?'

'Eh…? Hetty?' He shrugged, French-style. 'I know her but little. She was reared in France, with my mother, while Patrick brought me here. We are… not close.'

'But she's your sister. I believed that you owed her a duty – to save her from being wed to my Lord Huntly. But now she is his wife, for better or worse, you owe her another duty, do you not?'

Uncertainly he looked at her.

'She is Countess of Huntly, now. If ill befall her husband in this, she must suffer also.'

'If Huntly is rogue enough to misuse James and attack his King's person, he must needs pay the price, Mary. The price of treason.'

She shook her head. 'Huntly may indeed be a rogue. But this roguery, I think, is not his. Here was no treason, Vicky.' Sitting their horses side by side, she spoke close to the young man's ear. 'Could you not see it? See that it was all a plot? But not of Huntly's making. Those were no true Highland-men, no true Gordons. It was no true attack. No blood was spilt, that I saw. All were too careful for themselves. None pressed close to the King. It was but play-acting, nothing more. I am sure. To bring down Huntly.'

'M'mmm.' Ludovick rubbed his chin. 'You think it, Mary? All that? The fighting, to be sure, was but half-hearted…'

'Yes. So the Lady Hetty must be warned, Vicky. And Huntly also. Before… before his enemies have their way. Before a great injustice is done.'

'But who…?'

'My Lord Huntly has many enemies. He makes them apace. But that does not merit… this.'

Her companion frowned. 'Nor is he any friend of mine,' he pointed out. 'And if I go now, hasten back to the city and leave James, it will be noted. When Huntly is warned, in time to flee, it will be Lennox his new gudebrother who warned him. To the King's declared hurt.'

'That is true. I had not thought of that. Yes, you must stay. I will go. Give me something of yours, Vicky, that I may show to them. Lest Huntly does not believe such as myself. Your signet-ring – that he will recognise…'

'Aye – take it, Mary. If you think that is best. God knows if this is wise…'

'It is right. Fair. Is that not enough?'

'I do not like you to go alone…'

'Why not? It is but a mile or two. If I cannot gain entry to Huntly, I shall ask the Lady Marie to aid me. All know her. Tell my Uncle Patrick that I felt weary. Upset by the stramash. And went back. Go in now, Vicky – to the King.'

Mary reined her horse round, waved to Jean, and rode off eastwards.

In the crowded millhouse, James sat crouched over a rough table, gulping and spilling small ale from a pewter tankard, pale but apparently recovering. Every now and again he reached out an uncertain hand to pat the arm of the Master of Gray standing close by, whom he evidently looked upon as his saviour. So far, the name of Huntly had not crossed his lips. Those around him, however, made up for his omission. On all hands were demands for the Gordon's immediate arrest, trial, even execution. After all, he was still technically under sentence of death for treason, from the Privy Council, for the Brig o' Dee Catholic rising. The King's personal pardon had never been officially confirmed by the Council, dominated as it was by the Kirk party. Only Patrick Gray raised a voice on Huntly's behalf – which may have been partly responsible for James's obvious gratitude and trust. He was pointing out to all, that he had recognised none of the Gordon lairds in the assault, when Ludovick came in.

'I agree with the Master of Gray,' that young man announced, jerkily. 'It may be that Huntly himself had no hand in this. Only, perhaps, his enemies!'

All eyes turned on him – and none more sharply than Patrick's. A chorus of protest and derision arose from the other lords.

'There speaks a prudent and generous voice,' the Master commended.

'And the Countess o' Huntly's brother!' someone added.

Something of an uproar followed. It faded only as a newcomer pushed his way urgently into the crowded low-ceiled room, clad in the royal livery – indeed, Sir John Home, lieutenant of the King's guard.

'Sire,' he announced. 'Instant tidings from my Lord Chancellor Maitland.' He laid a folded and sealed letter before the King. 'For your immediate eye, Highness.'

James picked up the paper gingerly in shaking fingers, held it away from him as though it might carry the plague, turning it this way and that. Then, the seal still unbroken, he handed

it to the Master of Gray, signing for him to open and read it.

Patrick did as indicated. The letter proved to have a second paper within it. He glanced at the contents, and his fine eyebrows rose and his mouth pursed.

James peered up at him, in mute question. As did all present.

'Your Grace,' he said slowly, almost hesitandy for that confident man. 'The Chancellor has… has come upon a letter. This letter. Intercepted it. From Huntly. It bears his seal, see you. It is to my lord of Livingstone. At Callendar. Requiring him to muster men and arms. Secretly. To be ready to march. In the service of the Holy Catholic Church and the true and ancient faith…'

He got no further before his words were drowned in a flood of furious outcry, passionate, continuous, demanding. Louder and louder grew the din, so that Patrick, shrugging, laid down the papers.

As though moved by a force outside himself, James rose unsteadily to his feet, and so stood for a few moments, ill-shapen features twisted and contorted with emotion, great liquid eyes heavy with sorrow, like some dog ill-used by its master. Then he raised a hand for silence.

'My lords,' he said, 'so be it.' His voice, now that he had found it at last, was stronger, more resolute, than might have been expected. 'Sir John Home, you will take my guard and apprehend and arrest George Gordon, Earl o' Huntly, forthwith. Wherever you shall find him. To be warded secure in the Castle o' Edinburgh. On charge o' conspiracy against the safety o' our realm and royal person, in highest treason. Aye. We… we…' The unusually firm voice broke. 'Och, to your ill duty, man – to your duty. And may the good God ha' mercy on me, his silly servant!'

In the succeeding acclaim and fierce plaudits, the King turned to the Master again. 'Take me awa', Patrick – take me awa',' he pleaded. 'I'm no' feeling that well. I'm sick, man -sick to death. I want out o' here. Frae a' these loud men.'

'Assuredly, Your Grace. At once. We shall have you back at Holyroodhouse almost before you know it.'

*Na, na – no' there, man. No' there. Geordie might raisethe town against me. There's Catholics aplenty, and other ill bodies, in Edinburgh. He'll maybe try again. I'll need a strong place. A castle. Craigmillar's near – a big, bonny, strong place. I'll to Craigmillar, Patrick – I'll be safe there. In case o' more deviltry. Aye, take me to Craigmillar.' 'As you will, Sire…'

It was evening before Patrick Gray returned to his lofty chambers in Orkney's wing of Holyroodhouse. He seemed to be a little bemused, abstracted in his manner, for he quite forgot to kiss, as was his usual, either his wife or Mary or the baby Andrew.

'A busy day you have had, Patrick,' Marie said pleasantly. 'Brave doings, by all accounts – and James much beholden to you, I gather. So your credit stands the higher. My brother Robert tells me that the King has taken refuge at Craigmillar. I wonder that he permits his guardian angel to leave his side thus long to visit us here!'

Thoughtfully the man considered her. 'Do I detect some displeasure here, my dear?' he wondered.

'Why, no. Should it not be pride, rather, in my husband's bold championing of his King? His heroism? All testify to your gallantry, to your… preparedness! It seems that, once again, Patrick, your quick wits won the day!'

He stroked his now clean-shaven chin. 'You are too kind, Marie. And you will have heard – that Huntly escaped?'

'So it is said,' she nodded. 'You will have eaten at Craigmillar? Or shall I find you some supper?'

He began to pace the attic room. 'Someone warned him. I would give much to know who it was. Home rode straight from Peffermill to Huntly's lodging here, and found them gone. I have questioned him. They had been gone only minutes. Yet scour the city as he would, he found no trace of them. Some of his Gordon lairds they took – but not Huntly or his wife. Maitland sent men hot-foot along all roads to the north – but without avail. It is believed now that they slipped down to Leith, and took boat to Fife. They will not catch Huntly now, I think.'

'And that will upset your… plans?'

'Plans? Is that not a strange word to use? The King's safety is what signifies. The ship of state upset – not plans of mine.' He shrugged. 'For myself, it is of little matter whether Huntly escaped or no. He is forfeit now. The forfeiture papers are already signed.'

'Indeed? So soon? They were quickly drawn up, were they not?'

'Maitland, my love, is ever efficient! And prompt. As he was over my own forfeiture one time!'

'And as he was, it seems, over this letter of Huntly's that was… intercepted. To Livingstone, was it not? Most timely. Was it a forgery, think you?'

Patrick grimaced. 'Indeed no, Marie. You insult the Chancellor! Maitland is never clumsy. It bore Huntly's own seal. I noted, however, that it was undated!'

'Ah! Then… then it probably was old? Written some time ago? Intercepted some time ago? Before Brig o' Dee, perhaps?'

'I commend my wife's intelligence! Let it be a lesson to us all never to write treasonable correspondence in clear words, my dear!'

Both were surprised, undoubtedly, by the little gurgle of amusement from Mary where she sat at the window.

'I see,' Marie said, after a pause. 'So Huntly is forfeit. But forfeit only. He is still powerful.'

'In the north, Marie – in the north, only. And Dunfermline is in the south, is it not? Sweet and precious Dunfermline!'

Long the Mistress of Gray looked at her husband from level grey eyes, and said nothing.

He turned away, to the younger woman. 'My dear, I missed you after Peffermill,' he mentioned. 'Vicky said that you were upset. I am sorry, Mary. But there was no need to be so. None. I esteemed you in no danger.'

'Nor I, Uncle Patrick,' she assured. 'No danger at all.'

His eyes widened a little at that. 'Had I believed there to be any, I would have looked to you, child.'

'Yes. I know that. You see, I looked to the King's head forester. When I saw that he sat his horse unmoved, in all that stramash, even with his arms folded, I knew that there was no danger.'

The man swallowed. 'You watched him? The forester…?' 'Yes. You see, I saw you speaking with him in the stableyard last night, and giving him money. Was I not wise to watch him, then?'

'Wise…?' He drew a long breath. 'Wisdom, God help me, is over rife in this family, I think!' His brows came down. 'Then… then what upset you, child? If you were so assured?'

Her pink tongue just tipped her lips. 'I was upset… only for foolish woman's reasons. But I am so no longer. I am recovered quite.' Mary rose, and came to him, smiling her warmest. 'I am happy, now. Happy that my lord of Huntly escaped. And the Lady Hetty. Are not you, Uncle Patrick? Really? It is so much better that way. You escaped from Edinburgh to Leith yourself, once, did you not? Just in time, likewise.'

'Ah… yes,' he admitted. He blinked quickly.

'I watched you both go – you and Lady Marie. And my lord of Huntly aiding you.'

'H'mm. Yes. But… at a price, girl. At a price! It cost me Dunfermline!'

'It cost more than that,' she said. 'It cost my father, Davy Gray more than that. Perhaps you do not know, Uncle Patrick, what it cost him?'

Both of them were now gazing at her strangely, intently.

She looked up at him, smiling again. 'But that is all done with. Dear Uncle Patrick – forget Dunfermline! Forget Huntly! You are high in the King's favour, and all is well. Let us all be happy again!'

He searched the young, eager, lovely face upturned to his, wonderingly. 'A kiss from you, sweeting… and I count Huntly well lost! Perhaps Dunfermline, even!' he exclaimed.

'You shall have it.' Flinging her arms around him, she kissed him vigorously, whole-heartedly. Still clutching him, she held out a hand towards the Lady Marie. 'You too,' she pleaded. 'Come. Please do. Now we shall all be happy again, together – shall we not? Come.'

Marie looking from one to the other, bit her lip, hesitating, and then came. Patrick's hand went out to her likewise.