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 ordi
nary-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, m
y 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.
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