'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…'
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 suc
h 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!'
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