The Courtesan mog-2

by Nigel Tranter

  It was a day of unseasonable battering rain and wind in mid-September, that Mary Gray sat stitching at the window of a small room in the main keep of Craigmillar. This chamber was one of three grimly functional apartments, all bare masonry, gun-loops and arrow-slits, set aside for the Master of the Wardrobe, and the unlikely repository of the fripperies and confections of the royal trousseau and plenishings. Shot-holes stuffed with scintillating fragments of cloth-of-gold and brocade, coarse elm tables littered with lustrous and colourful silks and satins, now mocked the severity of those frowning walls where once Mary, the Queen's half-brother Moray, her future husband Bothwell, and her Secretary Lethington, brother to Sir John Maitland, had secretiy plotted, urged on the Queen's divorce from King Henry Darnley, James's father, and set alight the train that exploded at Kirk o' Field with Darnley's assassination.

  Because outdoor activities today were precluded, and young men for the moment in short supply in the castle, the Lady Jean Stewart, supposedly also applying herself to the new Queen's needlework, but in fact gossiping, gesturing and giggling without cease, kept Mary company. Such was life for this true daughter of Orkney.

  It was thus that her distant cousin Ludovick found them. Not infrequently he managed to escape from his duties to this little room. That on this occasion he would have been content for the Lady Jean to be neglecting her needlework elsewhere went without saying, but Lord Chamberlain as he might be, he was not the young man to order her hence. One attempt he did make, however.

  'The Commendator of Lindores is at cards down in the Preston Tower. With Ferniehirst, Borthwick and, h'm, others. He might be grateful were you to rescue him, Jean.' That came abruptly, after a silent minute or two.

  'If the Commendator prefers his silly cards to… to better sport, let him stay!' She shrugged. 'He is losing again, I suppose?'

  'Aye, naturally.'

  Mary looked out of the streaming window. 'Uncle Patrick plays also?' That was more of a statement than a question. 'Aye.'

  Jean hugged her buxom self. 'Then the good Commendator-Abbot's goose is cooked! Serve him right, I vow – for he is plaguey mean. He would have his fairings at the cheapest, would Lindores – including me!'

  'I have seen you less than dear, yourself!' Lennox said bluntly.

  She did not so much as colour. 'You mistake, Vicky. You would, of course.' She glanced from the man to Mary. 'I am no huckster. I give for nothing – or else I play high. Like Patrick Gray. Lindores does not understand. He has the mind of a tradesman…'

  'He would wed you, I think,' Mary observed.

  'No doubt. But he is old, as well as mean…'

  'He is less old than Patrick,' Lennox pointed out. 'He is not yet thirty, I think…'

  'Patrick is different! Patrick will never be old. Patrick is wonderful. At cards as at all else! I dote on him…'

  'So all the Court knows!' Ludovick grunted. 'As, indeed, do half the women here!'

  'No less than yourself, perhaps, Vicky!' That was barbed.

  'He is my friend,' the young man declared stiffly.

  Jean Stewart skirled high laughter. 'None would deny it…!' She stopped, as the door opened. A head peered round, a large somewhat lop-sided head crowned by an absurdly high hat decked with ostrich-plumes.

  Hurriedly all three rose to their feet, and the girls curtsied over their needlework, as the King shuffled in, large feet encased in loose slippers.

  James ignored them. 'Vicky,' he complained querulously, 'I've been seeking you a' place. Man, you shouldna hide yourself away like this. You're the Chamberlain. Here's this wee man – the Provost, it is. Frae Edinburgh. About the reception ceremonies in the town. For Anne. My… my wife. The Queen, aye. He says you sent for him. You should be seeing him, Vicky – no' me. I'm busy. I'm in the middle o' a sonnet… '

  'Your pardon, Sire. I did not know that he was come. You should have sent a page for me, an officer…'

  'Och, I was for stretching my legs. I was ettling to find Patrick too. He's hiding away somewhere. A' folks hiding away frae me. It's nae better than a rabbit-warren, this castle. I thought on this wee room, wi' your Mistress Mary. Away you down and see the man, Vicky.' 'At once, Your Grace.'

  'Aye.' James did not follow Lennox out, but moved over to the window, to peer through. 'It's wild, wild,' he declared. 'Ill weather for the sea. Wind and rain. It's no' right, no' suitable.'

  'You could play at the tennis in the Hall, Sire,' Jean said helpfully. 'I have heard that my lord of Moray does so, at Donibristle. Indoors…'

  'Hours, woman – tennis!' the King cried. 'A pox on tennis! It's no' tennis – it's Anne! Your Princess. My wife. She's on the sea. Coming to me. In these accursed storms. Waesucks – it's no' fair! The lassie – she'll puke. It's an ill thing, the sea – sore on the belly. The great muckle deeps, see you – they're like ravening wolves! Aye, wolves. Opening their slavering jaws for my puir Annie! In this plaguey wind… '

  'Do not fear, Your Grace,' Mary said earnesdy. 'All will be well, I am sure. The Queen will be safe. This is not truly a storm. It may not be blowing out at sea, where the ships are. It is from the west, you see – the other way.'

  'D'you think I dinna ken that? So it blaws in her face, lassie – it keeps her frae me! It blew a' yesterday, too. The Devil's in it, for sure. I'll need to have prayers said…'

  Jean actually giggled.

  Furiously James turned on her. 'Quiet, girl! Will you laugh at me? God's soul – I'll no' have it! Silence, d'you hear?'

  Jean swallowed. 'It was just… prayers, Sir! Against a puff of wind…'

  'A puff! Fiend take you – here's no puff! A' night I lay and listened to it, wowling and soughing round this castle. wheedling and girning. I couldna sleep thinking o' the lassie's boatie. And it's getting worse, I tell you. Aye, and you whicker and snicker! Och, away wi' you, wench! Out o' my sight. I'll no' be whickered at. Begone, you ill hizzy!'

  Hastily the Lady Jean, flushing at last, backed out of the room, dropping her embroidery in the process. At the door she turned and fled, forgetting to curtsy. Mary, less precipitately, would have followed her, but Majesty pushed her back into her seat.

  'No' you, lassie – no' you,' he told her. 'Och, I canna bide yon Jean! Aye gabbing and caleering! Making sheep's eyes. Sticking out her paps at me! I dinna like it. I'll need to be getting her married off on some man. It's no' decent. She's aye like a bitch in heat. I'll have to think on it.'

  'The Lady Jean has no evil in her, Sire,' Mary told him. 'I pray, do not misjudge her. She is but overfull of spirit.' She paused for just a moment. 'Although she would be better married, I truly think.'

  'Aye. I'll consider it.' James looked at her sidelong, out of those great liquid eyes. 'And you, lassie? Are you no' the marrying kind, yoursel'?'

  She smiled. 'Time enough for that, Your Grace. I am but sixteen years.'

  'Ooh, aye. Though, mind you, my ain lass is a year younger. And you're ripe for it – 'sakes aye!' He looked her up and down judicially. Then he tipped forward his extraordinary hat, to scratch at the bulging back of his head. 'But… eh, now… Vicky. Vicky – the Duke o' Lennox – is young, young. And fair donnart on you, lassie. Mind, I'm no' blaming him that much! You'll be bedding wi' him, belike?'

  'I bed with no man, Sire.'

  'Eh? No?' The King looked surprised. 'I thought… I jaloused…?'

  'Then Your Grace jaloused but mistakenly,' she assured, but gently enough. 'Others, I have no doubt, do the same. I am very fond of my lord Duke – but that is all. We have been friends since we both were bairns – good friends. But that is all. I am my own woman, still.'

  'Ummm.' James plucked at his sagging lower lip. 'You're… you're holding him off, then? For he's hot for you. I've watched him, aye. And, 'sakes, I'm fond o' Vicky, too, lassie.' He began to shuffle about the room, touching things. 'Vicky's near to me, near to the throne, see you. Of the blood-royal, aye. Mind, now, I'm a married man, and like to be making bairns o' my ain, he'll no' be next heir muckle longer.
Na, na. But… but… even so, he's no' just… he's a duke. And…'

  'Sire,' the girl interposed. 'If you are seeking to tell me that the Duke of Lennox is not for such as me to marry – then content yourself, for I know it well. When he weds, it must be to some great noble's daughter. And she must be rich – for Vicky has insufficient wealth. I know it all. Rest assured, Sire, I shall not seek to marry your cousin.'

  'Aye, so. Good, good. Proper – maist proper. Nae doubt we shall find a good worthy husband for you. Ooh, aye – some honest decent laird, wi' broad acres belike. Some lordling, even – for you've the Gray blood after a'…'

  'I thank you, Highness – but I am in little hurry. And when I do seek a husband, it would please me well to choose my own – by Your Grace's leave.'

  'Och, well – we'll see, we'll see.' The King began as though to move to the door, but shufflingly, darting looks hither and thither, as though reluctant to go. Suddenly he turned round and came back to the girl, and looks and tone changed quite. 'See, lassie,' he said, almost diffidently. 'You've got a wiselike head on your shoulders, and a decent honest tongue. There's a wheen things you maybe could tell me – things I dinna just ken aright. About lassies… ' He coughed. 'I ken maist things, mind! – I'm no' just an ignorant loon. But… och well, she's about your ain age, and there's things I'll need to do wi' her…'

  'I understand, Your Grace,' Mary said, soberly. 'Anything that I may decently tell you, I will.'

  'Aye, well. I've never had a lassie, you see. Mind, there's some been gey near to it – ooh, aye. Bold brazen hizzies would ha' had the creeks off me if I hadna… h'mmm… ' He paused. 'Will it hurt, d'you ken? I mean, really hurt?'

  'I take it, Sire, that you mean will it hurt the Queen, and not yourself? For I think, surely, that last is unlikely.' Only a single dimple in her cheek countered her gravity of mien. 'But I am told that so long as you are gentle, any slight hurt for the lady will be swallowed up quite in the satisfaction.'

  'Eh, so? Uh-huh. Gentle. Is… is that possible. I mean…?'

  'I esteem it so, Sire. Firm, but gentle.'

  'Aye. Well, maybe. Like… like with a new-broken colt?'

  'Perhaps. But I would think with rather more of fond affection.'

  'I've aye been fond o' horses,' the King said simply. 'Yes. I had forgotten.'

  'She's young, mind. Anne. And will be a virgin, for sure. A pity it is that you will be a virgin too, lassie? It would ha' been better… You'll no' ken so much.'

  'I am sorry. But I have good ears, I am told – and have heard not a little. Though, are there not plenty otherwise whom you may ask, Sire?'

  'Aye, plenty! Plenty! But… God save me, I just canna bring myself to ask them, Mistress Mary! Yon Jean, now! She'd ken plenty, yon one! But she'd whinny like a mare at me. Her sister, even – the Mistress o' Gray. She's kind, and she's told me some bits, mind. But… you see, she's used wi' Patrick. And… and I'm no' Patrick! He's different frae me. We both have the Latin and Greek. We both have the poetry. But… we're different other ways. So… och, I just canna speak wi' her as I do wi' you.' James looked at her from under heavy drooping eyelids. 'Maybe… maybe we could do mair than just talk, lassie? Maybe… well, maybe you could come ben to my bedchamber, the night? I could arrange it that you bide here, at Craigmillar, the night. It's gey wet for going back to Holyrood. Aye, we'd learn a thing or two, that way…?'

  With all seriousness, Mary Gray appeared to consider this suggestion. 'You are gracious, Sire – and I am honoured. But I think, no. No. It would be better, more meet, I think, to await the Princess Anne – the Queen. That you should both learn of these things together. She will esteem you the more, that way, I think. I would…'

  'But she needna ken…'

  'If she is a woman, then she will ken, Sire.'

  'M'mmm. You think it? Ah well… ' James gave the impression of not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved. He nibbled at his finger-nail. 'It's right difficult,' he muttered.

  'I think, perhaps, you make too much of the difficulties, Highness,' she told him gently. 'After all, it has happened before. Many times.'

  'Aye – but no' to me. No' to the King o' Scots. I am the Lord's Anointed, lassie – Christ's Viceroy. I am the father o' my people, see you – the fountain o' the race! It wouldna do…

  it's no fitting, that I shonldna ken the way to handle a lassie in a bed. You see my right predicament? I've heard tell it's no' that easy, whiles, to get your mount to the jump, in time? And I wouldna like to jump my ditch afront my mare! Maybe I'd ha' been better wi' the Navarre woman, after a'. She'd ken the whole cantrip good and well…'

  'Never that, Sire. You chose aright, I swear. Never heed about that first… ditch. There will be many such, after all. And in your own chamber, I cannot think that the Princess Anne will consider you as the Lord's Anointed or Christ's Viceroy – but just as her own new young husband. Be assured, she will not be critical of you, but only of herself.'

  'You think it?' That was eager. 'Och, I hope so – I hope so. Maybe… maybe if I was to indite a poem about it, for her? Read it to her afore we bedded – maybe that would aid it? I'm good at poems, you see – I ha' the pen o' a ready writer. Aye. Even if I've no' just… no'… Och, well.'

  Mary nodded. 'I understand. I am sure that the Queen will greatly esteem your poetry. But, Sire – I would counsel you to keep the poems out of the bedchamber, nevertheless. At first. Women are but silly shallow folk, you see – and perhaps Her Grace would liefer have just then kisses and fondling. I think that would be my preference.'

  'It would? Kisses and fondling.' He sighed. 'Aye, maybe. Mind, it's maybe no' that easy to go about the business with a lassie you havena met wi', till an hour or two before. I'm doubting if it'll just come natural.' The King licked his lips. 'Now, it wouldna be that difficult wi' you, Mistress Mary -now I ken you, you see.' A royal arm slid around the girl's slender waist, and the long and delicate, if ink-stained and not overclean fingers sought for and captured her own.

  'The Queen, I feel sure, will not prove difficult, Your Grace. She is young, and by her picture very bonny. And the poems that you have written for her will have greatly moved her, I vow. For few women are so… honoured. Your praise of her beauty and grace, your avowal of your great passion – all will move her. If indeed these are what Your Highness has written?' And with the most natural movement in the world, Mary turned to stoop and pick up a fallen hank of silken thread, thereby disengaging herself deftly from her sovereign's clasp.

  That hinted question as to the tenor and content of his muse was highly successful, in that James at once reverted to the ardent poet and wordily-confident lover of the past few weeks. He dropped the girl's hand to grope about in an inner pocket of his stained doublet.

  'I've two-three sonnets here. By me,' he told her. 'Well-turned and euphonious without being ambiguous – if you ken my meaning, Mistress. Aye. One's notable – right notable. Here it's – this one.' He extracted one of a number of crumpled papers, and smoothed it out. 'Listen you here, lassie. I've no' just decided on its tide, mind – but you'll no' deny its quality, I'm thinking.' Striking an attitude, James began to intone – and as he read, his hand came out again to recapture Mary's.

  'The fever hath infected every part

  My bones are dried, their marrow melts away,

  My sinnews feeble through my smoking smart,

  And all my blood as in a pan doth play.

  I only wish for ease of all my pains,

  That she might wit what sorrow I sustain.'

  Finished, eagerly he peered at her, to observe the effect.

  Mary cleared her throat. 'Most moving, Sire. As I said. 'Twill move her, to be sure. You did say… pan? Blood in a pan…?'

  'Aye, pan. Pot wouldna just do. Chamber-pots, you ken. Nor goblet. Cauldron might serve – but och, it wouldna scan, you see. D'you no' like pan, Mary?'

  'To be sure, Your Grace – pan let it be. It… grows on me, I think.'

  'Aye. That's
right. That's how I felt myself, lassie. Now, heed you to this one. It's maybe no' so lofty in sentiment – but it rhymes brawly. Longer too.'

  The King was still declaiming, and so engrossed in the business that he did not notice when a knock sounded at the door, nor yet relax his moist clutch of Mary's hand. The door opened, and Patrick Gray stood there, looking in, his scimitar eyebrows rising high. Mary looked over to him, and smiled slowly, tranquilly, with just the tiniest shake of her dark head to advise against interruption.

  It was the Master's courteous applause, at the end, that informed the King that they were no longer alone. He flushed hotly, stammered, and dropped the girl's hand as though it had burned him.

  'Bravo, Your Grace! Eloquence indeed! A royal Alcaeus… with our Mary as Sappho!'

  'Eh…? Och, no. No. It's you, Patrick man? You… you shouldna do yon. Creep up on me. No, no. And you mistake. I was just… just rehearsing a bit sonnet. For Anne, you ken. For the Queen. To hear the way it scanned, just. The lassie here… another lassie… about the same age, see you… listening… '

  'So I perceived, Sire…'

  'His Grace was much concerned about the wind and rain, Uncle Patrick – for the Queen's journey.' Mary came to the royal rescue. 'Telling me of his fears for the delay of the ships, he… he graciously thought to read over the poems welcoming her to his realm.'

  'Ah… quite.' Patrick nodded gravely, though his eyes were dancing.

  'Aye – the wind, the wind!' James recollected gratefully, turning to the window. 'It's wild – och, a storm it is. And getting worse. Waesucks – ill weather for journeying. And a lassie. It's the powers o' darkness, I swear – Satan himsel' working against me. He'll confound me if he can, I ken fine -for he's dead set against a' Christian monarchs. Ooh, aye. There was Anne's ain faither, King Frederick, met an untimous end no' that long ago. And even my late uncle o' France – cut off in his prime, even though naught but a Papist. By ill cold steel, I'm hearing.' James shivered. 'God rest his soul. Och, it's right dangerous labour being a Viceroy o' Christ – dangerous.'