'Yes – that is my sole excuse, Sire. Here is my trouble. It is in the third verse. It goes thus:
My voice I raise, my lyre I tune,
to thee fair daughter of the seas,
Thy coming cannot be too soon
for this poor handmaid of thine ease;
O end my weary waiting, please
with solace of thy presence… well… boon.'
'Eh? Boon?' James repeated. 'Boon, you say?'
She bit her lip. 'Boon, yes. That is all that I can think of to end the verse. It is not very good, is it?'
'Boon.' The King scratched his head under the inevitable high hat. 'I canna see how it could be boon, lassie… thy presence boon. Na, na – it's no' right, some way.'
'No,' she agreed meekly. 'I know it. That is why I came to you. I cannot think of aught else.'
'Ummm,' he said. 'Oon's no' that easy, to be sure. To do wi' a woman's presence. Moon wouldna do, nor yet swoon. Mind, if you'd done it in the Scots, it would be better, Mary. Then you could ha' said doon or abune or goon. Aye, or her royal croon. Och, it's easier to make words rhyme in the Scots, I find.'
'Perhaps I should have done that, yet.'
'Aye. But maybe it's no' too late to change it a wee thing, here and there. Into the Scots. I ken it's an ill task for a poet having to change the words he's wrung oot o' his heart's blood – but och, whiles it has to be done, lassie. Now… wi' solace o' thy presence boon' it was, was it no'? Aye. See you – if you were to change a wheen o' the rest o' the words into Scots, then you could set the last line the other way roond, and say "wi' presence royal my solace croon."'
'Ah – how true, Sire! Splendid!' Mary clapped her hands. 'Why did I not think of it? Not only does it rhyme, but it is better, much better.'
'Aye, I think it so myself. But mind, you canna just ha' the one Scots word to it, Mary. You'll need to go through a' the ode and change a bit word here and there to oor ain Scots usage. It'll no' be that difficult. What was the line before it…?'
' "O end my weary waiting, please." '
Tph'mmm. I'm no' that rejoiced wi' yon "please", mind. "Waiting, please" is no' just perfect, maybe.'
'Indeed it is not, as I am well aware.'
'Aye. You could mak it "Gladden my weary waesome ees", belike.'
'Waesome ease…?'
'Ees – eyes, you ken. Een would be righter – but, och, it wouldna rhyme. We'll no' mend that. Ees it'll ha' to be.
"Gladden my weary waesome ees, Wi' presence royal my solace croon."
That's nane so ill.'
She moistened her lips. 'Indeed, Sire – it is truly most… most apt. So quickly to perceive the need and supply the answer. I am overwhelmed. But… I must not keep you further, must not trespass on your precious time, must not intrude more on your own royal muse…'
'Och, never heed it, lassie – I like it fine,' James assured. 'I'm right practised at it. Ooh, aye. See you – go you right through your ode frae the beginning, Mary, and I'll gie you a bit hand. Wi' the Scots. For the prentice hand's aye slower than the master's.'
'Oh, but that is too much, Your Grace. You are too kind…'
'Na, na. Let's hear it a'…'
So, hand in hand and side by side, the teetering unsteady monarch and the dainty girl went tripping round and round that battlemented walk, bobbing up and down over the flagstones gapped for drainage, reciting, inventing, weighing, if scarcely improving the doggerel verses that Mary had so hurriedly concocted, James eager, voluble, authoritative, his companion appreciative and serious, the wind blowing her hair about her face and her skirts about her legs. For anyone in a position to overlook them, undoubtedly they would make a curious picture.
It was only when the King had the pathetic little ode almost transformed to his own peculiar satisfaction, that a thought occurred to him that abruptly halted him in his wambling tracks, his face falling ludicrously.
'Eh… but what o' the Master?' he demanded. 'What o' Patrick Gray, your faither? Or your uncle, or what you ca' him? Was it he… did he set you to this poetry, girl? He's a right notable poet himsel', I ken. You're… you're no cozening me? Seeking to befool me wi' his verse…?'
'Sire – my Uncle Patrick knows naught of this. It is my own entirely.'
'But why came you to me when you could go to him, woman? For help and improvement? Eh?'
'Uncle Patrick is much too throng with affairs, Your Grace, to trifle with my poor rhymes. He is much too taken up with other matters to think of poetry, at this time.'
Sidelong he peered at her. 'He is, eh? What takes up our Patrick so?'
'In the main, matters of money, Sire, I think. Siller and gold. In your affairs, and his own.'
'Moneys, eh? Siller and gold? And in my affairs, you say? Hech, hecht – what's this?' The muse forgotten, James was all ears. 'Out wi't, lassie. What moneys?'
She hesitated modestly. 'It is not perhaps for such as me to speak of these matters…'
'Houts, lassie – ha' done! It's… it's our royal will that you tell us o' the business. Aye.'
She bit her lip. 'As you command, Sire. Siller is much in Uncle Patrick's mind, I fear. The cost of the arrangements for the Queen – as Master of your Wardrobe. He and the Duke of Lennox are ever fretting over it. And my Lord Chancellor says that your Treasury is near empty.'
'Ummm,' James said. 'Aye, maybe. Siller's a right rare commodity, to be sure. Aye, and Maitland's close, close, the man.'
'Yes. So Uncle Patrick ever turns his eyes southwards. To Queen Elizabeth. On Your Grace's behalf.'
'Eh…? He does? Elizabeth? Aye – my pension. She doesna pay it, the auld… the auld…'
'No. But you will recollect, Sire, that Uncle Patrick brought you a thousand gold pieces of it when he returned to Scotland. He believes that he can win more for you – for it appears that he understands this Queen passing well. So he writes letters, many letters, and much presses Mr. Bowes.'
'Aye, he's right close wi' Bowes, I do hear. Ower close, maybe. I dinna like yon man, mysel, wi' his smooth white face
'Nor, I think, does Uncle Patrick, Your Grace. But as the Queen of England's envoy he must needs work with him on your behalf. For the increase of this pension… '
'Increase! Waesucks – if she'd but pay the sum agreed, the woman! Since Patrick agreed it wi' her three years syne, for two thousand pieces each year, she hasna paid a quarter o' it! And she's been right gorged wi' gold and siller since then – maist pecunious. Yon man Drake and his pirates fair load her wi' Spanish gold and plate. Hundreds o' thousands. It's no' right, no' decent. I'm her heir and successor. It'll a' be mine when she dies… ' The impoverished heir of Gloriana all but brought himself to tears at the contemplation of the gross injustice done to him.
'Yes, Your Grace. Hence Uncle Patrick's efforts. He believes that he can gain you the money. The promised increase. Even more, perhaps. So he writes and writes. But… but letters are poor things. If he could but see the Queen. Elizabeth. Speak with her. As before. Assuredly he would be the more successful.'
'Aye. I'ph'mmm. See her.' The King nodded, stumbling onward again. 'Aye. Maybe that is well thought o'. See her. An embassage…'
'Yes, Sire. An embassage.'
'Aye. But… did Patrick put you up to this, lassie? This embassage? Why did he no' speak o' it to me, himsel'? I had word wi' him but this morning.'
Mary sighed. 'I fear that he but thinks of the embassage as distant. Not immediate. He… he has other plans, meantime
'Other plans? What now – what now?'
'Plans of his own, Sire. I told you, he is much concerned about siller – in his own affairs as well as for Your Grace. Since his forfeiture and banishment he has had but little money, as you will know. My lord of Gray will give him nothing. He has great expenses. He is building again Broughty Castle, his portion. So… so he seeks to win back the Abbacy of Dunfermline.'
'No!' For once James Stewart was vehement, decisive. 'No' Dunfermline! I'll no' have it. I told him so lang syne. It's no' to be, no'
suitable. If he sent you seeking Dunfermline frae me, Mary…'
'Not so, Your Grace. He does not know that I am with you. He would be but ill-pleased, I think, if he knew that I told you of it. But he is powerfuly set upon Dunfermline. He believes that it should be his, yet. That my lord of Huntly should not have it. Like a sickness it is with him, eating away at him. He even plans to take the Earl of Huntly to the Court of Session for it. And for that he needs more money.'
The King wagged his head in agitation. 'No' Dunfermline,' he wailed. 'It's no' like other places, you ken. It's the brawest property in a' the realm. When Patrick was forfeited, he lost it. He got it frae yon ill man Arran, some way. I canna just let him ha' it back. Would he ha' me look a right fool? Maybe I'll see what can be done for him wi' some other place, but no' Dunfermline. Na, na – it's no' to be thought of. Geordie Gordon doesna deserve to keep it, to be sure – but there's plenty wanting it! Johnny Mar. Aye, and the Earl o' Moray. Och, I'm thinking the Chancellor himsel's after it! I canna let Patrick have it. They'd a' be at my throat like a pack o' hound-dogs!'
'I know it, Sire. So, surely, must my uncle. Yet he seems mazed about this matter. Not like himself. Foolishly determined…' She paused, as though suddenly an idea had occurred to her. 'Sire – there is a way that this could be resolved, I think. That Uncle Patrick may be turned away from it – and the others likewise. Give Dunfermline to your new Queen, as a marriage gift. Then none can seek it.' 'Lord save us!'
'Yes. Would that not be best, Sire? Uncle Patrick would be weaned from his trouble. He could not sue the Queen, and waste great moneys. Your lady would take it most kindly – and you would have the spending of its revenues.'
Her companion had halted, blinking, licking his lips. 'Precious soul o' God, lassie – here's a notion! A right notable notion!' he exclaimed. 'Aye – Huntley's forfeit now. I can take it. For Anne. But… but Patrick? What o' Patrick? When he hears. He'll be fair scunnered at me! He'll plot and scheme against me, the man. He'll no' help me wi' Elizabeth and my pension, I swear…!'
'He will be very hot when he hears,' she agreed gravely. 'But… he need not hear until too late. If he was not here. If he went on this embassage to England at once. Before your lady arrives. And… ' She tipped her red lips with pink tongue prettily. '… if he was to receive some compensation. Some small lands somewhere. And, perhaps, some part, some portion of the moneys that he wins for you from Queen Elizabeth? That would much sweeten him, would it not? Siller that he could use to build Broughty. In exchange for his hopes of Dunfermline. A thousand gold pieces, perhaps – if he could win Your Grace two thousand. Or three. That would be but fair, would it not? And greatly encourage him in his dealings with Queen Elizabeth.'
'Lord ha' mercy on us – who taught you to think this way, girl?' James whispered. 'Who taught you, a lassie, the likes o' this?'
Surprised, she considered that. 'I do not think that anyone taught me, Sire. Save Davy Gray, of course.' And suddenly she trilled a laugh, happily, at some thought of her own. 'Yes – it must have been Davy Gray. Dear Davy Gray!'
Wonderingly the King looked at her, shaking his head. 'Yon dour man…?' he doubted. Then he changed his head-shaking to nodding. 'But you ha' the right o' it, Mary – 'deed aye. The embassage to Elizabeth it shall be – and at once. Aye, forthwith. Before… before my Anne comes, belike. We shall see to it. Our special envoy to the Court o' Saint James, the Master o' Gray – celeriter'
The girl nodded her head, satisfied. 'I have always wished to see London,' she said. 'And to see Elizabeth the Queen.'
Chapter Nine
THE cavalcade had barely left Berwick Bounds behind it, and crossed into England, before the wind died away and the sun blazed down upon a sodden and battered world. Men and women threw aside their heavy soaking travelling cloaks, sat up in their saddles after long crouching, and positively bloomed and expanded like sun-starved flowers in the genial warmth and brightness, the first that they had known for months on end. It was the second day of October.
'This, I vow, will set King Jamie smiling again,' the Earl of Moray declared, stretching his arms out luxuriously as he rode.
'I hope that you are right, my lord,' Patrick Gray said. He had been laughing gaily, rallying them all, rivalling the new sun's own brilliance this cheerful morning, but fell sober again at the other's words. 'If the sun but shines in Scotland likewise… and if His Grace's mind is not itself permanently clouded over and agley.'
Moray looked at him sharply. 'You mean…? You fear, sir, that… that…? You are not suggesting that James is affected in his wits?'
'I hope not, God knows. It is my prayer that I may be mistaken,' the Master answered gravely. 'But… he has been acting very strangely. For too long. It is a great cause of anxiety. You have not been much at Court of late, my lord. Those of us in daily touch with him cannot fail to be aware of the danger, of the sad but steady deterioration of his powers of judgment, the abdication of his kingly responsibilities…'
'He frets excessively for his princess – all Scotland knows it. And always he has been strange in manner, fearful of spirit. But more than that I cannot believe…'
Mary Gray, seeking to pay due and respectful attention to the feather-brained chatter of the Countess of Moray at her, and yet to miss nothing of the conversation of the two men immediately in front, above the clatter of their horses hooves, bit her lip.
'I do so believe it, my lady,' she said, straining her ears.
'Indeed, yes.'
'… for the good governance of the realm,' Patrick was saying. 'I fear – aye, i' faith, I fear for our land. Maitland rules, not James. If His Grace's condition grows the worse, then it behoves us all to take serious thought for the realm's weal, my lord. It will not serve to shut our eyes.'
'God save us!' The Earl's comely and attractive features reflected a simple consternation. 'I have heard naught of this, Master of Gray. No talk of it has reached me. I have been in the north, at Darnaway… ' He shook his fair head, at a loss.
Greatly daring, and with a swift apologetic glance at the Countess, Mary leaned forward to speak, and sought to make her voice low but penetrating. 'Hush, Uncle Patrick!' she said. 'If I can hear your words, so may others. And… and that is not to be desired, is it?'
Patrick turned in his saddle to stare at her, slender eyebrows raised. 'My dear,' he said evenly, 'what I say to my lord of Moray is for his ears alone, I would remind you.'
'Why, yes – that is why I speak,' the young woman nodded, with a darted look left and right as though to indicate that there were ears all round them – although in fact the nearest squire rode a good ten feet to the flank, and the men-at-arms in front still further away. 'If I overhear, others might. To great ill, perhaps.'
'You have over-long ears, girl – as I have had occasion to remark ere this!'
'Yes, Uncle Patrick – but so I have heard you say has Queen Elizabeth! Ears everywhere.'
'A plague, child! What's this? Would you teach me, me, how I should speak?'
'Ah, no. No – but my lord said that no talk of this sort had reached him at Darnaway.' Mary's colour was heightened and her breathing quickened. 'Forgive me – but I would but have you assure yourself that no talk of it reaches London either!
For – hear me, please – would not any such talk ruin all? If Queen Elizabeth was to question, even for a moment, whether King James was sound in his mind, to wonder if his wits were disordered, would she indeed cherish him further? Let you have the money for him? Do what you would have her to do, on this embassage? Would she even consider him heir? Heir to her England?'
Patrick had caught his breath. For a long moment he looked at the girl unblinking before, without a word, turning to face the front again.
Moray had gazed behind him also. 'Burn me, but she is right, Gray!' he exclaimed. 'The lassie is right. A knowing chit, eh? A head to her, as well as… other parts!' Still considering the girl, he smiled slowly, taking in all her flushed and eager young loveliness, looking
at her with new and speculative eyes – eyes that did not once slide over in the direction of his wife at whose side Mary rode. 'Here is matter for thought,' he added, facing forward once more, and still smiling reflectively – for one who was not notably a reflective and thoughtful man.
The Countess of Moray slumped more heavily in her saddle, and fell silent for the first time since the weather had brightened.
James Stewart, Earl of Moray, had been selected personally by his royal namesake to be the second envoy on this embassage to the Court of St. James. It was always the prudent Scottish custom to send two ambassadors on any important diplomatic mission – lest one should perchance be tempted to betray his trust. Moray was a shrewd enough choice, whatever his companion's professed doubts about the King's sanity. Known as the Bonnie Earl, he was both popular and notably good-looking; not so brilliantly handsome and graceful as the Master by any means, but fair to look upon in a lusty, strapping and uncomplicated fashion, tall, broad-shouldered, and of a sort of rampant masculinity – and young. All important qualities where Elizabeth of England was concerned. A favourite of the Kirk party, he could be guaranteed to be suitably suspicious of the Master of Gray, whom few in Scotland believed to be other than Catholic at heart. Moreover he was very rich, in his wife's right rather than his own, and so could comfortably and conveniendy pay for the entire embassage -always an important consideration with King Jamie.
Never, surely, was a monarch so well supplied with cousins as was James, thanks to the phenomenal potency of his maternal grandfather James Fifth, whose heart may well indeed have broken at being able to show only the one surviving legitimate offspring, and that a mere girl, the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots – although unkind gossip had it that his untimely death at the age of thirty was rather the result of being worn out by extra-marital exercises. At any rate, his bastards were legion, and few indeed of the ladies of his Court seem to have eluded his attentions; not that he confined his favours to the aristocratic and highly-born, by any means – for had he not been known as The Poor Man's King? The Reformation and the breaking up of the vast Church lands, at this juncture, had been a godsend indeed, providing properties and commendatorships innumerable for the suitable support of this host. Moray was the son of one of them, another James, titular Abbot of St. Colme, later created Lord Doune. A young man of initiative as well as looks, the son had eight years before managed to obtain the prized wardship of the two daughters of his late uncle, the most important bastard of them all, James Stewart, Earl of Moray and former Regent of Scotland – and the very next day married the elder daughter, Elizabeth, and assumed the earldom. The late Regent, needless to say, had done very well for himself in three years of ruling Scotland in the name of Mary's infant son – and having no son of his own, his heiress brought her husband great lands and riches. In the eight years of their marriage, the new Moray had managed to dispose of much of these responsibilities, but in return had given her five children. Now, at the King's insistence, the Countess accompanied her husband to London, and Mary Gray went as her attendant.
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