'No – thank you, no, Peter. It is just a letter. To go to the Earl of Moray's lodging in the Canongate.'
Peter Hay raised his eyebrows at the folded paper. 'The King's seal – but not the King's hand o' write, I vow!' he commented. 'Blows the wind so?'
'I perceive no such wind, Peter. Will you carry this letter, please?'
'Must it go to my lord tonight, then?'
'I fear so. Forthwith, was the command.'
Lennox's page sighed, and reached for his boots.
When he had gone, Mary went to the inner door and quietly opened it. In the dim light of a single guttering candle, Ludovick lay naked on the top of his bed, on his back, arms thrown wide, while all around him his fine clothes lay crumpled as they had been cast down, littered anywhere. Lips slightly parted, curling hair disarrayed, breathing with little puffs, he looked more boyish than ever. One hand lay open, but in the other a yellow velvet ribbon was entwined round his fingers. Mary recognised it at once. It was one that she had used sometimes to tie up her hair, and had unaccountably lost a week or two before.
For a little while she watched him there, a faint smile playing round the corners of her mouth. Then quietly she tiptoed into the room, picked up all the scattered clothing, folded it neatly and placed it on a bench near the bed – having to displace a riding-boot, a crossbow-bolt, a pistol and an entanglement of fishing-line, in the process. This completed, she stood over the bed for a moment or two before, with a little quiver of sigh, she snuffed out the candle and slipped away, closing the door behind her.
Mary did not go to her own chamber in the Master of the Wardrobe's quarters, but returned across the courtyard to the tower that housed the royal private apartments. Climbing the corkscrew stairs again, she looked in at the ladies-in-waiting chamber, but Jean was still amissing. A further flight she mounted, to pause outside a shut door. Softly she knocked -and knocked again.
'What now, what now?' The King's voice sounded irascible.
'It is Mary Gray, Highness,' she said, as quietly as she might,
'Eh? Eh? Speak up. Who's there? What's to do?'
'Mary Gray, Sire. To speak with you.'
'Och, awa' wi' you, lassie. Tell the Queen I'll no' be long. Tell her to go to sleep. I'm occupied, see you – much occupied. Wi' important matters.'
'Yes, Sire. But this is important also. The Queen has not sent me. I crave word with you. Concerning this matter of witches.'
That ensured her admittance, albeit with much royal muttering. Carefully locking the door behind them, James, untidier even than usual, peered at the girl in the candle-lit confusion of parchments, books and papers.
'Well, lassie – well? he demanded testily. 'You shouldna be here, you ken. It's no' suitable. I'm no' sure that Annie would like it…'
'That I have considered, Sire. But I believe it to be important.'
'You said it was anent the witches? Has Patrick found out mair…?'
'No. The Master of Gray has not sent me. I have heard that the Earl of Bothwell is shut up in Edinburgh Castle, Sire. On charge of witchcraft?'
'Aye, the ill limmer! He is so, God be praised! I believe him to be Satan's lieutenant in this realm o' Scotland. A man sold to the Devil.'
'But, Sire, how can…?'
'No buts, Mistress! I saw him at his wickedness. Wi' my ain two eyes. In the kirk o' North Berwick. A right terrible sight.'
'Yes. But did you not declare to the Queen, Your Grace, and to others, that it was the Devil himself that you saw there? How could it then be my lord of Bothwell?'
'Eh…? Och, well.' James plucked at his loose lower lip. 'Belike it was Bothwell acting for the Devil.'
'Did you not tell the Queen that he had horns and claws and cloven hooves? How could that have been Bothwell?'
'M'ramra. Aye. But I saw his shape, girl. I heard his voice.'
'Yet you did not think that it was Bothwell then, Sire? You thought it was the Devil.'
'No. But… och, dinna harry me, this way. You carina talk so to the King, woman. It's no' respectful.'
'I would never show disrespect for Your Grace,' Mary assured him earnestiy. 'I am but your humble and honest servant. I but seek your Highness's weal and honour.' That might have been Patrick Gray himself.
'As is right and proper,' James nodded sternly. 'Mind it, then.'
'Yes.' Then directly she put it to him. 'Do you believe that my lord of Bothwell is the Devil, Sire?'
'Hours, lassie – houts! Na, na – I wouldna just say that.' James was wary. 'No' just Auld Hornie himsel', maybe.'
'Then, Highness – if it was one or the other that you saw at North Berwick, I can assure you that it was not Bothwell. For he was in Edinburgh all that night. In bed in the house of the Commendator of Lindores.'
'Nae doubt that is what he says, Mistress.'
'He did not say it to me. I learned it otherwise. Perhaps the lady will speak for him.'
'Lady…? His wife, mean you? Would she no' say aught to advantage him?'
'Not his wife, Sire. The lady with whom he spent the night at the Commendator's house in the Lawnmarket.'
'Guidsakes!' The King shambled round the table, touching papers here and there. 'Who was she – this woman?'
'I would prefer not to tell her name, Sire.'
'It's no' what you'd prefer or no' prefer, i' faith! I'm asking you, woman!'
'I believe that Your Grace also would prefer not to hear it'
'Eh…? How might that be?'
'She is the wife to another. To one close to your Highness. Notably close, it is said. Who complains that she is being neglected by her husband. In her wifely rights. Since coming to Court.'
'Oh! Ah… ummm. Ooh, aye. D'you tell me that, Mistress?' Eyes rolling in alarm, the King moved further away. 'Here's a right pickle! How d'you ken a' this, Mistress Mary? About Bothwell,' he added hurriedly.
'I made it my business to find out, Sire.'
'Aye – through that Jean Stewart, nae doubt. She beds wi' Patrick o' Lindores. But why, lassie? What interests you that much in Francis o' Bothwell? You're no' taken up wi' the rascal your ain sel'?'
'Far from it, Sire. Indeed I like him but little. But I would not have Your Grace's fame spoiled by the hurt of an innocent man.'
'Aye. rph'mmm. Would you no'…? Well, well – we'll see. This requires thinking upon. Much thought.' James edged towards the door.
'Sire,' the girl said, a little breathlessly for her, 'do you not write any more poetry? It is a great wonder to have a king who is a poet. Your renown goes forth…'
'Och, I havena time for yon,' James interrupted. 'I'm ower busy dealing wi' this o' the Devil.'
'Could that not be what the Devil wishes you to do, Your Grace? That you serve him best by fighting him at his own game, with his own weapons? Perhaps by poetry and other things – kindly arts reaching to the hearts of men – you may do better. Injure his kingdom more.'
'Och, Mary lass – dinna haver! I'll no' beat Satan wi' poetry. He needs harder knocks than that. Forby, I'm writing a book. To open men's eyes to his wiles and deceits. Na, na -I've no time for rhyming.'
Mary sighed. 'I am sorry. I had hoped that Your Grace might have helped me again. With my own poor verses. You were so good before. So clever. A true poet, you guided my faltering lines…'
'You are writing mair verses, Mary? To the Queen? Annie's no' that taken wi' poetry, I've found.'
'No. To… to another. I am finding it difficult. But with your help…'
'Na, na. Go you to Patrick Gray, lassie – to your uncle. No' to me. He's a poet, and he's far mair time, forby. He hasna this realm to rule and Satan to fight. Off wi' you now, and let me to my work. Begone, girl.'
Sighing again, Mary curtsied. 'I beg Your Grace's pardon,' she said, and moved to the locked door.
Patrick Gray paced back and forth across the stone-flagged floor, behind the table – the only man so to do. Which was unlike that self-possessed individual. Indeed, he was probably the man least hims
elf in that sombre wood-panelled chamber of Edinburgh Castle. His companions sat or lounged around three sides of the great table, interested, concerned, bored or lethargic – or plain drunk. One or two goblets were already overturned, with the wine spilled and dripping on the floor.
In his high chair at the top, the King sat forward absorbed, eager, avid almost. Seldom had any of those present seen that strange young man so much alive, so keenly intent. A large sheet of paper lay before him, with ink-pot and sand, and in his hand he held a newly-sharpened quill, with others, used and unused, lying by. The paper was one-third written upon in James's spidery hand. Clerks sitting at another smaller table clutched their pens much less earnestly.
'Sit you doon, sit you doon, Master o' Gray,' James said, licking thick lips. 'Dinna be so impatient, man. We'll win to the truth yet.'
'I doubt it, Your Grace – mightily I doubt it. By this road,' Patrick returned without pronounced respect. 'If I am impatient, it is at this waste of your royal time. Of all our time. Here is no way to…'
He stopped, both his speaking and his pacing, as a high-pitched screaming came through to them from some chamber beyond, bubbling, half-strangled. Broken and crazed it rose, three times, before sinking in a whimpering that presently failed to reach them.
The King rubbed his hands. 'Hear you that?' he charged them. 'We'll no' be long now, I warrant!'
'May the Devil so screech eternally in his hell, and all who favour and abet him!' Master Lindsay observed, piously.
'Amen, amen!' James agreed wholeheartedly. Hastily some others of the company added their assent.
'Christ's cause will triumph!' added the Chancellor, newly created Lord Maitiand of Thirlstane by a grateful monarch. 'God's will be done.'
Patrick swung on him. 'How can you listen to that, my lord, and call it God's work or Christ's cause?' he demanded. 'I am a sad sinner, as none knows better – but I would not saddle the sweet Christ with such as this!'
'Tush, sir…'
'The Lord Christ scourged the wrong-doers out of the temple, Master of Gray,' Lindsay reminded him sternly. 'All evil must be scourged and beaten out of wicked men. Only so shall Christ's kingdom come. The punishment of evil-doing is God's work.'
'Punishment, sir? This then is punishment? For sins committed? I understood that this was a court of law. Duly instituted by the King. To try. To enquire into. No verdict has yet been pronounced. No decision reached. No sentence given. Is it not early for punishment…?'
'Och, Patrick man,' James interrupted, 'you ken very well we must needs put them to the question. Likewise that Satan keeps their lips tight closed lest they tell his black secrets. Ooh, aye. Only by sic-like pains can we overcome his ill hold on them. It's full necessary, man. Forby, they're a' guilty as hell itsel'. You ken that fine. We saw it wi' our ain eyes. Waesucks – their punishment is well earned! We but require the evidence established according to the law. Is that not so, Sir William?'
Sir William Elphinstone, Senator of the College of Justice, one of the three Lords of Session present, roused himself, peered, and hiccuped. 'Undoubtedly, Your Grace,' he said.
'Aye. We but seek the truth, Patrick. The truth we must have. You'll no' deny that? Guidsakes, man – it was yoursel' that uncovered for us this nest o' infamy and…'
An animal squealing interrupted even the monarch, a sound grotesque and repetitive that seemed impossible to have come from human lips.
One of the more somnolent judges sat up, eyes open, suddenly interested. 'Fiend seize me – is yon the auld one or the young one?' he demanded. 'I'll wager you a crown it's the auld one, Dod.' Then recollecting the King's presence, he choked and stammered. 'Your… Your Grace's pardon!'
James was not listening – at least, not to this. He was craning his head forward, a little to one side, staring directly at the blank wall of panelling, as though he would project himself entirely into what went on in that next chamber.
Patrick came directly up to the King's chair. 'Your Grace,' he urged, 'I pray you halt this, this savagery. No evidence gained thus is worth a packman's whistle. They will say anything.'
'Wheesht, man – wheesht!' With an almost physical effort, James brought himself back to present company. 'You err, Patrick. These toils are necessary and proper. The creatures will no' speak, otherwise. That we ken. Even at my royal command.'
'They will speak, Sire – have spoken. Only not what you would have them to say…'
James straightened up in his chair. 'Houts, sir – that's no way to speak to me! I'll thank you to watch your words in our presence.'
'I think that you forgot yourself, Master of Gray,' Maitland said coldly from across the table. 'Recollect that you are not in your Wardrobe now!'
Patrick ignored him. 'Sire – these methods smack of Queen Elizabeth's Walsingham rather than of the King of Scots,' he charged – a shrewd stroke, for of all men James loathed and feared Mr. Secretary Walsingham, the greatest spy-master and inquisitor outside Spain.
Visibly the King drew back. 'Eh…? Walsingham!' he muttered.*No' that… you'd no' say…'
The door of the adjoining chamber opened, turning all heads. A continuous chittering moaning sound was at once evident; as well as a most unpleasant smell. With these, in through the doorway, came a moon-faced fat man, bald, indeed hairless, as a baby, and as pink-and-white. In shirt and breeches, with sleeves uprolled, he came forward, bobbing a series of jerky bows at the King, sweat streaming from his cherubic features and soaking his shirt. Red blood too splattered the latter.
'Well, Master Broun – well?' James demanded. 'Ha' you been successful? Ha' you displaced the Devil and let in the fear o' God?'
'Aye, Majesty – mair or less,' the other answered. He had a high squeaking voice to match his face. 'But I'm thinking she'll no' tak mair, the noo. It's weak flesh, weak. It fails me, for a' my craft and cunning. Mair, at the present, and you'll get nae sense oot o' her, I fear – just mowlings and mewings nae better than a cat. Twice she swooned awa', Majesty. But I'm right nimble at fetching them back. I ken the ways o' their bodies. I'm skilled at searching oot their…'
'Enough of yourself, man!' the Lord Chancellor broke in. 'His Grace is not interested in your fell trade. Is the woman yet in her senses?'
'Aye, my lord. It's been a sair trauchle to keep her so. But she has her wits yet, in a manner o' speaking…'
'Then fetch her in, Master Broun,' the King ordered, 'fetch her in.'
The fat man backed out, and presently returned with two brawny guards half-carrying between them an extraordinary and distasteful apparition, a sagging and untidy bundle of trailing hair, limbs, and torn and soiled clothing. This twitching, sprawling spectacle they brought forward to the table -until, wrinkling his nose in disgust, the Chancellor waved them away.
'Further back, for a mercy!' he ordered. 'Further back, fools! A pox-how she stinks!'
'Ha – see you, Dod!' the Lord of Session Graham chuckled. 'I said it was the auld one…'
'Yon's no' the auld one, Johnnie,' Sir William Elphinstone reproved. 'See her paps. The auld gammer couldna show the likes o' yon, I'll warrant! It's the young quean. Use your eyes, man.'
'Your Grace – this… this is beyond all bearing!' Patrick Gray exclaimed. 'You cannot countenance such barbarity!'
Then stand you back, Master of Gray – if your stomach is over-nice!' Sir James Balfour observed dryly. 'I would scarce have believed one of your, h'm, experience to be so delicate!'
The King did not seem to hear any of them; nor did he appear to be ill-affected by either sight or smell. He had half-risen to his feet involuntarily, as though indeed he would have moved closer to the sorry creature that had been brought in to them, but he slowly resumed his seat, contenting himself with leaning forward over the table, slack lips working.
'Aye, aye,' he got out at length. 'So is ill pride fallen! Here's the end o' black shame and whoring wi' Satan!' He actually wagged a minatory finger at the unsavoury scarecrow. 'You're nane so vaunty now, Mistres
s! Changed days since you rode the Devil at North Berwick! Siclike are the wages o' sin, woman.'
Certainly the broken and repulsive eyesore before them was hardly to be accepted as the same comely and voluptuous young female who had played the Jew's-harp at North Berwick kirk and led the dance on the shoulders of the horned preacher. The worthy Lord of Session was scarcely to be blamed for mistaking her for the old hag whom they had interrogated with her, previously; hollow-eyed, her flesh turned grey where it was not discoloured with bruising, her tawny hair ragged, sweat-stained and matted with blood as a result of the twisting of a rope around her head – a favourite method of extracting the truth from witches – she looked as she had sounded, scarcely human.
'Can she speak, Master Broun?' the Chancellor demanded, doubtfully.
'Oh, aye. Fine, my lord. Naught wrang wi' her tongue. You should ha' heard her back there…'
'Quite, man – quite.' Maitland raised his voice, as though to bring the prisoner to her senses. 'Woman,' he said sternly. 'Hear me. You will now give answer to our questions. Honestly and respectfully. We will have no more lies and evasions…'
'Bide a wee, bide a wee, my lord,' James intervened, frowning. 'Wi' your permission I will question the creature.' He signed to the man Broun. 'Cover her up. She's no' decent. An offence, just.' Primly he tutted. 'Now, Mistress Cairncross – your attention, if you please. We maun hae an answer to these several points. Imprimis – do you admit that you are a sworn servant o' the Devil and the enemy o' the Lord God and His Kirk? Secundum – that the true and veritable reason for yon ill conventicle at North Berwick was the sore hurt and harm o' me, James Stewart, your liege lord, King o' this realm o' Scotland, and Christ's viceregent? Tertium – that you and your coven hae held the like wicked and abominable conventicles and practices at times previous, and in especial when I was aship at sea, wi' the object o' effecting storms and great waves to swallow me up. Aye, and mists too. Yon mist. And other siclike calamitous hurts. Quartum – was your captain, precentor and leader in all such abominations the Devil himsel', or a man in his dark service? A man, just? Aye, and Quintum – if a man, was he no' Francis Stewart, calling himsel' Hepburn, Earl o' Bothwell?' James scanned his paper, to make sure that he had missed no point. Then he jabbed his pen at the wreck of a young woman. 'Now, Mistress – that's clear enough, is it no'? We'll hae the first. You admit that you are a sworn servant o' the Devil? Eh?'
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