'And she has the rights of it – for he is none of them!' the young man said bluntly.
'No. But a wife could aid him to be more of them. A wife should aid her husband,' Mary averred. 'And James needs aid greatly. You, Vicky, are closer to him than is the Queen, I think.'
'Not I. I will be close to no man who delights in blood and torture and burnings.'
'But if you could help to wean him away from these evil things, Vicky? The Queen will not do it. She cares not, it seems. But he still thinks well of you.'
'Think you that I have not tried? He will not heed me, Mary. He treats me like a child – he who is but five years older than I. I am near eighteen years, see you…'
She smiled. 'But nearer seventeen! Do not forget that we are almost of an age, Vicky.'
'What of it? I am a man. Man enough to be Chamberlain of Scotland and Commendator of St. Andrews. To have been President of the Council. Man enough to marry… ' His expression changed. 'Mary,' he said urgently, 'enough of all this of James. He will not change for me. And I cannot breathe at Court, these days – or in this Edinburgh itself. Nor can you, it is clear. Let us away, then – together. You and me. Marry me, Mary – and let us leave all this. Forthwith. Marry me.'
Troubled she searched his face. 'Vicky – why do you hurt us both? You know that I cannot marry you. You know that it is impossible. I am not for such as you. A great lady you must marry, with name and lands and fortune.'
'I wish only to marry you. How many times have I told you so? Come away with me, Mary – away from this Court, from cruelty and fear and the smell of death. From plotting and lies and intrigue. Come to my castle of Methven, on the skirts of the Highland hills, where we can be free and live our own lives. Together. I can find a priest to marry us – a minister. Tonight, if need be. Then it will be too late for James to say no. Too late for others to arrange my life for me!' That was eloquence indeed for Ludovick Stuart.
She reached up to touch his arm, her fingers slipping down to catch and hold his own. But she shook her head. 'You are kind, Vicky – most kind. I thank you for it. But it is not to be -however much we could wish it. We are born into very different degrees, different places in the world – and nothing that we may do will alter it. Besides, I cannot leave the Court. Not just now…'
'Why not? What keeps you here? You hate it. The Queen will do very well without you, I swear.'
'It is not that…'
'It is Patrick again, I suppose? Always it is Patrick Gray! This world turns round that man!' Ludovick ground his heel into the turf.
'Yes, it is he. While I can serve him, I must, Vicky.'
'Serve him! Think you that he needs your service? Or any? Think you that Patrick Gray requires any but himself? That he cares for any but himself? The Master of Gray is sufficient unto himself, now and ever. Damn him!'
Mary stared, and her hand slipped out of his. Never had she heard Lennox speak so; about anyone, but especially about Patrick. 'You are wrong, Vicky,' she protested. 'Grievously wrong. He needs friends also – much, he needs them. Against himself, most of all. He needs his wife. I think that he needs even me. And you. Yes, you. Are you not his friend? Always you have been that.'
'Always I have been, yes,' the other repeated bitterly. 'But has he been mine? Is he any man's friend, the Master of Gray – save his own? How say you – is he?' Almost the young man was fierce.
Mary looked away and away, and did not answer.
'I will tell you how much he is my friend,' the Duke went on, hotly. 'The King has commanded me to marry the Lady Sophia Ruthven! Aye, marry. And it is on the advice of the Master of Gray.'
The young woman sat up straight, now, stiffly, eyes wide. For a long moment she did not speak. Then her breath came out in a quivering sigh. 'So-o-o!' she said.
'Aye, so. His cousin. His uncle Gowrie's daughter. His mother's brother, Gowrie, the Treasurer, who was executed. Patrick has gained the wardship of her and her sister Beatrix. Did you know that? Profitable wardship. Beatrix is to be lady to the Queen, in place of Jean Stewart, whom Anne will have no more of. Jean is to marry Leslie of Lindores forthwith… and I am to marry Sophia Ruthven.'
'I see,' Mary Gray said, quietly.
'Do you see? All of it? I see, likewise! The Earl of Gowrie, you'll mind, lost his head and his lands, for treason. Six years ago. There are plenty say that the Master of Gray had a hand in that. His lands were forfeit. But he had lent much money to the Crown. Private money, expended by him as Treasurer – through the Master of Gray. A dangerous practice. They say that the Crown owed him?80,000! Though how much got past Patrick Gray's hands is another matter! It was when Patrick was acting Chancellor. So… Gowrie died. And now I am to marry his daughter.'
'Who has been telling you all this?'
'Who but his son, the young Gowrie. He is still not of age, and still has not the use of his father's estates. Or what is left of them. Gowrie was one of the richest lords in the kingdom.'
'I see,' she said again. For that young woman her voice was flat, level, but still calm. 'Sophia Ruthven. Why, if you must marry, my lord Duke, it might as well be the Lady Sophia. She is gentle and, and guileless… as well as rich.'
'She is sickly and plain, and scant of wits! But do you not see? I am but to be made use of! Married to me, Patrick and the King think to control her wealth. I, her husband, will be no trouble to them! Until her brother Gowrie is of age, they will have their hands on all the Ruthven wealth. The bills for?80,000 are not like to be claimed! It is but a covetous plot -with me the fool, the clot-pate!'
'You are sure that this is Uncle Patrick's work?'
'Young Gowrie says that it is. He is but fifteen years, but he should know. Patrick has been dealing with him. He is to be sent away to Padua. To the University there. For study. By the King's kindly command. But by Patrick's arranging, who was there but a year or so ago, in his exile. Has it not all every sign of the Master's hand behind it?'
'It may be so,' she admitted. 'But he could be acting your friend still, Vicky. Thinking for you, also. And for her, perhaps. After all, many a great lord would be happy to wed the Lady Sophia. So rich, and of so powerful and ancient a family. Knowing that you, Scotland's only duke, must needs marry some such, it may be that he seeks to serve you well by recommending Sophia Ruthven. She is his cousin. And his ward, you say – though that is new…'
'If it was a kindness to me, might he not have consulted me? Me. If I am to marry her!'
'He knows… ' She hesitated. 'He knows that… '
'Aye – he knows that I would only marry you. Which does not suit his plans.'
She sighed. 'He knows, as do all others save only you, Vicky, that that is impossible. Surely you must see it?'
'I see, rather, a man selling his friend. As some say he sold my father. Selling me to the King. Or, better, buying himself back into James's favour, through this marriage project. All know that James has been cool towards him since these witch trials began. Somehow his plot to bring down Bothwell has failed. Something has gone amiss. I know not what. And James frowned on him.'
'I think that I know,' Mary said evenly. 'Uncle Patrick has many faults, no doubt – but he has many virtues also. He is a plotter, but there is no savagery in him. He is not cruel. He could not stand by and see women tortured, I think that he never actually believed in the witchcraft himself. He but sought to make use of the King's fear of it, for what he calls statecraft. He sought to bring Bothwell down, yes. But when he saw what hurt and evil was being visited upon these unhappy women, he would have none of it. He is sorry now, I believe, that he ever took a hand in the business…'
Tt may be so. But that does not explain how Bothwell has escaped. What went amiss with the plot. There is more here than that Patrick mislikes these questionings and burnings. Bothwell must have more potent friends than was believed, arrogant and unfriendly as he is. James, it seems, is afraid to bring him to trial. Why? It is said that my lord of Moray spoke strongly for him. Had some informatio
n which saved him. Moray, who was Patrick's friend. And yours.' Ludovick looked at her direcdy. 'You have become very friendly with Moray, Mary, have you not? I have seen you much in his company, of late. I do not like the way that he looks at you.'
'Moray looks at any woman that way.'
'But you see over much of him.'
'He is much about the Queen. And I am the Queen's servant.'
He sighed. 'Well… know you what is at the bottom of it all? Why he turned against Patrick?'
'Perhaps he but seeks to save Uncle Patrick from a, a foolishness? The act of a friend indeed.' She changed the subject. 'When must you marry the Lady Sophia?'
'When? Why, never – if you will but come away with me. Marry me first. Once I am married to you, Mary, I can laugh at James's royal commands. And Patrick must needs think of a new plot to control the Ruthven siller!'
She shook her head. 'Do not cozen yourself, Vicky. It would not serve. The King, and the Kirk, would annul your marriage. Nothing would be easier. We are both under age. Nothing would be resolved.'
'Let them, then. Let them annul our marriage, if they can. But what matters it if we are beyond their reach? We shall go, not to Methven, but to the far Highlands. Clanranald is my friend. We could go to his far country, where James could never reach us. Better even, we could flee to France. I am a noble of France as well as of Scotland – the Seigneur D'Aubigny. I have lands and houses there.'
'You could give up all this for me, Vicky. All your high position and esteem, here in Scotland? Your dukedom, your Priory of St. Andrews, your castle of Methven, the office and revenues of Lord Chamberlain? All – for Mary Gray, the bastard?'
'Aye, would I! And more. All that I am and have. Did I not promise you, long ago, that I would give up life itself for you -swore it on my sword hilt. I meant it then, and I mean it now. You only, I have wanted, always. None other and naught else. You, my true love – the truest, fairest, most kind, most gentle woman in this land. Or any land…'
'Hush, Vicky – hush!' The girl's voice actually broke as she stopped him, and she turned her face away so that he would not see how it worked and grimaced. 'You are wrong, so wrong!' she exclaimed. 'I am not what you think, Vicky -believe me, I am not! I am far from so true, so gentle, so kind. I am two-faced and a deceiver. A dissembler. I am Patrick Gray's daughter indeed, and like him in much. I also am a plotter, an intriguer – so much less honest than you are. In some ways the life of this Court that you hate suits me very well. Here I can pit my wits against others, intrigue with the best. You are deceived in me, Vicky. You must not esteem me as other than I am.'
He craned his neck, to look at her curiously. 'I am not deceived,' he declared. 'I have known you too long for that. You are much that I am not, yes – clever, quick of wits. But true. Unlike Patrick, true. But… why do you tell me all this?'
'Because I would not have you believe that in not having me you were in aught the loser.' That was level again, flat.
'Loser? Not having you? Then… you will not come away with me? You will not many me? Whatever I say? Whatever I do? Wherever I go?'
'No, Vicky, I fear not.' She swallowed. 'Go you and marry Sophia Ruthven. You could do a deal worse, I think. Keep the King's regard and your high place in the realm. You need not play Uncle Patrick's game thereafter.'
There was a silence.
'And that is your last word?' he said, at length.
'It is, yes. I… I am sorry, Vicky.'
'Then I am wasting my time.' He straightened up, then suddenly turned back to her. 'It is not… it is not Peter Hay? My page?' he demanded.
'No, Vicky. It is not. Nor any man.'
'Aye. Well… so be it. I bid you good-day, Mary.' Stiffly, awkwardly, ridiculously, he bowed to her on her grassy ledge, and swung away abruptly to go striding back down die steep green side of Arthur's Seat, whence he had come.
Mary Gray sat looking after him steadily, dry-eyed, tight-lipped, motionless. Motionless but for her hands, that is; her fingers plucked at and tore to shreds stalk after stalk of the tough coarse grasses that grew there, methodically, one after another, strong and sore on her skin as they were. Long she sat there, long after the tiny foreshortened figure of the Duke of Lennox had disappeared into the busy precincts of Holyroodhouse, before signing, she rose and went slowly downhill in her turn.
Chapter Seventeen
LUDOVICK OF LENNOX did not flee to France – nor even to the distant Highlands. He remained at Court, although in no very courtly frame of mind, and in a few days the announcement was made from the palace that King James had been graciously pleased to bestow on his well-beloved cousin in marriage the hand of the Lady Sophia Ruthven, sister to the Earl of Gowrie and ward of the Master of Gray. The wedding would be celebrated shortly.
This was not to say that the young man was reconciled to his fate, however. According to Peter Hay, his page, he spent a large part of each night pacing up and down the confines of his bedchamber, unapproachable, disconsolate. Nor by day did his attitude typify the eager bridegroom. He spent an inordinate proportion of his time riding, tiring out horseflesh and himself by furious and otherwise purposeless galloping about the countryside, apparently with no other object than working off pent-up feelings and spleen – a notable change in one so normally level-headed and straightforward. He was barely civil to any with whom he came in contact – although he avoided as many as he could – including his monarch and cousin. The Master of Gray he sought to ignore completely. To the Lady Marie, whom still he appeared to trust, he confided that he was only remaining because he could not drag himself away from the vicinity of Mary Gray.
In Mary's company, however, he was only a little more civil than in others. Without being actually rude, he was aloof, abrupt, jerky, most obviously ill at ease, seeking her presence yet rebuffing her when he had gained it. She, for her part, sought to be no different from before with him, even kinder perhaps – but found this to be impossible. He would have none of it. Frequently she would catch him gazing at her with reproachful eyes, but when she made a move towards him he shied off like an unbroken colt.
That behaviour such as this on the part of so prominent an individual as the Duke of Lennox did not arouse more stir and comment than it did, might be accounted for by the fact that there was so much else to occupy the attention of the Scottish Court that summer of 1590. The witch trials went on, and had reached new heights of sensation with the naming, arrest and putting to the question of two ladies of some quality, Barbara Napier, sister-in-law of the Laird of Carschoggil, and Euphame MacCalzean, daughter of former Lord of Session Cliftonhall. That such as these should be implicated, sent a tremor of new and more personal excitement through all. At this rate, who was safe? Could any, save the most highly placed, be sure that the accusing finger might not next point at themselves? What had been a mere subject for gossip, speculation and some entertainment at Court, became suddenly a matter for serious thought, for discreet precautions, for assessing one's neighbours and acquaintance – even one's friends. Clearly the King's new obsession was becoming more than a joke.
Then there was the intriguing business of the Earl of Moray and the Master of Gray. These two seemed to be beginning to clash at all points – no one quite knew why. They had been esteemed as friends after the London embassage, but that obviously no longer applied. Some said that the rift dated from Moray's unexpected support of Bothwell – who still lingered in ward, though comfortably enough; but the more popular theory was that it was over rivalry for influence with Queen Anne. The King's preoccupation with witchcraft, the black arts and book-writing, left Anne with much time on her young hands, and she was apparently of a nature to interest herself in sundry affairs of state – which by no means suited Chancellor Maitland. Those who deplored Maitland's power and influence, therefore tended to encourage the Queen in this, and something of a Queen's party gradually developed. In this, two men, Moray and Patrick Gray, were from the first preeminent. To both Anne turned for guidance, suppo
rt, company. But it was noted by those particularly interested in such things that whereas in matters of statecraft, appointments and suchlike, she was apt to lean more heavily, naturally, on the experienced Master of Gray, in matters personal she seemed to delight rather more evidently in the younger Earl of Moray. After all, at thirty-two Patrick was twice her age, whereas Moray was nine years younger. Which, according to these acute observers, was a situation not to be borne by the handsomest man in all Europe, for whom women in general were to be expected to swoon and prostrate themselves. Another suggestion was that Moray, while dancing attendance on the young Queen, was interesting himself quite notably at the same time in her much more delectable tire-woman, Mary Gray – to the Master's disapproval.
Whatever the truth or otherwise of these intriguing theories, there could be no doubt that these two ornaments of the Court, the quite beautiful Master of Gray and the so bonny Earl of Moray, were no longer on the best of terms. They displayed this in very different ways, needless to say, the Master being exceedingly polite with only occasional viciously barbed remarks open to various interpretations, while Moray could be frankly scurrilous.
Then there was the Queen's supposed pregnancy to add spice to the situation. The Court was fairly evenly divided in opinion as to whether or not she was indeed with child. She showed no physical signs of it – but acted as though she was. King James himself, too, was for ever making knowing references about an imminent heir, winking towards his wife, and somewhat crudely playing the expectant father. Certain close to the royal couple, however, asserted that it was all pretence – notably Jean Stewart, formerly Lady-in-Waiting, although she might indeed have been prejudiced.
There was much speculation, also, about Bothwell and his probable fate. He had been warded now for months without trial. It seemed to many that the King was in fact afraid to bring him to trial. Yet determined and persistent questioning brought to bear on others, had produced evidence quite sufficient to incriminate him – as indeed was scarcely to be wondered at – including two especially valuable testimonies, from a matronly dame named Agnes Sampson, known as the Wise Wife of Keith, renowned for good works, and from Doctor Fian, the schoolmaster of Tranent. Both these had testified, after due persuasion, that Bothwell had approached each of them with requests for the means whereby he might encompass the death of King James by witchcraft. Mistress Sampson said that she had produced the well-tried method of making a wax image of the monarch, which was passed round the coven, each saying in turn 'This is King James the Sixth, ordained to be consumed at the instance of a noble man, Francis Earl of Bothwell,' and thereafter melted in fire. Doctor Fian had aspired somewhat higher, and roasted alive a black toad in place of the King – much to his sovereign's subsequent indignation.
The Courtesan mog-2 Page 35