All this may have seemed a trifle elementary for someone so notably close to Satan himself – and moreover, markedly unsuccessful. But at least it was testimony to high treason, and many had died for a deal less – including, needless to say, the two informants. That, even so, Bothwell remained untried could only mean that he had friends sufficiently powerful to prevent the King from forcing the issue.
Mary Gray came to this conclusion rather sooner than did most, perhaps. Frequently she pondered the matter, and wondered how Patrick saw it all and how he might react. He had not taken her into his confidence, on matters of any import, for many a month.
It was Patrick himself however who brought up the subject with her on a notable occasion – or at least on the day thereof. It was indeed the day of Ludovick's marriage, in the Abbey
church of Holyrood, beside the palace. Mary, for perhaps one of the few times in her life, shirked an issue, and pleaded a woman's sickness as excuse for not attending in the Queen's retinue at the wedding, remaining in her own room when all others flocked to the ceremony. Few, probably, wondered at this, for she was generally esteemed to have been Lennox's mistress, and so might tactfully have absented herself; but Patrick Gray at least was surprised, knowing her quality. He was concerned enough to leave the marriage festivities early, and come back to the Master of the Wardrobe's quarters of the palace, where he found Mary on hands and knees on the floor of her own room, playing a game with young Andrew, now a lusty boy of eighteen months.
'Ha! So I need not have concerned myself for your health, my dear!' he commented, smiling down at her. 'You make a pretty picture, the pair of you, I vow – and far from sickly!'
'And you, Uncle Patrick, a most splendid one!' she returned, unabashed. 'I like you in black velvet and silver. And to see you smile again. You have smiled at me but little, of late.'
'M'mmm.' He eyed her thoughtfully, as she rose to her feet. 'You have not done a deal of smiling yourself, Mary, I think.'
She shrugged. 'Perhaps not. They have not been smiling times. But – the wedding? Did all go well? You are back betimes. There were no… hitches?'
*None – save that the bridegroom might have been at his own funeral, and the bride a ghost!' he told her. 'The feast now proceeding lacks something of joy and gaiety in consequence. I have seen wakes more rousing!'
'Poor Vicky,' she murmured. 'Poor Lady Sophia, also.'
Patrick stroked his chin. 'Do not waste your compassion on Vicky, my dear,' he advised. 'He is none so unfortunate. Amongst such as might marry the Duke of Lennox, Sophia Ruthven stands high. She has more to commend her than most. And as husbands go, Vicky I have no doubt, will serve her well enough.'
'No doubt,' she agreed, a little wearily. 'So all do assure me.'
He reached out to rim a hand lightly over her dark hair.
'Mary, lass – you are not hurt, in this? It is not like you to avoid the wedding to feign sickness. I know well that you are fond of Vicky. You have been friends always – since that first day I gave him into your young hands at Castle Huntly. But you have always known, also, that this must happen, that he must marry. That he was…'
'That Vicky was not for such as me,' she completed for him, evenly. 'Yes, I have always known it. Do not fear, it is not for myself that I grieve. It is for Vicky. He is unhappy.'
'He will get over it – nothing more store. He is very young -little more than a boy, indeed. Young even for his years. He has a deal to learn. High rank, high office, demands much…'
'All that I know well,' she interposed. 'I but preferred not to watch a marriage in which there was no fondness. You will mind that I did not attend his sister's to my lord of Huntly, either. Tell me – did Master Bruce preach a sermon? Did the King make a speech?'
'Both, woe is me! And belike we shall have to sit through it all tomorrow when Jean weds Leslie of Lindores.' He groaned. 'Ah, me – the folly of it! This flood of words that poor old Scotland drowns in! I heard Johnny Mar bewailing that he was not shut up safely in ward like Bothwell, so as to be spared further attendance at such!' He stopped, as though the name of Bothwell had given him pause, and took a pace or two across the room. 'I wonder, now…?' he said slowly, looking out of the window.
Mary followed him with her eyes. 'You wonder about Bothwell – or my lord of Mar?' she asked.
'About both,' he answered. 'The way that slipped out, from Mar. I would say that he does not therefore esteem Bothwell to be in great danger. A small thing, but…'
'And do you so think, Uncle Patrick?'
'Why no. Not now – not any more.' He turned back to her. 'Why? Are you interested in Bothwell, moppet?'
'I have wondered much about him. He has been held so long imprisoned in the Castle, and not brought to trial. Despite the wicked deaths of so many others. Does the King no longer seek his life?'
'The King would have his head tomorrow, if he dared!' Patrick told her.
'That means, then, that my lord has powerful friends. As I thought.'
'The most powerful, it seems!' the man agreed grimly. 'The Chancellor? My lord of Moray? They were not formerly his friends.'
'More powerful than these.'
'More…? But, are there such? The Kirk? Surely not the Kirk? Bothwell has been no friend to the Kirk.' 'More powerful even than the Kirk.' 'Then there is only… only…?'
'Aye – only Elizabeth! Only the Queen of England. That good lady chooses to interest herself in Bothwell's fate.'
'But why? Did she not ever speak only ill of him? Call him a brigand? Write that he treated her borders like his own backyard?'
He shrugged. 'All true, my dear. But she is a woman, and may change her mind. She must have some reason – but I have not fathomed it. I have seen a letter from her to the King, urging clemency, saying that he is but a young man misled, that there is no real ill in him. She offers no reason for this change of face – but needs none. James dare not controvert her – if only for his pension's sake! That is why my Lord Chancellor has turned Bothwell's friend. Although I cannot think that it is Moray's reason.'
'So he will not die?'
'Not, at least, on this occasion, I fear!'
'How long then, will he stay in ward?'
'As for that I neither know nor care,' the Master said, with a snap of slim fingers. 'Until he rots, if need be! Not,' he added sardonically, 'that he is in any present danger of rotting, I believe.'
'No,' she agreed. 'I hear that he is very… comfortable.' Mary came over to take his arm. 'Uncle Patrick,' she said. 'Do you not think that you might serve yourself better, over my lord of Bothwell?'
'Eh? Better? How do you mean better, girl?'
'Better than now. Better than by leaving him there, to rot. You brought him low, did you not, for your own purposes? Now, raise him up again, also for your own purposes.'
He gazed at her, scimitar brows raised. 'I brought him low…?' he repeated.
'Yes. Over the North Berwick witchcraft plot,' she answered factually, calmly. 'Now you say that the King will not dare to try him. So that you can gain nothing more with him. Can you? In ward. Because of his powerful friends. But if his friends are so strong, why fight them? Become one of them, rather. Aid Bothwell now, Uncle Patrick. Once you told me that it was a fool who fought a losing battle. And also that in statecraft a man could not afford to keep up private enmities.'
Still-faced the man considered her, silent.
'Aid Bothwell now,' she repeated. 'He has paid sufficiently for what he said at Leith, yon time – has he not? And gain much credit with his powerful friends.'
Patrick was actually smiling again. 'It warms my heart to see you so!' he declared. 'To hear you. I' faith, it does.'
'Perhaps… but laugh at me at your peril!' she warned. 'For I am very serious. Does what I say not make good sense? By your own measure, Uncle Patrick?'
'I do not know – yet. It will require thought. But, on my soul, if you are for teaching me my business, child, will you not spare me this uncling? Uncle
Patrick! Uncle Patrick! Will you uncle me all my days? Can you not call me but Patrick, as others do?'
'Why, yes, Patrick – I shall,' she agreed. 'If you will spare me the child. You scarce consider me a child, yet, do you?'
'By God, I do not! You are right, young woman. It is a bargain! No childing, and no uncling!' He folded his arms. 'Now Mistress Mary Gray – what would you have me do with Bothwell?'
'You could seek to have him released. Do better than these so powerful friends of his.'
'And lose more favour with the King? That I cannot afford, my dear.'
'Then… could you not aid his escape from ward? From the Castle. Others have won out of Edinburgh Castle ere this, have they not? With assistance. Secretly. Might it not be arranged?'
He tipped his lips with his tongue. 'You are… quite a little devil, are you not, Mary my pet?'
'You are not jealous?' she wondered seriously.
He laughed musically. 'Perhaps I should be! Instead, damme, of being… well, just a little proud!'
'Of me? Then, you think well of my suggestion?'
'Say that I see possibilities in it – no more,' he told her lightly. 'Possibilities, sweeting.'
'Yes,' she nodded, satisfied. 'That is what I thought. Now – go you back to the wedding-feast, Patrick. Or your absence will be noted… and the unkind will say that you are plotting some ill! Which would be very unfair, would it not?'
He took her chin in his hand, and considered her quizzically. 'Witch!' he accused. 'If our King Jamie seeks true witches, he has not far to look for one!'
Her lovely face clouded at his words, and she turned away. 'How can you jest about so terrible an evil?' she demanded.
'Why, girl, sometimes I jest that I may not weep.'
'Yes. I am sorry. Go then, Patrick – and thank you for your coming. It was kindly. Will you tell Vicky that I wish him very well?'
'Aye, if you say so.' He grinned. 'That should much aid his bridal night! A kiss, now, moppet…'
The officer unlocked the great door at the foot of the turnpike stair, and raised his lantern to point down the further steep flight of stairs.
'Yonder is the room, sir,' he said, handing Patrick a key, and also the lantern. 'My lord may be abed by this. His man has left him for the night, and sleeps in the guard-room above, with my fellows. You will find me there when you are finished.'
'My thanks, Captain. I may be some little time.'
Patrick went down the remaining steps to the door at their end. Some perhaps misplaced courtesy made him knock thereon before fitting the key to the lock. The door opened to a darkened chamber which the lantern revealed to be vaulted, fair-sized, and though walled and floored in bare stone, to be furnished in reasonable comfort. On a bed in one corner a man lay, in shirt and breeches, blinking and frowning at the light.
'A God's name, Wattie – what ails you?' he snarled. 'What do you want at this hour?'
'Here is no Wattie, my lord,' Patrick answered pleasantly, 'But another, more… effective.'
'Eh…?' Bothwell sat up. 'What is this? Who, i' the fiend's name, are you?'
'I wonder that you are still so free with the Fiend's name, at this late date, my lord!' Patrick observed, laughing. 'I would have reckoned that you might have had your bellyful of him!'
'I know that voice,' the other cried. 'It's Gray, is it not? That ill-conceived and treacherous scoundrel, the Master of Gray?'
'Your tongue would seem to lack both accuracy and charity – but there is nothing wrong with your ears! Gray it is.' Patrick held the lamp high. 'I see that they have given you a better chamber than they gave me three years agone!'
Bothwell rose to his full height. If captivity had weakened his frame or blanched his cheek, it did not show in the lantern's light. Tall, muscular, hot-eyed, angry, he stood there, swaying slightly.
'Curse you!' he spluttered. 'You it is that I have to thank that I am here, they tell me!'
'How mistaken you are, my lord. That is wholly the King's doing, in his diligent assault on witchery and warlockry. Poor James – he is much upset…'
'Liar!'
Patrick shrugged. 'Have it your own way, my friend. But I would urge that you do not make my mission here tonight of no avail.'
'Aye, what are you here for -reprobate!'
'Your release, my lord – what else?'
That brought the other up short. 'Release…?'
'Release, yes. Or, more exacdy perhaps, your escape. At any rate, your abstraction from these present toils.'
Bothwell was staring at him. 'Mockery becomes you no better than does lying!' he said, but with less of conviction.
'I no more mock than lie. But perhaps you do not choose to leave the security of these four stout walls, my lord?'
'Fool!' the other jerked. 'Come – say what-you came to say, and be gone!'
Patrick sighed. 'For one so ill-placed as yourself, I confess that I find you much lacking in civility. You are a hard man to be friends with, it seems! I am almost minded to leave you to your fate.'
'Out with it, man – out with it.'
'Very well. I am prepared to aid your escape out of this place. It can be done.' 'A trick, I vow!'
'No trick. What would it serve me to trick you in this?' 'I do not know. But I know that I do not trust you one inch, Gray.'
'Then remain here and die, my lord.'
'I will not die, I think. But why should you seek to aid me?'
'Why, that one day you may aid me in return, my friend.'
This frankness may have commended itself somewhat to Bothwell, for he considered his visitor with at least more attention. 'What do you want?' he asked.
'Let us leave that, for the moment. Say that I feel sure that you can be of more benefit to me out of ward than in it, my lord. Now – to get you out of here, I believe, three items only are required. A rasp, a rope, and a bold courage. The first two can be supplied. The third you must contribute for yourself.'
'My courage, sir, has never been called in question. A rope, you say…?' Bothwell's eyes swung towards the two small barred windows.
'Aye.' Dryly the Master glanced in the same direction. 'It is a long drop, my lord. Some forty or fifty feet of walling, and then a couple of hundred feet of good Scottish rock. But a knotted rope of ample length, a clear head and a stout heart -and helping hands to aid you on the rock – and heigho, it will be your own Borderland for you again!'
The Earl said nothing.
Patrick strolled over, and raised his lantern to look more closely at the window bars. 'Aye – nothing here that a stout rasp will not cut through in an hour or so. Nor is the space so small that you could not win through. There should be no difficulty, my lord.'
'Save getting the file and the rope to me, here! The rope in especial. How are you to get that past the guard, man? Enough rope…?'
'It must needs be a very slender cord, I fear – but sufficiently strong, for it would be a pity if it broke, would it not?' The visitor's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. 'I fear that you must just trust the jumped-up wardrobe-master for that, my lord! Slender enough to be wound around a man's person many times, under his clothing as an officer of the King's Guard. He will bear also a rasp, of course – and a letter for you with the King's seal. Also an order to see you, bearing the signature of my lord of Moray, Captain of the Royal Guard!'
'But… a pox! Moray would never do that! Put his own head in a noose! For me?'
'I did not say that he would – did I?' The Master smiled. 'Just have a little faith in your treacherous scoundrel, my Lord Bothwell. I have achieved much more difficult tasks than this. Give me a few days – a week – for I would not wish this my visit to you to be linked with the business. That would serve neither you nor me, you will agree?'
Bothwell remained silent, suspicious.
'That is all, then, I think. Wait you for a week. Do not disclose to any, even to your man, that you think to be leaving these quarters. The letter will tell you when to assay the esc
ape. Also where men will be waiting for you, with horses, below the rock. All will be dealt with, never fear.' Patrick laughed. 'And the rope will be long enough and strong enough, I promise you!'
'And the price, Master of Gray? Your price for this service?' Bothwell got out at last.
'That can wait. Let us not haggle and chaffer like hucksters. We neither of us are merchants, my lord – both men of the world. Say that I may seek your aid at some later date – and hope not to be rejected!'
Still the other did not commit himself. 'We shall see,' he said, cryptically.
'Undoubtedly. I give you goodnight, my doubting friend. When next we meet you will be a free man.' He sighed. 'Or a dead one!'
The King was all but in tears. 'It must ha' been Moray, I tell you!' he cried, thumping his hand on the table. 'Here is the warrant, signed in his ain hand, to admit the bearer to visit the Earl o' Bothwell on the King's business. On my business, waesucks! It's treason, I tell you – blackest treason!'
The hastily-assembled members of the Council, such as could be gathered together at short notice thus early in the day, eyed their dishevelled monarch and each other with various expressions of unease, resentment and blank sleepiness. Most had barely got over the last night's potations, and were in no fit state to deal with high treason before breakfast. James himself was only part-dressed; after long studies later into the night than usual owing to the Queen's absence, on witchcraft and the writing of his book, he was blear-eyed and unbeautiful. Never apt for early rising save when hunting, today he had been awakened with the dire news of Bothwell's escape from Edinburgh Castle, and nothing would serve but an immediate meeting of his Council, assured that his royal person was in imminent danger.
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