Lennox, bewildered, ran a hand over his brow. 'I do not understand,' he faltered. 'This of Huntly…?'
'Never heed it, Vicky,' Mary advised. 'You are done -tired, hungry. Come with me.' She took him by the hand.
He nodded, and went like a child.
Chapter Twenty-one
ON 29th December 1591, King James signed a decree ending the banishment of his trusty and well-beloved councillor and Lieutenant of the North, George Gordon, Earl of Huntly, Lord of Strathbogie, Enzie, Badenoch and Aboyne, and summoned him to Court at the Castle of Edinburgh with all haste, duly accoutred and equipped for the sure defence of his sovereign lord and fast friend, James R. And on the first day of January 1592, the Cock o' the North rode in through the West Port of the city, with a mere token tail of two hundred Gordon swordsmen at his back, and the hearty assurance that there were plenty more where these came from, and indeed on the way. The citizens looked on askance, silent; the Kirk groaned in spirit; Mr. Bowes, the English envoy dispatched an urgent courier to Walsingham. But the Catholics rejoiced, and the sentinels up on the grim walls and turrets of Edinburgh Castle relaxed a little their anxious southwards vigil. Bothwell, reading the signs aright, turned and retired to his castle of Hermitage, deep in the Border fastnesses.
So Huntly strutted the stage again, and Edinburgh resounded to bagpipe squeals, strange Gaelic oaths, and the skirls of women outraged or prepared to be. The Court, after an interval, moved back mankfully to Holyroodhouse, and Catholic lords unseen for years, like Enroll, Crawford, Montrose and Seton appeared thereat. Bishops and prelates crept out from their holes and corners; Chancellor Maitland sank back like a snail into its shell; the witch trials came to an abrupt halt. Patrick Gray stood, debonair and smiling, close to the King's ear – none closer.
The delicate scales of Scottish politics teetered to a precarious balance, once more. None anticipated that they would do so for long, however assured seemed the urban Master of Gray. Men watched and waited.
James, temporarily lacking witches to justify, was at something of a loose end. He had ever been rather more fond of horseflesh than the human variety, and the death of his Master
Stabler, one John Shaw, and the loss of some of his favourite mounts in the Bothwell raid, caused him great concern and presently a return to poetry. He wrote a sonnet to commemorate the Stabler's gallant end, the first gesture towards the Muse in a full year, and roused himself to such heights of indignation and passion in the process that nothing short of some sort of demonstration and physical action against the perpetrator of the outrage would relieve his emotions. After consultation with the Master of Gray he first held a ceremony to divest Bothwell of his great office of state, that of Lord High Admiral, and promptly bestowed it upon the reluctant and embarrassed Duke of Lennox who so gallantly had brought the citizens of Edinburgh to the royal rescue. And secondly he mounted an expedition to the Borderland, January though it was, to display to that unruly and disobedient area who ruled in this realm of Scotland. With a mixed but strongly armed force consisting of the Royal Guard, Gordons, city levies and retainers of various lords, James in person made a hurried excursion southwards. Admittedly he confined his attentions to the East March, whilst Bothwell was known to be at Hermitage in the west, and after burning a few peel-towers and hanging some rievers and mosstroopers who were always the better for such firm treatment, hastened back to Edinburgh before Bothwell could do anything substantial about it – much to the disappointment of Huntly who was congenitally in favour of such entertainment, of Johnny Mar who enjoyed being Captain of the Guard, and even of Ludovick, who felt that a demonstration of the royal authority was overdue, whatever the risks. But James was adamant. A four-day expedition was quite adequate; moreover he had fallen into the Tyne in crossing that rain-swollen river of the Debatable Land, and was in dire alarm at catching cold in consequence.
Patrick Gray had excused himself from this martial adventure, on grounds of pressure of work. Nevertheless, the King's company was not half-a-day on its way when he took horse, with his hard-riding cousin Logan of Restalrig as companion, and headed southwards into the hills himself, although in a rather more westerly direction. He was back two days later, tired but good-humoured, only a day before his sneezing monarch.
James, despite aches and shivers, was much uplifted in spirit by this warrior-like gesture, and from his foot-baths and doctorings issued strong and manly pronouncements on the stern duties of kings and their subjects and the inescapable punishment and doom of all malefactors, especially those in high places. In some glee he sent a long letter to his royal cousin of England, acquainting her of his escape from enemies unfortunately supported by those who should know better, and of his strong measures against Bothwell on their mutual frontier, at which he was sure she would rejoice – mentioning, in passing, that his long promised English dukedom had still not materialised and would not this be a most suitable occasion for its bestowal? Patrick Gray enclosed a more cryptic covering-note of his own.
In this uplifted and magnanimous mood, the King was pleased to reconsider a petition to which he had hitherto been determinedly opposed, despite Patrick's generous and disinterested pleas. The Countess of Moray had unfortunately died, back in November, of some unspecified female ailment, and Moray had requested royal permission to come south to Donibristle to bury her – for in her sickness she had not accompanied her husband to the north and his banishment. Now, on Patrick's representations that it would please the Kirk, which was becoming ever more restive under increasing Catholic advancement – for Moray had ever been a favourite in that quarter – and moreover might help to keep Huntly from becoming so arrogant as to be unbearable, James relented. Moray might return to Donibristle, but no further; he must not cross the Forth or come to Court. The Queen, although she listened to their conversation, made no pleas of her own.
Mary, back at her duties in the Queen's household, watched and wondered.
On the last day of January, she overheard Patrick telling Anne that the new tapestries in the Flemish style that he was having woven for her were finished and it only required Her Grace's own decision as to which rooms of her house at Dunfermline each would best enhance. A short visit to Fife, perhaps…? Mary's heart sank within her. She might have known. Was there to be no end to it? Were they back where they had been, so soon? Patrick was inexorable, to be diverted by nothing and nobody. Or was she but imagining evil, treachery? Seeing menace in the most innocent of actions? Had she reached the stage of suspecting Patrick's every move, however much she claimed to understand him? If so, how much was her vaunted love worth? She was weary, weary of it all; she could shut her eyes to that no longer. There it was, then; she was weary, but Patrick was not. The day that Patrick Gray wearied of his sport, his game with men, he would be dead. She knew it now.
Weary, imagining things, or not, she went to Ludovick forthwith and told him what she had heard and what she feared. If the Queen decided to go to Dunfermline would he be sure to go with her, scarce leave her side, she demanded.
'Again?' he sighed. 'I had thought to have finished with that. I find her passing dull, Mary. And all will say that I but follow you, who will be in Anne's train. That it is you that I follow, not her.'
'Let them say it. Better that they should. Indeed, I could entice you to do so. Before others. Before the King if need be. Persuade you. So that your coming will seem the less strange.'
'And have yourself named courtesan!' he exclaimed, frowning.
'Why not? I am so named already, I have no doubt. I care not, so long as I know what I am. And you do, likewise. If that I am to be called, let the name have its uses.'
'Its uses,' he repeated. 'As have I!' That was just a little bitter.
She touched his arm. 'Poor Vicky,' she said. 'I am sorry…'
The good burghers of the grey town of Dunfermline scarcely glanced at the young man who cantered a tired horse through their narrow streets. They had seen many much finer fish than this, of late, si
nce the young Queen had come to lodge in the Abbot's House – even this very afternoon. Only the fact that the horse was a fine one and was tired, obviously having been ridden hard, attracted any attention; a courier with tidings for the Queen, no doubt.
The young man brought tidings, certainly – but not for Queen Anne.
Reining up in the stableyard of the Abbot's House, beside 364 which the Queen's fine new lodging stood all but completed, Ludovick of Lennox gazed about him urgendy. A few other horses stood therein, hitched to rings and posts; but not what he had looked for – no large troop, nothing hard-ridden like his own beast. Frowning and biting his lip, he jumped down and ran indoors, shouting for Mary Gray and not the Queen.
He found her lighting lamps from a long taper in the former library of the Lord Abbot, for already the short February afternoon was dying towards dusk.
'Vicky!' she exclaimed, surprised but welcoming. 'How good! You are back. So soon!' It was the 7th of February, and he had only been gone from Dunfermline for three days, summoned back to Holyroodhouse expressly by the King at, they had suspected, Patrick's instigation.
'No. I am not' He came to her, but anxiously rather than with his usual impetuous eagerness. 'Mary – is Huntly here?'
'Huntly? No. He was. But he is gone.'
'When?'
'An hour ago. More. Why, Vicky?' 'Did he ask for Moray?'
'No. He called merely to pay his respects to the Queen, he said. As he passed through Dunfermline.' 'Going where?'
'I do not know. He may have told Her Grace. Ask her, Vicky. Is it… bad news?'
'And Moray? He is not here, then?' This curt questioning was unlike Lennox.
'He was here yesterday. And the day before. But not today, no. You think that Huntly is looking for Moray?'
'I know it. He carries a decree from the King for Moray's arrest. For high treason.'
The girl drew a long breath. 'So – it has come to that!' she said. 'After all'
'I would to God that was all!' he jerked. 'Mary – will Moray be at Donibristle? Now?'
'I would think it, yes. I do not know – but it is likely. His house…'
'Did Huntly take that road, then? The sea road, for Fordel and Aberdour?'
'I did not watch his going, Vicky.'
'No. The stable-boys may know. But… why ask? Whatever road he took, he will have gone to Donibristle. Nothing surer. As therefore must I. At once. Pray God I may be in time.' Already he was making for the door.
'In time, Vicky? For what? To warn Moray? It will be much too late, I fear. And what else can you do?'
'I do not know. But if I am there, it may be that Huntly will hold back. From his worst intent.' He was striding out now, down the long corridor towards the courtyard, Mary having almost to run to keep up with him. 'I may yet save Moray's life.'
'His life!' the girl gasped. 'What do you mean?'
'I believe that Huntly means to slay Moray, not arrest him!'
'Slay? Oh, no! No!' That was a wail.
'Yes. I cannot wait, Mary. To tell you all, now. But I believe it is so. And that James knows it, God forgive him. Aye, and Patrick also.'
'Never! Not that. You must be mistaken, Vicky…'
'Would that I was. But I heard the King's parting words to Huntly. Saw his look. Patrick's also. We were hunting. This morning. At Barnbougle. It was to be secret. Huntly rode direct from the hunt. I wondered at it. Then Peter Hay told me that he had heard one of Huntly's lairds saying to another that Moray would not live to see another day. He said Huntly had sworn it.'
'But… but… ' Helplessly, Mary shook her head. 'Why? Why, Vicky?'
'Reasons a-plenty – of a sort.' They had reached Ludovick's horse, now, where it stood steaming. 'Huntly has a blood-feud with Moray. From the days of his father, brought low by Moray's uncle, the Regent. Half the earldom was Huntly land once. And James becomes ever more jealous of Anne. Patrick has worked on him all too well. Now that Moray's wife is dead, he fears still worse things. That his wife may be stolen from him. Even his heir, possibly. And so the realm. You know James. It is crazy – but no crazier than the witches and Bothwell.' The young man hoisted himself up into the saddle. 'I must be gone.'
She laid a hand on his knee, as though she would restrain him. 'Moray may not need your warning, Vicky. He has men of his own. Huntly had but two or three gentlemen with him.'
'Aye – when he called here! As when he left the hunt. But at the Queen's Ferry I learned that forty men-at-arms had awaited him there. So all was arranged beforehand. If he did not bring all these here, he must have left them somewhere in the town. Hidden. And at the Ferry, Huntly had given orders, in the King's name, that no ferry-boat, or other craft, was to sail across to Fife today. After him.' Ludovick snorted a mirthless laugh. 'It required siller, and my fine new authority as Lord High Admiral, to get across myself! Think you now that Moray is in no danger?'
The young woman shook her head. 'I know not what to think. Save… save that there is danger for you also in this, Vicky. Must you go? What can you do? One man…?'
'You know that I must, Mary. I can do no less. Huntly is married to my sister. You would not have me fail to do what I can?'
She sighed. 'No. No. But… take care, Vicky. Oh, take care.'
Lennox bent to pat her hand, then dug spurred heels into his beast's flanks.
Ludovick smelt the tang of smoke on the chill east wind before ever he saw the fitful glow of fire. The evil taint of it caught at more than his nostrils and throat. He flogged his weary mount the harder.
He saw the dark loom of the sea, and the red glare of flames at the same moment, as he breasted a low ridge, the one against the other. The house of Donibristie stood on a pleasant grassy headland of the Forth estuary midway between the burghs of Inverkeithing and Aberdour, six miles from Dunfermline. A tall narrow tower-house, rather than any castle, Moray's father had built it here instead of on the island itself, a couple of miles off-shore, when his royal sire had granted him the abbacy of St. Colm's Abbey; it was a deal more convenient than being marooned out there on Inch Colm amongst the seals and guillemots. Moray's widowed mother, the Lady Doune, still made it her home. But would not, it seemed, after this night.
Appalled, Lennox stared. There was no doubt that the flames came from the house; he could just glimpse the lofty outline of it intermittently against the glare, though the smoke and the dusk confused sight. This was worse than he had feared.
He spurred headlong down to the lower ground, through copse and farmland. He passed groups of cottars gazing, horror-struck. Soon, above the drumming of his horse's hooves, he heard on the wind the hoarse shouts of men. Then a woman's thin screaming.
At a gateway to the demesne itself, two mounted guards came rearing out of the shadows of trees to bar his progress, Gordons with broadswords drawn.
'Back! Back! Halt, you!' Highland-sounding voices cried. 'In Gordon's name – halt!'
'Aside, fools!' the younger man flung at them. 'I am Lennox. The Duke. Stand aside.'
His authoritative tone seemed to impress one of the sentries, but not the other. With a flood of Gaelic this individual blocked his way, sword point flickering wickedly in the ruddy uncertain light of fire. Ludovick had to pull back his mount to its haunches, and drag its head round.
'Knave! Idiot!' he shouted. 'Out of my way! I am from the King,' he lied. 'Do you not know me – your lord's good-brother, the Duke of Lennox?'
That last appeared to penetrate, and they let him past, if doubtfully.
With those flames as beacon, he rode on, down to the little headland. With a measure of relief he perceived as he drew close that it was not exactly the house itself that was burning -although it probably would be, very shortly. It was brushwood heaped high all around its stone walls that was blazing, and busy figures, black and devilish against the red, were running to and fro, adding fuel to the conflagration – pine-tree branches, hay from the nearby farm-steading, implements and furnishings from the farm itself, any
thing which would burn and smoke. The smoke, without a doubt, was as important as the flame. Moray was in process of being smoked out.
These stone towers, with iron-grilled outer doors, stone vaulted basements, and lower windows too small to admit a man, were all but impregnable, save to artillery. But smoke, skilfully applied, could render them untenable. The glass of lower windows, and especially of stairway arrow-slits, smashed, and fire applied judiciously, with fierce heat to cause a great updraught of air, and the tower became little less than a tall chimney for sucking up billowing clouds of smoke. None within would be able to endure it for long. Huntly no doubt was an expert on the subject.
Nevertheless, Ludovick knew some relief. At least, since they were still piling on fuel, Moray was presumably still untaken and safe, however uncomfortable. There might yet be time.
Above the crackling of the fire, Lennox began to distinguish the louder reports of spasmodic shooting. Then, against the glare, he perceived occasional brighter flashes from the topmost windows of the house, especially from the watch-chamber that surmounted the stair-tower. Moray was fighting back, then – no doubt trying to pick off the hurrying figures that were feeding the flames. Shots, too, came from various dark groups on the ground, scattered around the house, firing arquebuses, hackbuts and dags at the upper windows.
Throwing himself off his horse, Lennox hurried to the first of these groups. Somewhere nearby a woman was sobbing hysterically.
'Where is Huntly?' he demanded. 'My lord of Huntly -where is he?'
Only one man so much as deigned to glance at him. 'Who asks, cock-sparrow?'
'I am Lennox. The Duke. Chamberlain of this realm. I ask in the King's name.'
The other cleared his throat. 'Och, well. I'ph'mm. Yonder's himself, my lord. By the horses. There, at yonder tree…'
Ludovick ran forward. To windward of the blaze he could distinguish Huntly's tall and ponderous figure now, steel half-armour on top of the tartans which he had worn for hunting. He stood with some others just back from gunshot range of the house.
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