'Such as achieving the destruction of your friends? Causing the deaths of those who trust you? Selling one who is as good as a son to you?'
'Tcha! God in Heaven, Mary – can I not make you understand? Are you blind?'
'No, I am not blind, Patrick. Not any more. You have blinded and dazzled me for too long. I see clearly now. I see that my father… that Davy Gray was right. He said that you had a devil. I believe it, now. I believe now that even Granlord was right – that you were the death of our Queen Mary. And… and I swear, Patrick, that you shall not be the death of Vicky Stuart! All for the weal of die realm!'
'Tush, child – I wish no hurt to Vicky. Only a warning…'
'You accused him of highest treason, to Elizabeth – of having James declared insane, and himself made Regent. Then King in his place. Knowing that Vicky has no thought of power or rule. Knowing too that Elizabeth must tell James. And that, hearing it, he could scarce do less than have Vicky's head, for so great a treachery and threat. And none to know that you, his friend, were behind it!' The young woman's dark eyes flashed now. 'For that, Patrick, no words will suffice. Only deeds.'
'And what deeds, pray, do you intend to perform, Mary, to suffice your maidenly ire?' The Master's scimitar brows rose mockingly. 'Perhaps I deceive myself – but I believe that I may just be able to withstand your direst darts, my dear!'
She shook her head, but sadly, with nothing of triumph. 'The deed is done, Patrick,' she said. 'Past recall. You are too late to save yourself.' Mary looked out at the last of the sunset. 'Tonight, possibly even at this moment, a trusted messenger hands the first sheet of your letter to my Lord Maitland, the Chancellor, at Thirlestane Castle in Lauderdale. He will know well what to do with it.'
'Merciful Christ!' For once that melodious voice was no better than an ugly croak. 'Maitland! You did that? You sent the letter to Maitland? Maitland, of all men! My chiefest enemy…'
'I sent it to the Chancellor of this realm. He still is that. Whose duty it must be to take action upon it. I cannot believe that he will fail to do so. And promptly.'
Appalled, aghast, the Master searched his daughter's face. 'Do… you know… what you… have done?' he demanded, from a constricted throat.
'I do. I did it of set purpose. This is what the Chancellor requires. To raise himself up again. And to bring you down. It cannot fail to do so.'
'It cannot fail to lose me my head, damn, burn and blister you! In that letter I said… I said…'
'You said that you would not spare the rod, on King James. That you were the architect of his present humbled state. That he informed you of his secret mind, which you then disclosed to Elizabeth. I cannot think that this is less than treason.'
'And that you, Mary Gray, sent to Maitland! And you talk of betrayal!' The words rose to a cry that verged on the hysterical.
'I am the daughter of the Master of Gray,' she told him quietly, her voice so very flat in contrast to his. 'Perhaps betrayal therefore comes naturally to me, also!'
'Precious soul of God! This – from you!'
'Yes, Patrick. But at least I only hold the noose before your eyes. I do not put it round your neck and draw it tight! As you have done to others. I have left you with time to escape. Maitland is no young man. He will not ride through all the wild hills between Lauderdale and Hailes at night. You have time to reach the Border before he can act. England. From whence comes your gold and your orders. You will be safe there, will you not? Your fond Elizabeth will cherish you. Or may she no longer esteem you when your usefulness here is past? That you must needs discover.'
He said nothing.
'Perhaps you will fare better in France? Or Spain?' the girl went on, in the same inflexible voice. 'You will not lack employment, I feel sure. Meantime, a fast horse will take you to Berwick and over Tweed in three hours and less.'
'You… you are very thoughtful.' Somehow he got it out. 'But have you, in your lofty wisdom, considered Marie and the child? Whom you also have professed to love – God help them!'
'Marie knows all. I spoke with her before leaving Holyroodhouse. Even now she will be on her way to Berwick, with Andrew.'
'She will? Sink me…!'
'Marie agrees with what I have done. She said that I was to tell you so. That she believed it to be for the best. She longs to see an end to this evil. She has tried to halt you, but you would not heed her. It required your own flesh and blood to halt your course, Patrick – another such as yourself. So… this is goodbye.'
'You think, you believe, that you have halted me? A chit of a girl! You conceive Patrick Gray held by such as you? Lord -was there ever such insolent folly!'
Sighing, she shook her head. 'You have no choice,' she said. 'You are held. By noonday tomorrow, if you are not out of this realm, you will either be warded for treason and trial, or else outlawed, put to the horn. Your letter reveals your betrayal of all. You cannot flee north – for will Huntly or the Marischal save you now? In the south, Bothwell will hunt you down. Will Hamilton in the west spare you? Or the Master of Glamis? Or Mar? You are held, quite. When you penned that letter, Patrick, you wrote your own doom. When you turned on Vicky, you signed it.'
The man opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Mary Gray had him silenced.
'Goodbye, Patrick,' she said then, huskily, unevenly.
He drew himself up, to look at her, to consider her all, every delectable inch of her. And looking, his expression changed, eased, softened. 'Mary, Mary!' he all but whispered. 'What have I done to you? What have we done to each other? You and I? God pity us – what are we? So close, so close – yet we destroy each other.'
'I do not know,' she answered, emptily. 'Save that we are the Grays – and fate is hard on us.'
'A-a-aye!' That came out on a long sigh. He held out a hand, open, empty, pleading. 'May I kiss you, child? Once. Before… before…'
'Yes – oh, yes!' she cried, and without hesitation flung herself upon him, eyes filling with tears. 'Yes – for I cannot but love you. Always.'
For long moments they clutched each other close, convulsively, passionately, murmuring incoherences. Then abruptly, almost roughly, the man thrust Mary away from him, swung about, and hurried out of that pleasance-house, slamming the door behind him.
The girl sank to her knees over the carved stone bench and sobbed as though her heart would break.
Chapter Twenty-five
IT was grey morning before Mary saw Lennox. The previous evening she had deliberately avoided all contact with others, after coming in from the summer-house, even pleading a headache to excuse herself from her duties with the Queen, and retiring early to the bed which she was to share with the Lady Beatrix Ruthven, to hide herself if not to sleep. Now, darker-eyed than ever and just a little drawn and wan, she sought out the Duke in the little high turret chamber which was all that Bothwell had found for him in that crowded house.
Surrounded by his usual untidy clutter of clothes and gear, the young man was in his shirt-sleeves, brushing dried mud from his tall riding-boots, as the girl knocked and entered.
'Mary!' he exclaimed. 'I sought you last night – when I heard that you had come. With the Queen… '
'I was tired, Vicky. I went to bed.' She glanced around her. 'I see that Peter Hay is not back yet – since you clean your own boots.'
'No. It is strange. Where he is gone, I know not. He came with the Queen, and then…'
'It was my doing, Vicky. He went on an errand. For me. He rode to Lauderdale. Last night. To the Chancellor's house at Thirlestane.'
'To Maitland? Peter? For you? Sakes, Mary – what is this?'
'It was necessary. Something that I had to do. It… it is an ill story, Vicky.' Involuntarily she was picking up and smoothing out and tidying the strewn clothing of that little apartment, as she spoke. 'Patrick is gone.'
'Patrick? Patrick Gray? Gone? Gone where? What do you mean – gone?'
'Gone away. Left Scotland. Last night.' Listlessly she said it. 'He
rode for Berwick.'
Astonished, he regarded her. 'But why? What is this? Is it some new plot?'
She told him, then, baldly, in jerky broken sentences. She did not spare Patrick, nor yet herself. Starkly, she declared what she had done to her father, and why.
Ludovick heard her out with growing wonderment, his blue eyes devouring her strained face.
'I faith, Mary – here is a marvel!' he declared. 'You did all this? You brought him low. Unaided. And… by all that is wonderful – you did it because of me?'
'Yes,' she admitted, simply.
He stepped forward, to grip both her slight shoulders, to stare down at her. 'But… what does it mean?' he demanded. 'What does it mean, that you should do this? Tell me, Mary.'
'It means many things, Vicky. But, for you, it means that my eyes are open. That I have made my choice. At last.'
'Mean for me…?'
'Yes. You have been very patient. So faithful.'
He moistened his lips, although his grip on her tightened. 'I do not understand you, Mary. Speak me plain, for God's sake! What do you say?'
'I say that you were right, Vicky, and I was wrong. Not only about Patrick. About the life of the Court. About what is best for us, what is good and right and fair. I mean that I am done with courts and kings and queens. Done with deceits, intrigues and glittering follies. I want no more of it. I have finished with this life, Vicky – finished.'
'You mean that you are going home? To Castle Huntly?'
'No. Not unless I must. I had thought to go to another castle than that. To Methven Castle, Vicky.'
'What…!' Mary! What are you saying? Dear Lord – what are you saying?'
'I am asking that you take me away, Vicky. Will you take me away from it all? To your quiet green Methven. There to stay, to abide. You and me, together. As you have wished for so long… '
She got no further. The young man's arms enclosed her, swept her up off her feet, crushed the breath from her lovely body, held her fast, while he gabbled and gasped endearments, joy, praise and utter foolishness – when he was not closing her soft parted lips with his own urgent ones.
So different an embrace than that of the night before.
At last, breathless and panting, even trembling a little, Ludovick released her at least sufficiently to allow her to speak.
'My heart! My love! My sweet Mary!' he cried, 'So you will marry me, at last? Oh, my dear – we shall be wed. Soon. At once. Here is the most joyful day of my life. Here is…'
Shaking her head, but smiling, Mary extricated one hand, to raise it and place a forefinger over his eager mouth. 'Not so fast, young man,' she told him, tremulous only in her breathing. 'A truce, Vicky – one moment! Hear me, please.' And as he began to nibble at her finger, her face grew grave. 'I will not marry you, Vicky. I cannot. You are still the Duke of Lennox, the King's cousin. And I am still Mary Gray, the bastard. Nothing is changed, there. If we marry, in despite of the King and the Council, our marriage would be annulled forthwith. They would part us. They must. You must see it? So long as we do not marry, none will part us. None will see shame in a duke taking a mistress; but to marry out of his rank and style – that would be unforgivable!'
'But… but… I care not…'
'But nothing, Vicky. My mind is made up, quite. You want me. I want you, likewise. Take me, then. Take me to Methven with you. I shall be your wife in all but name. I shall keep your house for you. I shall cherish you always. I shall bear your children, God willing. But… I will not be Duchess of Lennox.'
'Heaven save us – this is beyond all!'
'No. Heed me, Vicky. I have thought long and deep on it. In God's eyes we may be man and wife, I pray – but not in man's. I shall cleave to you, never fear. Always. I shall keep your from the life of the Court as much as I may – for it suits you nothing. But some business of state you must perform, for you are born to it. In that I shall not interfere – for I have learned my lesson. I… I… ' She swallowed. 'I shall endeavour not to be jealous when you marry again – assuredly you shall. You must. To some lady of high degree.
To produce an heir to your dukedom…' 'Damnation, Mary – have done!'
'Hear me,' she commanded. 'I shall need help, then, Vicky – for I am only a weak woman. And she, whoever she may be, must have her rights. Although she must know, before she weds, that I am what I am.'
'A plague on it!' Almost he shook her. 'Do you know what you say? What this makes you? A courtesan, no more. That is what all will name you. Lennox's courtesan!'
'Why not? That is what I shall be, indeed. There are worse things, I think. Can you not stomach the title, Vicky – for me? Is it too high a price to pay for our happiness? Tell me – is it?'
Helplessly he stared at her. 'God knows,' he muttered at length. 'I do not.'
'God knows, yes,' she agreed, firmly, decisively. 'And there you have it. God knows what we are to each other – and I care not what any other says or thinks. So long as we are together, you and I. You will take me to Methven, Vicky, my love? On these terms. It is a compact?'
He drew a long breath. 'Aye,' he said. 'If that is your will, Mary.'
'I shall make it yours also, my heart,' she whispered
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The Courtesan mog-2 Page 46