Past Master mog-3

by Nigel Tranter

  The reception thereafter was a brilliant affair such as Patrick delighted to organise, with a wealth of pageantry, masque and allegory – to be paid for, no doubt from the lady's deep purse. James had written a poem for the occasion, mercifully brief.

  Ludovick came face to face with the Queen for the first time in many months. She eyed him searchingly and then beckoned him close, conspiratorily.

  'I know that this is none of your doing, Vicky,' she declared in a penetrating whisper which neither the King nor the Lady Jean nearby could fail to hear. 'You are leal and true to me, without a doubt. Believe me that I trust you.'

  Embarrassed, Ludovick coughed. 'Your Grace -1, ah… I am ever your servant, of course, I, h'm, rejoice to see you.'

  'I understand, Vicky.' She pressed his arm. 'We shall speak together on another occasion. Not now.'

  James looked at them sourly, but said nothing.

  Patrick strolled up, and having skilfully involved both King and Queen with the new English envoy on the ever-burning question of Elizabeth's non-payment of James's pension, drew Jean Campbell over to Ludovick's side.

  'A word in your pretty ear, Duchess,' he said – the first to accord her, her new title. 'And yours, Vicky. You will be glad, I vow, that having both of you been wed before, you can be spared the unseemly business of the public bedding – a mercy indeed! Nevertheless, I hear that there is a move afoot to escort you presently to your bridal chamber. I thought that perhaps I should warn you.'

  Ludovick snorted. He could scarcely bear the close proximity of the Master, and had to hold himself from abruptly turning his back on the man. He would have preferred to ignore any remark he made – but this information penetrated his hostility.

  'A plague on them!' he exclaimed, hotly. 'Let them but try!'

  'I think, nevertheless, we ought not to have a scene,' his bride said, sensibly. 'That would be unsuitable.'

  Patrick nodded. 'I thought you might wish to slip away quietly. Not perhaps to the Albany Tower. Away from Stirling altogether. It is too late for Methven tonight, but perhaps…'

  'We do not go to Methven tonight or any night,' the Duke snapped.

  'No?' Patrick raised his brows.

  'No. Mary is at Methven.' That was flat. 'Ah. H'mm. Well no, Vicky – she is not, I fear. She is.. otherwhere.'

  'Eh? Where is she? Do not say… do not tell me that she is taken also! That you have held Mary as you have held me here?' Blazing-eyed he swung on the other man.

  'Tut, man – do not be so plaguey hot! I have not held you, anywhere! And Mary certainly is not held. She has, er, gone where she will.'

  'Where?'

  'I am reliably informed, Vicky, that, curiously enough, she went to Castle Campbell. To our young friend Argyll. The very night you parted. I take it that she established some sort of association with him on your, h'm, travels!'

  'I do not like the way you said that,' Ludovick jerked.

  'Dear me – do you not? I assumed, since she went to him, that they must have become friends. Forgive me if I mistake!'

  'If Argyll took Mary to Castle Campbell, it would be to shelter and protect her. We became friends, yes. In the Isles.'

  'Ah, yes. Quite. Only, Argyll did not take her. Mary went there by herself. Late that night. Leaving my house to do so, where she was surely sufficiently sheltered and protected!'

  'Ah! Then, Patrick, I commend her choice!'

  'Indeed. I wonder at that. But perhaps, as a married man now, you see matters differently! At any rate, there is nothing to prevent you and Jean going to Methven now.'

  'But there is. Methven Castle is no longer mine. It is Mary's home. More than that, it is made over altogether, by charter, to our son John Stewart of Methven, in her care. I do not take this lady there!'

  Patrick stared. 'You mean…? That you meant that nonsense? About putting the barony in the name of the child? You have left yourself without a house!'

  'I do not do all with intent to deceive!' the younger man retorted. 'I provided for Mary and the child – as was my least duty. Would you have me to other – to your daughter?'

  'Then… you have nowhere to go now? Nowhere to take your wife, man!'

  'Should that concern me? Ludovick smiled, albeit mirthlessly. 'Though to be sure, have I not Dumbarton Castle now? From my generous liege lord. There will be a house there, I've no doubt – and myself the new Governor!'

  The Lady Jean intervened. 'Why all this talk of houses to go to? I have houses and lands a-plenty. And if you do not wish to live in Cunningham or Kyle, we can buy a house near to Stirling.'

  'Aye. Are you not fortunate in your wife, Vicky? But, tonight? Where will you go?'

  'I am content with His Grace's provision,' the Duke said. 'We both are well enough suited. In the Albany Tower. Would you have us spurn the royal hospitality? We shall continue to enjoy it.'

  As Patrick, looking from one to the other, was about to speak, the young woman caught his eye.

  'We shall do very well there, meantime,' she said, nodding. 'Do not concern yourself further, sir. If you can but aid us out of this hall unnoticed, we shall be in your debt…'

  And so, presently, in the confusion attendant upon the exit of a troupe of tumblers and acrobats and the setting up of a tableau representing the Marriage at Cana of Galilee, with water being poured in at one end of a barrel and red wine being tapped off at the other, the bridal couple managed to make their discreet departure..They crossed the crowded Upper Square, where servants, men-at-arms and performers were at their own noisy merry-making under the May night sky, to the Albany Tower that had been their prison. Their eyes met as Ludovick opened the door for his Duchess to enter.

  Upstairs, at first floor level, was the large public room which they had used in common that past week. Ludovick paused at the door there, but the young woman continued on up the winding turnpike stairway. When she perceived that he did not follow her up, she turned and looked back.

  'Which chamber do we use, Ludovick?' she asked. 'Yours or mine?' That was calmly, factually put.

  Much less calmly, he cleared his throat. 'Which? Why, both. I assumed that we would be using both. As we did before…'

  'But we are not as before, Ludovick. We are now man and wife.' 'In name, yes. But…'

  'In fact. We are as truly wed as any man and woman in the land. And will remain so. There is little sense in shutting our eyes to it.'

  'There is more in marriage, woman, than a few mumbled words in a kirk!'

  'True. That is why I ask – which chamber!'

  He frowned, tapping a toe on the stone landing. 'Mistress… Jean I prefer to bed alone! If you please.'

  She looked down at him thoughtfully. 'What you mean, I think, is that you would prefer to bed with your mistress. With Mary Gray.'

  His head jerked up, at that. 'Very well. Put it so, if you will. I would prefer to bed with Mary Gray!'

  She nodded. 'That I well believe and understand. And, as I said, I shall not keep you from seeking to do so again. But this day you married me, Jean Campbell. I am your lawful wife, the Duchess of Lennox, and this is our bridal night. Do I have to demand my rights, Ludovick?'

  When he did not answer, she went on. 'I am not hot for you – think it not, my lord Duke! I too would prefer to be. elsewhere! In a certain small castle in Kyle. But I am in Stirling Castle, not Kyle – just as Mary Gray is not here, but apparently in some other man's house. We have to take life as it is, Ludovick – not as we would wish it. Be we dukes and duchesses, or lesser folk. We are wed, the two of us, and must accept it.'

  'You are a great accepter!' he charged her.

  'I have been well trained in it! You, it seems, have not. Facts, even hard facts, are best accepted – and can be made thereby the softer, I have found.'

  'So you have said before. You are welcome to your convictions – but mine are otherwise!'

  'You would deny facts? Deny that we are man and wife…?'

  'I deny nothing – save that it is any duty of mi
ne to go to bed with you this night!'

  'No? But suppose the boot had been on the other leg, sir? How then? How many women are left in no doubt that it is their duty, God ordained, to lie with their husbands, this first night, or any night, of their marriage? Still – let that be. Did you marry me with the intent that we should never bed together?'

  Biting his lip, he kicked at one of the stone steps. 'H'mm. I… ah… no. Not so. But that is… well, it is for the future. Not tonight. Tonight it is different. Too soon…'

  'Is that a man speaking? Or a mouse?' she exclaimed. Then the young woman quickly changed her tone, coming indeed a couple of steps down the stair. 'See, Ludovick – it is better thus. Tonight. We are not children. We know that in matters of this sort there can easily be difficulties, barriers, stumbling-blocks. Put off, delay or shy at it, and it becomes the more difficult, the harder to come together…'

  'God be good, woman – you make it sound as though we were horses to be broken to bit and bridle! Of a mercy, spare me more of this!'

  'Very well,' she said, shrugging. 'Lord – what have I married? My late lord, to whom I was wed at fourteen, was a stallion! Now, I am tied to a gelded palfrey!'

  Flushing hotly, Ludovick flung into the room in front of him, and slammed the door shut.

  For a considerable time he paced up and down there, scarcely aware of what he did. Young, vigorous and far from under-sexed, the woman's strictures hit him hard. What right had she to speak so to him? Right or reason? Excuse? It was beyond all bearing that, just because, for their own unholy purposes, the King and Patrick had forced this match upon him, he should be faced with this ridiculous quandary. The fact that, from one point of view, Jean had the rights of it, made it the more damnable. What was a man to do, in the circumstances? The situation would not get better, as she said. Was he fated to battling with her on this of all subjects…?

  Ludovick found a flagon of wine, and drank deeply.

  He waited for quite some time longer before leaving the room and going upstairs. He did not slam the door behind him on this occasion; indeed he all but tip-toed up the steps.

  Ignoring the part-opened door of the young woman's room, he went into his own chamber – to find Jean Campbell sitting up in his great four-poster bed, a robe around her shoulders. The light from the small window at that hour was not good, and she had a single candle burning nearby. She smiled at him, but said nothing.

  He halted uncertainly, perplexed. 'I… I do not congratulate you!' he got out, at length.

  'No? Is it part of a husband's duty at such a time? I shall survive the lack, I think! You have been long in coming, Ludovick.'

  He did not answer that, but moved over to the bed, to stand nearby looking down at her. The robe she had only loosely thrown about her, and it was clear that she wore nothing beneath.

  'Why do you do this?' he asked. 'You say that you are not hot for me. Would you have me believe that?'

  She shrugged, and one white shoulder slipped out from the robe. 'Believe it or not, as you like. It is both true and untrue, I think. I am not hot for you, Ludovick Stewart, in especial. But I am a woman not unappreciative of men – and I have been widowed over long! Moreover, this is my wedding-night. Does that answer serve you, my lord?'

  'Aye,' he said, on an exhalation of breath. 'You are frank now, by the Powers! I vow I prefer it to all the talk before. Of what is best for me, the duties of marriage and the like.'

  'I thought that you might,' she allowed, low-voiced but smiling again. She beckoned him closer. 'Come!' she said.

  He ignored her invitation. 'That does not change matters,' he asserted heavily.

  'No? Why do you look at me so, then? Your eyes betray you, my lord Duke! I think that you are a man, after all!'

  'A man can have more attributes than the one,' he got out, from hps that were somehow awkward, mumbling, reluctant. 'A man is will, as well as body. Loyal. Able to keep himself…'

  'Yet you vowed, a few hours ago, before all men, to keep me, Must I trade words with you? Bicker and argue? Here and now, at this pass? What ails you, Ludovick? Am I so ill-favoured? Others have not esteemed me so, I tell you! But, Lord – enough of words!'

  With a toss of her head she threw off the robe and kicked back the bed-clothes, to sit there naked before him, in invitation and challenge both.

  She was very desirable. A big woman in every way, generously made, she was none the less rousing on that account, although she lacked, for instance, Mary Gray's perfection of proportion and subtler loveliness. There was indeed nothing of subtlety about Jean Campbell's great thrusting breasts, strong arms, rounded belly and massive thighs. But she was all woman nevertheless, urgent, essential, demanding.

  Ludovick all but choked at what he saw and sensed, and despite himself took that final pace forward which brought him to the side of the great bed. As he did so, the girl reached out to grasp his arm, to pull him bodily down on top of her.

  Once his hands were on her robust and vehement flesh, there was of course no further holding back. In a mounting, ungovernable surge of fierce, dominant desire, he took possession of her with a masterful passion which no other woman had ever roused in him.

  Sobbing, Jean abandoned herself.

  When the storm was past and they lay spent, relaxed, she was the first to speak.

  'I shall not call you mouse again! Or gelding!' she murmured, idly combing a slack hand through his hair. 'Not that I ever truly thought you such. Or even King James could not have forced me into this marriage.'

  He grunted. 'It was all lies, then? All your talk.'

  'No. Not lies. I meant what I said. That it is best this way. Best for us both. Since it must come to this, better sooner than later.'

  'It came to this – because you made it so!' he said, shaking his head free of her hand.

  'Ha! Who is now the liar?' she demanded. 'Your eyes, your hands, your body, all your manhood belies your words, Ludovick. You wanted me, whatever you said. Do you think a woman does not know? Aye – and now you keep your eyes shut lest they, and all the rest, do so again! As will be so. You know, and I know. You fight the wrong enemies, husband! Open your eyes, Ludovick Stewart. And unclench your fists. Why waste your fine strength? I can use it…!'

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary Gray, in the act of setting and pressing the oat-sheaf firmly against its neighbours to complete the stook, raised her head to glance ruefully over to where young Johnnie Stewart, on plump but unsteady legs, was doing his tottering best to pull apart the last stook that she had built. The smile died on her lips, however, as her eyes lifted, to narrow against the golden blaze of the declining September sun, westwards towards the frowning red stone castle which towered half a mile away on its rock above the wide levels of the Carse of Gowrie.

  'Company, Father, I think,' she called. 'Armour glinting. My lord does not ride at such speed these days…'

  Davy Gray straightened up from the back-breaking task of gathering the cut swathes of oats into great armfuls, and binding these together with a twisted rope of their own long stalks. He followed her gaze.

  'Gilbert, it may be, from Mylnhill? Or William from Bandirran? To demand that my lord's steward does this or that for them! To borrow men or beasts. But neither of them, you may be sure, to set dainty hand to my lord's corn!'

  The girl smiled, but said nothing. David Gray's scorn for his younger legitimate half-brothers was best treated as a joke.

  She made a delightful, vital and lightsome picture, standing there in the harvest-field, all glowing health and essential femininity, flushed with her exertions, browned by the sun, her bare arms powdered by the oat-dust, flecks of chaff and straw caught in her dark hair. Dressed with utter simplicity in a brief white bodice which clung lovingly to her young rounded excellence of figure, skirt kilted up to the knees, with legs and indeed feet bare, she had never looked more enticing – and never less like a lady of the Court,

  David Gray considered her fondly – as he had been doing
off and on as he worked, for he found it hard indeed to keep his eyes off her. She loved the satisfying and fundamental work of the harvest-field, as he did, and they were seldom happier than when they were so employed together. The past summer months had been happy ones for the man – and, he thought, after the first weeks, to some extent for the girl also; peaceful, uncomplicated, undemanding. She had slipped back into the old life of Castle Huntly, after the years of absence, as though she had never been away – save that now she had her little Johnnie with her. And Castle Huntly had been the sweeter for her return, the old lord more bearable to live with – for Mary had always been the apple of that irascible tyrant's eye – and her mother Mariota rejoicing to have her back and almost like a girl again, for there were only the fifteen years between their ages.

  'Two riders only,' she reported. 'And in a hurry. I hope they do not bring ill-tidings…' She stopped, stiffening in her posture. 'Dear God,' she whispered, 'I think… I think I know…' She bit her red lip.

  Quickly he looked at her, and back to the advancing horsemen. 'Aye,' he nodded, frowning. 'He it is, I think.' Heavily he said it. 'Och, lassie…!'

  One rider came spurring ahead, his magnificent horse lathered with hard riding – Ludovick Stewart

  He was off his mount and running to her before ever the brute had halted. Stumbling amongst the swathes of cut corn in his tall heavy riding-boots, he flung his arms around her and swept her up bodily off her feet.

  'Oh, my dear! My little love! My heart's darling!' he panted, the words tumbling incoherently from lips that sought hers. 'Mary, my own, my precious…!'

  She clung to him, returning kisses almost as fierce and vehement as his own, trembling in his arms.

  Nearby Davy Gray moved slowly over to take the unsteady toddler's hand, and to watch them sombre-eyed.

  When eventually Ludovick set her down, the girl's lashes were gleaming wet with tears. She tried to speak, but could not against the spate of his endearments and emotional release. She could only smile and shake her head helplessly.