Past Master mog-3

by Nigel Tranter

  At last he paused for very breath, but even so Mary could find no words to express the chaos of her feelings. It was David

  Gray indeed who spoke, and brought her back to realities.

  'My lord Duke,' he said, levelly. 'I am glad to see you well. And honoured, of course, by your presence But is your coming here wise, seemly or proper?'

  Ludovick looked at him over Mary's head. 'I think so,' he said. 'I believe so.'

  'Yes, Vicky,' the young woman cried, although she still clung to him. 'Why did you come? Oh, why did you come?'

  'It was necessary. I had to come, my dear. And… 'fore God – I should have come long ago!'

  'No! No!' she said. 'You know that is not so. You have had my letters…'

  'Letters!' he exclaimed. 'Aye, I've had your letters, Mary. Letters that have had me near to weeping! Oh, they were kind, and I cherished them. But what are letters compared with your own self? In especial, when they tell me to keep away from you!'

  'The letters spoke truth, nevertheless, Vicky. Oh, you must know it, my dear? You should not have come.'

  'I came for good reason. Although I yearned to see you, Mary, I would not have come. Not now. But for my lord of Gray. Your grandfather, I came to see him. But he is not at the castle. They told me that you were here, in the fields…'

  'What of my lord?' David asked sharply. 'Why should he bring you to Castle Huntly?'

  'This morning, sir, at Falkland, I saw an edict of the Privy Council, signed by the King. It ordered the arrest of Patrick, Lord Gray, on pain of treason. On a charge of rebellion. The said arrest to be executed forthwith. By the Sheriff of Forfar!'

  'Rebellion…!'

  'Arrest? Granlord? Oh no, Vicky – no!'

  'Yes. Arrest, in the King's name. I thought it right to come in haste. To warn him.'

  'But, dear God – Granlord has not rebelled! He has done nothing against the King. What folly is this…?'

  'I do not know. I would not have thought my lord to be engaged in anything smacking of treason or revolt. I believed him to have taken no part in affairs of the realm for many years. The warrant but charges rebellion. Anstruther, Clerk to the Council, showed it to me – for I, for my sins, am now Lord President thereof. No details are set forth. I made excuse to James that urgent matters called me to my Priory property at St. Andrews, and came forthwith.'

  Mary swung on the older man. 'Granlord has not been doing aught? In plotting or the like? You would know, Father, if he had? It is not true, is it?'

  David Gray stroked his pronounced clean-shaven chin. 'Not rebellion. Against the King. Of that I am sure,' he answered slowly. 'But… he has been seeing a deal of certain ministers of the Kirk, of late. In Dundee and St. Andrews. Always he was of the Kirk party, of course, though taking no great part in its affairs. But of late he has talked much of the Kirk. I took it to be but an old man's concern for his latter end! But, who knows? He has twice seen Master Andrew Melville at St. Andrews. And Master James, his nephew, was here but two weeks since.'

  'But there is nothing of rebellion in that!'

  'No. But a clever man might make it seem so, in certain circumstances, to the King, perhaps.' He paused. 'I note that the Sheriff of Forfar is named in this!'

  Mary drew a long breath, but said nothing.

  Ludovick nodded. 'That is why I came hot-foot!'

  'No – he would not do that!' the girl cried. 'Even Patrick would not act so to his own father!'

  'He did not hesitate to betray his own daughter!' the Duke said heavily. 'Why should he balk at his father? They do not love each other, Mary. He ousted my lord from the sheriffship, did he not?'

  'I cannot believe it, Vicky…'

  'Whether this is Patrick's doing, or other's, we must do more than talk about it,' David jerked. 'You thought, my lord Duke, that there was need of haste?'

  'The thing was secret, and had been hurried before two or three members of the Council – all creatures of Patrick's, as it happens. He rules Scotland now, does the Master of the Wardrobe, openly – the more so since Maitland is dead. So that, when he acts secretly, as here, I believe he will act the more swiftly…'

  'Maitland dead? The Chancellor…'

  'Had you not heard? He died at Thirlestane two weeks ago. Loudly repenting of his sins, I'm told! And there is to be no new Chancellor. Patrick has convinced James to rule without one. Which means, in truth, to rule through the Master of Gray. James has written a poem declaring this, indeed. An epitaph. He read it out to the Council, choking with laughter. A welter of words, but saying that he was resolved to use no more great figures or chancellors in his affairs, but only such as he might chide or hang.'

  'You do not think, then, that Patrick himself covets the Chancellorship?' Mary asked. 'He acted Chancellor before.'

  'No, no. He is far too cunning for that. The Chancellor is responsible. He can be called to account. He must bear the burden of his policies. Patrick prefers the power without the responsibility. He moves from behind, not in front…'

  'Aye,' David interrupted. 'See you – I think I know where I may find my lord. If I may take your horse, my lord Duke, I shall ride fast. To warn him. You and Mary have matters to discuss, I have no doubt.' He handed the bronzed and chuckling little boy to his mother. 'I shall see you at the castle later – if your lordship has not already gone!'

  Ludovick looked after the strong and effective figure of the land-steward as he vaulted into the saddle, supple as any youth, and wheeled the beast round, to spur away westwards.

  'He does not like me greatly, does Davy Gray!' he said, shaking his head.

  'No, no – he esteems you very well, at heart, Vicky,' the girl asserted. 'It is but your position that troubles him. Always it has been that. That you are a great lord, a duke. He cannot see that our… our closeness can bring us anything but pain and sorrow.' She controlled the quiver in her voice. 'As seems may indeed be true!'

  He shook his head strongly. 'No – it is not true! We have had great happiness together, Mary – and will have again. I know it. Swear it. And, look – this young man here is the sign and surety of it! Johnnie is the token of our closeness, Mary – and has not brought us pain and sorrow. Has he?' Ludovick took the child from her. 'Save us – how he has grown! Eh, my fine warrior? You are a son to be proud of, John Stewart of Methven!'

  The young woman looked from the face of the man to that of the child, so close, and back again. She sighed, wordless.

  Signing to the man-at-arms to ride on ahead, Ludovick settled his son firmly on his right arm and shoulder, and taking Mary's elbow in his other hand began to walk her towards the distant castle. They went slowly across the golden rustling stubbles, bare-footed and heavy-booted.

  'Vicky,' Mary said, 'If Granlord is taken and warded, how could this serve Patrick?'

  'I do not know,' he admitted. 'I thought that you might. You it is that has the sharp wits. That best perceives his schemes. And what is behind them. Could it not be just spleen? Revenge? They have been long at odds.' He spoke stiffly, stiltedly, well aware that his talk would not long postpone what had to be said otherwise.

  'Patrick does not act for spleen and spite,' she answered. 'He always has reasons for what he does…'

  'You can say that? After how he spited us? There was spleen enough, I say!'

  'I do not believe that he did it just to spite us, Vicky, nevertheless. He was determined to part us, yes – but not out of mere spleen, I think. Oh, I believed so at the first, and was bitter, bitter. But I have thought much on this, and now…'

  'Mary! Do not tell me that he was worked on you, Changed you? Turned you against me? Is that what your letters meant? Keeping me away. Mary – say that it is not true…!' He had stopped walking, to stare at her.

  'Or course it is not true, Vicky! How could you think it? Be so foolish? Dear heart – you are my very life! How could I turn against you…?'

  'Yet you have kept me away, Mary. All these months. Would not have me here now…?'

&
nbsp; 'Only because I must, Vicky. Surely you must see it? You are married, now. You have a wife. A duchess. All is changed.'

  'A duchess, may be! But a wife? You call this marriage, Mary? Two people forced at the King's command to go through the marriage ceremony! Is that being wed? Does that make us man and wife, in truth?

  'I fear ft does, Vicky. Certainly in the eyes of men. Perhaps in God's eyes also – since you took the vows in His house…'

  'I took no vows! I did not open my hps in yonder Chapel-Royal! I was there only because I was forced to be there. And for no other reason.'

  'But you live with her, as man and wife, do you not? You… you have bedded with her, Vicky?5

  He swallowed. 'Ay, I have. I have, Mary – God forgive me! I tell you…'

  'I do not think that you need God's forgiveness for bedding with your wedded wife.'

  'I do, Mary – I do! I did not mean to. I suppose that I am weak, weak. It was not my wish. At least…' He hesitated, frowning blackly. 'How can I make you understand? It is difficult, when two people share the same house, the same rooms…'

  'I do understand. It is… as it must be, had to be. But, surely, you must see that all is changed? For us, Vicky. I cannot…' Her voice shook a little. 'I cannot share you with your duchess!'

  Ludovick rubbed his chin on his small son's curly head, eyeing the young woman sidelong. 'It is only you that I want, Mary. Only and always you. It is you alone in my heart.'

  'Your heart, yes – but not in your bed!'

  He shook his head. 'Then… then I must deny Jean Campbell my bed, also. It will be difficult – but I must do it. If you will but come back to me, Mary…'

  'No, no! That is not possible. Do you not understand, Vicky? I cannot, I will not, dispossess your lawful wife. It would be most wrong, sinful, shameful. It is not to be thought of.'

  He wrinkled his brows in some bewilderment. 'But, Mary!' he protested. 'I do not understand. These years we have been together, you would not marry me, often as I pleaded. You said that the marriage would be broken by the King and Council, and that you were content to be called my mistress. You have been named Lennox's courtesan – and cared nothing. Yet now, mistress in name, you will not be mistress in fact! There is no sense in it…'

  'No doubt you are right, Vicky, I am foolish, wilful. But that is how I feel. I am sorry…'

  He gripped her arm tighter than he knew. 'See you – do you not remember that day at Hailes Castle in Lothian, Bothwell's house? Three years ago. The morning after you had forced Patrick to flee Scotland. Have you forgotten what you said to me then? You said that you had made your choice, and thai: your eyes were open at last. You said that I was to take you away, away to Methven. To be with me, you and me together. You said that you would not marry me – for they would part us if we wed. You said that you would cleave to me always, bear my children – but as mistress, not wife. Aye – and do you remember what else you said? You said I was to help you not to be jealous! Have you forgotten that?' Silent, she hung her head.

  'You said that you would try not to be jealous when I had to marry again. You said I would assuredly have to marry. Some lady of high degree. To produce an heir for the dukedom. You said that she must have her rights. But that you might be weak, and jealous, and I must help you then. But that you would cleave to me always. That was our compact, Mary, was it not?'

  She put her hand in his, nodding. 'I said it all, Vicky,' she admitted. 'I remember.'

  'But now…? Now that it has come to the test, you say differently?'

  Again she nodded.

  'Mary – I have never known you like this! To go back on your word…'

  'I said that I might be weak. I… I am weaker than I thought, I fear.'

  'No! Always you were the strong one. Stronger in will than anyone I know. Much stronger than I am. For you to act so is not just weakness. It must mean that you have changed. Changed towards me! Have you changed, girl! Do you no longer love me?'

  'I love you, yes, Vicky. More, I think, than ever. I believe that I always shall. But… I find that I cannot do what I thought to do. To share you. To have only a part of you. To take what your duchess leaves. Oh, I know it is wrong of me, wicked -just sinful pride. But I am proud – shamefully proud. I have tried and tried to fight it. But I cannot. Not now, Vicky. Perhaps… perhaps later. Give me time, Please try to understand, to bear with me.'

  When it was the man's turn to be silent, she clutched his arm urgently. 'Vicky – feelings are not things which we may command – deep feelings. Even if I was to come back to you, to live with you again, it could not be the same. There would be a barrier between us. No doubt it is different for men. But for me, I could not forget the other woman.'

  'Then… Patrick has won? He has parted us, possibly for ever!'

  'No! Not that. Do not say it, Vicky. In our love he cannot part us. It is only in this of living together. Give me time. It may be that, in time, it will be different…'

  Unhappily they walked side by side for a while, nearing the tall, arrogant castle. At length Ludovick spoke.

  'At least, Mary,' he pleaded, go back to Methven. Live there. It is your home, now…'

  'How can you say that? It was our home. But all is changed there also. It is your house, and therefore your wife's…'

  'No. Nothing is changed at Methven. It is not my house. You'll mind well that I settled it on this child. John Stewart of Methven. His it is. He should be living in it. With you. For in settling it on him, it was to you I gave Methven in truth. Until Johnnie is of age, Methven is yours.'

  'You are kind, Vicky – generous. But…'

  'Here is no generosity. It is but what we planned. For Johnnie. Because you have changed, and let pride rule you, will you deny the boy his rights? Here he is but a child born in bastardy. At Methven he is laird of a great estate. If you cannot think for me, Mary, think for Johnnie.'

  'All that is but ink and parchment. His lairdship is only in name…'

  'Not so. It is fact. All is his. All rents and revenues are paid in his name. The moneys wait and grow for him. I have touched nothing of them since… since we parted.'

  'But… your wife? What of the Duchess Jean, Vicky? How can she be dispossessed by her husband's bastard?'

  'Jean is not concerned in it. She knows that Methven is Johnnie's, not mine. She has never been there, nor will I ever take her. I have bought another house, in Monteith. There we are living. Methven Castle has stood empty all these sad months.'

  'It has? Empty? You have never gone there?'

  'I have, yes. To look to affairs. That all should be ordered aright for you and Johnnie. But only that. I have never spent a night under its roof. Nor shall, until you are there with me.'

  Helplessly she spread her hands. 'There it is, Vicky! DID you not see? Until I am there with you, you say. If I go to Methven, with Johnnie, I could not keep you out, even if I would, and if we are living together in the same house, then… oh, you must see what would happen!'

  'I see that we might yet find some peace and happiness together.'

  The girl sighed, looking up at the castle towering above them, the living rock and then seven storeys of red masonry seeming to grow out of it.

  'Let us talk no more of it now, Vicky,' she said, almost pleaded. 'I am sorry… but you must give me time…'

  Before ever they had climbed to the level of the courtyard, they heard the stamping of horses' hooves and die raised voices of many men. Apparently the Lord Gray had returned. Involuntarily they both quickened their pace.

  More than this they heard, as they crossed the flagged court within the curtain walling, where the score or so of men-at-arms of my lord's bodyguard were wiping down and unsaddling their sweating horses; out from the doorway of the great central keep of the castle, an angry voice was declaiming loudly, harshly. The young people exchanged glances, and Mary reached over to take the child from Ludovick.

  They found Patrick Gray senior stamping up and down the great hall of Castle H
untly in a fury, bellowing like a bull; indeed he was bull-like in ever way, a massive, heavy man, gross of body and florid of feature. Although no more than in his late fifties, he looked much older, the marks of lifelong dissipation strong upon him; but though sagging jowls and great paunch spoke of indulgence and physical degeneration, there was no hint of weakness about the thrusting bullet head, the jutting jawline and the keen, shrewd, pig-like eyes. A more unlikely father for the exquisite and beautiful Master of Gray would have been hard to imagine.

  He was shouting now at Davy Gray as he paced his hall, every now and again emphasising his harangue by smashing down his great ham-like fist on the long central table as he passed it. The lofty stone-vaulted and otherwise empty chamber seemed to shake and quiver to his fury – yet the sole recipient of all this wrath and invective appeared to be by no means overwhelmed by it. The situation was far from unusual, of course, even though on this occasion the older man was more than normally roused. Davy Gray, the land-steward and schoolmaster, had since early youth been whipping-boy and butt for his potent father's lashing tongue – and despite his bastardy and employed position, refused to be daunted by it much more successfully than had any of his legitimate half-brothers. In fact, Lord Gray had long relied upon this early by-blow of his for the efficient running ofhis great estates and the management of his household. At heart, the arrogant lord knew well that though he was proud, this modest-seeming, self-contained offspring of his was prouder.

  At sight of the newcomers, Gray paused only momentarily in both his pacing and his diatribe, to point a finger at them which trembled with ire, not weakness, and forthwith to launch into a vehement denunciation of the King, the Privy Council, the Court, and all connected with it – including, it seemed, the Duke of Lennox – as abject fools, weaklings, and knaves, at the beck and call of that epitome of all ill, iniquity, impiety and infamy, the son and heir whose name he seldom allowed to pass his thick lips. On and on he ranted, growing ever more purple in the face, until sheer lack of breath and evident dizziness forced him to pause and to put out his hand to the table, this time to support and steady himself rather than to pound and beat.