Lord and Master mog-1

by Nigel Tranter

  'Aye – and so are we, I think! Davy – my thanks!'

  David, examining the man Raoul's wound, shrugged. 'That is unnecessary, your honour' he said briefly. 'A mere exercise in farmyard tactics. I was, as it were, born to such!', Patrick bit his lip.

  David turned to d'Aubigny. 'My lord, I think that this hero of yours will survive. The bleeding is almost stopped. A clean thrust, 'I'd say – painful, but with no serious damage done.'

  The Breton muttered something beneath his breath.

  'Good. As well, praise the saints! Raoul, mon ami, it was a gallant attempt… though lacking; in finesse, perhaps. Though who am I to judge, who did naught but lose my sword! Here is the paladin! Patrick, your Davy is a man of parts, I swear. That was notably done. He has a quick wit and a stout heart, damned Calvinist or none!'

  'He is my brother' the Master of Gray said slowly, deliberately. 'My elder brother.'

  'But, of course!' 'No – not just my foster-brother, Esme. My father's eldest son – only, conceived the wrong side of the blanket!.

  'As though I did not guess as much, man! All Rheims, taking a look at the pair of you, said the same.'

  Patrick's breath seemed to take the wrong route to his lungs, somehow, and all but choked him.

  'He has my gratitude, at all events' d'Aubigny went oh, 'Here is my hand, Master Davy Gray. I shall not forget'

  'I thank you, sir. Do you not think that we should be riding on, nevertheless… if your lordships will forgive my presumption?'

  'Davy, let it be, man!' Patrick all hut pleaded. I am sorry.'

  'He is right, Patrick. If Raoul is fit enough, we should no longer linger here. We cannot be sure that they will not follow us. This town, Montlierre, can be no more than a league or two ahead, where we are to place ourselves in the hands of one of Philip's captains. Until then, we cannot be assured of our safety.'

  Getting started, thereafter, was difficult, with Patrick holding back so that his brother might ride alongside, and David doing likewise so that he should lie suitably behind – d'Aubigny looking on, eyebrows raised.

  That, indeed, was to be the pattern of their subsequent journeying through the Low Countries to the sea at Amsterdam., The Guise letter of credentials, and the noble travellers' Catholic eminence and charm, might be sufficient to gain them safe conduct from Philip of Spain's occupying forces, but more than anything of the sort was necessary to soften entirely a stiff Gray neck.

  Possibly the miller's daughter of Inchture had had almost as good a conceit of herself as had my lord of Gray. The Scots are like that, of course.

  Chapter Seven

  THE brothers' long road homewards together finally parted at the port of Leith, in the estuary of the Forth and in sight of the great rock-girt castle of Edinburgh. Patrick, to the end, urged that David should stay with him, pleading the need, both of himself and d'Aubigny, for a secretary and esquire in their ambitious project. But David was adamant His road was not Patrick's; he had to render the account of his stewardship to my lord, who had sent him; moreover, he had a wife and a bairn awaiting him at Castle Huntly, from whom he had been parted overlong already. He had no desire for a life of courts and cities and intrigue, anyway – his schoolroom and country affairs were amply to his taste. It was Castle Huntly for him, forthwith.

  Patrick could have gone to Castle Huntly also, withd' Aubigny, and from there prosecuted the very necessary spying out of the land and enquiries before they descended upon the Court of King James at Stirling – for of course their appearance must be very carefully arranged and timed, with prior secrecy vital, lest Morton and his friends should take steps to nip all in the bud; but Patrick preferred to avoid his father's house meantime, and claimed with some reason that Castle Huntly was too remotely placed for gaining the essential gossip and information about the Court and the Douglases, and for making contact with the right people, to enable them to make their move at the best moment He fancied rather his cousin Logan's house of Restalrig, between Leith and Edinburgh, for a start at least, where they could roost incognito meantime. Surely, never did two more incongruously and conspicuously eye-catching incognito-seekers land on a Scottish shore, Barbary blacks and all.

  So David bade God-speed to his brother, with urgent but not very hopeful requests that Patrick watch his step for sweet mercy's sake, and offer as few cavalier challenges to fate as in him lay, and thereafter transferred himself to a coasting vessel which would sail for Dysart and Dundee at the next tide. He frowned a little as he went, for in his baggage he now carried an expensively handsome jewelled clasp for Mariota and a brilliantly dressed Flanders puppet for little Mary, just handed to him by Patrick, which most greatly outshine the length of cambric and the roll of ribbon that were to be his own humble gifts.

  David rode on a very third-rate horse next day, after the Guise blacks, through fields of ripening corn in the fertile Carse, into a sinking golden early August sun, and his heart was full. Here was his own colourful matchless land, so much more beautiful and diversified than any that he had seen on his wanderings, with the blue estuary of the Tay, the green straths and yellow fields, the hills everywhere as background, rolling or rocky, cloaked in woods or decked in bracken and heather, and beyond all, the blue ramparts of the great mountains. He had scarcely realised how much he loved it all Even the tall frowning castle on its jutting rock had its loveliness for him, the raw red stonework mellowed by the sunset; or perhaps it was only what lay within its massive walls that made it beautiful for him.

  He clattered into the courtyard, under the stern gatehouse, flung himself off his mount, and went racing up the stairway of the little schoolroom tower, to hurl open the door of Mariota's room – and find it empty, deserted. Not even their bed was there. As though an icy hand had clutched him, he ran back, down into the yard. A single man-at-arms sat in a sunny corner, cleaning harness. Of him he demanded where was his wife, his daughter?

  'Och, they bide up in the main keep noo, Davy' he was told. 'They're fine, man – fine. My lord's had them up there beside him a couple o' months syne, for the company, ye ken. Sakes -no' so fast, Davy. They're no' there, the noo. They're doon below -doon in the fruit garden, pulling berries…'

  David was off hot-foot, through the postern-gate and down the steep stepped path cut in the side of the rock to the little hanging garden, dug out of a flaw in the cliff-face, with soil laboriously carried up from the plain below. The woman stooping over the berry-bushes, and the child at play beside her, made a pleasing picture in the chequered gold and shadow of the sunset

  Mariota heard him coming, and turning, stared. Then, with a cry, she dropped her basket, sadly spilling the fruit, and came running, arms wide. 'Davy! Davy my heart!' she sobbed.

  Hungrily, joyfully, he took her to him, swinging her up off her feet, kissing away the tears of gladness, murmuring incoherent broken endearments, follies, questions. Tightly they clung, the man's fierce possessive strength a haven, a benison to her, the woman's warm rounded comeliness an exultation and a promise to him – until the insistent tugging at the top of his dusty riding-boot made David look down, to sweep up the child in one arm, laughing to her chuckle as she thrust a fat raspberry into his mouth. So they stood, under the towering walls, for the moment in bliss that the angels might envy.

  Still holding the child, David put Mariota from him, a little. 'My dear,' he said, considering her. 'You are the fairest bonniest sight that my eyes have seen since I left this place, and that's a feet!'

  'Not… not bonnier than the fine French ladies, Davy?'

  He snorted. Them! The brazen painted hizzies! None of them had the looks of you.'

  That was true. Mariota, at nineteen, was grown a very lovely young woman, fresh-coloured, gentle-eyed, tall and well-built, with nothing meagre or skimped about her. Something of this last, indeed, drew rueful comment from her husband now.

  'At the least, lass, you have not dwined away for missing me! You are getting fat, I swear!'

  She coloured, and
dropped her glance.' 'Tis… 'tis just that you… that Patrick is not the only… that you will be a father indeed, Davy…'

  Here was further cause for embrace and joyful acclaim, more vehement on David's part, perhaps, than he realised. But in the midst of it, Mariota's gaze was over his shoulder, raised to scan the castle rock.

  'Patrick?' she asked. 'Is he here? You have brought him?'

  'No,' he told her briefly. He is at Edinburgh. My dear, my pigeon, my heart's darling – here is cheer indeed! Och, lassie -it's grand! I did not know…'

  'He is not come, then – Patrick?' she said. 'But.. he is well? There is nothing wrong…?'

  He let go of her. 'Aye. He is well enough, never fear.' Rather abruptly he raised high the child whom he had still held within an arm. 'And see this fine lady! Is she not a fondling, an amoret? And as fat getting as her mother!'

  Little Mary Gray was now four years old. She was a tiny laughing jewel of a creature, all lightness and beauty and dainty taking ways', and so uncannily like Patrick as to catch thebreath. Though face and hands were stained with raspberry juice and her dothing was far from fine, she yet presented an extraordinary impression of grace and breeding and delicate enchantment. Emotions chased themselves across David's blunt features as he studied her.

  'She is a cozener and a charmer, that one. Like… like her Uncle Patrick! Davy – why has he not come home with you? Is he coming soon? How does he look, now?'

  'Older.'

  'Aye, no doubt It is three years and more since I have seen him.'

  'And then, were you not only too glad to see the back of him?' David had not intended to say that

  'Yes, yes. Of course. I… I hate him!'

  'You do not,' David said, heavily. 'Any more than do I? He sent you many good wishes – both of you. And gifts, too.'

  'Ah – he did? Gifts, Davy? For me? For us?'

  'Aye.' Her husband sighed. "They are up there. Come you up, and get them.' A grey cloud seemed to have come over the face of the sun.

  Up in the courtyard again, David handed over Patrick's jewel to Mariota and the doll to Mary – and neither having ever received such a present before, or dreamed of such a happening, their delight and excitement knew no bounds. In the circumstances, David let his own humbler gifts of cambric and ribbon more or less go in as make-weight, not even emphasising that they were from himself and not just more of Patrick's largesse. He was not good at this sort of thing.

  The shadow passed, of course. Soon smiles and laughter were back.

  David would have preferred to be back in their own little room in the corner-tower rather than in the fine chamber in which Lord Gray had installed the pair, but Mariota declared that it was a great improvement and that my lord had insisted on the move, saying that they must not be lonely whilst David was away. It was Mary, of course, who was at the bottom of it all. She and her grandfather were inseparables, and the child could do what she would with the irascible nobleman – which was more than could anyone else alive.

  Lord Gray came back from Perth later in the evening, somewhat drunk, but loud in his demands to see his chicken, his little trout, his moppet Mary. The sight of David, however, especially minus Patrick, sobered him rapidly, and his son was haled into my lord's sanctum above the hall forthwith, the door shut, and questions hurled at him, thickly, incoherently, but with no lack of point or vehemence.

  When he could make himself heard, David sought to explain.

  He did his best for Patrick. 'He sends you all respectful duty and greetings, my lord – all reverence. But his affairs make it necessary for time to bide near to Edmburgh, for the nonce '

  'His affairs! A pox – I sent for him to come here, did I no'?

  'Aye,sir, but…'

  'But nothing, man! I didna have him brought home to idle and bemischief himsel' in Edinburgh. You were to bring him here…'

  'My lord, I brought him nowhere. Patrick is a man, now – of age, and, and his own counsellor. He came back to Scotland at your request, not at my bringing.'

  'But with my siller, burn him!'

  'Not even that' David unbuckled the heavy money-belt that he had worn around his middle for so long, and put it down on his lordship's table, the solid weight of it thudding thereon significantly. "There is your siller back, my lord – or the most of it. What has been spent of it was spent on my journeying – none on Patrick. He spends his own moneys now.'

  'How may that be? Whence comes his siller – a young jackdaw with no penny to his name?'

  David cleared his throat 'He is that no longer, my lord. The years in France have changed him, almost beyond recognition. You will scarce know him. He has not wasted his time. You sent him to learn statecraft, and he has done it He is very close to the Guises and Archbishop Beaton, and deep in their affairs. They trust him, wholly. He bears their despatches to the King, from the Duke and the Cardinal… '

  The more fools them, if they sink their money in Patrick, 'fore God!'

  David did not comment on that

  To the King, you said? To the Council, you mean, man?' ' 'Not so, sir – to the King. To young King Jamie, himself. And he has.brought back with him the King's cousin. The Sieur d'Aubigny.'

  He heard his father's breath catch. 'D'Aubigny? You mean… John Stewart's son, that was brother to old Lennox? Whe-e-ew!' All traces of intoxication were gone from Gray now. He stared at his informant 'That man-some Frenchified outlandish name he has… aye, Esme – that man, in Scotland, could be gunpowder, no less! He is ower near the throne, fox safety.'

  'I think that is why Patrick brought him. Patrick, I'd say, finds gunpowder to his taste, my lord!' David told him, a little grimly.

  His father took a limping turn or two about the room. 'I faith, this requires thinking on, Davy,' he said. Then, swiftly, 'Does Morton know?'

  'We hope… Patrick hopes not'

  'God's Body – 'I hope not, likewise! For if he does, he'll have the heads off both o' them! The young fool – to have brought that man here! It is as good as treason – or so Morton will have it! Don't you see it, man? This d'Aubigny, in Scotland, is like a dagger at James's throat… or a poison in his cup, more like! There is none nearer to the Crown's succession, in blood, save only that child Arabella in England. Morton will see him as a threat to his power over the King – and no man is that, in Scotland, and lives!'

  David bit his lip. He had not realised what great danger Patrick had thrust himself into, with d'Aubigny. Put thus, he saw it clearly – and the picture of Morton that rose in his mind's eye, hurling that goblet smashing down the length of the table in the hall below, did nothing to soothe his new perception. 'He is as strong as ever – my lord of Morton?' he asked. 'Now that he is no longer Regent…?'

  'Foul fall him – of course he is! Who else, think you, rules? That slobbering thirteen-year-old boy, Jamie? Others who have tried are in their graves – Atholl, Mar, Lennox himself, Hamilton, even Moray. Morton's hand, if you look for it, you will find in the deaths of them all. He has the Council in his pocket still. Me, I havena dared show my face in the streets o' Edinburgh or Stifling for three years, man – no' since yon wedding-night I never ride abroad with less than fifty men, for my life's sake. And I-I have done nothing against the man, save draw breath! And be a friend o' Mary the Queen, whom he hates. And now – this! Patrick hurt Morton sore, that night. Bringing this d'Aubigny to Scotland, I tell you, is as good as his death-warrant! The young fool!'

  'I… I hope not, sir.' David shook his head. 'I misliked it, my own self I said that he was flying too high a hawk… But I had not realised… Patrick believes, see you, that through d'Aubigny he may clip Morton's wings – aye, and gain Queen Mary's release also…'

  'Precious soul o' God! Does the nestling clip the eagle's wings? What harebrained folly is this? What bairns' game have they been teaching him in France? Statecraft he was to learn…!'

  'The plot seemed to be well worked out – with the Cardinal and the Duke and Beaton. The Jesuits, too, were in it, d
eep. They have sent money with him – much money, I believe…

  " 'Eh? Money? In Patrick's white hands? God be good – they must be lacking their wits!' But my lord's tone of voice had altered a little. He limped to the table, and picked up the heavy money-belt, weighing it in his hand, abstractedly. 'Jesuit money, you say? So that airt the wind blows! That is why he didna need his auld father's siller! Our Patrick's found bigger fools than himsel', eh?'

  'Patrick is no fool, my lord, believe me. These years have done more for him than you realise…'

  'Nevertheless, Davy, he has run his fool's head into a noose, here and now, by bringing this d'Aubigny to Scotland. Morton, with the power o' the Crown and the help o' Elizabeth's gold, holds the land fast' Gray had dropped the money-belt and resumed his anxious pacing, and in that gesture David thought that he read proof that my lord, harsh-tongued and scornful as he might seem, was in fact fonder of Patrick than he cared to admit, more concerned for his gay and handsome son and heir than for the silver that he talked so much about

  'Morton has his' enemies,' David said.

  'Aye – in plenty. But they are powerless, disunited. That I ken to my cost'

  That is one reason, I think, why Patrick has brought d'Aubigny – to give them someone to rally round…'

  'A headless corpse will no' rally that many!' the older man declared, shortly. 'And that is what he'll be – and Patrick with him. As a threat to the Throne-treason…'

  'Can Morton claim that? They have a letter from King James, summoning them to his Court'

  They have?' Gray halted. 'Lord, how did they win that?'

  Through one, James Stewart of Ochiltree, Captain of the King's Guard – a friend of Patrick's.'

  Unwilling admiration showed itself on Lord Gray's sagging face. 'So-o-o! Young Stewart? Old Ochiltree's son, and good-brother to John Knox! He is one o' Morton's own jackals.'

  'One who is prepared to turn on the old lion, it seems.'