Lord and Master mog-1

by Nigel Tranter

  The cattle were gone from the grassy quadrangle, and gardens were being laid out therein, more in keeping with the enhanced status of the establishment's master. David rapped resoundingly on the former chapel door, beside which three horses already stood tethered.

  The same supercilious man-servant, now the more so out of his advancing years and much more handsome livery,, opened presently, to stare. It was at David that he stared, in undisguised astonishment and hostility, though his glance did show some slight glimmering of respect at the quality of Logan's hunting clothes and general air of authority. The youthful king he ignored completely.We would see Master Davidson-the Bishop,' David said. 'Is he at home?' The other pursed his lips, frowning.

  'Quickly, fellow!' Logan barked, and the man, blinking, turned and went within. But he closed the door behind him.

  'Curst lackey!' Logan cried 'Sink him – he'll no' keep Restalrig standing at some jumped-up cleric's door, like a packman!' and he thumped loudly on the door-panels with the hilt of his sword

  James was too tired to do more than pluck at his lower lip, and mutter.

  The servitor came back in a few moments, his expression a nice mixture of triumph and alarm. 'My lord Bishop canna see you,' he said. 'He is throng wi' important folk. If you have a message frae the Lord Gray, you can leave it'

  'God damn your scullion's soul!' Logan roared. 'Stand aside, fool!' And striding forward, he knocked the fellow reeling backwards with a violent back-handed blow, and stalked within. To the servant's wailing protest, the others followed him.

  Logan was marching hugely down the arched lobby, but David heard voices from the same front room in which he had once waited for so long. Without ceremony, he opened the door.

  Bishop Davidson was perambulating to and fro on the carpet, his purple cape and cassock flowing behind as once a black Calvinist gown had done. He was holding forth to three men who looked like country gentry or prosperous merchants, and who were listening to him with due respect At sight of David, he halted in his episcopal steps.

  'Sweet Mary-Mother – what insolence is this!' he demanded 'Get out of my house. I told you – never did I wish to see your face again. Now, go – before I have my men take their whips to you!'

  David ignored all that 'Irequest word with you, in private, Master Davidson,' he said 'In the King's name.'

  'The King's name! Are you mad, as well as insolent and depraved, fellow? It was dim out in the lobby, with the evening light, and David stood in front of the King. 'Out with you!'

  'These men with you – who are they?' David turned low-voiced to Logan. 'You had better ask him. We cannot hazard the King's safety.'

  'With all the pleasure in the world!' Restalrig cried. 'I will prick this overblown priestly bladder!'

  But James asserted himself, for once. He shambled from behind David. 'Good Master Bishop,' he said. I… we are tired We have ridden far. And apace. You receive me… us but ill. We require comforts… food…'

  'Merciful soul of God – Your Grace! Your Highness! Sire – I..I '

  'Aye, you quivering bag o' lard, get down on your fat knees?' Logan shouted. 'Or where's your fine bishopric, eh?'

  And strange to say, there before them all, the Bishop-Principal did just that Down on the carpet he sank, in prompt, hearty and urgent supplication, clasping white hands. 'Your Majesty, I crave your most royal clemency! Humbly I seek Your Grace's pardon, I did not know… I have been much put about… I thought that Your Highness was… I meant no discourtesy. All that I have is yours, Sire…'

  'I ken that fine, aye.' Catching David's eye, James leered a sidelong grin. 'Oh, aye. I'm glad to hear you say it, my lord.'

  'But of course, Sire. All, all. If I may have your gracious pardon. I will prove it – prove my enduring devotion and loyal service. By all that is holy, I swear it!'

  'Hph'mmm. Is that so, Master Bishop?1 Most evidently young James was enjoying having this august personage grovelling before him. Thanks to Master George Buchanan's tutorship and the Kirk's fiery orators, he had an imbued respect, if no great love, for learned divines. To have one thus before him, was sweet

  It was David who called a halt 'Sire,' he said bluntly. 'What is important is not Master Davidson's contrition, but your safety. First we wish to know that these three gentlemen are to be trusted? And then to know where in St Andrews you will be safest disposed?'

  ' The three earlier visitors, who had been standing in appalled amaze, forthwith broke into incoherent protestations of loyalty. Davidson, seeing the attention transferred from himself, got to his feet 'Majesty,' he interrupted earnestly. "These are sound men – but of no importance. The Provost of this town, just, and his brother and friend. They shall be gone, this instant…'

  "Wait!! David ordered, briefly. 'We do not wish word of the King's arrival in the town bruited abroad – yet Who holds the castle?!

  'It is part-ruined, since the troubles of… of… But my Lord of Moray, the Commendator, has a Lieutenant therein

  'Is it still a strong place? His Grace would be safe there?' 'Indeed, yes. My men will guard His Grace to the death…!' 'Your men!' Logan jeered. 'Mouthing acolytes and scribbling

  clerks! Have we no better warriors than that, in St Andrews?

  'They are good men, and true, my lord,' the Bishop assured, humbly. 'Well founded and lusty. I have two-score of them. And there is my lord Earl of March, his men..

  'March!' David and Logan cried in unison. 'How came March to St Andrews? And when?'

  'But two weeks agone' When the Bishop answered David, he did not look at him, but addressed himself as to the King. 'Why he came, I know not. He lodges at the Priory, with full three-score men-at-arms. Did he know, perchance, that Your Grace was to be here?'

  David and Logan exchanged glances. This looked like more of Patrick's work, March, the Countess of Arran's deposed husband, and a simple bumbling man, had been used by Patrick before for his own purposes, being rich and gullible.

  'Aye,' Logan said, heavily. It falls out powerfully convenient'

  David nodded. 'Your Grace, we will send the Provost to request my Lord March to attend you here forthwith. And another of the gentlemen to the Lieutenant of the castle, with orders to have it open to receive Your Highness at once. Will that serve?'

  'Aye, Master Davy. But Fm right hungry, mind…'

  'Master Davidson will surely see to that, while we wait'

  'It is my joy and delight, Your Majesty.'

  And so it fell out The King of Scots, fed, refreshed and to some degree rested, attended by the Earl of March, the Bishop of St Boswells and the Provost of the town, was installed in the part-demolished but still powerful castle of St Andrews, seat of former Archbishops, on its sea-girt rock, and the gate locked and barred. And in the safety thereof, he made one of his lightning-like changes of character. Of a sudden he was in command, arrogant, boastful. The admiring courtiers learned a version of the escape from Ruthven in which the King himself was the hero and main protagonist He damned and cursed the lords Gowrie, Mar, Glencairn, Master of Glamis and the rest, in impressive fashion for a youth of seventeen, and commanded their immediate arrest on a charge of highest treason. He ordered the citizens of St Andrews to provide for his every need, and to raise an adequate force for his sure defence. James was the King, and no one was to forget it ever again. From now on, he would rule this realm with a strong arm, as a king should. And let the good Captain Jamie, Earl of Arran, be brought to him forthwith.

  David decided that it was high time for him to go home to Castle Huntly, whatever Logan might elect to do. He requested permission to retire from Court the very next day, and His Majesty was graciously pleased to grant it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  PATRICK did not return home just yet. Perhaps that was as well for a peace-loving man like himself, for the Ruthven lords had not quite shot their bolt. Resisting somewhat half-hearted efforts at arrest, they seized the town and castle of Stirling – of which of course Johnny Mar was Hereditary Gov
ernor – and manned and munitioned it against the royal forces. This situation at least gave the newly-freed Arran what he wanted -carte blanche from the frightened James to take whatever measures he required to restore order, as the only soldier of any experience in the King's present company. Captain Jamie had learned his soldiering in the hard ruthless school of the Swedish wars, and nothing could have pleased him more than to be given the opportunity to demonstrate something of what he had learned – especially against the men who had kept him a prisoner for the best part of a year, wife or no wife. With a force consisting mainly of the followings of the great Catholic nobles, Huntly, Montrose, Herries, Erroll and the rest, he marched on Stirling – and the Ruthven lords, deciding discretion on this occasion to be a distinct improvement on valour, melted away before him, without a siege, into the convenient fastness of the Highlands. The Kirk kept very quiet; James sported a crucifix; Elizabeth thundered from Whitehall; Arran stretched himself in all directions; and the Master of Gray, in response to repeated urgent summons from his monarch, at last arrived back in his homeland at the end of August, a bronzed gallant and carefree figure in the most dashing of the new French modes, a joy and a delight to all who saw him. This was made the more striking in that he brought with him a snub-nosed, freckled and awkward ten-year-old boy, whom he seldom let out of his sight, even for a moment What ever malicious tongues might say, however, this boy was with him apparently also at the King's express command. He was Ludovick Stuart, second Duke of Lennox, Esme's son. How Patrick had convinced Esme's Duchess, who had refused even to see her husband, to allow him to bring away to hated Protestant Scotland the apple of her eye, is something that he alone could tell.

  He rode in, unannounced, under the gatehouse at Castle Huntly, one golden first day of September, with the boy at his side, both mounted significantly on black Barbaries. If anything could indicate high royal favour, that did. The pair did not have even a groom as escort

  In all the wide courtyard only one small figure happened to be there to greet them – the petite and self-possessed person of Mary Gray. She curtseyed prettily, and then stood regarding them with headcocked speculation.

  From his saddle, Patrick gazed down at her for appreciable moments, his handsome features unusually thoughtful. It was nearly two years since he had seen her. 'My dear… Mary,' he said, and for once forgot to smile. 'You grow… you grow more… in feet, Mary, you grow marvellously!'

  T do not think that I am very big, sir,' she answered. 'I am nine years old, you know.'

  'Aye, 'fore God – so you are! Nine years. But… you know me, child?

  'But of course. You are my Uncle Patrick, come from France. Uncle Patrick – who makes my mother look strange, and my father frown. I know you fine. But I do not know this boy. Is he a new son that you have got?

  'Hmmm.' Patrick drew a hand over his mouth. 'No, Mary. Not so. This is Vicky. Ludovick Stuart He is also my lord Duke of Lennox, but I do not suppose that you will think much of that He is just near your own age – a few months older. You will be good friends, I am sure. But he speaks very little of yur language, as yet…'

  'I can speak French,' Mary assured. 'My father has taught me. My father went to France, too, long ago. Bonjour, Monsieur Garcon? she said, curtseying again. Je parle francais. Un peu'

  The stocky boy on the black horse stared down at her owlishly.

  laughing again, Patrick dismounted, and went to help down the boy from his tall perch. 'Vicky is a littly shy, lass. But you will soon remedy that, eh? Do not be too hard on him, Mary!!…'

  'Patrick!' Mariota came running down the timber steps from.the main keep, skirts kilted high, a picture of flushed, bright-eyed loveliness. Almost she seemed as though she would throw herself straight into his arms. Then, recollecting herself, she came to a teetering halt in front of him in breathless, attractive confusion. Behind her, David appeared in the iron-grilled doorway, displaying less forthright rapture.

  Patrick had no qualms to recollect He swept up Mariota -

  though a little less high than once he had done, for she was a big well-made woman now and no slip of a girl – kissing her comprehensively and enthusiastically.

  'My splendid and adorable Mariota!' he cried. 'How beautiful you are! How kind. And generous I What a form! Aye, by God – and what a weight, too!' And he set her down, panting.

  'You are home then, Patrick,' David greeted, his voice coming thickly. 'It has been a long' time. More than a year. You look… as though you throve!'

  'Aye, my good stern Davy! He who frowns! It does me good to see you all. You have all grown, I swear – Mary more bewitching, more ravishing; Mariota more beautiful, more desirable, more rounded and Davy more like Davy than ever!'

  'Aye,' David said 'And the laddie? 'That is 'Vicky,' Mary announced

  'Why yes, so he is. This is Ludovick Stuart, Duke of Lennox.. who resembles his father but little, I think.' 'Lord! You… you have brought him here? D'Aubigny's son. You…!'

  'Indeed, yes. On the King's express command. He is, after all, Scotland's only duke!'

  'He is the son of the man…' David paused.

  'The man whom we both knew so well. Surely we can do no less than show him kindly welcome, brother?

  David bit his lip, but Mariota stooped quickly, arms out to the boy, who eyed her but doubtfully.

  Mary took him by the hand. 'Come with me,' she commanded. 'I have a hedgepig with babies. In my garden. Come.'

  Without enthusiasm, the Duke went with her. "

  'Patrick!' Mariota exclaimed, rising. 'You are thinner, I think. You are well? Where have you come from? Have you ridden far?

  'I am perfecdy well, my dear. We do not all have the facility for growing fat! And have ridden only from St Andrews, of blessed memory! Where James insists in keeping his Court, meantime. A chilly place in autumn mists, as I think you will recollect.We must move him before the winter, I vow! I came thither from Rheims only two days ago.'

  'You are not come home to stay, then…?'

  'I fear not, my dove. Much as I would relish life here with you… and with Davy, of course!'

  Have you not done enough? At the Court? David asked,

  pointedly. 'You have a fair heritage here…'

  'God forbid! Would you have Arran and his… lady ruling all Scotland? Save us from that!'

  'James himself aspires to rule his realm, I think.'

  'One day, no doubt. James will need to rule himself before he rules a kingdom. Meantime, a loyal subject's duty is to aid and guide him, is it not? For the good of that kingdom!'

  David began to speak, and then held his tongue, meeting his brother's eye steadily instead. Patrick changed the subject

  'Where is the noble and puissant Lord Gray?' he asked, hghdy.

  'He is at Fowlis Castle. Has been for some days.'

  'Ah! With a new lady, I'll be bound!'

  Mariota led the way indoors for refreshment

  Later, with the young woman gone down to the gardens for the children, Patrick manoeuvred his brother out into the courtyard again, where none might overhear. The Lady Marie?' he said, abruptly for him. 'She is not at St Andrews. None there know her whereabouts.. Do you, Davy?'

  David did not answer at once. 'What if I do?' he said, at length. Why should I tell you?'

  'Why not, brother?'

  It could be that she were better off lacking your company.' 'So-o-o! Are you her keeper, then, Davy?' 'I am not Only her friend.' 'Ah. And I? What then am I?'

  'Aye – well may you ask! It is a question that I ask myself frequently! What are you? Whose friend are you – save your own?'

  Looking at his brother, it was Patrick's turn to be silent for a little. This is… interesting, Davy,' he said presently, 'Aye, interesting. What makes friendship? Judgment? Criticism? Or trust? Understanding? Sympathy?'

  'Something of all, it may be. But the trust and the sympathy must be two-sided, I think. Whom do you trust, Patrick? And who may trust you?'

  Heigho – y
ou I hope, Davy! And Marie likewise. Where is she man?'

  'If I tell you, will you make me a promise!?'

  'I will, of course. Anything that is in reason.'

  'It is in reason, certainly. It is just this – that you will not use her in any of your intrigues. That you will use her kindly, and not knowingly hurt her.'

  'Lord, Davy – of course I promise it. But… this, from you! What does she mean to you, man?'

  'Just that I will not see her hurt You understand, Patrick?'

  'I hear you, anyway!' Patrick glanced sidelong at his brother, knowing that grim tone from of old They had walked out beneath the gatehouse into the wide and grassy forecourt 'You have my promise. Where is she?'

  'In Glen Prosen. With her natural sister, who is married to Wat Ogilvie, a lairdling there.'

  'Glen Prosen? In the wilderness! I see. Has she been there long? Was she there when… when…?'

  'No,'the other said briefly.'She went afterwards. Her father was held, and her brothers scattered.'

  'But.. you saw her?'

  'Aye She came here. She it was who first told us of it Of the King's capture. And what followed.'

  'I see' Patrick kicked a fallen twig out of his way, casually. 'How did the matter appear to her? How did she take it?'

  David almost imperceptibly edged his brother over the greensward towards a little path, all but overgrown with long grasses. 'I think that she took it as I did,' he said slowly. 'Took it but ill. Took it that a clever hand was behind it all – a hand that did not appear.'

  'Indeed.'

  'Yes, a ruthless hand that played with men as though they were but puppets on strings – whilst itself remained safe hidden in a sleeve!'

  Patrick laughed. 'A pretty conceit, Davy – but improbable, I think. Was that her invention, or yours? She has a level head on her, that one I would not think her so fanciful.'