Lord and Master mog-1

by Nigel Tranter

Stubbornly he jutted his jaw. 'Aye, I must. He is doing, now, what he has never done before – taking more and more of the rule of the realm into his own hands. Why, I know not – but he is. The King and the Privy Council are not stopping him. He needs a helper, a secretary, as never before. And there is still Mary the Queen to think of. If there is anything that I may do for her, it is with Patrick that I shall do it, That is certain. The LadyMarie says…'

  'Aye – the Lady Marie says! She says aplenty, no doubt, And you heed her well, both of you! She… she is to be in Edinburgh also? Then – then perhaps I had best come with you, indeed!'

  David smiled then. 'Och, do not say that you are jealous, lass? Of the Lady Marie! Save us – what next?'

  'What next, indeed! You are ever speaking of her – and uncommon highly! I know her kind. Men are easily led astray by a pretty face…'

  'Lord – then what about your pretty face, my dear? You are more beautiful than Marie Stewart, by far. 'Who are you leading astray? Only your poor husband, I hope?'

  She still flushed like a girl when he spoke that way, and was the more lovely for her blushing. 'Do not think that you can cozen me, Davy Gray! Nor wheedle me into going to Edinburgh…'

  'I neither cozen nor wheedle, woman – I command!' he declared, straight-faced, loudly. 'It is high time that I asserted myself, I see. You are my wife, and you will do as I say. You come to Edinburgh, and look after me, and warm my bed for me these winter nights, as is your plain duty… and keep me out of the clutches of the Lady Marie Stewart!'

  She swallowed. 'Very well, sir,' she said.

  And so, that winter, the David Grays were installed in three rooms high in a tall tenement in Edinburgh's Lawnmarket, near to the great house, former town mansion of the Earl of Gowrie, which his nephew Patrick had taken over. From their north-feeing windows they could look out over lesser roof-tops and smoking chimneys, over an almost illimitable prospect, over the Nor' Loch and fields beyond; across the silver Forth to the green uplands of Fife, to the soaring Ochils and the blue bastions of the Highland Line. Directly between, if far behind, the thrusting breasts of the twin Lomonds, David pointed out, lay Castle Huntly beyond the Tay, and often Mariota gazed thitherwards and could feel that she was not so very far from her own place, after all. She did not love the city life, as she had feared, nor indeed did her husband; but she made the best of it; and the children revelled in it. They were all quite proud, moreover, of this, – the first house that they had really been able to call their own.

  David, at least, did notfind time to hang heavily. Never had he been so busy. Patrick was responsible, of course. Indeed, ever since the day of his return to Scotland from London, Patrick had been a changed man. Gone, apparently was the idling gallant' the trifler with poetry and play and women, the dallier with only the graces of life. Instead he had swiftly and deliberately become the active man of affairs, the vigorous and tireless statesman, drawing the reins of government ever more tightly into his own hands. Circumstances aided him in this. The King was delighted with him and the results of his mission-particularly the pension, provisionally set at?2,000 a year, which Elizabeth had reluctantly agreed to produce. Also, privately, the fact that he heed no longer worry about his mother corning back to take part of his kingship away from him. The Privy Council, as it was now composed, welcomed the improved relations with England and the Protestant alliance which Patrick had negotiated. They were more than ready to allow him to take on further responsibilities, for Arran's regime was lax, ineffective, appallingly corrupt, and growing ever more unpopular. His notorious Black Acts had turned the Kirk solidly against him, and much of the people with it; his boundless.appropriations of lands and wealth, and his open contempt of the laws, were too blatant even for Scotland, while his wife's rapacious bribe-taking, office-granting, and wild orgies offended all save the utterly depraved. Arran was essentially a lazy man, however ambitious, and it seemed that he was well enough content for Patrick to pick his chestnuts out of the fire for him, to put right much that was going wrong, and to accumulate numerous offices of state. He himself remained secure in the key position of Chancellor and President of the Council – and in James's affections, and, as was generally assumed, his bed. Certainly no open rupture occurred between the two men during this quiet but steady transfer of power.

  It was largely through Patrick that the Court became centred in Edinburgh, for he saw that efficient government could not be maintained from ever-changing localities. James and Arran still spent much of their time elsewhere, hunting, hawking and riding the kingdom, but more and more the capital city reverted to being the seat of government In this, strangely enough, Patrick was aided by the Lady Arran, who disliked traipsing about where she could not surround herself with non-transportable luxuries. She quickly perceived that Patrick was infinitely more efficient in most respects than was her husband, and acted accordingly. There were not a few who suggested that she might well be preparing to switch husbands once more.

  David watched all this extraordinary change in his brother with wonderment, for he could not believe that Patrick's ambitions really lay in garnering a multiplicity of offices, in the wielding of executive authority, in the daily management of affairs. If he was doing all this, he was doing it for some specific purpose, David felt sure. The fact that Patrick's closest companion, these days, tended to be Sir Edward Wotton, whom Elizabeth had sent north to replace Mr Bowes as English ambassador, worried his brother. Also the great sums of money which Patrick undoubtedly now had at his command, and which did not seem to come from the chronically threadbare Scottish Treasury.

  Not that David had much time for worrying. Being Patrick's secretary, under this new dispensation, ceased to be a sinecure, a mere nominal position, and became an office of much responsibility in itself, demanding all his time and attention. He did not particularly relish the work, nor the mass of detail in which he became involved. Had he wished, undoubtedly he could have had a choice of lucrative and more or less permanent positions for himself, in some sphere of government with which he was in daily contact; but he preferred to remain free, his brother's secretary and left hand. That he was not his right hand, he knew very well; clearly there was a great deal that Patrick kept from him, particularly in his relations with Wotton and the English.

  One of the English items with which David was not fully conversant, was the matter of the exiled Ruthven lords. One of the points of Patrick's embassage had been James's, or rather Arran's, request to Elizabeth to take steps against these nobles, who had settled just over the Border in Northumberland and constituted a constant threat; a plea that she would send them back to Scotland for trial. Elizabeth did indeed remove them, ostensibly out of danger's way, but only deeper into England. With this the King had to be content And secretly, David knew, one of them, the Earl of Angus, Morton's nephew and head of the Douglases, had already returned home and was in hiding somewhere in his own Douglasdale. Patrick seemed to suspect that the others might follow at short intervals. As to the purpose of his manoeuvre, Patrick did not commit himself.

  The Master of Gray did not allow his preoccupation with English affairs to prejudice other matters, of course; for instance, his good relations with the Guises. He kept up a regular correspondence with them, through the Archbishop of Glasgow and the Jesuit couriers – with not all of which was David conversant either. One letter which he did see, however, contained an extraordinary document – a Papal pronunciamento, no less, declaring Patrick Gray's marriage to the Lady Elizabeth Lyon to be null and invalid, on account of the ceremony being heretically and improperly performed. Patrick laughed at David's expression when he saw this. A precaution, he asserted-a mere question of providing for all contingencies. One could not be too careful where these divines were concerned, could one?

  Arrangements for the annulment of Patrick's unfortunate marriage were in feet going on through certain channels in the Kirk, Bishop Davidson indeed haying the matter in hand, most suitably. Divorce being more difficult
and apt to be prolonged -moreover requiring some small co-operation from the lady in the case – annulment seemed the preferable course. That the parties to the marriage had. both been minors at the time was a great convenience. Patrick also claimed duress on the part of his father and Lord Glamis. If this failed, he could always assert that he had, in feet, been secretly married prior to the wedding, to an unnamed woman now fortunately dead. But he did not think that it would be necessary to go to such lengths. Elizabeth Lyon or Gray, it seemed, was now showing a certain interest in young William Kirkcaldy of Grange.

  David did not have to wait long to hear further word of Mary Stuart She had been moved to Tutbury Castle soon after the Scots visit to Wingfield, presumably as an added precaution. Then, one January afternoon, Sir Edward Wotton came strolling into the room in Gowrie House where Patrick worked amidst parchments and papers innumerable, and David with him. Sir John Maitland, the Secretary of State, was there also, brother to Mary's late Maitland of Lethington.

  'Ah, you are busy, Patrick – always busy!' he said. 'You have become a very glutton for papers, I do declare. I had hopes of better, from you 11 will see you anon.'

  'I am just finishing,' Patrick assured. 'Davy, the blessed Davy, will do the rest for me. I believe that he actually likes handling pen and paper! And Sir John is just going – are you not, Mr. Secretary?'

  Maitland, a thin, ascetic, unsmiling man, able but friendless, looked sourly at the English ambassador. He did not like him, nor anything to do with England. Yet he was accepting Patrick's money, David knew, as were many others – and not enquiring whence it came. He bowed stiffly, and stalked out

  Wotton came and sat on the edge of Patrick's littered table. 'I have despatches,' he said. 'Some of which will interest you, my friend. Your Mary Stuart is a great letter-writer – which is a great convenience.'

  Patrick sat back. 'You mean that Walsingham has been reading her correspondence – and has intercepted something else of interest to England?'

  'Exactly. She is remarkably explicit in her writings, the good lady.'

  'I wonder that she does not realise that her letters will be tampered with. If not herself, Nau or Melville at least It seems..'. elementary'

  'Ah, but she does, Patrick. We have allowed for her unkind suspicions, however. Walsingham arranged for the brewer who supplies the beer to her household to claim to be a fervent Catholic and supporter of Mary, and to offer her the use of a specially-contrived beer-barrel which should go in and out of her quarters with a secret container within for letters. And so the fair lady may now write to whom she will, with an easy mind -and Sir Francis has a convenient inspection of the letters and their answers. A truly useful barrel!'

  David, head down over his papers, had to choke back his fury and indignation. Patrick laughed, however.

  'Very neat' he admitted. 'And I take it that something of note has how come out of your barrel?

  'Indeed it has. Many things. But in especial one in which you will be interested. A letter written to Mendoza, former Spanish ambassador to Elizabeth, and a friend of your Mary, as you know. In it she tells of your interview with her and declares that, to bring her son to his senses and to halt this Protestant alliance, she proposes to name Mendoza's master – Philip of Spain, her heir instead of James – heir to the throne of Scotland, and her reversion to the throne of England likewise! How think you of that, Master Patrick?

  'Lord!' Patrick was sitting up straight, now. "This is… fantastic! She would do this? The proud Mary would go so far? To disinherit her own son – for the Spaniard!'

  To say that she would do so, at all events'

  'Aye. It is likely but a gesture, a ruse'

  'But a potent one, i' faith. For you will see where it leads. It would give Philip what he greatly needs – the sure support of the English Catholics. We know that he plans invasion. If he can rely on our dissident Catholics to rise in his support…! The Pope has declared Elizabeth to be illegitimate and a usurper, and Mary the true Queen of England – St Peter roast him! If Philip is her heir, and she a prisoner, then he will have all good Catholics seeing his coming as a rescue, not an invasion. Our good Queen's life becomes the more threatened. Ah, a subtle and dangerous gesture, indeed. Who, would have thought the woman capable of it!'

  'M'mmm' Patrick examined his finger-tips. 'Extraordinary! She is a fighter yet' There was admiration in his voice, undoubtedly. 'And has Walsingham passed on the letter to Mendoza?

  'Dear God – no! Why scourge our own backs? The question is – to tell your King James, or no? It is left to my own decision, meantime. A little difficult, as you will concede I think. How would he take it? Would it move him for the alliance, or against, think you?'

  Patrick toyed with his goose quill for a moment or two. 'I would advise that you do not tell him, Edward,' he said at length. 'James is easily frightened. He is firm enough for the alliance now. But this might scare him away from it – as is his mother's intention. The succession to Elizabeth's throne is his dearest ambition – to rule both realms. Any shadow that might come between him and that vision could terrify him into a folly. Better that he does not know. If Mary writes to him, therefore, to the same effect, I'd take it kindly if the letter comes to me.'

  Wotton nodded, and glanced over at David, eyebrows raised.

  Patrick answered his unspoken question. 'Davy is discretion itself,' he assured. 'All secrets are safe with him.'

  Looking up, David opened his mouth to speak – and then shut it again, almost with a click.

  'Very well – James shall not know.' Wotton lifted himself off the table, and moved over to the door. Then he paused. 'It may interest you to know, Patrick my friend, that Mary Stuart added an amusing footnote to this dramatic letter. She said that she believed now the Master of Gray to be a traitor to her cause, and that she would not trust him hereafter!' He laughed lightly. 'How misguided are women!' And nodding, he opened the door and passed out.

  For a long moment there was silence in that room. David stared at his brother. Presently Patrick met his gaze, and sighed.

  'Ah, me – you see how I am misjudged, Davy!'

  'Are you, Patrick?' That was but a husky whisper.

  'Need you ask?' There was sorrowful reproach in the other's melodious voice. 'You know the risks that I took for her. All that I have done, as you know also, I have done in her best interests. But.. can she see it, poor lady? I do not blame her, mark you, shut up there, cut off from her friends, from guidance and advice. But it is… hard'

  'Are you so sure, Patrick? So sure of your judgment? Her best interests, you say. Can you be so certain? So much surer than Mary herself? Do you never doubt yourself, man?'

  'I leave the doubting to Myself, I use the wits the good God has given me.'

  'Aye. But once you told me that, since most men are blinded by prejudice, and fettered by beliefs and misconceptions of religion and honour, a man who keeps his wits unfettered may go far, rise high on the weakness of others. You have gone far, brother, risen high by those wits God gave you. But… does the cost to others count with you? What of the cost to Mary, of your best interests for her? I have doubted often, yes – but have not turned my doubts into action. It may be that I have been weak. I have stood by and seen you undermine and betray much and many, in the name of clear wits and…'

  'Have a watch what you say brother!' Patrick interposed, half-rising.

  That is what I am doing, yes,' David went on levelly, holding the other's eyes. 'I am warning you, Patrick. If ever I come to believe that you have betrayed Mary of Scotland, I will stand by no longer. I will act, Patrick – act! Forget you are my brother. Believe me, brother, you would never betray another! You have it?'

  The other moistened his lips. 'Are you crazed, man?' he got out. 'What… what fool's talk is this, of betrayal? You know not what you say.'

  'I may be a fool, Patrick – as well as weak. Indeed, I often judge that I am. But I mean what I say.' Heavily David spoke. 'See that you do not forget i
t'

  Patrick's glance fell before his brother's burning regard. He began to write.

  That same night a courier rode into Edinburgh with other news for Patrick Gray – news which affected the man more notably than his brother had ever seen before. Sir Philip Sidney was dead. He had died heroically, of wounds, on the battlefield of Zutphen, on an expedition to aid the Protestant Netherlands. Dying, he had sent a message to Patrick, with certain of his unpublished poems.

  Patrick wept 'War!' he cried. 'War and bloody strife! The folly of it – oh, the damnable folly! It plucks the flowers and leaves the nettles to flourish! There lies the finest flower of this age, rotting on a foreign field…'

  David had never known Patrick so moved, so hurt, so affected by anything. He had not realised how deeply he had felt for Sidney, that their friendship had been more than the mutual appreciation of two able minds. Himself he sorrowed now for

  Bis brother's pain and sorrow. But something in him was glad also – glad. For he had begun to fear that Patrick was perhaps incapable of such love towards any. He knew a great relief in this proof that he was wrong. Perhaps he was wrong in other matters also?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  DAVID rode hard and alone down the winding valley of the Gala Water, with the green rounded hills of the Borderland crowding in on every side. His body and his senses rejoiced in the freedom and exercise of it all, the scents of broom and pine and raw red earth, the colours of golden gorse, emerald bog and sparkling water under a cloud-flecked sky, the sounds of the trilling curlews, the screaming peewits and the baaing sheep. After the long months cooped up in Edinburgh, buried amongst parchments and books, this headlong riding represented a welcome release.

  His mind was preoccupied with anxiety, however, and on a subject very close to his heart – Mary the Queen. The day before, a message brought by urgent courier from one of Patrick's trusted informants in London, had revealed that Walsingham had uncovered a new Catholic plot which was to involve the assassination of Elizabeth and the placing of Mary upon her throne – a plot for which plans were well advanced, the details revealed by the torture of a suspect The English Parliament, informed, had exploded into great wrath, and amongst other measures, had demanded the immediate bringing to trial of Mary herself on a charge of treason. How one monarch could be charged with treason against another monarch was not explained – but the situation was fraught with danger for Mary, obviously. She had been moved once more, from Tutbury to Chartley, and was now little better than a felon in a cell Representation on her behalf, action of some sort, was urgently necessary.