The Wisest Fool

by Nigel Tranter

  Dismounting with aching bones, and staring about him grimly, George Heriot left the grooms to take the horses to the stables and pushed his way through the noisy throng to the lower north wing of the palace, part of the original conventual buildings of the Abbey of the Holy Rood, where were his quarters. The door thereto stood open and a couple were grappling on the floor of the vestibule. There was no sign of his servant.

  Tight-lipped, he went up the winding turnpike stair and opened the door—to find a large and handsome pair of female breasts as it were staring him in the face from his bed, the owner's head back and laughing, so that only her throat and chin seemed to top them. A hand and arm, somewhat hairy, coming out from the bedclothes, pulled her long fair hair and a dark head was just visible on a pillow.

  George Heriot swallowed, and then cleared his throat loudly. Two heads rose in indignation and alarm. "God flay you—how dare you!" an authoritative voice cried. "I dare for the best of reasons, sir. You are in my bed." "Damnation! Out with you, fellow Begone—or I'll have you flogged!"

  "For entering my own chamber? I think not, my Lord Lindores."

  "Eh . . . ? You know me? So much the worse for you, then! Leave at once, d'you hear ?"

  "I shall leave this room, yes. But only for sufficiently long for you and this lady to clothe yourselves and leave my house. If you are not gone then, I will call the palace guard and have you thrown out. My lord!"

  The other man all but choked, while his paramour clutched her bosom and gasped. "How . . . how . . . who in God's name are you?"

  Standing in the doorway, Heriot had been in the shadow. Now he moved forward. "You ought to know, sir—you owe me sufficient! I am George Heriot, and these are my quarters. From the King."

  "Christ God!" Lindores swore—and his companion promptly leapt out of bed in a flouncing of plump flesh and white limbs, to flee into the dressing-room next door.

  "I will leave you, my lord. But when you are, h'm, yourself, I would wish for an explanation."

  "But . . . dammit, man—you went away I You should be in London, with the King. How are you here ?"

  "I am here on my own business. And the King's. It is you who should say what you do here. In my bed."

  "I was given these quarters. You were gone with the King. No longer needed them..."

  "Who gave them to you, my lord? Not the Queen, I swear."

  "Why, my good-brother. The Master of Gray. He is Master of the King's Wardrobe. Holyroodhouse comes under his authority." Lord Lindores and the Master of Gray had married sisters, the Ladies Jean and Marie Stewart, daughters of the King's illegitimate uncle, the Earl of Orkney. The lady who had jumped from the bed, however, was not one of these.

  "Ha—I see! The Master of Gray." Heriot looked thoughtful.

  "I must needs have a word with the Master, then." He nodded.

  "My clothing and gear, my lord? Where are they? You have not, h'm inherited all these also ? " I

  "No, no. All are in your garret. On the floor above. All your property. Safe enough..."

  "All that you did not require, shall we say?" Heriot gestured round at the fully furnished bedroom, all therein his own. Then he shrugged. "I suggest that you dress, my lord. You may take a chill. No doubt we shall meet later." Bowing ironically to the naked man, he left him.

  Upstairs, amongst a great clutter of his belongings thrust anyhow into the attic room, he found clothing and changed out of his travel-worn riding garb, cleaning himself as best he could. Then he descended and made his way across the outer court to the main building of the palace.

  The place was as lively as a fair, and as noisy. Half of the Scotland that mattered seemed to be present, variously enjoying the night. Up in the long throne Gallery, seething with splendid folk in the blaze of a thousand candles in glittering candelabra, Heriot looked for the Queen—and saw no sign of her. There were women in plenty, many of whom he knew, many holding court in their own way; but none on the scale of a Queen-Consort. A masque was in progress, involving satyrs, shepherdesses, fauns and even a few sheep from the park—but the Queen could not be taking part in that, being seven months pregnant—one reason why she had not travelled south with the King.

  The masque's theme seemed to demand great expanses of bare flesh, male and female, and the lady in his late bed might have strayed therefrom, Arcadian shepherdesses presumably being a hardy breed. The satyrs wore realistic goat's-hair trews, with rather inadequate and flimsy cod-pieces; also very effective small horns, with their faces painted. In this very active charade, it was not difficult to tell the sheep from the goats.

  Despite paint and additions, there was no mistaking the most handsome of the satyrs. Patrick, Master of Gray himself. Only in his mid-thirties, despite being a grandfather, and still a year or two younger than Heriot, he had a superb body, beautifully proportioned and kept in perfect condition. Of all the male actors he was the most striking, gracefully vigorous and danced with the most elan and brilliance—all with the consequence that the shepherdesses seemed to compete to swoon into his arms, each expertly handled before being abandoned for the next Undoubtedly the Master of Gray was enjoying himself.

  "I was right—it is Master George Heriot!" a voice said, at the watcher's shoulder. "Here is a surprise. But a pleasant one."

  He turned. A young woman stood there, exceedingly lovely, of a beauty which succeeded in being at the same time ethereal and somehow matter-of-fact, fragile-looking and yet quietly strong. She was dressed comparatively quietly likewise in that peacock throng, yet beside her most other women faded into insignificance, however gorgeously or provocatively gowned. She was young, still in her twenties, but the directness and serenity of her gaze was ageless.

  "Ha—Mistress . . . Lady .. . er, Madam," the man said. "You are kind. And well met For I have a message for you. From the Duke of Lennox. A letter, in my baggage. A very brief one, for I left York in some haste."

  'York? Is that all? Not London? And Vicky? He is well? There is nothing wrong....?"

  "No. All is in order, Lady... er, ma'am."

  "My name is Mary Gray, and Mistress is the only style to which I have claim, sir."

  He cleared his throat. This was the young woman whom the Duke would have made Duchess, but who would not marry him though she bore him a son and ran his castle of Methven; because she had known well that the King would have the marriage annulled somehow, as quite unsuitable for royalty and one so close to the throne—even the bastard of such as the Master of Gray. James had, thereafter, indeed married his only duke to a more apt bride—whatever the Lennox protests. Nevertheless, Mary Gray was made an Extra Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen, on the King's insistence; for though Anne had little love for her, James greatly admired her. She was indeed a very strong-minded and self-sufficient creature, as keen-witted as she was lovely, and quite as much a personality to be reckoned with as her remarkable father himself.

  "I shall go get your letter from the Duke," the man said.

  'You have but arrived, Master Heriot. There is no hurry. We shall see out this present foolishness," and she nodded at the masquers. "Then you must eat and drink. Refresh yourself. For you look tired. Then I will come with you."

  "No need, Mistress Gray..."

  "When did you last eat, sir? You have the look of a man who has ridden far and fast"

  "We snatched a bite at Berwick-on-Tweed..."

  "Sakes—then no more standing here looking at mummery 1" She took his arm. "Come."

  "No, no. I can wait, very well. See out the play-acting."

  "Nonsense ! Watching men old enough to know better enjoying themselves in a public spectacle is no occupation for a hungry belly !" She drew him after her, into the transverse corridor which led through to a twin gallery, with tables laden with food and drink, and all but deserted save for a few determined drinkers, one already on the floor, overcome, and a servitor or two.

  "Her Grace—I do not see her?" Heriot asked. "I must make my presence known, pay my respects. It
is to her, of course, that I am sent"

  "Ha!" She looked at him quickly. 'The Queen is not here, sir. She has gone to the Palace of Iinlithgow. To be nearer Stirling and her son. And her daughter with the Livingstones. The King— His Grace sends you back to the Queen? He is... concerned?"

  Noting the sudden change in her tone, the underlying urgency, the man spoke carefully, "He is ever concerned for his wife and consort Should he have especial reason to be, at this juncture, Mistress?"

  "Who knows?" she replied. "See, sir—eat. Here is a capon. Or a duck? Tear me off a leg and I will join you. Wine—do not wait for the servitors. When my father's foolishness in there is over, they will all be in here like a cloud of locusts. Eat while you may."

  Nothing loth, he set to, while the young woman bit into a cold capon's leg with pearly teeth, cheerfully.

  "Mistress Gray," he said, between mouthfuls, "I do not understand. If the Queen is not here, why this present festivity? What is it about? And on whose authority? In the King's royal palace."

  "Well may you ask, sir! This is the third such since you left. I fear that you need not look far for the reason. On the contrary. The Master of Gray is still Master of the Wardrobe and in the absence of the King and Queen he is responsible for the palaces."

  "But-the cost...?"

  "Should the cost concern my father, Master Heriot? Since he does not pay for it!"

  "The Master of Gray does naught without reason. I think. He is no foolish spendthrift irresponsible He must have a purpose in it."

  "It may be so. He has not confided it to me. Perhaps you should ask him"

  He chewed in silence for a little.

  "The Master of Gray has, I think, a grudge against the King," he said at length. "For sending him back, at Berwick. Not taking him on to London. It was ... less than kindly done. Could this have to do with it, think you ?"

  "Spending the King's money on riotous living ? I reckon Patrick Gray apt to fly higher than that!"

  "M'mmm. You are his daughter, and should know!"

  A triumphant burst of music, followed by cheering, heralded the end of the current performance in the Throne Gallery. "Now for the flood!" Mary Gray said.

  Sure enough, like pent-up waters released, the noisy, fashionable, over- or under-dressed throng came pouring through. And in the forefront of the first wave came no other than the Master of Gray himself, just as he had left the play-acting, naked but for his goatskin trews, cod-piece and horse, a bevy of laughing women with him—not the shepherdesses these but ladies of the Court and guests, seeming to be anxious not to be denied the experiences of their Arcadian sisters.

  Patrick Gray, all lissome, smiling masculinity, came straight to George Heriot and his daughter.

  "Jinglin' George Heriot, by all that's wonderful," he cried, genially. "Welcome to our little celebration! How good to see you. I perceived you when I was cavorting back there. And Mary here carrying you off."

  "Then you have sharp eyes, sir. You appeared to me to be fully engaged otherwhere!"

  "Ah, yes. But one can see the hawk as well as the quarry!" Pleasantly but firmly, effectively, he got rid of the ladies for the moment, playfully smacking sundry silken bottoms and promising later attentions. "And where have you sprung from, Master George?"

  "York," the other answered, briefly.

  "York? Then you have ridden hard, my friend. For the royal train only arrived there on Saturday."

  Heriot's brows rose. "How did you know that, sir? You are well-informed."

  Gray made a smilingly dismissive wave of the hand. Despite all his recent very lively activities, his breathing was wholly under control, his splendid torso heaving only the merest fraction more than normal. A man of medium height and slender build, his body was as beautifully proportioned as his features were fine, and clearly at a high pitch of fitness.

  "The Master of Gray is always well informed," his daughter said calmly. "It is ever something one has to take into account."

  Heriot glanced at her - That was rather curiously put, by a daughter of her father, even in such an unusual relationship as this.

  "I did not daunder," he admitted.

  "And so your business, in returning, must have been urgent?" 'The King's business is always urgent, is it not, sir?" The Master eyed him thoughtfully. "His Grace is well? No mishaps? The progress satisfactory—if slow" "All satisfactory, yes."

  Mary Gray tinkled a little laugh. "Information is of more than one sort," she commented.

  "I would be glad to have a little information myself, sir," Heriot said evenly. "I found the Lord Lindores in my bed when I arrived at my rooms here in the Palace. Not alone! He declares that you gave him my quarters."

  "Ah, Patrick Leslie does get himself into extraordinary situations," the Master observed easily. "No harm in him—but injudicious, shall we say?" He looked round him, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "In bed, you say? Hush, then—for one of these delightful creatures who brought me here is the Lady Lindores, my wife's sister. Who knows whether she would . . . approve! But—better that she did not hear of it from us."

  "No doubt, sir. She will not hear of it from me. I am only concerned as to why you gave my rooms to her husband."

  "Not gave, my friend—merely lent. The Palace is greatly crowded, these days, and all accommodation, much in demand. These rooms were presently unoccupied. And, of course, not your property, only lent also. But, to be sure, Master Heriot, you shall have them back Immediately, if you require them. With my regrets if you have been inconvenienced. Are you to be long in Edinburgh?"

  "Until His Grace sends for me."

  "Ah. Do not say that you also have been turned back from entering the Promised Land? By our somewhat erratic prince? Has he discovered that there are goldsmiths and money-lenders in London also? As well, as, h'm, rogues I think it was? Are we companion in rejection, Master Geordie?"

  "As to that I know not, sir. Only that His Grace has sent me back to the Queen."

  "The Queen, is it?" That was quick. "Her Grace is to go South? Join the King ? Even in her present condition?"

  "In time, no doubt That is understood. Just when is a matter for His Grace."

  "M'mm." Gray did not look put out or annoyed—seldom indeed he did—but undoubtedly unused to finding himself stalled and baffled, he was slightly less sure of himself than usual. His daughter seemed rather to enjoy his discomfiture.

  "Quite," he said. "To be sure. Her Grace is at Linlithgow."

  "So Mistress Gray tells me. I am surprised."

  "Never be surprised at anything a woman does, Master Heriot —queer or other. That is part of the delight of them. Now, perhaps I should go clothe myself. Let me know how I may serve you, sir—anything." And on that suitably recovered and assured note, the chief satyr sketched a bow and sauntered off. At once he was engulfed by the ladies.

  "I admire your aplomb, Master Heriot" Mary Gray said. "Not many can deal so with Patrick Gray. He got little or nothing out of that exchange "

  "And you are not displeased ?"

  "Far from it. I have a fondness for my sire. Indeed, I love him dearly. But not all his works. You must have heard as much, surely ? From the Queen."

  "The Queen's confidences towards me are of money, jewellery, Mistress, not as to her ladies."

  "I am suitably rebuked, sir! And now, if you are sufficiently refreshed and sustained, perhaps we should go get my letter from the Duke?"

  "No need for you to come. I will fetch it..."

  "It will be my pleasure, sir. Not only to see who Patrick Leslie of Lindores dallies with in your bedchamber!"

  "I fear that you may be too late for that Mistress Gray. I told them to be out of there before I got back—or I would have the palace guard throw them out"

  "You did? How splendid!" She laughed cheerfully. "He deserved that—whether the woman did or not. Do you know who she was?"

  "She was plump and generously proportioned, fair of hair, and no child. Nimble for her size, too—unencumb
ered, to be sure."

  She looked up at him closely, and actually clapped her hands. "You smile, Master George! A small smile, I swear! You are other than you seem, I think—and I like you. We shall be friends, I hope?" She linked her arm in his, and led him towards the door.

  Arm-in-arm they went downstairs and across the crowded and noisy outer court, Mary Gray not seeming to notice the unseemly horseplay and excesses which went on therein. Though, that she was not wholly unheeding was proved when she drew him into a dark comer and asked if there was a back way into his lodging ? At his wondering, she said, "You do not think that we will not be followed, do you? When you did not give the Master of Gray the information he desired. And are, moreover, in my company. I think you will have to learn to watch where you tread, in Scotland now, Master George!"

  Not a little perturbed, he led her inconspicuously round the stable-block, past the wing tenanted by the reprobate Earl of Orkney, and so to the back entrance of his own quarters. Lights still burned therein, but the place seemed to be deserted now.

  They went upstairs, and he looked in distaste at his ravaged bedchamber. He shrugged. "King James was always very careful for lights," was all he said.

  "As his Master of the Wardrobe is not! Patrick is careful for nothing, save the success of his projects. So—the nest is flown!"

  "I will get your letter. It is with my gear in the garret above."

  When he brought the paper down, she took it and tucked it into a pocket in the folds of her olive-green gown, a simple garment with none of the extravagance of fashion, padding, slashing, bows and deep-plunging necklines. Yet there was certainly no attempt to hide or make less of the shapely woman's body beneath.

  "You will be riding on to Linlithgow, to see the Queen, Master Heriot ?" she put to him.

  He nodded. 'Tomorrow, yes."

  The girl hesitated—and it was not often that this capable and clear-minded young woman seemed at anything of a loss. "I think that I must confide in you," she said, after a moment "And hope that you will be ... understanding, thereafter. I believe that you are a man I may trust—and God knows, I can think of no other I can dare confide in With the Duke gone..."