Nigel Tranter: The Courtesan

'Haughty-paughty yet, man! Aye, you were right ill-mouthed yon time – rude and unbecoming in a subject,' the King declared, plucking at lip and chin. 'You were aye a hard uncourtly man, Davy Gray – dour and frowning.'

'No doubt, Sire. But at least I was honest in your service. More than others who were… more courtly. And you used to trust me.'

'More fool me, maybe! When it came to the bit, Davy Gray – who did you serve? Your king or yon traitorous knave, Patrick Gray?'

'It was for my brother's life, Highness. In the end, a man must do his all to save his brother.' He paused briefly. 'Or… his mother! Must he not?' Directly his level grey eyes sought to meet and hold the other's liquid flickering gaze.

James however looked away, anywhere but at his questioner, his sallow features flushed. 'You… you presume, by God! Greatly you presume!' he stammered. 'As you did yon time. I could have had your head for yon, man. You threatened your king. Yon is… is lese-majeste, I tell you. Aye, and it was misprision o' treason too, man!'

David swallowed. 'No doubt, Sire. Perhaps I misjudged my duty.' He managed to make his voice no less stiff than heretofore. 'Others have done that likewise – in the matter of Your Grace's royal mother in especial! But I am seeking to redress it now. Redeem my loyal duty. As is the Master of Gray

'Yes, yes – what o' this? Come to your point, man.' Hastily, the King interrupted him. 'What is this folly? The lassie prating o' His Majesty o' Spain and his ships. Some talk of three months…?'

'That is the time that my brother says, Your Grace. I have just received a letter. From Spain, I take it. He says that within a three-month England will indeed be invaded. He says that with his own eyes he has seen King Philip's preparations, now all but ready, that they are enough. Beyond a peradventure, he says. Invincible, he calls this Armada. And all is in train. Within three months he assures, Elizabeth will be under attack.'

'Houts, man! We have heard that sort o' talk before. In plenty.'

'Not from the Master of Gray, Sire. Say what you will of him – did you ever know Patrick to make a mistake anent matters of fact? Was his information ever wrong – whatever his policies?'

James explored his nostrils with nervous fingers. 'Maybe no', maybe no'. You say he has been in Spain himsel', the ill limmer?'

'Yes. He has seen it all with his own eyes, he says. Satisfied himself. Spoken with the King of Spain, indeed, it seems…'

'Treasons, no doubt, then – treasons, for a surety!'

'At least he would have me warn Your Majesty.'

'Aye – but why, man? Why?' Shrewdly the King peered. 'He doesna love me, does Patrick Gray! He loves nane but himsel', I swear. If he's that close with Philip? And he's a Papist, as all men ken. And banished my realm for his treason. Eh? Why warn me?'

David hesitated, moistening his lips. 'I do not search his reasons, Sire – only the facts. That this invasion endangers Scotland as well as England.'

Mary Gray spoke. 'Is that not your answer, Your Grace? That he can still love Scotland?' she asked simply.

'Eh…?' James frowned, wriggling in his saddle. 'I am Scotland,' he said. No one spoke.

Into the pause the beat of hooves sounded, as the escort of men-at-arms belatedly came pounding back along the track, to discover what had happened to their royal charge. James waved them away again, peremptorily. At the other side, the clustered seething company of his lords and ladies and courtiers kept up an unceasing hum of talk and conjecture as they gazed inquisitively, suspiciously, resentfully, at the little group beside the monarch. The Earl of Mar in especial looked and sounded angry, not minding who perceived it apparently. Undoubtedly he had not forgotten Davy Gray and his part in the rescue of Ruthven.

James grimaced at the colourful noisy throng and turned his puffed and padded shoulder on them. 'Forby,' he said, returning, with one of his lightning changes, to his former querulous, weasel-like probing. 'Why did he no' write these tidings to me, mysel', man? Tell me that. He's aye writing me letters, is Maister Patrick.'

David stared, at a loss. 'He is…? Patrick? He writes to you? To the King? Still, Sire…?' Incredulity was evident in every word of him.

'Aye, he does.'

'But what…?' He bit his lip, pausing. A subject could scarcely demand of his King what even his half-brother might write to the monarch – though the brother had been condemned to death by the same monarch less than a year before, and only had his sentence reduced to banishment for life by a hair's-breadth, through certain unseemly pressure on the part of the present questioner. David wagged his head helplessly. 'Patrick… is a law unto himself, Your Highness,' he said.

'Aye. The last letter was from Rome. Wi' a message from the Pope himsel'. Ooh, aye – your Patrick rides a high horse, for a felon! Vaunty as ever! He sends me advices, whispers, intelligences, from a' the Courts o' Europe. Aye – and in return would have Dunfermline back! Guidsakes – he has the insolence, the shameless audacity, to demand the revenues o' Dunfermline Abbey be returned to him! For his decent upkeep and reasonable dignity, as he names it! God in Heaven – was there ever sic a man?'

Involuntarily, David Gray exchanged glances with his daughter – though whether she recognised the enormity, as well as the vital significance of this revelation, he could not know. The Commendatorship of the Abbey of Dunfermline, once the richest church lands in all Scotland, the prize plum for all the hungry Scots lords after the Reformation, had eventually and most skilfully been acquired by Patrick, Master of Gray at the downfall of Arran the Chancellor. At his own downfall, in turn, they had been the main price that had had to be paid for the necessary intervention of the powerful Earl of Huntly on his behalf, David acting as go-between. Huntly was now Commendator of Dunfermline, and held its rich revenues. That Patrick should be working to get them back, though a forfeited exile, and so soon, not only indicated an extraordinary impertinence and double-dealing, but showed that he was seeking to conduct a campaign against Huntly, his own relative, with the King. Yet, this letter that had brought them here to the Wood of Lindores, had as its ostensible purpose the saving of Scotland by means of Huntly and his Catholic colleagues. Or at least the implication of Huntly in a Catholic rising, to control the King, dominate the land, and engineer a strategic alliance with the Catholic King of Spain. Could it be… could it be, after all, only a conspiracy? A deep-laid and subtle device to discredit and bring down Huntly, and so win back the riches of Dunfermline? Good God, it was possible – so possible, with Patrick! David Gray, frowning blacker than he knew, sought an answer, racking his wits. He needed time – time to think this thing out, to winnow down through the dust and chaff to the secret inner core of his brother's intention. Heaven save him – he had to think…!

His daughter gave him a moment or two, at least. 'If Uncle Patrick wrote to you from Rome, Sire,' she said, 'then that would be before he went to Spain. Before he saw the Spanish ships. Therefore he could not tell you of it.'

'Houts, lassie – why write to you to warn me, then? Why no' send the letter to me, the King? There's an ill stink in this somewhere, I swear. I smell it…'

The girl looked from her father to Lennox, and received no help from either. 'Would your Grace have believed it?' she asked.

'A pox! If I believe not him, why should I believe you, with his tale, woman?'

'Because the Master of Gray knows that you will esteem my father honest. Whatever he said to you yon time. All men know David Gray as honest, do they not?'