Nigel Tranter: The Courtesan

'Yet Patrick is seeing a deal of my lord of Atholl, these days.

And he dined with Master Melville but two nights ago. Oh, Vicky – have naught to do with it! I suspect it. I do so… '

'It is but for the good of the realm, Mary. It is only a gesture. To give Hamilton pause. Anne will have a child – even if she is not pregnant yet. Besides, it is gone too far for me to withdraw now. And it but states the truth. That I am the next heir if James lacks children – as we have always known.'

'It is dangerous,' she insisted. 'I feel it, I sense it. Do not lend yourself to plots and intrigues, Vicky – whosoever concocts them. They are not for you.'

'I am Chamberlain and Admiral of this realm, Mary. I have been Viceroy. I cannot shut my eyes to what concerns its weal… ' Abruptly he abandoned the lofty and dignified tone that came so unnaturally to him, and was at once his normal, urgent and unaffected self again. 'Mary,' he declared, 'heed none of all this. Not now. It is not important. For us. It is not what I came to tell you. I… I… Mary – Sophia is dead!'

'Sophia Ruthven! Your… your wife! She is dead? Oh, Vicky!'

'I have just had word. Her mother, the Lady Gowrie, is new come from Ruthven. She was buried four days back. Of a flux of blood. A consumption.'

'I am sorry, sorry. She was so young. So unhappy. To die alone! You had not even seen her? Her mother did not send for you?'

'No. She did not want me. Her mother says it, and I know it. We meant nothing to each other. You know it, also. I am sorry for her, Mary – sorry that she suffered so. But she was ill when we were wed. She should never have been married. Now she is gone. I cannot mourn her – else I make myself a hypocrite. I think her better dead, indeed, than as last I saw her – coughing in her pain, weeping in her misery… '

The young woman nodded, sighing. 'I know, Vicky. I am sorry – for you both. It was a hard thing for both of you. But worse for her. Always it is worse for the woman. A bad marriage, a marriage without affection and trust, is for a woman utter woe and disaster.'

'Is that what you fear, Mary?' He took her shoulder, and turned her to face him. 'Do you fear a bad marriage? To me?'

'To you, Vicky? No – no, not that. That is not what I fear. How can I fear the impossible? We cannot marry… '

'But we can. I am free, now. To marry again. To marry you, Mary.'

Unhappily the young woman shook her head. 'You are not, Vicky – you are not! Nothing has changed. You must see it. Do not shut your eyes. Do not be blind to what all others can see. We can never marry, you and I. A moment ago you were reminding me of who and what you were. Great Chamberlain of Scotland. Lord High Admiral. Next heir to the throne. How can you be all these, and marry the daughter of Davy Gray, the land-steward?'

'All know that you are in fact the Master of Gray's daughter. His mother was Gowrie's sister. So you are indeed cousin to Sophia, once removed.'

'Removed by a great gulf. Not legitimate. Either I am the steward's daughter, and honest. Or I am illegitimate. Neither will make a wife for the Duke of Lennox. That is certain. The realm, whose weal you would serve, would not allow it. Ever.' Her voice quivered. 'Accept it, Vicky. As I do. I thank you for your… your devotion. Your love. And for asking. But do not ask it again, I beseech you. Never again. For, for I cannot bear it!'

It was Mary Gray's turn to cut short an interview. She turned in a swirl of skirts, and ran from that little chamber, blindly enough to collide with the door-post as she went.

THE Countess of Atholl was vastly unlike her recently deceased sister Sophia Ruthven. Much the eldest of Lady Gowrie's children, she was a bold piece in more ways than one. That she it was who probably played the part of Leda to Patrick's swan at the Falkland pageant, was doubted by none on the score of boldness at least. This early summer morning, however, she was playing a part still bolder than in any pageant. An extra Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, who yet lodged, not in the palace of Holyroodhouse itself, but in her mother's house in the Abbey Strand close by, she was one of the very few persons who held a key enabling her to use the small postern gate which led in through the old Abbey precincts to the palace itself. This morning she brought in by this her usual route two servitors wearing the Atholl colours and bearing large baskets filled with delicacies for the Queen's Grace. One of the bearers, although he stooped notably, could be seen to be an exceptionally tall man.

Such guards as were on duty at that hour yawningly saluted the Countess and betrayed no interest in her servants. Most of the palace's occupants still slept deep, only two or three hours abed indeed after a great ball and masque held therein to mark the penultimate day of the momentous sitting of the Estates of Parliament; this had been a brilliant function in the organisation of which the Master of the Wardrobe had excelled himself, despite the stresses and tensions of the moment. If Lady Atholl looked a little less challenging-eyed and provocative than usual, she had her excuse, for she had, as ever, taken a major part in the procedings and had not been to bed since.

Life seemed to be stirring only in the kitchens and domestic quarters of the great rambling establishment, and the trio made their way, without meeting others, towards the drum tower from which were reached the royal apartments. At the great doors in the tower's foot, a double guard of four men was even reinforced by a fifth – no less a person than the Captain of the Royal Guard himself, John, Earl of Mar. The Countess found a brief smile for him. With only an inclination of his head, he turned and led the way upstairs, the guard remaining at their posts.

Halfway up the winding turnpike stair, the couple paused, by mutual consent, to glance through the window overlooking the main forecourt of the palace. Down there a large addition to the guard was in process of being posted at the gates and along the flanking walls, many men, fully armed. Two figures, conspicuous as not being in the livery of the Royal Guard, stood out, recognisable as the Earl of Atholl and the Duke of Lennox. Both kept glancing up and back towards the drumtower windows. Mar and the Countess moved closer to the glass so that they might be seen. They raised their hands.

There were brief nods from the two noblemen below, as they turned away.

The first floor landing opened on to two apartments, the royal pages' room and that of the ladies-in-waiting. In the first, two young men slept, one on a bed, the other, fully clad, sprawled over a table; this latter was Thomas Erskine, a cadet of Mar's own family. Quietly the Earl closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

The Countess listened at the second door. This was locked on the inside, as well it might be with the royal pages so close; but the duty Lady-in-Waiting who slept beyond it was her own youngest sister, the Lady Beatrix Ruthven.

Exchanging nods, Mar and Lady Atholl proceeded quietly up the second stairway, the two servitors still following.

The same arrangement of two doors prevailed on the second landing. These each admitted to anterooms, and off these opened the King's and the Queen's bedchambers. These were by no means the finest and most convenient bedrooms in the palace, but James, not without reason, was much concerned with security, and had selected these carefully with that in view. Although Anne's boudoir had still another anteroom beyond, which communicated with a further corridor of the palace, the King's own apartment was only reachable by this one door. None therefore could approach him save past the guard at the stair-foot and his pages on the first floor. Above was only his study in the top of the tower.