Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'Merciful Christ!' For once that melodious voice was no better than an ugly croak. 'Maitland! You did that? You sent the letter to Maitland? Maitland, of all men! My chiefest enemy…'

'I sent it to the Chancellor of this realm. He still is that. Whose duty it must be to take action upon it. I cannot believe that he will fail to do so. And promptly.'

Appalled, aghast, the Master searched his daughter's face. 'Do… you know… what you… have done?' he demanded, from a constricted throat.

'I do. I did it of set purpose. This is what the Chancellor requires. To raise himself up again. And to bring you down. It cannot fail to do so.'

'It cannot fail to lose me my head, damn, burn and blister you! In that letter I said… I said…'

'You said that you would not spare the rod, on King James. That you were the architect of his present humbled state. That he informed you of his secret mind, which you then disclosed to Elizabeth. I cannot think that this is less than treason.'

'And that you, Mary Gray, sent to Maitland! And you talk of betrayal!' The words rose to a cry that verged on the hysterical.

'I am the daughter of the Master of Gray,' she told him quietly, her voice so very flat in contrast to his. 'Perhaps betrayal therefore comes naturally to me, also!'

'Precious soul of God! This – from you!'

'Yes, Patrick. But at least I only hold the noose before your eyes. I do not put it round your neck and draw it tight! As you have done to others. I have left you with time to escape. Maitland is no young man. He will not ride through all the wild hills between Lauderdale and Hailes at night. You have time to reach the Border before he can act. England. From whence comes your gold and your orders. You will be safe there, will you not? Your fond Elizabeth will cherish you. Or may she no longer esteem you when your usefulness here is past? That you must needs discover.'

He said nothing.

'Perhaps you will fare better in France? Or Spain?' the girl went on, in the same inflexible voice. 'You will not lack employment, I feel sure. Meantime, a fast horse will take you to Berwick and over Tweed in three hours and less.'

'You… you are very thoughtful.' Somehow he got it out. 'But have you, in your lofty wisdom, considered Marie and the child? Whom you also have professed to love – God help them!'

'Marie knows all. I spoke with her before leaving Holyroodhouse. Even now she will be on her way to Berwick, with Andrew.'

'She will? Sink me…!'

'Marie agrees with what I have done. She said that I was to tell you so. That she believed it to be for the best. She longs to see an end to this evil. She has tried to halt you, but you would not heed her. It required your own flesh and blood to halt your course, Patrick – another such as yourself. So… this is goodbye.'

'You think, you believe, that you have halted me? A chit of a girl! You conceive Patrick Gray held by such as you? Lord -was there ever such insolent folly!'

Sighing, she shook her head. 'You have no choice,' she said. 'You are held. By noonday tomorrow, if you are not out of this realm, you will either be warded for treason and trial, or else outlawed, put to the horn. Your letter reveals your betrayal of all. You cannot flee north – for will Huntly or the Marischal save you now? In the south, Bothwell will hunt you down. Will Hamilton in the west spare you? Or the Master of Glamis? Or Mar? You are held, quite. When you penned that letter, Patrick, you wrote your own doom. When you turned on Vicky, you signed it.'

The man opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Mary Gray had him silenced.

'Goodbye, Patrick,' she said then, huskily, unevenly.

He drew himself up, to look at her, to consider her all, every delectable inch of her. And looking, his expression changed, eased, softened. 'Mary, Mary!' he all but whispered. 'What have I done to you? What have we done to each other? You and I? God pity us – what are we? So close, so close – yet we destroy each other.'

'I do not know,' she answered, emptily. 'Save that we are the Grays – and fate is hard on us.'

'A-a-aye!' That came out on a long sigh. He held out a hand, open, empty, pleading. 'May I kiss you, child? Once. Before… before…'

'Yes – oh, yes!' she cried, and without hesitation flung herself upon him, eyes filling with tears. 'Yes – for I cannot but love you. Always.'

For long moments they clutched each other close, convulsively, passionately, murmuring incoherences. Then abruptly, almost roughly, the man thrust Mary away from him, swung about, and hurried out of that pleasance-house, slamming the door behind him.

The girl sank to her knees over the carved stone bench and sobbed as though her heart would break.

IT was grey morning before Mary saw Lennox. The previous evening she had deliberately avoided all contact with others, after coming in from the summer-house, even pleading a headache to excuse herself from her duties with the Queen, and retiring early to the bed which she was to share with the Lady Beatrix Ruthven, to hide herself if not to sleep. Now, darker-eyed than ever and just a little drawn and wan, she sought out the Duke in the little high turret chamber which was all that Bothwell had found for him in that crowded house.

Surrounded by his usual untidy clutter of clothes and gear, the young man was in his shirt-sleeves, brushing dried mud from his tall riding-boots, as the girl knocked and entered.

'Mary!' he exclaimed. 'I sought you last night – when I heard that you had come. With the Queen… '

'I was tired, Vicky. I went to bed.' She glanced around her. 'I see that Peter Hay is not back yet – since you clean your own boots.'

'No. It is strange. Where he is gone, I know not. He came with the Queen, and then…'

'It was my doing, Vicky. He went on an errand. For me. He rode to Lauderdale. Last night. To the Chancellor's house at Thirlestane.'

'To Maitland? Peter? For you? Sakes, Mary – what is this?'

'It was necessary. Something that I had to do. It… it is an ill story, Vicky.' Involuntarily she was picking up and smoothing out and tidying the strewn clothing of that little apartment, as she spoke. 'Patrick is gone.'

'Patrick? Patrick Gray? Gone? Gone where? What do you mean – gone?'

'Gone away. Left Scotland. Last night.' Listlessly she said it. 'He rode for Berwick.'

Astonished, he regarded her. 'But why? What is this? Is it some new plot?'

She told him, then, baldly, in jerky broken sentences. She did not spare Patrick, nor yet herself. Starkly, she declared what she had done to her father, and why.

Ludovick heard her out with growing wonderment, his blue eyes devouring her strained face.

'I faith, Mary – here is a marvel!' he declared. 'You did all this? You brought him low. Unaided. And… by all that is wonderful – you did it because of me?'

'Yes,' she admitted, simply.

He stepped forward, to grip both her slight shoulders, to stare down at her. 'But… what does it mean?' he demanded. 'What does it mean, that you should do this? Tell me, Mary.'

'It means many things, Vicky. But, for you, it means that my eyes are open. That I have made my choice. At last.'

'Mean for me…?'

'Yes. You have been very patient. So faithful.'

He moistened his lips, although his grip on her tightened. 'I do not understand you, Mary. Speak me plain, for God's sake! What do you say?'

'I say that you were right, Vicky, and I was wrong. Not only about Patrick. About the life of the Court. About what is best for us, what is good and right and fair. I mean that I am done with courts and kings and queens. Done with deceits, intrigues and glittering follies. I want no more of it. I have finished with this life, Vicky – finished.'