Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'That is so, Your Highness. To still such talk…' Lennox swallowed.'… such blethers, His Grace has been at pains to, to prove otherwise. Quite otherwise. In his, ummm, royal wisdom he has decided to seek the hand… '

Sir John Maitland, pulling at his wispy beard, had stooped to the King's ear. James, nodding vigorously, reached over to tug at Lennox's sleeve again. 'Heir,' he said. 'Our royal heir, man.'

'Mais oui-the heir. Pardonnez-tnoil the Duke observed, little harassed. 'His Grace, recognising the need for an heir, not only to this throne and realm, but that of England also, has decided that this matter should be arranged. Arranged and settled forthwith. Accordingly, he has chosen and elected to seek the hand of that Protestant princess Anne, daughter to the illustrious King Frederick of Denmark in, in…'

'In royal and holy matrimony,' James finished for him enthusiastically, producing a lip-licking leer that went but curiously with the phrase. 'I've wrote a rhyme… we have turned to the Muse in this pass, and have indited a poem. Aye, indited a poem, I say…' He began to search within his doublet, muttering.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

'His Grace has written this poem. To the Princess,' Lennox went on, far from confidently, as the search produced much but no papers. 'A, h'mm, noble poem, setting forth in verse, good verse, excellent verse, his royal offer for her hand. To convey this to the lady, it is decided…'

'Och, mair'n that, Vicky – mair'n that! I've expounded on her beauty – for she's right bonny, the lassie. And on her virtue and chastity – for she's but fourteen years, and no' like to be much otherwise!' The royal whinny of laughter tee-heed high. 'No' like… no' like… ' James gulped, and went on hurriedly.'As to her wit – och well, I'll teach her that mysel'.' He looked down, as at last he managed to extract some crumpled papers from his doublet, breathless now from the contortions inevitable in a hunt through his over-padded and stuffed casing. 'Here it's. Aye – this is it. I'll read it to you. To you all. For it's good, mind – as good as any I've done. Guidsakes – there's no' that many crowned monarchs could write the like! No – and fewer, I'll be bound, who could put it down in the Latin and the Greek as well, forby! You see, I dinna ken if the lassie kens our Scots tongue. Belike they dinna, in yon Denmark. So I've wrote it out in all three. Aye -well, I'll read it to you. I've named it The Fond and Earnest Suite and Smoking Smart of James the King. Aye. I'll read the Scots first…' Quite carried away, James got to his unsteady feet, smoothing out the crushed papers.

The great company did not actually groan, of course, but the restraining of such in a hundred throats, and the stirring of innumerable feet, sounded like the moaning and rustling of a lost wind in a forest.

Lennox at one side and Maitland at the other, moved in on the King, whispering. "The Marischal, Sire!' 'The Ambassador…!'

'Eh…? Ooh, aye. Uh-huh. I forgot. Aye.' Somewhat crestfallen, the sovereign looked down regretfully at his epic, tipped his tall hat forward over his brow to scratch at the back of his bulging head, sighed audibly, and sat down again. 'Hae them in, then,' he said.

The Duke resumed. 'In order that His Grace's intentions and royal suit be worthily and courtly presented before the Princess and His Grace of Denmark, it is the King's pleasure that an embassage carrying suitable gifts shall…'

'And the poem, man – the poem!'

'And the poem, of course, Sire. An embassage shall depart for Denmark forthwith. Tomorrow indeed, if wind and tide serve. This embassage shall consist of my lord the Earl Marischal and a noble retinue, with Master, er, Herr… with the Danish envoy. They now wait without. His Grace will now receive them, read to them his poem, entrust them with its delivery and the royal gifts, and wish them God-speed.' That all came out in something of a spate, as though a lesson learned and thankfully got over. Lennox thumped the floor loudly. 'In the name of King James – admit the King's guests.'

James himself, craning round his Chair of State, signed to the trumpeters to render a flourish.

At the far end of the great hall, double doors were thrown open. To the ringing echoes of the fanfare the colourful concourse seethed and stirred, as some pressed backwards to open a lane, an avenue, down the centre, and others pressed forward the better to see.

After a moment or two of delay, in through the doorway walked a single man, unhurriedly.

'Waesucks!' came a croak from the Chair of State. 'Christ God be good!'

Something between a shiver and a shudder ran through the entire chamber, electric, galvanic. Chancellor Maitland reached forward, gropingly, to steady himself against his master's chair. Lennox looked the merest boy, his heavy lower jaw dropped.

Silence descended, complete but throbbing.

In that silence the only sounds were the steady, deliberate, yet almost leisurely click-click of high-heeled shoes, punctuated at regular intervals by the tap of a stick.

All eyes were riveted on the walker – almost to be described as a stroller. As well they might be. Of medium height, slender but graceful, the man was dazzlingly handsome, with a radiance of good looks that could only be called beauty – redeemed, however, by a basic firmness of line from anything of femininity. Cascading wavy black hair, worn long, framed a noble brow above brilliant flashing eyes. The delicately-flared nostrils of a finely-chiselled nose matched the wicked curving of a proud scimitar of moustache, to balance a warmly, almost sweetly smiling mouth. A tiny pointed beard enhanced the firm but never aggressive chin.

If the tension in that great room was such that all seemed to hold their breath, the same could not be said of the spectacular newcomer, by any manner of means. Unselfconscious, urbane, confident yet with a sort of almost gently mocking deference toward the Chair of State, he moved without haste between the lines of silent watchers, dressed dazzlingly yet simply, all in white satin save for the black velvet lining to the miniature cape slung negligently from one shoulder, the black jewelled garter below one knee, the black dagger-belt, and the black pearls at each neat ear. His spun silk white hose, half as long again as any other in that place, lovingly moulded an excellently-turned and graceful leg almost all the way up the thigh, to disappear into the briefest trunks ever seen in Scotland, verging on indecency back and front; across shoulders and chest hung the delicate tracery of the chain and grand cross of some foreign order of knighthood.

Almost as much as the man himself, and his elegance, it was the staff that drew all fascinated eyes – and the manner of its use. Tall, shoulder-height indeed, slender as its owner, white as ivory save for its deep black ferrule and bunch of black ribbons at its top, it was as different from the Chamberlain's thick rod-like stick of office as it was from the Lord Lyon's short baton. Never had any of his watchers seen such a thing. Nor such casual but extraordinarily effective flourish as the way in which its owner walked with it, swinging its ribboned head forward in an eye-catching wide figure-of-eight movement at every second pace, so that its ferrule made one loud and authoritative tap to each of the two lighter tap-taps of the notably tall-heeled satin-covered shoes. It was impossible not to compare it with Lennox's awkward handling of his own stick.

Some few of the company, who had been close enough to notice the little Gray party in their alcove, turned now to gaze from the newcomer to Mary Gray, eyes wide. To say that Mary's own dark eyes were wide and shining would be a crass understatement. She stood on tip-toes, lips parted, bosom frankly heaving, one hand convulsively clutching David's arm. That man stood as though graven in stone.