Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

It was a long apartment, with fully a hundred feet of floor to cover between the lower doors and the position of the throne-like chair. King James and his immediate supporters therefore had ample time to adjust themselves, to cope with the situation, to give orders to heralds and servitors, even to summon the Captain of the Guard standing nearby. That they did none of these things was strange, a token of the depth of their surprise perhaps, or an involuntary tribute to the calm assurance of the new arrival. James blinked owlishly, jaw going slack, lips twitching. He half rose to his feet, gripping the arms of his chair and crushing the papers of his poem, and so waited, almost crouching. Maitland tugged at his beard, glanced right and left uncertainly, and then, stooping, began to whisper agitatedly in the royal ear – and was completely ignored. Lennox merely stared – although something like the beginnings of a grin appeared at the corners of his wide mouth.

There was some slight commotion back at the bottom end of the room, where a group of gesticulating individuals, one actually bearing a sort of banner, had appeared at the still-open doorway – but no attention was paid to them. All eyes were fixed on the progress of the man in white. He reached a point two or three yards from the Chair of State, paused, and smiling brilliantly, placed his staff, with an elaborate brandish, slantwise against his delectable person, and extending one foot behind him, sank low in the most complicated genuflexion King James had ever received. His smile advanced to what was almost silent laughter as he held this extraordinary stance, head up, regular white teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. He did not speak before the monarch.

James found words, if incoherent, ill-formed ones, as he sank, or rather shrank, back into his chair. 'Guidsakes, Patrick man… you shouldna… this isna right. It's no' correct. Where… how did you come here, this way? I didna… we gave you no summons, man – no royal summons. It wasna you we were looking for…'

'Alas, Sire – do I disappoint, then? Heigho – and me foolishly hoping, believing, that after all these weary months of absence from the sun of your royal presence, I might win the bliss of a regal smile, the kind accolade of your kingly generosity!' The Master of Gray's voice was in tune with the rest of him, attractive, warm, lightsome, musically modulated – and clear for all the room to hear as he straightened up. 'Ah, me – is it not to be so? Alack-a-day – must I return banished, Your Grace, to outer darkness? Where I have dwelt so long? When you so raised my poor hopes…?'

'I didna. I didna do that, man. Na, na. You mistake me. You werena to come here. No' to our Court and presence. And I… we are employed, see you. Busy. Aye, transacting business. Important business. We were looking to see the Marischal. And yon manikin frae Denmark…'

'The Marischal, Sire? Why, I saw my Lord Marischal back there on the stairs. As I came up. Throng with business, he looked, too, i' faith! Laden with packages and merchandise, like any packman! Never fear, Sire – he is about your palace somewhere…'

'Yon were my royal gifts to Denmark,' James protested, spluttering. 'I'll thank you, Master o' Gray, no' to name my favours and offerings to the Lady Anne of Denmark as merchandise!'

Patrick Gray's laughter held a gay and carefree note. 'Is that what it was, Sire? Here's felicity, then – here's joy! Is it permitted for a most humble and unworthy subject to congratulate his sovereign on his happy choice?'

'Aye, it is, Patrick – it is,' the King nodded. He glanced up, risking a brief direct look. 'But it was no' your advising, mind! You were for a mare frae another stable, eh? Nor ower nice anent her parts and aspect, I'm told. In especial her teeth, man – her teeth!' James produced something between a snort and a snigger.

The other inclined his dark head. 'I but considered Your Highness's interests in the matter of a large dowry. And a notable alliance with the power of France. And the lady is… kind. But, Sire, 't'was only a notion. Your own choice must be the joyful choice of us all. And the Princess Royal of Denmark no doubt is a notable-enough match. Even for the King of Scots.'

'Aye.' James coughed. 'But… it's no' just the Princess Royal. No' now. It's her sister. The Princess Anne. Anne, it is.'

'Anne!' Something like consternation showed on the Master of Gray's expressive features. 'Only the second daughter! For you – king of a greater realm than Denmark. To be King of England, also…!'

'Och, well – it wasna to be helped, see you. He'd given the other lassie to Brunswick. Elizabeth, they call her… '

'Brunswick! A mere German dukedom! Dear God – on whose advising was this done, Sire? For but a second daughter! The dowry? What of the dowry?'

The King licked slack lips. 'The Marischal is to see to that, Patrick…'

The Chancellor came to the rescue of his master. 'Highness,' he broke in. 'Suffer not this insolence! It is intolerable. This man is a convicted felon, an arch-traitor, condemned for highest treason. Sentenced to the axe for the death of your royal mother. Of Your Grace's undue mercy rather than wisdom he was spared – but banished your realm for life. Here, against your commands and those of your Council, he has returned to Scotland. He has the effrontery to force himself into your royal presence. The dignity of your crown and throne, Sire, requires not only that he shall not be heard, but that he be warded securely forthwith. Committed to the castle, to await his further trial. Permit that I summon the Captain of the Guard to his duty, Highness.'

'Aye. Oh, aye, Sir John. Nae doubt you're right, man – nae doubt. But bide a wee – just bide a wee. Master Patrick's done ill to break in this way, to intrude – aye, to intrude. But it's maybe no' just necessary to ward him…'

'Sir John was ever a great one for the warding, Majesty, was he not?' the younger man observed pleasantly. 'Like the laws of the Medes and Persians, he changeth not. Even when circumstances are notably changed. God keep you, my Lord Chancellor. I hope that I see you as well as you merit?'

'Highness – this is not to be borne!' Maitland exclaimed. 'The verdict of Your Grace and Council cannot be set aside…'

'Cannot, Sir John? Cannot, eh? Cannot is no' a word to be used to anointed monarchs, man. What we have said, we can unsay. What we decreed, we can un-decree. No' that I'm saying that we'll do that, mind. We shall hae to consider…' James darted glances between the two men. 'Consider well

'Exactly, Your Grace,' Patrick agreed. 'And there is so much to consider, is there not?' He lowered his voice confidentially. 'The matter of your royal pension, for instance. My negotiations with Her Grace of England.'

'Aye, Patrick – what o' it?' The King sat forward, eager now. 'How does she say, the woman? It hasna been paid – no' a plack o' it. No' since you left, man…'

'Sire,' the Chancellor interrupted heavily, harshly. 'It is inconceivable that this question, the matter of Your Grace's royal dealings with the Queen of England, should be traded and chaffered over by an outlawed miscreant! Her Grace would never countenance such a thing. This man but seeks insolently to cozen Your Highness…'

'You forget, Chancellor, that it was Master Patrick who arranged my pension with Elizabeth in the first place. Aye, maybe you forget it – but I dinna.' The King pointed a nail-bitten finger at the Master of Gray. 'Would you seek to cozen me, man? Would you?'

'Your Grace must be the judge of that,' Patrick declared simply. 'I would have brought the tokens and proofs of my, er, trade and chaffering with me into this your chamber, Sire -save for its weight. Gold, you see, is heavy stuff!'

'Gold!' James cried. 'Gold, you said. You have it with you, man? You brought me gold?'