Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'Only a token payment, Sire. Not the entire pension. I convinced the lady, I believe, that three thousand gold pieces would be a more suitable and worthy pension for her heir than two. It is but the extra thousand that I brought with me, I fear.'

The King gulped and swallowed convulsively – but even so the saliva flowed copiously down his doublet. 'A thousand gold pieces! Extra! God's splendour – the pension is increased, you say? You have a thousand gold pieces for me, Patrick man? Here? Is it the truth?'

'Outside. In your own palace, Sire. In my Lord of Orkney's lodgings. The rest is promised within the month.'

James was so moved that he got to his feet and reached out to grip the Master of Gray's white satin arm, his poem falling unnoticed to the floor.

Sir John Maitland's sallow features were wiped clean of all expression. He actually moved back a little way from the Chair of State. He knew when, for the moment, he was beaten.

Without seeming to fail in support of the royal grasp, Patrick stooped low to retrieve the fallen papers. To do so he had to use the long staff as prop, so that the ribboned top of the thing was just under the King's nose. James blinked at it.

'You've… you've done well, Patrick,' he said thickly. 'I…. we shall accept the gold from our sister, gladly. Aye, gladly. It's no before its time, mind. But you've done well. And… and yon's a bonny bit stick, you have. I've never seen the like.'

'The latest folly at Versailles, Sire. His Grace of France uses one such. You admire it? Then it is yours. Take it.'

'Eh…? Me?' Flushing with pleasure, the King reached for the staff. 'Thank you, thank you. Man, it's a bonny stick. But…' He giggled. '… I'll no' ken what to do wi' it, Patrick.'

'I will show you, Sire. Privily. It is very simple. When you can spare the time. There are other matters for your royal ear, also, when you can spare the time. This dukedom… '

'Ooh, aye – I'll spare the time. I've plenty time.'

'Perhaps then, Sire, you will graciously spare a little of it tomorrow? To attend the christening of my son?'

'M'mmm. Oh, well – maybe…'

'I was hoping, Highness, that you would consent to be godfather to the boy.' That came out a little more hurriedly than was usual in the utterances of the Master of Gray. 'Since he is, in blood, second-cousin to Your Grace. And in order that his reception into the true Kirk and Protestant faith may be… unquestioned. Alas, my own faithful adherence has been so oft and shamefully doubted by my ill-wishers! And you are God's chosen and dedicated Defender of the Faith, are you not?'

'Aye, I am.' James was very proud of that title.

'For the saving of the innocent mite's immortal soul… '

Tph'mmm. Ooh, aye. Well… maybe. Aye maybe, Patrick. We'll see.' The King was twisting and poking the staff this way and that.

'Your Grace – I am profoundly, everlastingly grateful!' Patrick bowed low, to kiss the royal fingers. And, straightening up, 'You dropped these papers I think, Sire.'

'Oh, aye. My poem. M'mmm. For the Princess Anne. I wrote a poem. For the Marischal to take wi' him to Denmark. Aye… my Lord Marischal. He's down there yonder waiting yet, the poor man. And the wee envoy frae Denmark. Vicky -my Lord Chamberlain – summon the Marischal again, man.'

The Duke beat his tattoo on the floor once more, and gestured to the heralds, who in turn moved down to usher in the impatient and injured party at the door. The buzz of excited talk and comment from the company hardly sank at all, now – although some laughter sounded.

James sat himself in his chair again, but clung to his new staff, which he laid across his knobbly knees. Patrick strolled over to Lennox, smiling warmly, to grasp the youth's padded shoulder.

'Vicky!' he declared. 'It does my heart good to see you again – I vow it does! And Lord Chamberlain too, i' faith! On my soul, you are a grown man, now!'

The Duke looked at the other with a frank, almost doting admiration. 'I thank you, sir,' he jerked. 'It is good to see you also.'

James, close by, did not miss the admiration in his young cousin's tone – and glowered his jealousy. 'Quiet, you!' he commanded. 'The Marischal…'

Patrick and the Duke of Lennox exchanged conspiratorial grins, and stood side-by-side waiting, as the little procession, that was the object of and reason for the entire assembly, approached. Indeed, the Master of Gray appeared to have become an integral and prominent part of the proceedings and royal committee of reception.

George Keith, fifth Earl Marischal of Scotland, a tall soldierly figure in early middle age, dressed it would seem rather for the battlefield than the ballroom, came first, looking angry, with at his back his standard-bearer carrying the red, gold and white banner of his house and office. Next strutted a tiny dark bird-like man, the Danish Envoy, richly but sombrely dressed. Behind followed perhaps a dozen lordlings, lairds and pages, bearing a variety of boxes, chests, parcels and bundles.

Coming near to the Chair of State, the Marischal bowed stiffly, his splendid half-armour creaking and clanking at the joints. The little Dane bobbed something remarkably like a curtsy, fetching titters from the body of the company. The others variously made obeisance.

At a cough from James, Lennox suddenly recollected his duty. 'Your Grace's embassage for Denmark,' he announced.

'Aye,' the King said. 'We greet you well, my Lord Marischal. And you, Master… er… Bengtsen. Aye, all o' you.'

'Sire – we are here by your royal command,' Keith declared, his deep voice quivering with ill-suppressed ire. 'We have been waiting… we were misled! Yon man Gray… he misdirected Master Bengtsen, here. Aye, and sent these others off. Down to your stables, Sire. His wife kept me in talk… '

'Ooh, aye, my lord – just so,' James acknowledged, head rolling but eyes keen. 'Nae doubt. A… a mischance, aye. A misadventure. But nae harm done…'

'But, Sire – it was very ill done. 'Fore God, it was! I am not to be made a fool of…'

'Na, na, my lord – never think it. The Master o' Gray wouldna ken what was toward. New come to the palace. You'd no' intend any offence – eh, Patrick man?'

'Indeed no, Sire,' that man assured, pain at the thought and kindliest bonhomie struggling for mastery on his beautiful face, in his whole attractive bearing. 'If I have transgressed against my lord in some fashion, I am desolated. I tender profoundest apologies. But… I must confess to be much at a loss to know wherein I have offended?'

'Damnation – you made a mock of me, did you no'?' the

Marischal seethed. 'You named Skene, here, a pedlar! You sent Master Bengtsen to the other end o' the house, and these others to the stables! Deliberately, I swear, in order to…'

James, leaning forward, banged his new stick on the floor reaching it out almost to the speaker's feet, and then made a poking motion with it at the earl's middle. 'Enough, my lord – enough!' he protested, his voice going high in a squeak. 'You forget yoursel'! We'll hae no bickering in our royal presence. Aye.' He rose to his feet. 'Now – to the business. I… we now, my Lord Marischal, solemnly charge you to convey these our gifts and liberality to the Court of our cousin King Frederick o' Denmark, in earnest and in kindly pledge o' our love an affection. Aye – that's towards himsel', you ken. But more especial towards his daughter, the Princess Anne, wi' whom it is our intent and pleasure – pleasure, mind – to ally oursel' in holy and royal matrimony. In token o' which, my lord, you will gie to the said lady this poem and notable lyric which I have wrote wi' my ain hand. Aye.'

With a curious mixture of urgency and reluctance, James thrust the crushed papers into the earl's hand.