Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

Blinking, Lennox cleared his throat. 'Sire – are you not to read…?' he wondered.

'No.' That was a very abrupt negative for James Stewart. His glance flickered over to the Master of Gray, however, and away. Poets were scarce indeed about the Scottish Court – but Patrick Gray was a notable exception.

The Earl Marischal, the arranged programme thus further disrupted, eyed the papers doubtfully, glanced around him, and then, for want of better to do, bowed again.

'Aye, then,' the King said, scratching. Tph'mmm. Just that.' He seemed, of a sudden, desirous of being finished with the entire proceedings. 'Er… God speed, my lord. And to you, Master Envoy. To all o' you. Aye. God speed and a safe journey. You will convey the Princess Anne to me here, wi' all suitable expedition. Expedition, you understand. Tell her… tell her… och, never heed. You hae our permission to retire, my lords.'

'But… the gifts? The presents, Sire…?' the Marischal wondered.

'Och, I ken them a'. Fine.' James waved a dismissive hand. 'You may go.'

Schooling their features to loyal if scarcely humble acceptance, the bridal ambassadors proceeded to back out of the presence – a trying business, with a long way to retire and all the gear and baggage to manoeuvre. James let them go only a bare half-way before he rose and hurried over to the Master of Gray.

'Man, Patrick,' he said, turning his back on the assemblage at large. 'This o' the dukedom? Think you… think you she means it, this time? Elizabeth?'

The handsome man smiled. 'I think that Her Grace meant it… when I left her, Sire,' he said gently. 'It is for us to see that she continues to mean it!' He gave just the slightest emphasis to the word us.

'Aye. She… she seems to think highly o' you, Patrick. Why?' That last came out sharply.

There was nothing sharp about the reply. 'Your Grace – I have not the least apprehension. Not a notion!'

'U'mmm.'

It was some little time before Patrick Gray was able to detach himself from the King and from the many others who came clustering round him – the ladies in especial. It was noticeable, of course, that quite as many others did not cluster around him, or greet him in any way, other than by hostile stares, muttered asides and coldly-turned shoulders – amongst these some of the most powerful figures in the land, such as the earls of Mar, Glencairn, Atholl, Argyll and Angus, the Lords Sinclair, Lindsay, Drummond and Cathcart, the Master of Glamis who was Treasurer again, and numerous black-garbed ministers of Christ's Kirk. One man who dithered betwixt and between, in evident perplexity and doubt, was the splendidly-attired Bishop of St. Boswell's, Andrew Davidson. Towards him, Patrick cast an amused smile, but by no means sought the cleric's company.

Dancing in progress, the Master of Gray threaded his graceful way through the throng, greeting and being greeted, all amity and cordiality, but not permitting himself to be detained for more than moments at a time. As directly as he might, he made for the raised window alcove wherein he saw his wife standing, with three others.

As he came close, those in the near vicinity moved aside, as by mutual consent, to allow him space. Scores of eyes watched, intently, curiously.

The newcomer's eyes were intent also. After a swift, searching initial glance up at all four occupants of that embrasure, he gazed at one and one only – young Mary Gray. For once his brilliant smile faded – which was strange, for the girl was beaming, radiant.

None in that circle spoke. Never, surely, were a man and a woman so alike – and yet so different.

'Mary!' the man got out, throatily, almost hoarsely.

'Uncle Patrick!' the other cried, high, clear and vibrant, and launched herself down off that plinth and into the white satin arms.

David Gray stared straight ahead of him, grey eyes hooded, lips tight. The Lady Marie reached out a hand to press Mariota's arm.

They kissed each other, those two, frankly, eagerly, almost hungrily, as though unaware of all the watching eyes. They were in no hurry. There was no pose here, no seeking after effect, no calculation. It could have been this, rather than anything that had gone before, that had brought the Master of Gray across most of Europe, moving heaven, earth and hell itself to make it possible. Long they embraced, elegant, magnetic man and lovely eager girl – as though magnets indeed held them together.

Then Patrick as with an effort put her from him, at arm's length. But still he could not take his dark eyes off her face. For once he had no words to speak.

'Oh, it is good!' Mary said, for both of them. 'Good! Good!'

He nodded, slowly, as in profound agreement. Then, still holding one of her hands, he turned to face the others.

'I rejoice… to see you,' he said, the so eloquent voice unsteady, uncertain. 'All of you.'

His half-brother inclined his head.

'Oh, Patrick – Patrick!' Mariota exclaimed, breathlessly. 'Thank God! It has been long. So long.'

'Aye, long,' he agreed. 'Too long. You are very beautiful, Mariota my dear. I had almost forgot how beautiful. And how warm. Kind. And Davy… Davy is just Davy!'

'Aye,' that man said. He stepped down, to hold out his hand. 'Aye, Patrick.'

Still holding Mary to him, the Master slipped his free hand from his brother's grasp and up around his wide shoulders, there to rest. 'God help us – what a family we are!' he murmured.

The Lady Marie laughed, though a little tremulously. 'You see, Mariota,' she said. 'Those three will do naught for us. We shall have to climb down from here as best we may – for these men scarce know that we are here!'

The ladies were assisted to the floor, and more normal greetings exchanged. Mary was agog, however, for information, for explanations, for secrets.

'Uncle Patrick,' she demanded, just as soon as she had opportunity, dropping her voice conspiratorially. 'How did you do it? You were not expected until tomorrow. How wonderful was your entrance here! How did you affect it? Did you know? Know that it was all arranged for the Danish mission? Did you?'

He touched her hair lightly. 'What think you, my dear?'

'I think that you did! I think that you conceived it all – and deliberately upset all the King's plans. So that you should be the one to whom all looked – not the King. And not the Marischal. I was sorry for my Lord Marischal. And the little Danish man. That was scarcely kind of you, Uncle Patrick. But… I think that you are very brave.'

'M'mmm,' he said. 'You appear to think to some effect, young woman. What else do you think, eh?'

'I think that King Jamie, though he may seem to have been won, though he smile on you now, will not love you any the better for this night.' She shook her head seriously, dancing roguery gone. 'He planned all, that he might read his poem for the Danish princess. To us all. For he esteems himself to be a notable poet, does he not? But then, you came. You upset all – and he dared not read it. For he knows full well that you are a much better poet than is he. I think that he will not readily forgive you for that, Uncle Patrick.'

'Say you so?' The Master of Gray fingered his tiny pointed beard. 'It may be so. Perhaps you are right. It may be that I was a trifle too clever. Who knows? I can be, you know.'

'Yes,' she nodded gravely. 'As in the matter of the Navarre lady.'

His finely arched eyebrows rose. 'Indeed!' he said. 'Mary, my heart – what is this? What has come to you? Here is unlikely thinking for, for a poppet such as you! What is this you have become, while I was gone?'

'I am… Mary Gray,' she told him quietly, simply.

Into the second or two of silence that followed, both Mariota and her husband spoke.

'Do not heed her, Patrick,' her mother declared, flushing. 'She is strange, these days. Foolish. Perhaps it is her age…'