Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'Lord, Gibbie -1 treat you like I do the Provost, here. With great respect, but scarce requiring your presence in the private business, affairs of state, that I have to discuss with my lord. So – off with you both to somewhere else.'

The Provost, a fat and perspiring bald man, ducked and bowed and mumbled in alarmed reaction to the authoritative, indeed imperious, orders, moving hastily if sidelong towards the door. Gilbert Gray, almost involuntarily did likewise, but more slowly and looking to his father.

My lord was staring glassily straight ahead of him, breathing stertorously, aparently heeding none of them.

As they reached the door, however, Patrick suddenly stopped them with a snap of his long fingers. 'Stay, Provost -a moment. You may as well hear this first. Before you go. You may spare your worthy citizens their unnecessary labours, man. Their hammerings and stone-masonry and running to and fro. Likewise, my lord, your distressing activities here. There is no need for such extremities. All unnecessary. Huntly is not coming south.'

They stared at him, all of them.

'Tut – do not gawp! You have jumped at shadows. Your panic is superfluous. Save yourself further troubles, gentlemen. And expense. Huntly will not move. His outliers will retire on Aberdeen by nightfall. Already they will have turned back. There is no danger to your douce town of Dundee.'

'But…but…?'

'How do you know this, Patrick?' David jerked.

'I have my sources of intelligence, Davy. As you know.' Patrick smiled. 'Moreover, the King and a great Protestant host, filled with holy and Reformed zeal, will be beyond Strathmore and Jordan… or the Esk… by this! I left His Grace at Perth yesterday noon, rumbling martial thunderings from lips and belly. So there is naught to fear.'

'My lord… honoured sir…,' the Provost gabbled. 'Is this… is this sooth? You are assured o' it…?'

'A pox, fellow – do you doubt my word! You?'

'Na, na – och, never that, sir! Never that…'

'Then be gone. And you, Gibbie. Every minute will save money, will it not?' It was perhaps noteworthy that though the Master of Gray dismissed his lawful brother thus cavalierly, he did not make any similar gesture towards his bastard half-brother. Nor, for that matter, towards young Mary. Turning his elegant back on the pair from Dundee, he addressed his father, who appeared to be recovering. 'Perhaps you should sit down, my lord,' he suggested. 'That we may discuss our business in… ' – he glanced around him distastefully -'… in such comfort as this rickle of stones allows.'

'I have… no business… to discuss… wi' you!' my lord rasped throatily, harshly – 'Now, or ever.' He did not move from his stance by the table.

'Ah, but you have sir, I assure you. On a matter close to your heart, I vow. Siller, my lord – siller! Sillibawbys, merks and good Scots pounds! Sink me – have I not already saved you a pretty purseful by this intelligence that I bring? You no longer need spend a plack on this rat-ridden ruin. Send all your drudges home. And let your pocket thank me – even if naught else does!'

From under heavy brows his father gazed at him, like a bull dazed and uncertain. 'This… is certain? About Huntly? And the King? We are safe, now?' he got out.

'Now – and before. You never were in danger. Huntly makes a demonstration – that is all. For, shall we say, a variety of excellent reasons. He never had any intention of descending upon the south. The King of Spain, God preserve him, has sent Huntly a consignment of gold ducats, and he must make pretence of using them to good effect. Moreover, Huntly does not love my lord of Bothwell, and considers that his wings needed clipping. This achieves it. So King Jamie marches valiantly north, and will enjoy a notable, a resounding victory – since none will oppose him. Oh, some Highland caterans will be slaughtered and a few Aberdeen burghers hanged, no doubt, for dignity's sake – but Huntly will speak loving peace with His Grace, and some few of the ducats will belike find their way into Jamie's coffers…'

'God's death – what mad rigmarole is this?' his father cried. 'Are you crazed, man?'

'Hardly, sir! Do you really think it? Indeed, I humbly suggest otherwise. For, you see, good is served all round is it not? Elizabeth of England, perceiving the great stresses and dangers King Jamie lives under, in preserving the sacred cause of Protestantism, must needs increase her contributions towards the upkeep of a stronger and truly loyal guard in this happy realm. The matter is vital – for the Reformed faith, you understand. Already, indeed, the couriers are on their urgent way to London, to that effect. Heigho – all things work together for good, as I say, do they not?'

My lord was speechless.

It was David Gray who spoke, in a whisper. 'So soon!' he said. 'So soon! We are back where we were, i' faith! Nothing is changed. The… the Devil is come back to Scotland!'

'Come, come, Davy – you flatter me! Besides, no harm is done. Quite the reverse, I vow. Are not all advantaged – or nearly all? Which brings me, my lord, to the matter of our business – so that we shall be advantaged also. The matter concerns the Abbey of Dunfermline.'

'A-a-ah!' Lord Gray said, despite himself.

'Exactly! I intend, you see, to recover my commendatorship and the revenues thereof. George Gordon of Huntly has enjoyed them quite sufficiently long for any small service that he effected. He is proving stupidly obdurate, however. Always George was stupid – do you not agree? And our Jamie is something of a broken reed in the matter, I fear. Indeed, I suspect His slobbering Grace. So, I propose to sue George for Dunfermline in the High Court. And believe that, with a little forethought and judicial, er, preparation, I shall win. For Huntly has few friends amongst His Grace's judges – who are all good Protestants, of course!' Patrick sighed, a little. 'Unfortunately, such processes of law cost money. Siller, my lord – siller. A commodity of which I am, at the moment, somewhat short, more is the pity. Hence this approach… and your good fortune, sir.'

His father gaped like a stranded fish. 'You… you…? Me…? Siller…?' With difficulty he enunciated consecutive words. 'Ha, you gon plain gyte, man? D'you think to win siller frae me? Me!'

'I do, naturally. And for good and excellent reason. I do not come to you out of mere, shall we say, family affection and esteem, my lord – admirable as are such sentiments. This is a matter of business, of lands and heritable properties. Heritable, I pray you note, is the significant word. Since, one day in God's providence, I or my son shall inherit from you the Gray lands, merest foresight and common prudence indicates that it is to you that I should offer Balmerino. So that, heigho, in the said God's time I shall have it back again! Balmerino, my lord – Balmerino!'

Lord Gray was so much moved that he groped his way round the table, Mary supporting him, to sink into one of the chairs. He never took his eyes off his beautiful son – although from his expression the sight appeared to afford him only extreme distress.

Well might the Master harp on that word Balmerino, of course. Balmerino Abbey, or the ruins thereof, with its little town and port, lay almost exactly across the Tay estuary from Castle Huntly. Its lands were extensive and fertile; more important however, from Lord Gray's point of view, was the fact that owing to the shallows and shoals of the firth at this point, its port commanded the ship-traffic of the upper reaches of the estuary. Taken in conjunction with the Broughty Castle and Ferry Port toll barriers, it could completely dominate all trade, internal as well as external, along the entire causeway, with a judiciously-placed cannon or two. Long had the Grays looked across at Balmerino in North Fife with covetous eyes. Its possession could vastly increase their revenues.