Nigel Tranter: The Courtesan

The fifth Lord Gray's voice neither awaited his arrival, nor lessened its volume. 'And where is my moppet? Where a pest's

Mary – my ain Mary? God's mercy – is this a house o' the dead, or what? Must Gray come to his ain, and naught but doos and jackdaws greet him? Mary!' he bawled. 'Mary Gray -haste you, lass. Would you hide frae me? Bairnie – where are you?' Although the noise of him had nowise diminished, the tone and tenor had altered significantly; almost there was a chuckling, wheedling note in the vociferation now, if that can be imagined, distinctly ridiculous in so notable a tyrant.

Smiling gently, the girl turned to follow her father down the narrow winding turnpike stair. And for all her curious calm and serenity of manner, she tripped lightly as might any child.

When she emerged, my lord was hectoring her father in front of all the fifty and more grinning men-at-arms.'… trees down all along the Inchture road, dykes broken and beasts straying! But two nights gone, and I come back to this, Davy Gray! I make you steward o' half the Carse, the more fool me, and here's you roosting in your tower moping over papers…'

'Last night's storm was notably strong, my lord… '

'What of it, man? Must trees lie where they fall because o' a skelp o' wind? And my beasts stray, because you canna keep your nose out of books and parchments?'

'I have men clearing the trees and mending the dykes,' David declared, his voice flat, nor noticeably apologetic. 'I set them to the home parks first, believing that you would have it so.' His glance flickered over the ranks of armed retainers. 'If your lordship would travel with a wheen less of escort, more men there would be for clearing your trees!'

'Insolent, on my soul! You to speak me thus! You – a chance by-blow!'

'Exactly, sir. But yours And with my uses – where secrets are to be kept!'

Father and son eyed each other directly, choleric yet shrewd pig-like eyes in that sagging, dissipated face, meeting level grey ones. This was an old battle, almost a formality indeed, something of a game to be played out.

'The godly business of the Kirk prospered at Perth, I hope, my lord?' the younger man went on, as evenly. 'Knowing its import, we scarce expected to see you home for a day or two yet. Or, should I say, a night or two?'

The other frowned, black as thunder, but before he could speak, a trill of laughter came from the small tower doorway where Mary stood watching.

'Was the Lady Murray unkind, Granlord… or just unwell?' she called, dark eyes dancing. 'Or perchance did her husband come home oversoon from the Court?'

'God be good – Mary, you… you ill-tongued hussy! You shameless baggage!' my lord spluttered, but with the frown vanished from his heavy brows like snow before the sun. He went limping forward, all jingling spurs and clanking steel, arms wide, ridiculous. Into them the girl came, not running, indeed with a sort of diffident hesitancy of pace, so at variance with her dimpling, smiling assurance as to be laughable, and was enfolded, swept up off her feet, and chuckled and crooned over. 'Och, lassie, lassie!'

She gurgled something into his neck above the steel gorget.

'Lord – it's good to have a grip o' you! You're the bonniest sight these eyes have seen in a score years!' he told her, nuzzling his gross empurpled features in her hair.

Her laughter pealed out. 'Bonnier than the Lady Murray? Bonnier than the Provost's wife at Dundee? Or Mistress Moncur? I have not her great paps, Granlord!' And she kissed him full on the lips.

'Och, wheesht you, wheesht you, wench! The randy wicked tongue o' you!' her grandfather gasped. 'Damme, you're a handful! Aye, God – an armful is nearer it, eh? An armful getting, I swear!' And he squeezed her comprehensively.

She bit his ear, quite sharply, so that he yelped.

David Gray looked at his father and his daughter from under puckered, downdrawn brows. Always this was the way of it – always it had been. The child, conceived in shame, born in disgrace, fathered on himself, could do what she would with this bellowing bull of a man, one of the proudest, most arrogant and powerful lords of all the arrogant strutting nobles of poor Scotland, where none other could do anything. She alone, of all within his wide orbit, not only seemed to have no fear of him, no revulsion, but actually seemed to love him, taking outrageous liberties with him, as he with her. Sometimes he feared for her in this also – for David Gray cherished no illusions as to his potent sire's character and appetites, pillar of God's Reformed Kirk as he was. The great stot, drooling over her, pawing her… aye, and letting her call him Granlord, that silly childhood name she had given him. Why did she never act so with himself, Davy Gray – who would give his right hand for her, his life indeed, any day? Who had cherished her and brought her up, and loved her as that sodden, whoring wind-bag of a lord could never conceive? Himself, her father -at least, in all but blood – she seldom hugged and laughed with and rained kisses upon.

Abruptly, the stern, sober, soft-hearted Davy Gray swung on the watching leering ranks of my lord's unmannerly and uncouth men-at-arms, and waved a peremptory hand at them.

'Off with you! Away with you!' he commanded. 'Gawping idle gowks! There are trees to be cleared. Dykes to mend. Cattle to herd. And see you look to those beasts, your horses. That they are rubbed down and baited. No watering till they are cooled, d'you hear? The brutes are lathered wickedly. Ridden over hard, and for no need. Horseflesh is scant and dear…'

'Hark at him!' my lord hooted. 'The right duteous steward… now!'

'He looks to your affairs very well, Granlord,' Mary Gray said, gravely, shaking the older man's arm. 'Well do you know it, too. Better than ever did old Rob Powrie.'

'As well he might! Did I no' pour out my siller to put him through yon college at St. Andrew's? Him, and that… that graceless, prinking jackanapes, that simpering Popish coxcomb who…'

'Hush, my lord!' The girl's voice went cool, aloof, and she sought to withdraw herself from her grandfather's embrace. 'That is an ill way to speak of one who…'

'Who has brought shame on my head and hurt on my house, girl!'

'Who is your son and your heir. And could a coxcomb and a jackanapes have raised himself above all others to be the King's right hand in Scotland?'

'Eh…?' Lord Gray looked at her askance. 'What way is this to talk to me, child? I… I…'

'Your Uncle Patrick was never highly regarded in this his own home, Mary,' another voice said, tightly, from behind them. 'Save… save perhaps by me! You know that.'

Unnoticed by the others, a woman had come across the courtyard to them from the main keep, a very lovely woman, and still young. Tall, auburn-haired, high-coloured, a satisfying, well-made, deep-bosomed creature, she had fine hazel eyes that were wide and eloquent and anxious. Those eyes, ever wary, questioning, prepared to be startled, like the eyes of a deer, told their own story, despite the determined resolution of an appealingly dimpled soft round chin. Even yet they could turn David Gray's heart over within him, in an access of protective affection, however hard he might seek to disguise the fact. Compared with the inherent calm and composure of her daughter, Mariota Gray was essentially the child, the uncertain one. Lovely as they both were, indeed, mother and daughter resembled each other in little or nothing.

'Woman – hold your tongue!' my lord barked. 'How should you ken aught o' the matter? Who are you to judge – save, belike, between your legs!' He snorted coarsely. 'And there, nae doubt, Patrick's regard is high, high!'

Flushing hody, and biting a quivering lip, Mariota turned to her husband, instinctively, those gentie eyes quickly filmed with tears. David Gray spoke harshly, set-faced.