Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'But why? Did she not ever speak only ill of him? Call him a brigand? Write that he treated her borders like his own backyard?'

He shrugged. 'All true, my dear. But she is a woman, and may change her mind. She must have some reason – but I have not fathomed it. I have seen a letter from her to the King, urging clemency, saying that he is but a young man misled, that there is no real ill in him. She offers no reason for this change of face – but needs none. James dare not controvert her – if only for his pension's sake! That is why my Lord Chancellor has turned Bothwell's friend. Although I cannot think that it is Moray's reason.'

'So he will not die?'

'Not, at least, on this occasion, I fear!'

'How long then, will he stay in ward?'

'As for that I neither know nor care,' the Master said, with a snap of slim fingers. 'Until he rots, if need be! Not,' he added sardonically, 'that he is in any present danger of rotting, I believe.'

'No,' she agreed. 'I hear that he is very… comfortable.' Mary came over to take his arm. 'Uncle Patrick,' she said. 'Do you not think that you might serve yourself better, over my lord of Bothwell?'

'Eh? Better? How do you mean better, girl?'

'Better than now. Better than by leaving him there, to rot. You brought him low, did you not, for your own purposes? Now, raise him up again, also for your own purposes.'

He gazed at her, scimitar brows raised. 'I brought him low…?' he repeated.

'Yes. Over the North Berwick witchcraft plot,' she answered factually, calmly. 'Now you say that the King will not dare to try him. So that you can gain nothing more with him. Can you? In ward. Because of his powerful friends. But if his friends are so strong, why fight them? Become one of them, rather. Aid Bothwell now, Uncle Patrick. Once you told me that it was a fool who fought a losing battle. And also that in statecraft a man could not afford to keep up private enmities.'

Still-faced the man considered her, silent.

'Aid Bothwell now,' she repeated. 'He has paid sufficiently for what he said at Leith, yon time – has he not? And gain much credit with his powerful friends.'

Patrick was actually smiling again. 'It warms my heart to see you so!' he declared. 'To hear you. I' faith, it does.'

'Perhaps… but laugh at me at your peril!' she warned. 'For I am very serious. Does what I say not make good sense? By your own measure, Uncle Patrick?'

'I do not know – yet. It will require thought. But, on my soul, if you are for teaching me my business, child, will you not spare me this uncling? Uncle Patrick! Uncle Patrick! Will you uncle me all my days? Can you not call me but Patrick, as others do?'

'Why, yes, Patrick – I shall,' she agreed. 'If you will spare me the child. You scarce consider me a child, yet, do you?'

'By God, I do not! You are right, young woman. It is a bargain! No childing, and no uncling!' He folded his arms. 'Now Mistress Mary Gray – what would you have me do with Bothwell?'

'You could seek to have him released. Do better than these so powerful friends of his.'

'And lose more favour with the King? That I cannot afford, my dear.'

'Then… could you not aid his escape from ward? From the Castle. Others have won out of Edinburgh Castle ere this, have they not? With assistance. Secretly. Might it not be arranged?'

He tipped his lips with his tongue. 'You are… quite a little devil, are you not, Mary my pet?'

'You are not jealous?' she wondered seriously.

He laughed musically. 'Perhaps I should be! Instead, damme, of being… well, just a little proud!'

'Of me? Then, you think well of my suggestion?'

'Say that I see possibilities in it – no more,' he told her lightly. 'Possibilities, sweeting.'

'Yes,' she nodded, satisfied. 'That is what I thought. Now – go you back to the wedding-feast, Patrick. Or your absence will be noted… and the unkind will say that you are plotting some ill! Which would be very unfair, would it not?'

He took her chin in his hand, and considered her quizzically. 'Witch!' he accused. 'If our King Jamie seeks true witches, he has not far to look for one!'

Her lovely face clouded at his words, and she turned away. 'How can you jest about so terrible an evil?' she demanded.

'Why, girl, sometimes I jest that I may not weep.'

'Yes. I am sorry. Go then, Patrick – and thank you for your coming. It was kindly. Will you tell Vicky that I wish him very well?'

'Aye, if you say so.' He grinned. 'That should much aid his bridal night! A kiss, now, moppet…'

The officer unlocked the great door at the foot of the turnpike stair, and raised his lantern to point down the further steep flight of stairs.

'Yonder is the room, sir,' he said, handing Patrick a key, and also the lantern. 'My lord may be abed by this. His man has left him for the night, and sleeps in the guard-room above, with my fellows. You will find me there when you are finished.'

'My thanks, Captain. I may be some little time.'

Patrick went down the remaining steps to the door at their end. Some perhaps misplaced courtesy made him knock thereon before fitting the key to the lock. The door opened to a darkened chamber which the lantern revealed to be vaulted, fair-sized, and though walled and floored in bare stone, to be furnished in reasonable comfort. On a bed in one corner a man lay, in shirt and breeches, blinking and frowning at the light.

'A God's name, Wattie – what ails you?' he snarled. 'What do you want at this hour?'

'Here is no Wattie, my lord,' Patrick answered pleasantly, 'But another, more… effective.'

'Eh…?' Bothwell sat up. 'What is this? Who, i' the fiend's name, are you?'

'I wonder that you are still so free with the Fiend's name, at this late date, my lord!' Patrick observed, laughing. 'I would have reckoned that you might have had your bellyful of him!'

'I know that voice,' the other cried. 'It's Gray, is it not? That ill-conceived and treacherous scoundrel, the Master of Gray?'

'Your tongue would seem to lack both accuracy and charity – but there is nothing wrong with your ears! Gray it is.' Patrick held the lamp high. 'I see that they have given you a better chamber than they gave me three years agone!'

Bothwell rose to his full height. If captivity had weakened his frame or blanched his cheek, it did not show in the lantern's light. Tall, muscular, hot-eyed, angry, he stood there, swaying slightly.

'Curse you!' he spluttered. 'You it is that I have to thank that I am here, they tell me!'

'How mistaken you are, my lord. That is wholly the King's doing, in his diligent assault on witchery and warlockry. Poor James – he is much upset…'

'Liar!'

Patrick shrugged. 'Have it your own way, my friend. But I would urge that you do not make my mission here tonight of no avail.'

'Aye, what are you here for -reprobate!'

'Your release, my lord – what else?'

That brought the other up short. 'Release…?'

'Release, yes. Or, more exacdy perhaps, your escape. At any rate, your abstraction from these present toils.'

Bothwell was staring at him. 'Mockery becomes you no better than does lying!' he said, but with less of conviction.

'I no more mock than lie. But perhaps you do not choose to leave the security of these four stout walls, my lord?'

'Fool!' the other jerked. 'Come – say what-you came to say, and be gone!'

Patrick sighed. 'For one so ill-placed as yourself, I confess that I find you much lacking in civility. You are a hard man to be friends with, it seems! I am almost minded to leave you to your fate.'

'Out with it, man – out with it.'

'Very well. I am prepared to aid your escape out of this place. It can be done.' 'A trick, I vow!'

'No trick. What would it serve me to trick you in this?' 'I do not know. But I know that I do not trust you one inch, Gray.'