Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'I mislike the picture that you paint of me. Is it true, then?'

'It cannot be – for I would paint you as the loveliest picture in all this world, if I could, Mary – if I but knew how.'

'Dear Vicky.'

'Mary.' Abruptly he was standing directly above her again, his knees all but touching her back. 'Have you – have you ever given yourself to a man? So many must have tried to have you. Have you let any take you?' That was breathlessly asked.

'Why no, Vicky. I have not.'

He swallowed, and was silent

She turned now, to look up at him. 'Why do you ask? Do you fear that I am cold? Unnatural? That I find no pleasure in men, perhaps? And think that this may prove it?'

'No, no – never that, Mary. I am glad. Glad. I hoped…' He paused. 'You see, neither have I ever had a woman.'

Slowly she smiled. 'No?'

'No.' Something, perhaps her faint smile, made him add, hurriedly, almost roughly, 'I could have had, Mary. Many a time. Many would have… that Jean Stewart…'

She nodded. 'I know it, Vicky. The Duke of Lennox need never lie lonely of a night.'

'But I do, Mary – I do!' he cried. 'There's the nub of it!

And it is your doing.'

'I am sorry,' she said flatly.

The silence resumed, and Ludovick's pacing with it.

Presently, and very quietly, the girl began to sing, as though to herself, an age-old crooning song with a haunting lilt to it, as old as Scotland itself. Softly, unhurriedly, deliberately, almost as if she picked out the notes on a lute, she sang, eyes on the fire, swaying her body just a little to the repeated rhythmic melody. The song had no beginning and no end.

Gradually the young man's pacing eased and slowed, until he was halted, listening, watching her. Then, after a minute or two, he came to sink down on his knees on the deerskin beside her. His hands went out to her.

'Mary!' he said. 'Mary!'

Turning her head, she nodded slowly, and smiled at him, through her singing. She raised a finger gentiy to bar his lips. Her strange song continued, uninterrupted. The two wolfhounds, that had sat far back in the shadows, crept forward on their bellies into the circle of the firelight, until they lay, long heads flat on outstretched forepaws, on either side of the man and woman.

A quiet tide of calm flowed into and over that chamber of the empty house, and filled it.

Her singing, in time, did not so much stop as sink, diminish to a husky whisper, and eventually fade away. Neither of them spoke. Ludovick's arms were around her now, his face buried in her hair. Presently his lips found her neck below her hair. In time a hand slipped up to cup one of her breasts.

She did not stir, nor rebuke him.

More than once words seemed to rise to his exploring lips, but something in the girl's stillness, the positive calm of her, restrained him. He held her close, while time stood still.

It was the sinking of the fire, the need to replenish it with logs, that changed the tempo. Lennox, after throwing on more wood, became imbued with a new urgency. His lips grew more daring, his hands roved wider. At last Mary stirred, sighing.

'Vicky,' she said, 'this way lies sorrow, hurt. For us both. You must know it.'

'Why, Mary? Why should it? We shall not hurt each other, you and I. And we are not children.'

'Not children, no. But you have a wife, Vicky. I cannot forget it.'

He frowned. 'In name only. I have told you. And many men have wives… and others.'

'Yes, my lord Duke,' she said. 'And others!'

'Lord – I am sorry, Mary! I did not mean it that way.'

*No. But that way the world would see it, Vicky. Not that I greatly care what the world thinks of me. But I care what I think of myself. And of you. Moreover, I will not further hurt your Lady Sophia. In this house, where she should be.'

He shook his head, wordless.

'We must not think only for the moment,' she added.

'Moment!' he jerked. This marriage of mine is not for any moment. It may be for years – a lifetime! I cannot wait for that. I have warmer blood than that!'

'And you think that I have not?'

'I do not know. I only know that you are strong. So much stronger than I am.'

'Do not talk so much of strength,' she said, low-voiced. 'If I was so strong, I would not be here in this great empty castle with you now. I would have gone back, forthwith, late as it was. When I found you alone. Not to Falkland but at least to St. John's Town. Or even to the inn in your village here. If I had been so strong.'

Uncertainly he eyed her, surprised at her sudden vehemence.

'I have told you before, Vicky – I would not have you think me other than I am.'

'Will I ever know you?' he demanded. 'Know you as you are?*

It was her turn not to answer.

'Are you unhappy, Mary? Here. Alone in this house, with me?' 'No.'

'You are not frightened? Not of me, Mary? Never of me!'

'No, Vicky. I do not think that I could ever be frightened of you. Only of myself, perhaps.' She paused. 'So… so you will help me, will you?'

He stared at her, swallowed, and could find no words. But after a few moments his arms came out again to encircle her but protectively this time, and so remained, firm, strong.

Her little sigh might have been relief, relaxation, or even just possibly, regret.

Presently she settled herself more comfortably on the deerskin, leaned her head against his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

She did not sleep. But after a while Ludovick did, his weight against her becoming heavier. Long she crouched thus, supporting him, growing cramped, sore, although with no discontent thereat showing in her features. Indeed frequently a tiny smile came and went at the corners of her mouth. Sleep overcame her, at length.

Sometime during the night she awakened, stiff, chilled. Ludovick lay relaxed, arm outflung, but shivering slightly every so often in his sleep. The fire had sunk to a dull glow, and the hounds had crept close about them for warmth. Smiling again a little at the thought of forty empty beds in that great house, Mary carefully reached over to draw up another of the deerskin rugs that littered the floor. Settling herself as best she could, she pulled it over them, man, hounds and all.

AT first light they rode away from Methven Castle. They went first to the village nearby, where Ludovick knocked up his steward and left sundry instructions, and then turned eastwards for the Earn and Fife, going by unfrequented ways and avoiding Perth. They parted company some miles outside Falkland, so that Mary could enter the town alone and without arousing special comment. The Lady Marie knew of her errand anyway, and she had chosen an occasion when Patrick had gone on one of his many brief visits to Broughty Castle, to examine progress of his works of improvement.

Lennox's return to Court that evening, even without his new wife, evoked no great stir. James was glad to see him, in an absent-minded way. Patrick also professed himself to be overjoyed, when he got back from Broughty next day. Otherwise there was little interest, for the Duke had as few friends as he had enemies.

Thereafter began a strange and unacknowledged tug-of-war over the activities and influences and persons of James Stewart, Earl of Moray, and Anne of Denmark, Queen-Consort. Undoubtedly none of the principals knew anything of it. Nor did the King, though the effects were not lost on him, perceive the tugging, the stresses and strains of the warfare, the gains and losses sustained. Even Patrick Gray himself probably did not fully recognise the positive and consistent nature of the opposition to his plans. He could be amusedly sure that his daughter, wife and Lennox would disapprove of any obvious moves against Moray; but then, the Master's moves were seldom obvious. That Mary Gray was, in fact, little more obvious than himself, had not yet fully dawned upon him.