Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

'Its uses,' he repeated. 'As have I!' That was just a little bitter.

She touched his arm. 'Poor Vicky,' she said. 'I am sorry…'

The good burghers of the grey town of Dunfermline scarcely glanced at the young man who cantered a tired horse through their narrow streets. They had seen many much finer fish than this, of late, since the young Queen had come to lodge in the Abbot's House – even this very afternoon. Only the fact that the horse was a fine one and was tired, obviously having been ridden hard, attracted any attention; a courier with tidings for the Queen, no doubt.

The young man brought tidings, certainly – but not for Queen Anne.

Reining up in the stableyard of the Abbot's House, beside 364 which the Queen's fine new lodging stood all but completed, Ludovick of Lennox gazed about him urgendy. A few other horses stood therein, hitched to rings and posts; but not what he had looked for – no large troop, nothing hard-ridden like his own beast. Frowning and biting his lip, he jumped down and ran indoors, shouting for Mary Gray and not the Queen.

He found her lighting lamps from a long taper in the former library of the Lord Abbot, for already the short February afternoon was dying towards dusk.

'Vicky!' she exclaimed, surprised but welcoming. 'How good! You are back. So soon!' It was the 7th of February, and he had only been gone from Dunfermline for three days, summoned back to Holyroodhouse expressly by the King at, they had suspected, Patrick's instigation.

'No. I am not' He came to her, but anxiously rather than with his usual impetuous eagerness. 'Mary – is Huntly here?'

'Huntly? No. He was. But he is gone.'

'When?'

'An hour ago. More. Why, Vicky?' 'Did he ask for Moray?'

'No. He called merely to pay his respects to the Queen, he said. As he passed through Dunfermline.' 'Going where?'

'I do not know. He may have told Her Grace. Ask her, Vicky. Is it… bad news?'

'And Moray? He is not here, then?' This curt questioning was unlike Lennox.

'He was here yesterday. And the day before. But not today, no. You think that Huntly is looking for Moray?'

'I know it. He carries a decree from the King for Moray's arrest. For high treason.'

The girl drew a long breath. 'So – it has come to that!' she said. 'After all'

'I would to God that was all!' he jerked. 'Mary – will Moray be at Donibristle? Now?'

'I would think it, yes. I do not know – but it is likely. His house…'

'Did Huntly take that road, then? The sea road, for Fordel and Aberdour?'

'I did not watch his going, Vicky.'

'No. The stable-boys may know. But… why ask? Whatever road he took, he will have gone to Donibristle. Nothing surer. As therefore must I. At once. Pray God I may be in time.' Already he was making for the door.

'In time, Vicky? For what? To warn Moray? It will be much too late, I fear. And what else can you do?'

'I do not know. But if I am there, it may be that Huntly will hold back. From his worst intent.' He was striding out now, down the long corridor towards the courtyard, Mary having almost to run to keep up with him. 'I may yet save Moray's life.'

'His life!' the girl gasped. 'What do you mean?'

'I believe that Huntly means to slay Moray, not arrest him!'

'Slay? Oh, no! No!' That was a wail.

'Yes. I cannot wait, Mary. To tell you all, now. But I believe it is so. And that James knows it, God forgive him. Aye, and Patrick also.'

'Never! Not that. You must be mistaken, Vicky…'

'Would that I was. But I heard the King's parting words to Huntly. Saw his look. Patrick's also. We were hunting. This morning. At Barnbougle. It was to be secret. Huntly rode direct from the hunt. I wondered at it. Then Peter Hay told me that he had heard one of Huntly's lairds saying to another that Moray would not live to see another day. He said Huntly had sworn it.'

'But… but… ' Helplessly, Mary shook her head. 'Why? Why, Vicky?'

'Reasons a-plenty – of a sort.' They had reached Ludovick's horse, now, where it stood steaming. 'Huntly has a blood-feud with Moray. From the days of his father, brought low by Moray's uncle, the Regent. Half the earldom was Huntly land once. And James becomes ever more jealous of Anne. Patrick has worked on him all too well. Now that Moray's wife is dead, he fears still worse things. That his wife may be stolen from him. Even his heir, possibly. And so the realm. You know James. It is crazy – but no crazier than the witches and Bothwell.' The young man hoisted himself up into the saddle. 'I must be gone.'

She laid a hand on his knee, as though she would restrain him. 'Moray may not need your warning, Vicky. He has men of his own. Huntly had but two or three gentlemen with him.'

'Aye – when he called here! As when he left the hunt. But at the Queen's Ferry I learned that forty men-at-arms had awaited him there. So all was arranged beforehand. If he did not bring all these here, he must have left them somewhere in the town. Hidden. And at the Ferry, Huntly had given orders, in the King's name, that no ferry-boat, or other craft, was to sail across to Fife today. After him.' Ludovick snorted a mirthless laugh. 'It required siller, and my fine new authority as Lord High Admiral, to get across myself! Think you now that Moray is in no danger?'

The young woman shook her head. 'I know not what to think. Save… save that there is danger for you also in this, Vicky. Must you go? What can you do? One man…?'

'You know that I must, Mary. I can do no less. Huntly is married to my sister. You would not have me fail to do what I can?'

She sighed. 'No. No. But… take care, Vicky. Oh, take care.'

Lennox bent to pat her hand, then dug spurred heels into his beast's flanks.

Ludovick smelt the tang of smoke on the chill east wind before ever he saw the fitful glow of fire. The evil taint of it caught at more than his nostrils and throat. He flogged his weary mount the harder.

He saw the dark loom of the sea, and the red glare of flames at the same moment, as he breasted a low ridge, the one against the other. The house of Donibristie stood on a pleasant grassy headland of the Forth estuary midway between the burghs of Inverkeithing and Aberdour, six miles from Dunfermline. A tall narrow tower-house, rather than any castle, Moray's father had built it here instead of on the island itself, a couple of miles off-shore, when his royal sire had granted him the abbacy of St. Colm's Abbey; it was a deal more convenient than being marooned out there on Inch Colm amongst the seals and guillemots. Moray's widowed mother, the Lady Doune, still made it her home. But would not, it seemed, after this night.

Appalled, Lennox stared. There was no doubt that the flames came from the house; he could just glimpse the lofty outline of it intermittently against the glare, though the smoke and the dusk confused sight. This was worse than he had feared.

He spurred headlong down to the lower ground, through copse and farmland. He passed groups of cottars gazing, horror-struck. Soon, above the drumming of his horse's hooves, he heard on the wind the hoarse shouts of men. Then a woman's thin screaming.

At a gateway to the demesne itself, two mounted guards came rearing out of the shadows of trees to bar his progress, Gordons with broadswords drawn.

'Back! Back! Halt, you!' Highland-sounding voices cried. 'In Gordon's name – halt!'

'Aside, fools!' the younger man flung at them. 'I am Lennox. The Duke. Stand aside.'

His authoritative tone seemed to impress one of the sentries, but not the other. With a flood of Gaelic this individual blocked his way, sword point flickering wickedly in the ruddy uncertain light of fire. Ludovick had to pull back his mount to its haunches, and drag its head round.

'Knave! Idiot!' he shouted. 'Out of my way! I am from the King,' he lied. 'Do you not know me – your lord's good-brother, the Duke of Lennox?'