Nigel Tranter - The Courtesan

Since there was nothing to be gained by bringing the King into lower public estimation than he enjoyed already, Ludovick kept quiet. He did not leave James, or Patrick Gray either, in any private doubt however as to his opinions and feelings. The rift between them widened.

Lennox had gone back to Dunfermline that dire night, eventually. On hearing his news, Queen Anne had taken to her bed, and had there remained for almost an entire week. She ate little or nothing, permitted only her closest women near her, and received no single visitor – save, strangely enough, at the end of the week, Patrick Gray. He came to comfort her, and to urge a prompt return to her husband's side, pointing out that this separation did not look well in view of the popular slanders anent herself and the late lamented Moray. All who had the privilege to know Her Grace realised how baseless was such talk, how true and leal was her devotion to her royal and loving spouse; nevertheless, undoubtedly monarch and consort being parted at this difficult time was arousing comment and speculation. Also it would much please her devoted admirers, Patrick Gray in especial, if Her Highness would restore to them the sun of her presence at Holyroodhouse. Anne agreed to consider the matter.

It was as Patrick left the royal bedchamber that Mary Gray awaited him.

'Can you spare me a moment, Patrick?' she asked, even-voiced.

'Why, my dear – need you ask? Always I can do that, and more. It is my pleasure.'

Without answering, she showed him into an anteroom, and closed the door behind them.

Ruefully he eyed her. 'Do I sense, moppet, that in some way I have transgressed? Displeased you? Of what am I to be convicted, now?'

She turned to face him. 'Any displeasure of mine matters nothing,' she said. 'If your conscience does not convict you, how shall I?'

'Conscience?' he repeated. 'Ah, me – a chancy and unreliable witness! What is conscience, my heart? An irrational sense of guilt, largely affected by what one ate for supper the night before? Regret for aspects of failure? One is seldom conscience-stricken, I find, over successes! Fear of consequences? I am suspicious of too active a conscience, Mary.'

'Words, Patrick,' she gave back, levelly. 'Easy and fine words. Always you have them in plenty. But words will not serve to bring back my lord of Moray to life. Words will not undo what has been done.'

'Why no, lass. But should not you address your homily to Huntly? He it was, I understand, who unfortunately made an end of the so popular Moray. Not your erring sire.'

'Was it? she asked flatly.

He raised slender brows at her. 'That was my impression.' 'But not mine, I fear. Would that it was. Nor Vicky's. Huntly's was only the hand that struck the blow, I think.

Your's was the mind that planned it so, was it not?'

His beautiful features, that so nearly mirrored her own, went completely expressionless. 7 think that you go too fast, my dear,' he said softly. 'Too fast and far.'

She shook her head. 'I have watched you working for months to pull Moray down. As you have pulled down so many. You conceived him as in your way. Now he is dead. Whether you ordained his killing or no, I dunk that you knew that Huntly intended his death. And did naught to stay him. I see blood on your hands, therefore.'

'You see phantoms! Vain imaginings, girl,' he returned, more sharply now. 'You, in your wisdom, think this and think that! How can you tell what I know or plan or intend? How could I know that Huntly intended the death of Moray -if he did?'

'Vicky saw his parting from you. At the hunt. He heard the King's instructions. You were at the King's side. Vicky said…'

'Aye – Vicky! Always it is Vicky! That young man that I cherished is, I fear, become a viper in my bosom! It seems that I shall have to deal with Vicky.'

'No!' she cried, alarm widening her eyes. 'Not that! Never Vicky

'Then tell him to keep his fingers out of my affairs, Mary.' Patrick recovered his smile. 'With all suitable parental diffidence, my dear, I would suggest that you might even do the same! For your own sweet sake, if not mine!'

'You… you are warning me, Patrick?' she put to him. 'Warning me off?'

'Why, not so, my heart. I would do nothing so unseemly. I but plead with you not to meddle in affairs beyond you, lest you burn your pretty little fingers. Which I would not like to see. You cannot label that a warning, I vow!'

'No? Then let me offer you a similar plea, Patrick,' she said, calm again. 'Do not seek to bring any more men low. Cast down no others. You used Huntly to bring down Moray. Now, brute-beast as Huntly is, I fear for him. As I fear for Bothwell still. Sometimes, I even fear for the King himself!'

Their eyes met, and held. He did not speak.

'Oh, Patrick,' she exclaimed, in a different voice. 'Will you not stop it? Make an end of it. For Marie's sake. For little Andrew's. And Davy's. And mine. Who love you. Will you not?'

He drew a long breath. 'You dream, girl,' he said. 'You deceive yourself.'

'No. For I know you, you see.'

'How do you know?'

'I know you, because I know myself. We are none so different, perhaps, you and I. So, I beg you, I entreat you, I urge you – hold your hand. Lest… lest…'

'Aye,' he said, eyes narrowing. 'Lest what?'

'Lest I forget that I am your daughter. And do… do what I conceive to be right. My duty, Patrick.'

Long he looked at her, searching her lovely elphin face, staring deep into her dark eyes, as though to probe to the very core of her being. Then abruptly, without another word, he swung about and left her there, striding to the door and out.

She stood alone, trembling a little, gazing blindly at the open door.

Anne returned to Holyroodhouse two days later, and Mary with her. James made a great show of welcoming her, riding out with half his Court as far as the Queen's Ferry, to escort her to the city and the palace. To emphasise their happy conjugal bliss a touching ceremony was organised at the West Port, where carefully selected representaives of the citizenry presented the allegedly pregnant young Queen with items of baby-wear, and James made a speech in Latin, with droll obscenities in Greek and Hebrew, initimating the joys and privileges of fatherhood, and the realm's felicity in anticipating the arrival of an heir to the throne. He even patted his wife's stomach, in an excess of enthusiasm – although it had to be admitted that Anne, pale and drawn and unsmiling, had never looked slimmer.

Unfortunately the cosily domestic atmosphere engendered by this scene was rather spoiled by the appearance in the crowd of some rude fellows leading a horse on which was displayed a man-size picture of the Earl of Moray. It was no ordinary picture this, for the Lady Doune had had it painted of her son lying outstretched on the ground, naked save for a loin-cloth, and most obviously and unpleasantly dead, his body hacked, slashed and punctured with major realism. Queen Anne all but swooned away at the sight of it – indeed she would have fallen from the saddle had not Patrick Gray ridden alongside to catch and support her bodily. From immediately behind, Mary Gray spurred her mount forward at the same time, and across the Queen's swaying person man's and girl's eyes met for an instant, tensely.

James, ever affected drastically by the sight of blood, even painted blood apparently, gobbled in horror, dug spurs into his horse's flanks, and slapping high hat hard down, went galloping off down towards the Grassmarket, scattering the crowd right and left, and leaving wife and entourage behind.

The royal procession took a deal of reorganising thereafter.

The ball which had been hastily arranged for that night at Holyroodhouse, was as hastily cancelled on account of the Queen's indisposition.