Nigel Tranter: Lord and Master

How he managed to drag himself up the many steep stairs to his lofty eerie of a house, David did not know. Undoubtedly it took a long time. But one part of his mind was busy throughout, despite the physical stress – that clear, active part which pain indeed almost seemed to sharpen.

They had not put him into a cell, like Patrick, as they had threatened, then. Nor had they resorted to the rack and the thumbscrews. Why? They had brought him down from the castle, spilling whisky over him to make him appear to be drunk – to account for his unconsciousness and battered condition. Brought him near to his own house. Why?

Not out of any remorse or pity, that was certain. It could only be policy. What then? Why trouble thus? They wanted information from him. Presumably they had decided that they would not get it in a cell or under torture – nor from an unconscious man. They must still hope to get it out of him somehow, then, or they would merely have locked him up, or disposed of him out-of-hand. They must be going to watch him, therefore – keep him under observation, and hope that he would lead them to the information that they sought No doubt they were watching him, now. The fools! If only they knew the truth, the terrible, incredible truth! Not that they would, have believed him if he had told them…!

David Gray lurched into his own house, and collapsed part upon a settle, part against the table. Consternation gripped the little household. Fortunately both Mariota and Marie, who had stayed with them since her husband's arrest, were practical-minded women, not given to hysteria. However vocal their distress and urgent their demands for explanation and information, however vehement their denunciation of whoever was responsible for his state, they set about the loving care of David's injuries and provision for his comfort and needs, without delay. They both knew him too well to be impressed by the smell of liquor. Mary, now thirteen years old, stared in wide-eyed horror, whilst seeking to keep young Patrick quiet.

Speaking with difficulty through cut and swollen lips, David told them briefly what had happened after leaving Patrick's cell, dwelling mainly upon the fact that his assailants had but used him as a bait, allowed him unhindered access to his brother merely so that they might question him afterwards, and stressing that they undoubtedly would be watching him still, watching the house, hoping that he would lead them to what they wanted to know.

The brutes!' Mariota exclaimed."The dastardly brutes! To think that they could sink so low – Maitland, Stewart! Men you have worked with…!'

'It is but what Patrick would name statecraft, I suppose!'

'It is savagery! Barbarity…!'

'It is shameful! They are no better than brute beasts!' Marie said. 'But… but…' Her voice faltered. 'If you are to be watched, Davy, as you say – then what are we to do? It is but three days until… until…' She bit her lip.

David cleared his throat, but said nothing.

'We shall find a way, never fear,' Mariota asserted stoutly. "We shall win Patrick free.'

'But how? Oh, how can we? If they watched David thus, they will watch me also, Patrick's wife, without a doubt And you too, Mariota…'

'My lord – he would help. They would not dare to treat him so!'

'I would not be so sure. But Lord Gray is at Castle Huntly, still. He has not come -he has not come, though he must know well that Patrick is taken and condemned. I wrote to him, but… he has not come! Anyway, to ride to Castie Huntly and back would take too long-four days.'

'The King, then. You must try to see the King again, Marie. He is your own cousin.'

'They will not allow it I have tried – you know how I have tried. But they surround James – guard him like a prisoner himself. They will not allow me into the palace. Davy – what did Patrick say? What did he tell you to do?

David moistened damaged lips. 'He… I…' He swallowed, sorely. 'I cannot do it, Marie. I told you before. I am sorry -? but I cannot do it. Would not, even if I could.'

'Davy! You do not… you cannot mean that! Not really mean it…'

'Aye. As God is my witness, I do!'

'But… your own brother '

'Aye. My brother.'

'No, Davy – no! Oh, I know how he is at fault That he has done shameful things. I know that you blame him -I blame him also. But… but not this, Davy. Not to…the death!'

'Has he hesitated at the death of others?'

'Perhaps not. But… that does not make us his judges.'

'You would have me to forget all the evil that he has wrought?'

'Not forget – but forgive '

'Who am I to forgive him? The ill was not wrought against me. But I… I could have saved some of the ill from happening, had I been stronger, truer to my conscience, of a better courage. Do not talk to me of forgiveness, for I do not forgive myself!' David had sat up in his bed, in his vehemence, and now swayed dizzily with the effort, his features contorted with pain. 'Only… only of this I am sure,' he declared thickly, uncertain only in the enunciation of his words. 'It must not, it shall not, happen again.'

'Davy, lie down,' Mariota commanded. 'You distress yourself. Lie back, Rest – you must rest, You are not yourself. We shall speak of this again…'

If you mean that I will think differently in the morning, woman, you are wrong,' he told her, sinking back.

Tut, now, In your right mind, Davy, you would never condemn your brother to death! No, no. I tell you…' Suddenly Mariota turned, recollecting her great-eyed, watching children. 'Mary, take your brother in the house. Quickly, now – off with you. Here is no talk for bairns…'

T am sorry, Mariota,' Marie said, low-voiced, after the door had closed on them. 'I had forgotten the children. I hardly know what I am doing, or saying. I think that I shall go mad – if we are not all mad already'

'Hush you, my dear. It will be better in the morning. Davy will think differently then, I swear. He is hurt, sick…'

That is nothing to the point,' the man said, wearily. 'My mind is made up.'

'Oh, Davy! If not for his sake – for mine!' Marie besought him, brokenly. 'We have understood each other, been good friends,always.,

Slowly, painfully, David turned his head away from them, to face the wall.

'Leave him, Marie – let him be,' Mariota counselled. 'He needs rest, sleep. We must let him be…'

David did not sleep, nor scarcely rest Tossing and turning on his bed, despite the hurt of it, he wrestled with himself, his faith, his conscience and his love, and knew no peace of body, mind or spirit

Some time, how much later he knew not, he heard the door of his bedchamber open and shut But he did not turn towards it, did not open the eye that was less painful closed. Indeed he had forgotten it when, after a while, some feint stir of movement near him penetrated the turmoil of his mind. Reluctantly he turned his head and looked.

Young Mary sat on a chair beside his bed, gazing at him silently. In her hand she held a cup.

'I have brought you a posset,' she told him. 'It is to help you to sleep.'

'It will require more than a posset to make me sleep this night!' he said. 'But… thank you, lass.'

She helped him drink it down, so that he need not sit up. Then, still unspeaking, she sat down again at his side, to watch him, her eyes fixed on him, unwavering.

David would have turned his head away once more – but somehow could not He would have shut his eye again – indeed did shut it often enough, but always opened it again. He could not keep his gaze away from her, avoid her eyes. It was those eyes that held him, burned in on him, ravaged him – deep, dark, lustrous, lovely eyes, so damnably like Patrick's. They never left his face, considering him, reproaching him…