Nigel Tranter - Lord and Master

Mary Gray had more than fulfilled the promise of her early childhood. She was small still, but perfectly made and already well developed, thus early on the threshold of most lovely young womanhood. Always she had been a dainty, exquisite creature; now she was of an elfin beauty to take the breath away and catch the heart-strings. Only one other had David ever seen who touched her in beauty – and that her namesake Mary of Scotland.

He stood it for as long as he could. 'Why do you stare so, child!' he exclaimed at length, 'Lord knows, I cannot be a pretty sight!'

Gravely she shook her dark head, but her great eyes never left his ravaged features nevertheless. 'Father,' she said, gently, but thoughtfully, 'Mother and the Lady Marie are weeping. Because my Uncle Patrick is to die, is it not?'

Swallowing, the man nodded dumbly.

'And you could save him, could you not, if you were well and able?'

David started up, aches or none. 'No, I could not! I could not, I tell you!' he cried, almost shouted. 'It is impossible, child.'

'Oh yes, you could,' she asserted, quietly, assuredly. 'You can do anything that you set your hand to. Uncle Patrick told me that, himself. Long ago. He told me that you were the finest, strongest man that he knew, and that he would wager you against any man or set of men in all Scotland. It is true. I know.'

David groaned. It is folly, girl – sheer arrant folly. I am weak, helpless, a broken reed…'

'Only because you are sick and injured and beaten, by those evil men. But you could save him, if you were well' She nodded decidedly. 'So 'must do it, in your place.'

David choked, and the blood came trickling from a corner of his mouth. 'Lord child, – what… what are you saying?'

That I must do it, for you, Father. You will tell me what to do, and I will do it'

'Och, Mary lass, Mary – you do not know what you say…'

I do. Father. These wicked men must not gain the mastery. And it is right that I should do it, I think – for Uncle Patrick is my true father is he not?'

Dumbfounded David gazed at her, peering from his watering eye. 'You… you… who told you that, child?' he got out at last, thickly.

'Many have said it. Often. Children about the Court. My grandfather, once, when he was drunk. I am so like my Uncle Patrick – all can see it. It is the truth, is it not?'

After seconds, wordlessly he nodded his head.

'So, you see, it is right that I should do it – for my own father. I love you best, of course. But I have always loved my Uncle Patrick, too.'

David drew a long breath. 'My dear,' he said. 'There is nothing that you can do. Nothing. I am sorry…'

I can go to the King. If you will tell me how I may win in to him. The King will hear me. He likes me well. He told me that I was a bonny lass. He thanked me, mind, for being land to Vicky that is Duke of Lennox. He would pay heed to me.'

'But, lass, it is not so easy as that. Even if I could bring you into the King's presence.' He paused. 'Do you know for what your, your Uncle Patrick was judged and condemned?'

That I do. Everybody knows that. It was for not saving poor Mary the Queen, when he went to London.'

'Aye – just that. For not saving Mary the Queen! A heavy charge, my dear.'

'Poor Mary the Queen! I hate that Elizabeth for killing her – hate her! But it was Elizabeth who killed her, was it not? It was not Uncle Patrick?'

'No, Yes. But, you see…'

'And you went to London with Uncle Patrick to try to save her too, Father, did you not?5

'Yes. I went also. But not as Patrick went – only as a secretary…'

'But to try to save the Queen. But you did not save her, either of you.'

David looked down, away from those glowing, searching eyes, at last 'No,' he said 'Neither of us.'

'But you did try – which is the main thing, is it not? Mother says that you did all that you could to save the poor Queen. Tell me what you did, will you? Did you try to save her, the way that you saved the King, at Ruthven?'

He did not answer.

'As you saved Uncle Patrick and Vicky's father in France, that time-with the cattle-beasts?'

He stared at the floor. 'No,' he muttered 'It was not possible.'

Then, Father, if you tried all to save her, and could not do it -how could Uncle Patrick? Always he mid me that you could do anything that you set your hand to – and I know that it is true. Did you not set your hand to saving the Queen?'

He met her eyes now, and strangely his swollen lower hp was trembling. 'God help me, child – I do not know!' he burst out I do hot know.'

Gently she reached out to touch his clenched bruised fist 'Do not worry, Father – do not worry,' she said 'I am quite sure that you did your best Like Uncle Patrick – whatever they say. Is that why these evil men beat you so cruelly?'

He made no reply, did not seem to hear her.

They had no right,' the girl declared 'Evert though they loved the Queen, they had no right. For she said that all were to be forgiven. She said that all, all who encompassed her death, even the horrid man who cut off her head, and Queen Elizabeth who told him to do it – all were to be forgiven.'

'Eh…? What was that? What did you say? The man turned slowly, to lean towards her, as though hard of hearing. 'What did you say?'

'Have you not heard? Everyone speaks of it The speech that she made. They have made a broadsheet of it Mary the Queen spoke it before she died She said… I mind not all that she said But this she did say – might God, who alone can judge the thoughts and acts of men, forgive all those who have thirsted for her blood Was she not good, Mary the Queen? Kind I am glad that I am named Mary, too. She said all were to be forgiven. So, the King cannot be angry with Uncle Patrick, any more-nor with you either, Father. Can he?'

David Gray was not listening.

'If I go to him, I am sure that he will say that Uncle Patrick is not to die. So, will you tell me how I can come to the King, please?'

There was silence in that bedchamber for long moments, as Mary Gray waited, serious, intent Only the man's deep breathing sounded

Then abruptly, he brought his open hand down upon the quilt that covered him. 'Amen! So be it!' he said, and turned to her urgently. 'Child – you know my lord of Huntly's great house down the Canon gate?'

'Huntly House – over the street from the Tolbooth? Aye, I know it fine, Father.'

'They will never think of you, a child… with a basket, maybe. Aye, a basket on your arm, when you go errands to the booths for your mother. In the morning. That is it… See, Mary – fetch me paper and quill and ink-horn from my desk. You know where they are – paper, quill, ink-horn. And quickly!'

Eyes alight, the girl ran to do his bidding.

GEORGE, 6th Earl of Huntly, Chief of Clan Gordon, Cock o' the North, principal Catholic of the realm – and now, curiously, to be the Kirk's Commendator-Abbot of Dunfermline – red-faced, haughty, arrogant, leaving his tail of five-score mounted Gordons stamping and clattering in the forecourt of Holyroodhouse, strode past all wary-eyed and circumspect guards and officers in the various palace doorways and corridors without so much as a glance. Behind him his five bonneted and plaided Gordon lairds were scarcely less proudly overbearing, hands on their broadsword hilts, so that the sixth, David Gray, wrapped in Gordon tartan and with bonnet crammed hard down over his brow, stiff and sore as he was, had great difficulty in keeping up with this fierce Highland stalking. And, Heaven knew, he did not want to fall behind, to become in any way conspicuous, to become other than just one plaid-wrapped supporter amongst six, for keen-eyed watchers, to consider. It was a blessing that these Highlanders always kept their bonnets on, save when actually in the royal presence; also that his face was still swollen and discoloured enough to be barely recognisable.