Nigel Tranter: Lord and Master

The high defensive causeway was some two hundred yards above them. Nearer than this, under the last of the scattered trees, they dared not go. They were taking all too great a risk even to be here, though probably only David considered that aspect of the matter. The pacing guards up on the castle battlements could hardly fail to see them, just as would a myriad eyes that might peer from all those windows at the other end of the causeway. Undoubtedly they would have been better, wiser, to have left Edinburgh before the city gates shut the night before. Waited somewhere on the road to Leith…

The dense mass of horsemen that could be seen waiting up there outside the portcullis gatehouse was reassuring, of course – even though they had no interest in, represented no security for the little family, bunched, all packed and ready to ride, beneath the trees. They were armed Gordons, save for the few of Erroll's Hays, and the sound of their confident, laughing, north-country voices came clearly down to the anxious group, so that David, beneath his breath, cursed all arrogant boastful Highlanders, who must thus draw attention to themselves and what was toward so early in the morning.

Would they never come? Had anything gone wrong, in there within the castle, where so much might well go wrong? Was the Governor refusing to release his prisoner, despite the royal pardon? Was he trying to get word out to Maitland or the lords -though how could he achieve that, past the barrier of Gordons? It could not be that they were, in fact, too late? That James had resiled, gone back on his signature – or revealed the whole matter to his Ministers? And Patrick already disposed of, in his cell? Surely, if that had been so, he himself would have been arrested and silenced before this?

Apparently stolid, steadfast, but inwardly seething, David wondered for how long he could prevent himself from snapping at his small son to be quiet, to be still; how far they might already have progressed on the long road to Stirling and Perth and Castle Huntly, had only Erroll and Huntly not lain so late in their noble beds? The city gates would have been open now for well over an hour…

For all his seeming inattention, young Patrick's keen eyes first perceived the increased agitation and stir up amongst the horsemen by the gatehouse, and his voice proclaimed the fact shrilly. The eddying of the riders around the end of the drawbridge must surely mean that somebody had just crossed it, emerged from the gatehouse archway. The press of Gordons hid any actual view of this.

There is the Lady Marie,' Mary's quiet but vibrant voice announced 'See – her red cloak.'

Above the noise and commotion up there, a great laugh sounded clearly – Huntly's laughter.

They have come out,' Mariota whispered 'Is… is Patrick there?'

David did not answer her.

The mass of Gordons was now circling round, manoeuvring, forming up into some sort of a column, all with infuriating leisureliness and lack of urgency. To see them, one would have said that nobody up there had a care in the world – or that it lacked only three short hours until the appointed time of Patrick Gray's execution.

Then, as the cavalcade began to string out, to ride slowly down the narrow causeway, not even at a trot, a great banner rose at the head of them-the three golden boars' heads on blue, of Gordon – and, to the horrified eyes and ears of David Gray at least, the reason for this deliberate and unhurried progress became evident, as a couple of strutting, puffing pipers came pacing out in front of all, blowing their shrieking, skirling instruments to the ears of all Edinburgh, and thus, to the challenging triumphant strains of The Cock o' the North, led the long procession down towards the city. A less discreet and expeditious rescue operation could scarcely be conceived.

They could see Patrick now, riding alongside, Marie slighter-seeming than most of his burly, plaided escort, hatless, his dark curls blowing in the breeze. A lump rose in David's throat at the sight He seemed to be laughing and chatting vivaciously, with Huntly, who rode just in front

Slowly, in time to that most insolent Gordon march, they came on. Young Patrick was now singing his own monotonous version of the song at the pitch of his lungs.

As they came nearer, Marie could be seen to be pointing down the steep slope towards the little waiting party, drawing Patrick's attention. They saw him gazing, and then a hand rose in salute.

The boy shouted, Mary waved vigorously, Mariota's hand rose to her throat, her mouth.

They came on. Again Patrick raised his hand, looking down.

Mariota this time whipped off the kerchief that bound her hair, and flapped it Her son all but fell off his horse in his enthusiasm. Mary was smiling, moist-eyed.

The cavalcade was at the nearest point of the causeway to the watchers, now, no more than a couple of hundred yards away. Patrick was half-turned in his saddle, leaning over, his eyes fixed on them. It seemed almost as though he was going to rein in his horse, to turn down to them – but the causeway had a vertical stone ramp, and was moreover protected by a formidable cheval-de-frise of iron spikes. The arm that had remained raised in salute, slowly sank.

Mariota sobbed in her throat, and turned to David. He sat still, immovable.

Patrick could not delay. All the Gordon cohort pressed on at his back. His mount, inevitably, moved on, away. He had to turn ever further round in his saddle. At his side Marie was waving and waving. He shouted something, and his hand half-rose again, but his words were indistinguishable against the bagpipes' shrilling and the beat of hooves.

'Davy-oh, Davy!'Mariota whispered.

Patrick was carried onwards, his whole slender body now twisted to face the rear. His handsome features were only a blur at that distance, but his entire posture and bearing were eloquence itself. In a few moments the riders behind him would block the line of vision between him and the group below. He raised both hands, not up as before but out, back behind him, open-palmed, towards his brother – and so rode.

David sat like stone, although the knuckles of his fists, clenched on his horse's reins, gleamed whiter than ivory. Then, gradually, one of those fists loosened, relaxed its grip, and slowly, quiveringly, lifted. It was as though it rose of its own volition, but hardly, against the man's will, until it was high above his head, open, no longer a fist, and so remained.

There was no drowning Patrick's shout, then, high-pitched, ringing, exultant, as his own hands shot up above his dark head, to clasp there, and shake, and unclasp and clasp again. They saw Marie's arm reach out, to her husband's shoulder. And then the horsemen at their back came between to hide them both.

In silence the family group sat now, watching as the front of the cavalcade reached the end ofthe causeway and was swallowed up amongst the high frowning tenements – or not quite silence, for Mariota was sobbing frankly, openly.

David moistened his lips twice, thrice, before he could find words. And even then his voice was curiously uneven, broken, for so stern-faced a man. 'Why… why are you crying, my dear?' he asked. 'What is there to weep for? All is… well, is it not?'

The strangled choking sound that Mariota produced might have signified anything or nothing.

David reached out his equally uncertain hand, to stroke her hair. 'Very well, is it not?' he repeated. 'He is safe, now. None will snatch him from Huntly's care, before Leith. He has his life. He will do very well in France… will the Master of Gray!

She nodded, blowing her nose.

'And we… we shall do very well, too. At Castle Huntly, my dear. Very well. No more cities and courts and statecraft for us! You were right. I should never have left Castle Huntly. We shall do finely – leading our own life, at last' His voice strengthened. 'Rob Powrie is past stewarding. I shall steward Castle Huntly hereafter. My lord promised it. We shall be very happy, Mariota my dear – the four of us. It is what was meant to be – for we are simple country folk, you and I.'