Nigel Tranter - Lord and Master

Well might Elizabeth Tudor insist that she should never set eyes on her.

' Robert, she cried, pronouncing the name in French fashion, 'You are an old man! What have they done to you, mon cher Robert! Your belly is enormous!'

Orkney guffawed, but even he was not unaffected. He could find no words. He looked at her – but later had to ask Patrick how she had been dressed. She was indeed all in black, save for white lace at neck and wrists, and wore no jewellery, the black velvet threadbare and mended. But how she was clad was quite unimportant, irrelevant, with Mary Stuart's beholders – however fond she was of clothes. What she wore was seldom noticed at the time.

Laughing warmly, the Queen turned to her niece. 'And this -this can be none other than ma petite Marie, my namesake? So fair, so true, so douce! My dear, let me kiss you. I swear that you are the prettiest thing that these eyes have seen for long years. Ah me, once I was like you. And behold me now!'

'You… Your Grace.' In face of that unlooked for sparkle and lively humour, the younger woman could only stammer. She curtsied, for her, clumsily. It seemed incredible that Mary should still laugh, after all the years of sorrow and prison.

The Queen's extraordinary eyes rested on Patrick, and changed expression. 'So-o-o! For once rumour has not lied,' she murmured. "The Master of Gray is even more beautiful than has been told me. Is all else likewise true, I wonder?'

He sank down on one satin knee, to kiss her hand. 'Madam' he said thickly. And again, 'Madam.' He bowed his head. 'Accept my… my devotion.' That was not like Patrick Gray.

'I do accept it, sir – for I need all such, direly. But that you know as well as I do.' She raised him up. 'I thank you for coming. For achieving what few others have done these endless years – this meeting with friends from Scotland.'

She turned to David. 'Who is this brave one who stands so surely on his two feet?'

'He is David Gray, Highness. Secretary to this embassage. Brother to myself as the Lord Robert is to you.'

'Ah. Another son of my good friend, your father. And a very different son, I vow! But, pardieu, I would not have thought him a secretary! Eh, Master Beal?' There was flashing scorn in that last – but not for David.

As in a dream he took her proffered hand He did not sink down on his knee. He did not even bow. Nor did he speak, nor raise that hand to his hps. He merely stood and looked his adoration, his worship, lips parted

Brilliantly the Queen smiled on him, and the hand which he clutched stirred and slid up to touch his face, briefly, lightly. 'Yes, very different, mon cher,' she repeated softly. And then, in another voice, 'Come,' she commanded

They followed her into a sitting-room of modest dimensions and scant fiirnishing, where another lady sat stitching in the autumn sunshine at a window. The company all but filled the apartment As though noting it, the Queen turned

'Mr. Beal, and you. Sir Edward – you may retire,' she said, all regal suddenly.

"That is not possible, Madam,' Beal declared, in his rasping voice. 'We must stay.'

'Unbidden, sir? In a lady's chamber? Any lady's chamber?'

'It is the Queen's command'

'The Queen? Ah yes, of course – the Queen. My sister is ever… thoughtful.' She shrugged, Gallic fashion. 'The Lady

Melville will entertain you, then, gentlemen.' 1

The woman at the window, Sir Andrew's wife, rose and came oyer to the Englishmen – Beal brushed her aside with a wave of his hand, however, and continued to eye the Queen.

'You have not long, Madam,' he warned "These gentlemen needs must return to Derby forthwith.'

Wotton had the grace to look uncomfortable, and to mutter apologies.

Mary ignored them both thereafter, as though they were not present She turned to Orkney. 'How is my son, Robert?' she asked. 'How fares James – my poor James?'

'Och, me laddie does well enough,' her half-brother told her, grinning. 'He warstles his way towards manhood… o' a sort!'

'He grows the man? He is tall? Fair? Ofa noble countenance? Mort dieu, to think that I must ask the aspect of my own son! Whom does he favour? Does he favour Henry, or rather myself?'

Orkney guffawed. 'God kens whom he favours, Ma'am. No' your own self, and that's a fact Maybe he has something o' auld Lennox to him – yon slippit mouth and gangling gait… '

'His Grace is not tall, Madam, but his proportions are adequate,' Marie put in hurriedly, 'and his eyes are very fine -Stewart's eyes. He is the most learned youth in the land, and of great talents.' She knew that she gabbled, but could not help herself. Indeed, it seemed utterly impossible that this superlative, radiant creature should be mother to the shambling, sly and frightened James. 'He reads the Latin, Greek and Hebrew. He writes poetry…'

'But not to me, alas,' the Queen interposed sadly.

'His Highness sent his most devoted filial greetings, Your Grace,' Patrick announced. 'He assures you of his duty and affection. And he would have you to know that he does all in his power for the easement of your situation and the improvement of your state.'

'I am happy to hear ft, sir,' Mary mentioned, a little dryly. 'It would seem to be a prolonged process!'

'It is, yes, unfortunately, Madam – with the fate of realms in the scales. But, at last, the clouds open and the way becomes clear. Your Highness may take heart. Your long and weary vigil is like to be nearly over.'

'Do you say so, Master of Gray? Ah, how often have I heard that before! Ma foi – soon now, this one assures me. Wait but a little longer, another says. And I have waited – aye, le bon Dieu knows how I have waited…!'

'I also know it, Highness – we all do. But this time, it is different. I… we come direct from Her Grace of England. The King, your son, gave us full power to treat and negotiate. And at last we have something that Queen Elizabeth desires, something that Scotland may treat with.' Patrick's glance flickered over to where Wotton and Beal stood.

Mary looked in that direction also. 'But does Elizabeth desire that I ever return to Scotland? Indeed, does my son, sir?'

Patrick coughed. 'It may be that Scotland is not the next step for you, Madam. It may be that meantime you should, look southwards rather than north, for your freedom I believe that Your Grace loves France second only a little to Scotland?'

The Queen's lovely glowing eyes looked deep into Patrick's own. 'I think that you should speak me plain, Master of Gray -in especial if, as these gentlemen of England say, we have but little time. What is this of France? And what that my sister of England desires, which Scotland may give?' Though that was said calmly, there was no doubting the tension behind the words.

Patrick took a long breath. Seldom had Marie seen him less master of a situation, less at ease. He picked his words with obvious care. 'The King, Madam, proposes a, h'm, limited Association in the Scottish Crown.'

'Limited? I first proposed such Association. Limited in what, sir?'

'A sharing of the style and address, Your Grace. Also of certain revenues – in a due proportion, of course. With mutual powers in the granting of titles of honour, appointments of patronage…'

These are fripperies, sir -pouf, mere nothings!' The Queen interrupted, with an expressive gesture. 'What of the rule and governance of my kingdom?'

Patrick moistened his lip. 'That, His Grace and Council have decided, must meantime be left to himself. Neither the Kirk, nor Her Grace of England, will consider it otherwise. It is…'

'Sacrebleu – you come to me with this! This insult! I am to yield all my rights and powers as ordained monarch to my son, a youth not yet of age, at the behest of the ministers of the Kirk and the Queen of England? How think you of me, Master of Gray? How thinks my son of me? Do I seem a shadow, a ghost? Look at me, sir. What do you see? A cipher? Or a fool?'