Nigel Tranter - Lord and Master

Bishop Davidson announced to Patrick that he was now a free man. The Kirk, after due and devout consideration, had decided that he had in fact never been married at all to Elizabeth Lyon.

IT was always difficult to know whether there was some sort of large-scale entertainment going on in the Earl of Orkney's apartments at Holyroodhouse, or whether it was a mere domestic evening. Orkney was so prolific of progeny and so fond of a multiplicity of female company – as indeed were his sons – that he had always sufficient members of his own establishment respectably to fill a ballroom; moreover, apart from Marie, who was so out-of-type as scarcely to seem to belong to the same family, they were all of such hearty, lusty and extrovert nature that it was seldom indeed that their quarters did not sound as though either a rout or a rape was in full progress. More dull and sober members of the royal household had long given up complaining; only solitary confinement, it had been ascertained, would change the King's uncle.

Patrick was faced with the usual problem as he strolled round Orkney's eastern wing of the palace in the September dusk. Laughter, shouting and skirling, it seemed, issued from every window. Yet it was unlikely, surely, that here was an invited company, for would anybody at Court hold such a function without seeking the exalted company of the acting Chancellor, especially Orkney who had never made any secret of his designs upon the Master of Gray as a prospective son-in-law?

Patrick slipped in through a side door, looking for a servant to ask the Lady Marie's whereabouts. He could find none; Orkney's servants tended to take after their master. One room from which he heard voices, on his opening the door, was revealed to contain two persons grovelling on the floor in extraordinary and vigorous embrace. Another he did not trouble to look into, the sound of a woman's giggles and screeches being sufficiently informative. These were the servants' quarters. He mounted the first stairway that he came to, and was promptly all but knocked over by a laughing, uproarious, stumbling trio, a young girl in front, dishevelled and all but naked to the waist, one young man behind grasping her flowing red hair and another her torn chemise. One of the gallants, Patrick recognised as a son of Orkney's; probably the other was, also. Presumably they would not be disposed, meantime, to guide him to their sister.

Not for the first time, Patrick asked himself how in the name of all that was wonderful, Marie Stewart had managed to grow up such as she was in this atmosphere.

By following the music to its source in a long picture-hung gallery, he ran Orkney himself to earth – but not just as he expected. It was the Earl indeed who was doing the fiddling, sitting at a lengthy and almost empty table of broken meats and spilt wine, over which one or two figures still sprawled. Patrick had not realised that the man had this attribute. Though obviously drunk, he was leaning back, glazed eyes fixed on a frowning painting of King Alexander the Second, and playing the instrument with great pathos and sweetness. One of his current young women leaned against his shoulder, despite her clothing managing to look extraordinarily innocent because she was asleep, and further down the table an older woman beat solemn time to the music with a slopping goblet of wine. Marie was not there. Indeed, the only other sign of life was a large wolfhound which methodically moved up the table, forepaws on the board, selectively clearing the various platters of their debris.

It was in the garden that Patrick eventually found Marie, in an arbour – and with a companion. Though the pair were only sitting on a seat together, he was profoundly shocked – infinitely more so than by any of the scenes that had presented themselves within the house. He knew the fellow – a George Ogilvie, brother to the sister's husband in Glen Prosen in Angus. He had been hanging around the Court for a while… with this as attraction?

'I beg your pardon,' Patrick announced, coldly. 'I had not realised that you were thus engaged. I will retire.'

'Why, Patrick, there is no need,' Marie assured. 'It is good to see you. We are but seldom so honoured, these days. You are so important a figure…'

'Nevertheless, I will await another occasion, I think. With your ladyship's permission!'

At his tone, she raised her fine brows, and then smiled. 'Was it myself, then, that you came to see? Or Mr. Ogilvie?'

'I can conceive of no subject which I would wish to discuss with… this gentleman,' he answered. Ogilvie, on perceiving the newcomer's identity, had started up.

'I… I shall be off, Marie'he faltered. 'A good night to you. And to you, sir.' 'No, no, George. Do not go…' Ogilvie went, nevertheless.

For a while there was silence. Patrick paced to and fro in front of Marie's seat

'If it is exercise that you came here for, Patrick, let us walk, for sweet mercy's sake!' the young woman said, a little tardy for her, rising.

He frowned, and halted. 'Not so,' he said. 'Unless you are tired of sitting? Perhaps you have been at it overlong? Perhaps you are chilled, now that he is gone?'

Unspeaking, she looked at him in the gloom.

'It may be that I should be grateful that at least you are but sitting, and not lying, as are most of your peculiar family, it seems! This Ogilvie – he is not lacking in the necessary virility, I hope?'

'Patrick – George Ogilvie is my sister's good-brother – and my good friend,' Marie said evenly. 'I would ask that you speak honestly of him in my company…if not of myself!'

'Of course, of course, my dear -I am all respect! My only hope is that I have not ruined your evening!'

'You are in a fair way to doing so, sir, I think,' she gave back. 'May I ask, had you any other purpose in your visit?'

'Nothing that need give you a moment's concern, no! Nothing that in the circumstances could do other than amuse you, Marie. I did but come once more to ask if you would marry me. So wearisome an errand, I must admit'

She turned her head away, biting her lip.

'Undoubtedly I should have sent you warning. It is thoughtless to descend upon a lady unawares! Another time, I shall remember.'

'Do,' she said swiftly. 'As no doubt you do for any of your other women – the Lady Hartrigge… Eupham Erskine… Madame de Courcelles… or even Elizabeth Arran – though perhaps she does not require warning! We all deserve a like courtesy, surely?' She took a deep breath. 'Or is it too much to ask, now that you have become so great a man, so busy? Master of all Scotland, indeed – and therefore, of course, of all its women!'

Quite suddenly Patrick laughed – and amusedly, not sourly, harshly. 'Lord, what a fool you are, Marie!' he declared. 'And myself also. Like bairns, we are!'

'A bairn – the great Lord High Chancellor of the Realm! The Master of the King's Wardrobe…'

'Aye, there you have it! Think what you have just said, girl. Does it not sound strange in your own ears? For I am not the Chancellor, but I am the Master of the Wardrobe! There is a great difference, is there not? I could be the Chancellor – yes. I act the part, for the moment But I do not seek to be the master of Scotland, see you – merely of the royal wardrobe! James has offered me an earldom, but I have refused it I am well content to be Master of Gray. I do not seek any of these things. Aye, the Wardrobe suits me very well!'

She turned to look at him. 'What signifies the name?' she asked. 'You are the master of Scotland. You have made yourself that – arid by no accident, I think. Does it matter what they call you, so long as all men do what you tell them? Even the King?'

'You dream, Marie – you dream!'

'It is true. Has not James shut up even Arran at your behest – his own favourite and familiar?' 1