Nigel Tranter: The Wisest Fool

"I was right-it is Master George Heriot!" a voice said, at the watcher's shoulder. "Here is a surprise. But a pleasant one."

He turned. A young woman stood there, exceedingly lovely, of a beauty which succeeded in being at the same time ethereal and somehow matter-of-fact, fragile-looking and yet quietly strong. She was dressed comparatively quietly likewise in that peacock throng, yet beside her most other women faded into insignificance, however gorgeously or provocatively gowned. She was young, still in her twenties, but the directness and serenity of her gaze was ageless.

"Ha-Mistress… Lady… er, Madam," the man said. "You are kind. And well met For I have a message for you. From the Duke of Lennox. A letter, in my baggage. A very brief one, for I left York in some haste."

'York? Is that all? Not London? And Vicky? He is well? There is nothing wrong…?" "No. All is in order, Lady… er, ma'am."

"My name is Mary Gray, and Mistress is the only style to which I have claim, sir."

He cleared his throat. This was the young woman whom the Duke would have made Duchess, but who would not marry him though she bore him a son and ran his castle of Methven; because she had known well that the King would have the marriage annulled somehow, as quite unsuitable for royalty and one so close to the throne-even the bastard of such as the Master of Gray. James had, thereafter, indeed married his only duke to a more apt bride-whatever the Lennox protests. Nevertheless, Mary Gray was made an Extra Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen, on the King's insistence; for though Anne had little love for her, James greatly admired her. She was indeed a very strong-minded and self-sufficient creature, as keen-witted as she was lovely, and quite as much a personality to be reckoned with as her remarkable father himself. "I shall go get your letter from the Duke," the man said.

'You have but arrived, Master Heriot. There is no hurry. We shall see out this present foolishness," and she nodded at the masquers. "Then you must eat and drink. Refresh yourself. For you look tired. Then I will come with you." "No need, Mistress Gray…"

"When did you last eat, sir? You have the look of a man who has ridden far and fast" "We snatched a bite at Berwick-on-Tweed…"

"Sakes-then no more standing here looking at mummery 1" She took his arm. "Come." "No, no. I can wait, very well. See out the play-acting."

"Nonsense! Watching men old enough to know better enjoying themselves in a public spectacle is no occupation for a hungry belly!" She drew him after her, into the transverse corridor which led through to a twin gallery, with tables laden with food and drink, and all but deserted save for a few determined drinkers, one already on the floor, overcome, and a servitor or two.

"Her Grace-I do not see her?" Heriot asked. "I must make my presence known, pay my respects. It is to her, of course, that I am sent"

"Ha!" She looked at him quickly. 'The Queen is not here, sir. She has gone to the Palace of Iinlithgow. To be nearer Stirling and her son. And her daughter with the Livingstones. The King- His Grace sends you back to the Queen? He is… concerned?"

Noting the sudden change in her tone, the underlying urgency, the man spoke carefully, "He is ever concerned for his wife and consort Should he have especial reason to be, at this juncture, Mistress?"

"Who knows?" she replied. "See, sir-eat. Here is a capon. Or a duck? Tear me off a leg and I will join you. Wine-do not wait for the servitors. When my father's foolishness in there is over, they will all be in here like a cloud of locusts. Eat while you may."

Nothing loth, he set to, while the young woman bit into a cold capon's leg with pearly teeth, cheerfully.

"Mistress Gray," he said, between mouthfuls, "I do not understand. If the Queen is not here, why this present festivity? What is it about? And on whose authority? In the King's royal palace."

"Well may you ask, sir! This is the third such since you left. I fear that you need not look far for the reason. On the contrary. The Master of Gray is still Master of the Wardrobe and in the absence of the King and Queen he is responsible for the palaces." "But-the cost…?"

"Should the cost concern my father, Master Heriot? Since he does not pay for it!"

"The Master of Gray does naught without reason. I think. He is no foolish spendthrift irresponsible He must have a purpose in it."

"It may be so. He has not confided it to me. Perhaps you should ask him" He chewed in silence for a little.

"The Master of Gray has, I think, a grudge against the King," he said at length. "For sending him back, at Berwick. Not taking him on to London. It was… less than kindly done. Could this have to do with it, think you?"

"Spending the King's money on riotous living? I reckon Patrick Gray apt to fly higher than that!" "M'mmm. You are his daughter, and should know!"

A triumphant burst of music, followed by cheering, heralded the end of the current performance in the Throne Gallery. "Now for the flood!" Mary Gray said.

Sure enough, like pent-up waters released, the noisy, fashionable, over- or under-dressed throng came pouring through. And in the forefront of the first wave came no other than the Master of Gray himself, just as he had left the play-acting, naked but for his goatskin trews, cod-piece and horse, a bevy of laughing women with him-not the shepherdesses these but ladies of the Court and guests, seeming to be anxious not to be denied the experiences of their Arcadian sisters.

Patrick Gray, all lissome, smiling masculinity, came straight to George Heriot and his daughter.

"Jinglin' George Heriot, by all that's wonderful," he cried, genially. "Welcome to our little celebration! How good to see you. I perceived you when I was cavorting back there. And Mary here carrying you off."

"Then you have sharp eyes, sir. You appeared to me to be fully engaged otherwhere!"

"Ah, yes. But one can see the hawk as well as the quarry!" Pleasantly but firmly, effectively, he got rid of the ladies for the moment, playfully smacking sundry silken bottoms and promising later attentions. "And where have you sprung from, Master George?" "York," the other answered, briefly.

"York? Then you have ridden hard, my friend. For the royal train only arrived there on Saturday."

Heriot's brows rose. "How did you know that, sir? You are well-informed."

Gray made a smilingly dismissive wave of the hand. Despite all his recent very lively activities, his breathing was wholly under control, his splendid torso heaving only the merest fraction more than normal. A man of medium height and slender build, his body was as beautifully proportioned as his features were fine, and clearly at a high pitch of fitness.

"The Master of Gray is always well informed," his daughter said calmly. "It is ever something one has to take into account."

Heriot glanced at her – That was rather curiously put, by a daughter of her father, even in such an unusual relationship as this. "I did not daunder," he admitted. "And so your business, in returning, must have been urgent?" 'The King's business is always urgent, is it not, sir?" The Master eyed him thoughtfully. "His Grace is well? No mishaps? The progress satisfactory-if slow" "All satisfactory, yes."

Mary Gray tinkled a little laugh. "Information is of more than one sort," she commented.

"I would be glad to have a little information myself, sir," Heriot said evenly. "I found the Lord Lindores in my bed when I arrived at my rooms here in the Palace. Not alone! He declares that you gave him my quarters."

"Ah, Patrick Leslie does get himself into extraordinary situations," the Master observed easily. "No harm in him-but injudicious, shall we say?" He looked round him, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "In bed, you say? Hush, then-for one of these delightful creatures who brought me here is the Lady Lindores, my wife's sister. Who knows whether she would… approve! But-better that she did not hear of it from us."