Nigel Tranter - The Wisest Fool

From the background, near the doorway of Linlithgow's Great Hall, the Master of Gray came to his colleague's aid, but calmly, undramatically, as though all was a matter of course. "No call for contest, my lords," he said, coming forward. "Give me His Grace's letter, Johnnie. Her Grace, I hope will not refuse to see roe. Eh, Sandy? And I can, perhaps, persuade her to give audience to the Earl of Mar later, and hear the King's messages. A woman sick must be humoured, Johnnie." Mar grunted but no more; and Fyvie agreed eagerly.

The Hall of Linlithgow Palace was crowded as it had not been for long. The Queen's miscarriage and subsequent grievous illness had brought important folk from the four quarters of the kingdom. The Chancellor had hastened from Dunfermline, the Earl of Orkney from the West, the Master of Glamis, the Treasurer, from Angus-and now the Earl of Mar, newly arrived from England, from Edinburgh with the Master of Gray. Should the Queen die, a totally new situation would arise, with interesting permutations for those in authority. This was the fourth day after the miscarriage.

In a corner of the huge apartment, Mary Gray slipped away from George Heriot's side. "I will go warn Lady Huntly," she murmured. She had come two days before, as an Extra Woman of the Bedchamber whose services might be required.

A small group, with Fyvie and the Master of Gray, detached themselves and made for the private stairway to the Queen's apartments. Unobtrusively, Heriot followed.

Patrick Gray did not fail to notice it "Ha, Master Geordie-I heard that you came here. Promptly!" "I told you, sir, that it was to the Queen that I was sent."

"Quite. You came at a bad moment I hope that you did not, h'm, worsen it, my friend!"

Heriot could have slain the elegant Master for that-for it was precisely that thought which had dogged him for four days and nights. Had he not urged the royal visit to Stirling Castle, might this miscarriage never have occurred? It was a grevious question, and though Mary Gray, Alison Primrose, and even Lady Huntly all united in absolving him, he was not wholly reassured.

At the bedchamber door Sir Harry Lindsay, Master of the Queen's Household would have denied them entry until, in the gloomy stone corridor he recognised the Master of Gray and they exchanged quick glances. Heriot noted that exchange.

In the stifling room, Sir Hugh Herries, the royal physician, Lady Huntly, Mary Gray and Margrete Vinster, a Danish Maid-in-Waiting, stood round the great four-poster bed The Queen lay flat thereon, eyes closed.

"Your Grace-I deeply regret to disturb you," Fyvie said, low-voiced. "But…"

"I… will… not… see… Mar!" The words from the bed were weak, but measured and very definite.

"No, Highness. I told him. But this is the Master of Gray. With a letter from the King's Grace." "I do not want it Oh him."

"My Lady Anne," the Master said, at his silkiest, "as well as the letter, I bring words for your royal ear alone."

A faint negative twitch of the sweat-damp head on the crumpled pillow. "About your son, the Prince Frederick Henry."

That putting of the name Frederick first had its effect. The red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes opened, the pale lips parted just a little.

"It is hot in here, over-crowded," the Master went on pleasantly. "Sir Hugh-I think the room should be cleared. Do not you?"

Herries, who owed much, including his knighthood, to the Master of Gray, nodded, and gestured for all to leave.

The Queen's eyes turned, in sudden alarm and appeal, to George Heriot He nodded.

As most of the company moved to the door, three remained with the Master and the Chancellor-Lady Huntly, Mary Gray and George Heriot Coolly Gray eyed each of them in turn. None spoke.

"May I remind all here that there is such a body as the Privy Council," he observed, almost conversationally. "In matters of state, the authority of its members is paramount. The Chancellor, my Lord Pyvie, and my humbler self, are of His Grace's Scots Privy Council. And we would have speech with the Queen. Alone."

"I am Henrietta Stewart, and do not leave the Queen's side, for any man," the Marchioness declared briefly.

"I was sent directly to Her Grace by the King," Heriot said. "I shall leave her presence only if she wishes it" "No!" Anne jerked, surprisingly strongly. Mary Gray said nothing-but did not move.

"Very well-since it is Her Grace's wish," the Master nodded -and smiled entirely affably at them all. "Here is the letter, Your Grace. As to the Prince Frederick Henry, I know how you wish to have him in your own royal care. His Grace has seen fit to command otherwise. But in the present situation, of your sad sickness and the King's absence, we of the Privy Council who are left in Scotland, deem that His Grace's royal wishes might well bear alteration somewhat, his commands be… ameliorated. Perhaps, with your royal permission, I could persuade my friend the Earl of Mar to prevail on his lady mother to deliver to him the Prince, out of Stirling Castle. And he to bring the lad here to Your Grace at Linlithgow. It is admittedly, directly contrary to the King's orders. But I personally, with the Earl of Mar and my lord Chancellor here, would accept responsibility."

The swift indrawing of two breaths, the Queen's and Mary Gray's, drew Heriot's swift glance. With Mary he exchanged meaning looks. When he turned to the Queen, she was eyeing him with an agonised questioning, compounded of both hope and fear. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

There was a tense pause. Then Anne spoke. "No," she whispered. "No. Let him stay… where he is." That ended in a sob.

The Master's eyes narrowed, but only for a moment "As Your Grace wishes of course. But… if the Prince knows that you are ill, his mother-and I cannot think that he will not have been told, in merest humanity-then he will be anxious, desirous of seeing Your Highness."

She licked dry lips, her breathing uneven, fevered eyes searching all faces. "No," she got out. "No, no, no 1 Leave me, Master of Gray. Leave me-in God's name I"

"Go, sir-if you have any humanity of your own!" Lady Huntly cried. "Can you not see how you distress Her Grace?"

The Master bowed deeply. "As you wish, Highness. I but sought your comfort. And that of your family. Should you change your royal mind, I am at your service."

"It was meant for the best, Madam, I assure you," Fyvie asserted -and sounded honest.

Together they backed out of the presence. At the door, the Master's eyes caught George Heriot's, and they were icy cold.

The Queen dissolved into wailing, gulping tears, her weak body racked, and Henrietta threw herself bodily upon her, clutching, kissing, gabbling endearments.

Mary Gray and the man considered each other. "Tell Her Grace that she acted wisely, my lady," Mary said urgently. 'For the best The best for all. I swear it!" Then she gestured with her head towards the door.

Outside in the crowded corridor, with the Master's elegant back disappearing down the far stairway, Mary turned almost as cold a glare as that of her father on Herries the Queen's physician. "Your royal mistress needs your attention, Sir Hugh. I'd counsel you to attend better to Her Grace than to some whom you obey so readily!"

Looking abashed, the plump little doctor bobbed an unhappy bow and hurried within. Alison Primrose, waiting there, was sent in also.

Moving along to a small dressing-room where they could be alone, Mary sighed.

"That was a grievous encounter, Geordie," she said. "And near disaster. A fierce test for the Queen. I esteem her more. I think today, than ever I have done. And it was you she trusted in. Only you."

"We cannot say that. She knows that I am working with you, being guided by you."

"She does not love me. Has always doubted me. Perhaps because the King speaks well of me. So all the greater credit to you. That she trusts you so entirely, on so great an issue."