THREE people strolled by the sylvan banks of the River Eden, the noise of the chase long lost in the far-flung woodlands. Only the sounds of the forest were there; the river gurgled and chuckled, the finches chirped, cuckoos called hauntingly, endlessly, from far and near, and now and again a mallard duck would go quacking off in over-done alarm, seeking to draw attention away from her brood. For it was Spring again, the late and lovely short Spring of Scotland, and King James had returned to his beloved Falkland, where, even though the stags were not yet out of velvet, none could say that the King must not hunt them.
Of the three strollers, only David Gray, leading the horses, appeared ill at ease. The other two sauntered on ahead in apparent content – but only a very little way ahead, for the Lady Marie kept hanging back to include David in the desultory conversation. Nor did Patrick give any sign that he was otherwise minded, laughing, humming snatches of song, rallying them both, at his gayest, most relaxed, most charming.
David realised now, however, that Patrick had deliberately contrived this interlude – and presumably not for his benefit -urging Marie Stewart to take a shortcut with him to head off the stag, away from the main hunt, but soon finding themselves at the river and slowing down unhurriedly to proceed thus along its banks, dismounted. David had automatically followed his brother, since that seemed to be his destiny. Now he could have wished himself elsewhere, for he enjoyed acting neither groom nor gooseberry – though neither of the others gave the least indication that they considered him as such; indeed, it might well be that Marie was glad enough of his presence.
The three of them bore a strange relationship. Marie and David were now very good friends in their rather difficult situation, understanding and trusting each other, looking at many things in the same way. With Patrick the young woman was very different – provocative, highly critical, often downright unkind. Yet her interest in him was as undisguised as her frequent hostility. As for Patrick himself, he had pursued her in a casual and intermittent sort of way since that first meeting
at Holyroodhouse,without letting it interfere with more urgent conquests or politic wooings. Something always seemed to bring him back to her – perhaps the feet that she refused to succumb to his wiles. David, for his part, recognised that she could be an excellent influence with Patrick, but liked her too well to wish to see her just another of his brother's playthings.
A faint call, rather different from that of the cuckoos, reached them from afar – the winding of a hunting-horn.
'Another kill,' the Lady Marie observed. 'Majesty is insatiable for blood. I suppose that we should be thankful that it is only deer's blood. Myself, I quickly have enough of it!'
'Aye, men's blood may come later!' Patrick said. 'James, God help him, has much to wipe out in his twisted mind. Kings often do such, bloodily.'
He is a strange youth,' she agreed, lie could scarce be otherwise. He will not thank us for deserting his beloved chase.'
'There are better things to chase than out-of-season deer!'
'Meaning, sir?'
'Meaning that the company of a beautiful woman is to me the more potent lure.'
'I have noticed that,' she said coolly. 'Many times.'
Do you condemn me for that, Marie? In every sport does not practice make for perfection?'
'A comfort for those practised upon!' she returned. Like the King's poor stags!'
Patrick shook his dark head over her, ruefully. 'She has a curst quick tongue, has she not, Davy? She speaks you a deal more pleasantly, I've noted! How do you do it?'
'Davy does not practise on me. Or on every other woman that he sets eyes on!'
'I should say not! He has no need, you see. For our Davy is a practised galliard already. He has a most faithful wife… and two bairns born most undoubtedly in holy wedlock! Eh, Davy?'
'And you? You have the Lady Elizabeth Gray, once Lyon, have you not?'
A shadow, like a tiny cloud passing over the sun, darkened Patrick's face – but only for a moment 'Have is scarce the word, I think,' he answered, lightly. 'A marriage to a painted picture or a marble statue would reward as well! I have not so much spoken to her for three years.'
'Yet she is your wife.'
'Wife! Is that a wife? Does marriage mean so much to the daughter of Robert Stewart!'
Steadily she looked at him. 'I wondered when that would out,' she said.
Patrick bit his lip. 'I am sorry,' he declared. 'That was ill said. Unworthy.. You – you cause me to act the fool, always. It is those grey steadfast eyes of yours, I think. Accusing. So like Davy's. Always accusing. Christ God-you make a pair I It is not that…' He stopped. 'But why do I babble so – to you?' Neither of them answered him.
They walked on along the riverside path, in silence, and the cuckoos came into their own again. Marie had fallen back alongside David, to take her own horse's head.
Abruptly Patrick turned. 'A plague on you both!' he exclaimed. 'You… you have spoiled a bonny day, a bonny lightsome day!'
David moistened his lips to speak. That was not like Patrick. But the young woman forestalled him.
'I am sorry, Patrick,' she said, gravely. 'I would not have wished that.'
He looked at her searchingly, at all the slender, riding-habited, coifed grace of her, and then at his brother – for him broodingly. Then, jerking a laugh at them, he turned forward once more to his pacing.
So they continued, beneath the young green canopy of the trees, in their strange walk, thinking their own thoughts to the mocking murmur of the river. Presently the surprising Patrick was singing again, an Italian air of pathos and pride and poignancy, the notes and words dropping singly like pebbles into a deep pool, a sad thing but somehow gallant. The girl behind him nibbled at her lower lip.
Coming to a grassy bluebell-painted bank at a bend of the stream, loud with the hum of bees and the heady scent of the wild hyacinths, Patrick suddenly sat down. 'Sit here,' he invited, indeed commanded. 'These bluebells, mayhap, will warm those eyes of yours, for me. Tell me, Marie – will you come with us to France?'
In the act of sitting down, she stared at him. 'France…?' she. repeated. David still standing, had turned to look as sharply.
'Aye, France – fair and sunny France. I find that I must needs go there. Come you with us, Marie. You would bloom richly there, I vow!'
'But – I cannot do that, Patrick…'
'If it is your reputation that concerns you, my dear, bring your father with you. A sister likewise, if you wish. But Davy will be there… to look after you, never fear!'
'I think not,' David said, from the background. I have had sufficient of France. Why go you there again, Patrick? This.is sudden, is it not?'
'I go because affairs require it'
'Your affairs? The Queen's?'
'Shall we say Scotland's affairs!?'..
'You go on the King's business? As ambassador?' Marie asked.
'Not exactly. Though something of the sort may be arranged, no doubt'
'I cannot think that the Master of Gray would be a very welcome ambassador at the Court of France, of Catherine de Medici!' David mentioned. 'Not after our last hours on French soil! I'd jalouse that his errand is rather to the Duke of Guise and the Archbishop of Glasgow? Though, to be sure, I had thought that with his increased closeness to Scotland's Treasurer, my Lord Gowrie, he would have but little need of the gentry at Rheims!'
Lazily, Patrick turned to survey the brother who spoke so formally. 'Do I detect more accusation there, Davy? Man – you are so righteous, I wonder it doesna choke you! A painful affliction, it must be. Be warned, Marie – or you may grow as bad as Davy, scenting wickedness in my every move!'
'You will be spared my troubling you in France, at the least!'
'Not so, Davy. You must come. Life without you would lack all savour, I vow! Besides, Marie, I feel sure, will desire your sober guardianship…'
'Patrick, do not be foolish!' the young woman said, almost sharply. 'I cannot go to France with you – even if I would.'
'Why, my dear? What keeps you here? This Court is plaguey dull getting, you must admit Nothing but Esme posturing and duking, Arran strutting and quarrelling, and deer being chased! Even Elizabeth Tudor has decided, it seems, that we are too dull and harmless for her concern. I' faith, Scotland will be a good place to be furth of, this hunting season, I swear.'
'Even so, I cannot go with you, Patrick.'
'Ah, me – your womanly repute wins the day, eh?' He sighed, gustily. 'Then there is nothing for it – I must marry you!'
The young woman's intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. David's shock was almost as great Together they gazed at the elegantly lounging speaker, wordless.
'Come – it is not so ill a thought as that, is it?' Patrick went on, smiling. It has been done before!'
'You… you are not serious?' Marie got out, at last
'But, yes. Why not? For Patrick Gray to propose matrimony, after his former experiences, is serious indeed. As a last resort, you will understand! Will you not be the Mistress of Gray, my dear Marie, if you will not be my mistress otherwise?'
Marie turned to look at David, as though for aid, where he stood with the horses. That young man shook his head helplessly. This was quite beyond him. With Patrick, one never knew what might be in his mind; but surely he would not have made the suggestion thus, in front of David, if he had not been in earnest?
Presumably Marie thought along the same lines. 'And your wife?' she faltered. 'Elizabeth Lyon…!'
'There is the blessed dispensation of divorce or annulment You will have heard of it? If Arran can undo a knot but ten months old, what might not Patrick Gray achieve!'
She shook her head dumbly, Marie Stewart who was not usually dumbfounded.
'Come, you are a young woman who knows her mind,' he declared. 'You have spoken it to me times unnumbered. Now is the time for it – for, see you, it will be necessary to work fast!… we must be furth of Scotland within the month, at the latest'
The young woman took a deep breath. 'No,' she said.
'No? Think well, woman. It is not every day that Patrick Gray proposes marriage.'
'No,' she repeated. 'I thank you, Patrick – but no.'
Patrick leaned forward, his nonchalance for the moment forgotten. 'See, Marie,' he said. 'For your own sake, for your father's protection, you would do well to come with me, married or other. And your father with you.'
At his changed tone', she searched his face. 'I do not understand you, Patrick. How comes my father and his protection into this?'
The other paused, and then sat back, smiling again, half-shrugging. 'We all walk but delicately at this Court,' he told her. 'There are pitfalls a-many. Your father has his… unfriends.'
'Always he had those. But that is not what you meant, I think?'
He leaned over, to pat her hand, himself again. 'I meant that I would constrain you to marry me, anyhow! And you could do worse, you know, my dear. Look around you at Court – and admit that you could do worse!'
'I grant it, Patrick. But… you must go to France alone, nevertheless. I am sorry. You must be content with Davy for company'
'No' David declared firmly. 'I will not go to France again. I go back where I should never have left'
'A pox – would you have me go alone, the pair of you? With none to advise and chide me?'
Does not my lord Duke return with you?'
'Indeed, no. My lord Duke will be otherwise occupied!' Patrick rose to his feet 'It is not in me to plead with you – with either of you' he said. 'But perhaps you will change your minds. Women particularly are said to be good at it. And our esteemed Davy has sometimes a likeness to a scolding old dame! Heigho -I hope you do. But it will have to be soon, I warn you – it must needs be soon' He held out a hand to aid Marie rise. 'Come, I am tired of these cuckoos' mockery. Whom do they mock -your or me? Or just mankind?'
'I am sorry, Patrick' the young woman said.