How strange, frequently, are the things that drive men to a change of course, to active intervention in this cause or that small unimportant things, it may be, where greater issues have failed to do so. Thus it was with David Gray. When the Court of the King of Scots moved to Stirling for the winter of 1583 – where Arran had obtained the Keepership of the Castle, in room of the forfeited Johnny Mar, and even had himself appointed Provost of the town, so that he had all things under his hand – Patrick wrote to his brother, apparently anxious to forgive and forget all, requesting that he come thither to be with him again, as secretary, where he would be most useful He promised that he would find life at Court more amusing than heretofore. David refused.
Thereafter, the Lady Marie wrote, also from Stirling. She had been weak, she admitted, and had returned to Court Should she have been strong, rather, and remained to be snowed-up for the winter in Glen Prosen? Was hiding oneself away strength? Anyway, here she was, back with her father and brothers. She was no politician, but even to her it was evident that the course which the new regime was taking boded ill for Scotland, a course in which her father was becoming deep implicated – Arran's course. Arran was acting Chancellor of the Realm now, claiming that Argyll was too sick and old for his duties. He was behaving disgustingly with James, corrupting him blatantly, unashamedly, before all – and accepting bribes, through his wife, from any and every man who had a favour to gain from the Crown. He was attacking the Kirk, selling more bishoprics, and giving the bishops power over the presbyteries, bolstering their authority by getting the Estates to declare James, and therefore himself, supreme in matters spiritual as well as temporal. Refusal to submit to the bishops, appointed in the King's name, was branded as treason. So Arran sought to hold more power in his hands than any man had ever done in Scotland. Free speech was being put down everywhere, the Catholics were being advanced, and there was talk of leagues with France and Spain and the Pope. And all the while, Patrick, whom she was convinced could have greatly affected events for the better, sat back and smiled and played the gallant – and did nothing. It was maddening, she wrote. The man who could, if he would, save the King and the country, scarcely lifted a hand, save to bedeck himself toss dice, organise a masque, or pen a poem. Would Davy, whom she was assured had more influence with his brother than anyone else alive} not come to be with him again? There had been a quarrel, she believed – and could guess the cause. But Patrick loved him, she was certain, and wanted him at his side. Needed him, she declared. What good might he not achieve there, Patrick being as he was? Would he not come?
Briefly, firmly, if kindly enough, David penned his refusal.
At Yuletide.. Patrick, laden with gifts, came again to Castle Huntly, in his sunniest mood. To David he could not have been more kind, more friendly, bringing him a handsome and costly rapier as present He urged that he return to Court with him, where the King himself, he averred, frequentily asked for him, and where undoubtedly, if Davy so desired, some office or position could easily be procured for him. Lord Gray, privately, added his own plea – indeed, it was more like a command – declaring that he would feel a deal happier about Patrick's activities if David was apt to be at his shoulder. David, dourly setting his jaw, declared that he hated the idle artificial life of the Court, with its posturings and intrigues. He preferred to continue as dominie, and assistant to Rob Powrie, the steward.
And then, a mere remark, a casual reference made by a passing visitor to my lord, changed it all. This caller, a minister of the Kirk, on his way from Stirling to his charge at Brechin, mentioned amongst other gloomy forebodings and wrathful indictments, that that Jezebel, Arran's Countess, now went brazenly bedecked in the jewels that belonged to Mary the imprisoned Queen, the King's mother.
Within twenty-four hours thereafter, David's mind was made up and he told Mariota firmly, determinedly, that he must leave her for a while. Mary Queen of Scots reigned yet, in some measure.
It would have been difficult satisfactorily to explain David's intensity of loyalty and regard for the unhappy Queen, to his wife or anyone else. He had never seen her. Most of what he had heard of her had been ill, critical, indeed scurrilous. She had been Elizabeth's prisoner now for fifteen years, all his understanding life, and her legendary beauty could hardly have survived. He was strongly Protestant though not bigoted, where she was insistently Catholic. Yet David, as well as many another in Scotland, still accorded her his unfailing loyalty and deep sympathy. He looked on her infinitely more as his true sovereign than he did her son James. All her hectic life – and ever since, indeed – Mary had that curious faculty of arousing and sustaining devotion in men, a devotion quite unaffected by her own morals, behaviour or follies. She was of the same mould as Helen and Deirdre and Cleopatra. At the word that the Countess of Arran had appropriated her jewels, the sober and level-headed David Gray overturned his oft-reinforced decision, packed his bags, and left wife and home to seek to do he knew not what Perhaps it was but the last straw? Perhaps it had required but this? And was it so surprising? In Scotland, men had died for her by the score, the hundred, and even her enemies had been driven to their most virulent spleen for fear of themselves being lost in complete subjection to her allure. John Knox himself was half-crazed with desire for her. And in England a steady stream of devotees had gone to the block for her, some the highest in the land, ever since the fateful day of her immurement Hence, partly, Elizabeth's cold hatred and fear.
It was a blustery day of March when David rode over the high-arched bridge across the stripling Forth, and into Stirling town. A very different Stirling this from formerly, with every house full with the overflow of the Court, bustle, gaiety and extravagance on all hands, soldiers everywhere – for Arran, as newly-appointed Lieutenant-General of the royal forces, was enlisting manpower determinedly – lordlings, hangers-on, men-at-arms, loose women. It reminded David of the Guises' Rheims.
He made his way up to the great fortress that soared above the town, and had less difficulty in entering therein than he had anticipated. The Master of Gray's name opened all doors.
He found the Court in a state of excitement and stir that surely could not be its normal even under the new regime. Enquiries elicited the startling information that Walsingham was on his way, no further away than Edinburgh, in fact – Sir Francis Walsingham himself, the most feared name in England now that Burleigh was growing old, Elizabeth's cold, ruthless and incorruptible principal Secretary of State. What his visit boded, none knew – but that he had come himself as envoy could only indicate that the matter was of the gravest importance. None could deny that
Patrick, when David ran him to earth, writing letters in a pleasant tapestry-hung room with a blazing log-fire, and facing out to the snow-clad Highland hills, did not seem in the least perturbed. He jumped up from his desk, and came forward, hands outstretched.
'Davy! My excellent and exemplary Davy!' he cried. 'How fair a sight is your sober face! I am glad to see you -I am so!'
That sounded genuine enough. David nodded dumbly, always at a loss for words on such occasions.
'What brings you, Davy? Love of me?' He did not await an answer. 'Whatever it is, you are welcome. For yourself – and also for this. Look!' He gestured at the littered table. 'Letters, letters. My pen is never idle.'
'Aye. But even so, there are letters that you would never let me write for you, I think, Patrick!5
'What of it?' his brother shrugged. There are plenty that I would. What brought you here at last, Davy?'
The other did not answer that.They say, out there, that the English Secretary. Walsingham, is coming here. Is it so?'
'Aye, true enough. What of it?'
'Elizabeth must have something strong to say, to send that man!' 'No doubt'
'It does not concern you?'
'Should it, Davy? It is not I who have to answer him.'
David looked at his brother, brows puckered. 'I do not understand you,' he said, shaking his head. 'Even yet – after all these years. To be in so deep, yet to care so little. Ever to move others, and always to remain yourself untouched. What is it that you want, Patrick? What do you seek, from your life?'
'Why, Davy – why so portentous? Should I tear my hair because others do? Because the King bites his nails and pleads not to have to see Walsingham? That is Arran's business, not mine. He acts the Chancellor…'
'Aye – what is your business, then? Once I believed that it was to save our poor Queen. To get her out of Elizabeth's power. That is why I aided you. But what have you done for her? For Mary? La all these years when your hand has been behind so much that goes on in Scotland? Nothing! Nothing, save to write her letters, and spend her money! Aye, and prevent her envoy from having audience with her son! And all the while she rots there, in prison, while you who were to succour her, grow rich, powerful. And now, 'fore God, even this painted woman of Arran's struts and prinks, they say, in the Queen's jewels! It is not to be borne!'
'I' faith, Davy – here is an outcry indeed ' Patrick said softly, staring at the other. It was not often that David gave himself away so quickly, so completely. 'I do believe that is it! That is what has brought you. The Honeypot still draws, attracts – eh? Astonishing! Our staid and sensible Davy…!'
'My lord says that you have brought back a further six thousand gold crowns of the Queen's revenues, from France!' David interrupted him harshly. That means that she still trusts you – or her servants do.'
'So – our hither has heard that, has he? And passed it on. How… inadvisable! I wonder whence he got it?
'Why did they give you it? What do you intend to do with it, Patrick? Apart from lining your own pockets…?'
Have a care, Davy – have a care! I do not like your questions.'
'Nor I. But that is what I came to ask, nevertheless. Someone, it seems requires to ask them. Someone who is not afraid of you…'
'So you are the Queen's champion – self-appointed? Davy Gray is to be accounted to, for the Queen's moneys? De Guise and the Archbishop and Morgan her Treasurer trust me to expend it aright, for Mary's best interests – but not Davy Gray!'
These others do not know you as I know you, Patrick…'
'Do you know me? Have you not just finished saying that you do not! That you do not understand me, do not know what it is I want? Yet you would interfere in what is no concern of yours…'
'She is my Queen, as much as yours, brother. If I can do aught for her, here at your shoulder…'
David stopped as the door burst open without warning. King James himself came shambling into the room, rich clothes untidily awry, big eyes unsteadily rolling and darting. 'Patrick, man – what are we to do? What…?' At sight of David, he halted, his slack lower jaw falling ludicrously. 'Guidsakes – it's you again, Master Davy! Davy Gray. I didna ken you were in Stirling. What brings you, Davy…? Och – but no' the now. No' the now.' James turned back to Patrick. 'What are we to do with the man, Patrick? With this Walsingham? I'll no' see him. Jamie says I must – but I'll no'. I willna see him, I tell you!' The slurring voice rose high. He's a terrible man. They say he's like any blackamoor. Yon woman's sent him to glower at me. I'll no'
be glowered at! I'll no' see him…' '
The tall figure of the Earl of Arran appeared in the open doorway behind the King, frowning. He was somewhat more stout than when David had last seen him, and despite his campaigning and lieutenant-generalship, looking less the soldier. He showed no enthusiasm at David's presence, and did not trouble to acknowledge it.
'It is you that he comes to see. Sire, assuredly,' he said, as though in continuation of a discussion. 'Let him glower, I say -glowering will not hurt It is his message from his Queen that must needs concern us…'
'No, I'll no' do it, Jamie!' The King beat a fist on the table. 'Man, Patrick – you will see him for me, will you no'? Yon Walsingham gars me gruel Sir Jamie Melville says he's no' human.'
'Tush, James…!'
'I shall be there, of course, Your Grace,' Patrick said easily, soothingly. 'But I would not dream of cheating my lord of Arran out of the honour that is his!' He turned to the other man. 'My lord, I think that His Grace has the rights of it Better that ' you should see Walsingham, than His Highness. Undoubtedly Elizabeth has sent him to overawe us, to browbeat the King. It would be suitable and dignified, therefore, that His Grace should not see him, should keep him at arm's length, lower his English pride a little.'
'Aye, Patrick, aye. That is right'
He will demand an audience, Gray-it is his right And stay until he gets it'
'Not so. Not if His Grace is not here! A prolonged hunting-match, for instance? A tinchel. Into Atholl and the north. Under good and sufficient escort, of course. The deer are not in season – but, heigho, that has happened before, has it not? I think that Walsingham will hardly follow His Grace into the Highlands.'
'God be good Patrick sright!' the King cried 'Our Patrick's aye right, Jamie.' 'M'mmm,' that lord said doubtfully. 'When will I go, Patrick? Now?'
'Why not, Sire? The sooner the better. So soon as the escort can be mustered If you go at once, Your Grace can be at Perth by the time that Walsingham gets here.'
'Aye, Perth. Yon's the place for me this night Perth.'
'You will not, h'm, be lonely? Overnight, Sire?' Patrick asked solicitously, but with a wicked glance at Arran.
'No, no. I'll bide with Murray o' Tullibardine at yon Scone I gave him – Gowrie's Scone.' At the thought of Gowrie, James blinked. 'Man, Jamie, you'll get me a right strong escort? I'm no' for having more o' yon Ruthven business. Yon Gowrie's running free. Patrick got me to pardon him. I shouldna have done it…'
'Do not fear, Sire-I will see to your safety. If you go…'
'Oh, aye – I'm going. And you'll see to Walsingham, Jamie. Use him strongly, mind – strongly.'
'Exactly,' Patrick murmured. 'Strongly is the word.'
'But no' too strongly, mind,' James amended, nibbling his Up. 'We dinna want yon woman… we dinna want our good cousin Elizabeth ower put out, mind. We are her heir, mind, and… and…'
'Precisely, Sire – and she must be encouraged publicly to acknowledge you as such.' Patrick stroked his silky dark curls back from his face. 'I think that it should not be difficult for my lord of Arran to put Master Walsingham in his place, and at the same time avoid offending his mistress.'
'How, man?' Arran demanded bluntly.
'Her Majesty of England is greatly fond of jewels, Sire. As fond of jewels as she is of young and handsome men. She uses both alike – to toy with, and adorn herself!'
'Aye, but…'
'A superlatively handsome jewel, Sire, as a gift. Hand that to Master Walsingham to give to her, and I swear Elizabeth will overlook his humbling quite! Such a toy as, say, yon great ruby ring in your royal mother's casket' Patrick glanced quickly at David. 'I do not think that my Lady Arran has it on loan, as yet! Used thus, I vow, it will serve a better purpose than lying in a box.' That undeniably was addressed to his brother, not the King.
'Aye. Fine, fine! Man, Patrick – you think on everything, I swear,' James exclaimed. 'Let it be done so. I… we give our royal authority. Now – I had best be off, had I no'…
Arran tugged at his beard. 'You think that such will serve, Gray?'
'Assuredly. It is a most notable jewel. A gift of his late Holiness of Rome, if I do not mistake. Which should commend it the more to her Protestant Majesty of England! She will take it to her bed with her, I'll wager!'
How know you Elizabeth Tudor so well, Gray? Arran demanded narrow-eyed.
Patrick smiled. 'I have good friends who tell me…much, my lord.'
'Aye' well – here's no time for blethers' the King declared agitatedly. 'I must be awa'. Jamie – my escort…'
Arran looked at Patrick. 'You will be there, Gray, with me, when I receive Walsingham?'
'But of course, my friend – we shall all be there. Save only His Grace. All the Court Receive him before all, at the ball tonight So shall you humble him the more publicly – and therefore the more deeply.'
'Before all…? Not a private audience?' Arran stared and then slapped his thigh.'Aye my God – you are right! That is the way to treat Walsingham the black snake! A pox on him – 'I'll do it!'
'Aye, then. Come, Jamie…' the King said, plucking at Arran's sleeve.
Patrick bowed low as the monarch hurried his acting Chancellor out of the room and down the twisting stone stairway.
As he straightened up, he caught his brother's eye, and one eyelid drooped gently.
'What… what did you there?' David asked moistening his lips.
'Me? I but preserved one of your poor Queen's jewels from the clutch of Lady Arran… for a better purpose. And ensured an amusing and instructive evening!' he replied lightly. 'It all ought to prove an entertainment indeed – and vastly improve upon the ball that I had planned. One ball is so plaguey like another, isn't it? You chose your day to return to Court well, Davy. Now…' He shook his head over his brother's apparel. 'As usual, I must needs find something for you to wear. Where, in the fiend's name, do you get your clothing, man? Let me see…' Patrick paused. 'But, first -I had forgotten.' He rang a silver bell that stood on his table. 'It will not do to neglect the ladies…'
In a few moments a youth came running down the turnpike stair from the floor above, a handsomely-clad page, who eyed David superciliously.
'Will, down to the town with you, and request Deacon Graham the goldsmith attend on me forthwith. Forthwith, you understand? Oft with you. Oh… er… request him to bring some of his trinkets with him, Will. Small things. Off' Patrick turned back to his brother. 'Who would not be a goldsmith? The ladies, bless their hearts., ensure that such folk are ever prosperous!' He sighed gustily. 'Ah, me – they cost me dear, the darlings. But then, I have not your faculty for instilling devotion by merely looking stern, Davy! Come, and we shall see what the royal wardrobe can do for you… since I am its Master…!'
A distinctly nervous and britde gaiety filled the great audience-chamber of Stirling Castle – the same vast hall in which the brothers Gray had first clapped eyes upon their King, and which had witnessed the first chapter in Morton's downfall It was packed, tonight, with a colourful and noisy throng – if the nobility of Scotland could so be described. Few had seen Walsingham, as yet, but all knew that he was in the Castle somewhere, and his name was on every Up, the shadow of the man who was reputed to have the largest spy system in the world at his disposal lay over all the assembly. The fact that the King had left in a hurry, for the north, was also known to all, and two added promptly to two. Arran, dressed at his most extravagantly gorgeous, was very much master of all – just so, it might be said, his wife was mistress of all Undoubtedly his lordship had fortified himself from the bottle. Patrick, who had arranged this evening's entertainment, like so many another, strolled apparently at aimless ease, greeting all, yet was never very far from Arran.
David watched the scene from a corner, and looked for Marie Stewart
Whoever else was concerning themselves with the impending arrival of Walsingham, the Countess of Arran was not Perhaps she believed that she had the wherewithal to tame even him. David eyed her, in astonishment. Once, in France he had been shocked to watch his brother dancing with a woman, whose dress left one nipple exposed. But this woman flaunted both of hers. And deliberately, provocatively, using them to keep all men's eyes turning her way. She was a much less beautiful woman than many who were present there, though magnificently built and shaped, but there was no question as to who caused most distraction – in both sexes, though distraction of a differing sort It was not only the exposure of her body that counted, but her entire attitude, carriage, expression – blatant indeed yet potent too, and so assured.
David by no means escaped the impact, despite his disapproval. Presently the lady espied him in his corner, and came directly across to him, all smiles.
'Davy Gray!' she cried. 'I did not know that you were back at Court, You are welcome, I vow! All true men are welcome – and you are a true mm, I think? Are you not?'
David rubbed his chin, and frowned. Perhaps he should have been grateful for this queenly welcome for a humble secretary whom the lady's husband had already completely ignored? He tried not to look at her, and if that was impossible, to concentrate on the glittering gems in her hair, at her throat and ears and fingers. 'Aye, ma'am,' he muttered.
Directly she eyed him, for she was almost as tall as he was, pink tongue-tip touching her full lower Up. 'You are one of the strong men, Davy, I am told? I like strong men. I am a strong woman, you see.' She came close to him, so close that her thrusting breasts brushed him, and the musky vivid smell of her came to him powerfully.
'I can believe it, ma'am,' he said, glancing around him in embarrassment at all who watched.
'You are very different from your brother, are you not? Of a less ready tongue, assuredly. But otherwise, perhaps, as active?' She laughed loudly, and raised her voice, so that many around must hear her. 'I wonder how you compare with your brother in bed? An interesting question, is it not?'
David looked appalled.
She laughed in his face. 'Patrick has his talents, I admit,' she added. 'But I think, perhaps, you may have the longer… wind! Wordless men often have, strangely enough! We must put it to the test, Davy. But not tonight, perhaps. No, no. It is…'
'What is not tonight, perhaps?' Patrick's voice asked pleasantly, close at hand. 'Do not say that you are trying to corrupt my good Davy, Bett? Both impossible and unprofitable, surely.'
Thankfully David turned to his brother, for rescue – an unusual state of affairs.
'Think you so, Patrick?' the lady demanded. 'If he is to be your secretary again, then, Lord, I might well win some profitable secrets out of him… as well as other satisfactions!'
'Away with you, woman! You should be thanking me, not threatening me. Have I not assured your husband to your bed, this night?
The Countess made a rude gesture. Thank you for nothing!'
She tossed David a smile. 'Remember, Davy!' she said.
As she was moving away, Patrick called, quite openly, loud enough for any around to hear who listened – and undoubtedly there were many who did. 'Bett, you have come apart, down the front. Perhaps you have not noticed?'
She jerked one bare shoulder and breast at him in a gesticulation as flagrant as it was expressive, and strolled on.
'Lord,' David gasped. 'That woman… she is more apt to the stews of some sailors' town than a king's court! A common street-woman is nicer…'
'Not so, Davy – that is the daughter of a long line of Stewart earls!' Patrick corrected. 'An extraordinary family, the Stewarts, are they not?'
The glances of both of them slid round the crowded chamber, searching.
'She…the Lady Marie…will be here?' David asked. 'It is my hope. Her father, you will note, is drunk early tonight'
'Aye. And Arran like to be joining him!'
'He but ensures a good courage to face Elizabeth's ogre, lad.'
'No doubt. Why are you not doing the facing, I wonder?'
Patrick shrugged. 'Why should I? There is a saw about making a bed and lying therein. Arran is good at beds – like his lady!'
'Yet, have you not had a hand in malting this bed, also?' 'You get some strange notions, Davy – God, you do!' The other laughed.
'Perhaps you have a notion as to what brings Walsingham here?'
'That is easy. Fear. Fear that the delightfully so-called Reformation is in clanger in Scotland – and therefore Elizabeth's Protestant throne is endangered. Fear brings Walsingham, bearing threats.' Patrick's' eyes kept turning towards Arran's slightly unsteady figure, where he supported himself against the empty throne. 'Fear is the great spur to action, is it not? Fear sends James scampering off to Perth; fear sends Arran to the bottle… and his wife to throw her bed open to all and sundry. Even you! Ah, me, nothing would be done at all without fear, I fear, in this sad world!'
'And you? What do you fear, Patrick?'
'Me? I fear that one, Davy Gray, is about to give me one of his…'
He stopped. Marie Stewart was coming swiftly across the crowded dancing floor towards them, not actually running but hurrying. For so essentially calm a person, her haste was notable. Patrick took a pace forward.
Coming up, Marie passed him with a significant wave of the hand, which she then reached out to David. 'Davy!' she exclaimed, grey eves warm. 'How good to see you! It has been so long. When did you come? I had not heard. Have you come to stay awhile? You look… just as you always look!'
David smiled, and nodded wordlessly.
'Faith – an Inquisition, no less!' Patrick declared. 'Torquemada could have done no better, I vow!'
'How is your wife – the fair Mariota?' she asked, ignoring Patrick. 'Am I yet forgiven? And the enchanting Mary? And small Patrick?'
'We all fare well enough,' David assured her. 'I thank you.'
'You have not asked me how I fare!' Patrick protested. 'I might have the plague, the pox and the palsy, but you would care naught!'
'You look to yourself too well for any such anxiety,' the young woman retorted. 'What brings you, Davy, in the end?'
'Not you, my dear – do not flatter yourself!' his brother answered for him. 'It was another Marie Stewart altogether. The Queen, your aunt Davy aches for her plight – as do we all, of course – and in especial, interests himself in her jewels. He is…'
'Jewels! Davy does?'
'Och, never heed him, Lady Marie. He but cozens you…'
'Not so! I swear it is nothing less than the truth. In particular he would, I think, deprive the Lady Arran of her new-won finery.'
'And I with him!' Marie exclaimed. 'That woman is contemptible – beyond all shame. That she should assume the Queen's treasure…! Look at her there – or, i' faith, do not look at her! Parading herself like… like a bulling heifer! She makes me ashamed of my kind! And to think how nearly she rules the land!'
– 'At the least, she knows what she wants, my dear – which is more than do some women that I might name! And as to ruling the land, she has her own felicitous methods of choosing the men to do it. First she samples deeply of their purses – which is a very practical test of their ability – and then she tries them in her bed. And if they pass both assizes, they are to be considered well-fitted for bishopric, collectorship or sheriffdom. You must admit that less effective methods of ensuring the continued virility of church and state have been…'
'Patrick, how can you talk so? Even you! But to jest of it is a shame – it shames you, and us all. And you – you pander to her!'
'Me? Heaven forbid! Marie, Marie, how can you even suggest it…?'
'Of course you do. Think you I have not seen you at it? Aye -and you know her shameful bed as well as any!'
'Tut, lass, in statecraft one must use such tools as come to hand
'But you no longer play the statesman, you claim! You leave that to Arran and the others, you say – even to my poor silly father – there! You but pen verses and contrive masques and balls, and… and chase women!'
'A mercy – this is not Marie Stewart, surely? The serene and imperturbable! What has become of her tonight? Chase women, forsooth! What woman have I been chasing these many months – to no purpose? One woman only – and she a cold grey-eyed virgin whom no plea, no art or artifice will stir. Until tonight…'
'What of Eupham Erskine? And Lady Balfour? And Madame de Menainville, wife to the French Ambassador? What of these? Aye, and others! Under what head do you woo all these?'
David had never seen Marie Stewart so patently moved. And seldom his brother so palpably disquieted thereat, though he sought to gloss it over. David indeed found himself to be strangely affected. 'I think that Patrick may be engaged in more of statecraft than he would wish to appear,' he put in, in a jerky attempt to ease the tension. These ladies may well have a part in it The French lady, in especial…'
Marie rounded on him with surprising vehemence. 'Do not you make excuses for him, Davy Gray!' she exclaimed. 'He is well able for that himself…'
She stopped. Indeed she had to stop. The music and dancing and the chatter of the great throng had all along necessitated raised voices.' But none such could compete with the sudden ringing fanfare of the heralds' trumpets which sounded from the lower end of the hall, turning all eyes thitherwards. Talk died, dancing faltered and stopped, and the music ebbed to a ragged close.
'His Excellency Sir Francis Walsingham, Ambassador Extraordinary of Her Grace the Princess Elizabeth, Queen of England!' it was announced into the hush as the flourish died away.
The hush was not complete, however, and resounding as was this announcement it was insufficient entirely to drown a single voice that talked on thickly and laughed loudly. The Earl of Arran, up at the Chair of State, chatting with the Earl of Orkney and others, did not appear to have noticed this development
Mr Bowes, Elizabeth's resident envoy, stood in the great open doorway behind the heralds, biting his lip, frowning, and tap-tapping his foot Suddenly he was thrust unceremoniously aside, and a tall, thin, angular man strode past him into the chamber. Stiff as a ramrod, soberly clad, Walsingham paced forward looking neither right nor left, while before him men and women fell back respectfully to give him passage. A man now of late middle-age, grey-haired and grey-bearded, he was of so sallow a complexion as to be almost swarthy, offering one explanation for Elizabeth's nickname for him of 'her Moor; the other explanation went deeper, and referred to the man's cold, almost Eastern, ruthlessness, his unfailing calm and intense secrecy of nature. A fanatical Protestant, a man of utterly incorruptible morals and piety, and yet one of the greatest experts in espionage and subversion that the world has known, he had been Elizabeth's principal minister for the eleven years since Burleigh's partial retirement to the Lord Treasurership. But not her friend, as had been his predecessor. Faithful, efficient, unflagging, he yet did not love his Queen – nor she him. One look at his lugubrious dark face, hooded eyes and down-turning scimitar of a mouth, might instil doubts as to whether indeed the man was capable of love for any. All eyes now considered him urgently, searchingly, many fearfully, Patrick Gray's not the least closely. Or not quite all eyes those of the Earl of Arran, acting Chancellor of Scotland and deputy for the King, could not do so, for he had his back turned to that end of the apartment, and still joked in loud-voiced good humour with his little group of friends.
David and Marie both looked from Walsingham to Arran and then to Patrick. Other glances made the same circuit The latter, lounging at ease, made neither move nor gesture.
Almost running behind Walsingham, Mr Bowes called out agitatedly. 'My lord! My lord of Arran! His Excellency is…' A guffaw from the head of the room overbore the rest
Walsingham never faltered in his jerky pacing. No sound other than the footsteps of himself and his entourage, and Arran's throaty voice, now broke the silence.
A few paces from Arran's broad back Walsingham halted, and stood stiffly, patiently. When Bowes commenced another outraged summons, his senior flicked a peremptory hand at him.
All waited.
It was Marie's father, the Earl of Orkney, who brought matters to a head. Affecting only just to have noticed the newcomers, he raised his eyebrows and turned to Arran, tapping his padded shoulder.
The latter swung round, a little too quickly. 'Ah! God's Eyes – what's to do?' he demanded. 'What's this? A petition? A deputation? Some favour besought?'
'My lord!' Bowes was not to be withheld. Here is Sir Francis Walsingham, my royal mistress's principal Secretary and Envoy Extraordinary…'
'To see your master, sir.' Walsingham's voice crackled dry, like paper.
'Eh…? Walsingham, is it? Ah, yes. We heard that you were on your way. You travel fast, it seems, Sir Francis.'
'Aye. And with reason. I seek His Grace, your master.' Cold, impersonal, and without being raised, the other's voice carried more clearly than did Arran's.
Beneath his breath, Patrick murmured. Here is a cunning game. Do not tell me that Bowes' spies have not informed him that James is gone, long since.'
'The King is not here. He is gone to the Highlands, hunting.'
'In the month of March?'
'S'Death, yes! Our prince will hunt in season and out. There is no containing him. But that need not concern you, sir. ' govern this realm, for His Grace. What you have to say, you may say to me.'
The corners of Walsingham's mouth turned down still further than heretofore. 'I am accredited to the King of Scots – not to you, Or any other!'
'No doubt. That is the usual practice. But His Grace entrusts me to handle all affairs of state, in his name.'
'You are to be congratulated, my lord. But my mission is still with the King.'
'Then, Christ God – you'll bide long enough!' Arran cried coarsely. 'For James will no' be back for weeks, belike. Can you wait weeks, Sir Francis?'
Walsingham shut his month tightly.
Patrick Gray seemed to rouse himself. He strolled forward easily across the floor, his high-heeled shoes clicking out the unhurried nature ofhis progress. He bowed profoundly to both the speakers.
'My lord of Arran – your Excellency of England,' he said. 'My name is Gray – and your very humble servant If I may be permitted a word…?
Bowes began to whisper in Walsingham's ear, but that stern man waved him away curtly. He looked directly at Patrick, however.
'It is to be regretted that His Grace should not be here to receive so distinguished a visitor, Your Excellency. But princes, as indubitably you are aware, are not to be constrained. May I propose a compromise? Your despatches, letters, from your royal mistress, are undoubtedly addressed to, and for the eye of, King James alone. They should be sent after him, forthwith – though they may take some while to reach His Highness. But the substance of any representations and proposals, being a matter of government, as between the monarchs' advisers, are surely suitably to be made to my Lord Arran and members of the Council?'
Unblinking, Walsingham eyed him. 'Young man,' he said thinly, 'I do not require lessons in the conduct of affairs. My information is that your prince was in Stirling but this day's noon. I think that he cannot have travelled very far to your Highlands. I have no doubt that either he may be fetched back, or else that I may overtake him tomorrow.'
'Impossible, sir,' Arran asserted. 'Your information will no doubt also have acquainted you with the fact that King James rides fast It is his invariable custom – and he has the finest horseflesh in three kingdoms. Moreover, the King of Scots is not fetched back, for any man – or woman – soever!'
Seconds passed. 'Can it be that you intend that I do not see the King?' Walsingham said, at length, his voice entirely without emotion, but none the less menacing for that
'The intention is of no matter, sir. The possibility is all.'
'Sir Francis,' Patrick put in. 'Our prince is young – a mere seventeen years. His rule is entrusted to his Council. Most of that Council is here present In default of His Grace's presence…'
Walsingham ignored him. 'Do I return to my mistress then, my lord, and Inform her that her envoy was refused audience of your prince?'
'Not so. That would be false, sir. If you will wait, possibly for a mere sennight or so, His Highness my be back. Who knows?' Arran's sneer was but thinly disguised.
'Beyond this room, sir, is a Council-chamber,' Patrick mentioned. 'Your embassage could there be discussed, in privacy…'
'No, Master of Gray,' Walsingham mterrupted him. The Queen of England does not treat with… substitutes! I shall return to her, and inform Her Grace of my reception. And I warn you all, she will take it less than kindly. Moreover she has the means to show her displeasure. Ample means!'
'Would… would you threaten us, by God?' Arran cried. 'You are in Scotland now, I would remind you, sir – not England!'
'I do not threaten -I warn. Your prince will, I fear, learn sorely of the folly of his advisers. I bid you goodnight, my lord.'
'As you will. If your message is of so little import But… wait, man – wait' "Arran recollected. 'I have here a gift for your royal mistress. A jewel for the Queen. I understand that she is partial to jewels? You will give her this, sir, with our warm favour and respect'
Walsingham hesitated. He was placed in a difficult position. Elizabeth's fondness for gems was so well known that any outright rejection of the gift on his part, and in front of all these witnesses, could be construed as a grievous slight to her interests. 'I think that my lady would liefer have your love and worship than your jewels,' he said sourly.
'She shall have both, Sir Francis,' Patrick declared genially.
Arran held out a ring on which an enormous stone redly reflected the light of the candles. Take it, sir,' he urged. 'Her Highness would not thank you to leave it!'
Grudgingly, Walsingham took the ring, and hardly so much as glancing at it, thrust it into a pocket
Arran grinned. 'A good night to you, Sir Francis. And if you change your mind the morn, we'll be happy to treat with you!'
With the stiffest of bows, Walsingham turned about and went stalking back whence he had come. Lady Arran's high-pitched laughter alone sounded from the other end of the room.
Marie Stewart turned to David. 'If I had not seen that with my own eyes, I would scarce have believed it!' she declared.
'Has Arran lost his wits, to treat that man so? He must be mote drunk than he seems'
'I think not,' David told her. 'All was planned beforehand, you see.'
'Planned? Arran does not plan what he will say. Patrick…? He nodded.
Though Walsingbam left for the south again the very next morning, by midday all Stirling knew that his mission had been to complain to James about an alliance that he claimed was being negotiated between Scotland, the Guises, and the King of Spain, for a simultaneous invasion of England, to be touched off by the assassination of Elizabeth herself, and a subsequent restoration of the Catholic religion to both countries, with James, in association with his mother Mary, to sit on the thrones of both. Highly circumstantial and markedly unanimous were these dramatic rumours, most obviously representing an inspired leak, no doubt from Bowes. With them went sundry threatenings and slaughters and demands, plus the suggestion of an alternative pact, a Protestant alliance, with the removal of the King's present pro-Catholic advisers – the bait to be Elizabeth's long-delayed public recognition of James as her ultimate heir.
From half-a-dozen sources David and Marie heard approximately this story, in whole or in part, next day. Patrick, questioned on the subject, laughed and declared that there were surely vivid imaginations about the Court these days. When it was pointed out that he himself had been recently in the neighbourhood both of the King of Spain and the Guise brothers, he protested, but amusedly, that he had gone to the Continent purely as a private citizen, with no authority to discuss pacts, alliances, and such-like. They ought not to take Mr Bowes' considered flights of fancy so seriously. Let them rather be suitably diverted by all this ingenuity, and recognise it as an attempt to stir up the Kirk and the Protestant faction to play Elizabeth's game for her. Was it not all as good as a play?
It took considerably longer than a day, however – weeks in fact – before the news travelled up from London that Elizabeth was very angry. Not so much annoyed at the reception of her envoy and minister, but incensed, outraged, over the fact that Arran had insulted her by sending her a ring with a great piece of red glass in it, instead of a ruby. The stone was a crude fake, it appeared – and the greatest and most impudent discourtesy shown to Gloriana in all her career.
Many were the interpretations put upon this extraordinary development. Needless to say, despite Arran's fervent expostulations that he knew nothing about it, and that it must have been either the former Pope who had sent a sham ruby to Queen Mary in the first place, or else Walsingham himself had done this thing in revenge for his reception – despite this, the most popular theory undoubtedly was that Arran had hit upon the ingenious notion of hitting at Elizabeth and at the same time enriching himself, by substituting the glass in the ring and retaining the great ruby. Most people, indeed, looked to see a large ruby, or a swarm of smaller ones, appearing on Lady Arran's person at any time.
David Gray did not altogether agree with this view.