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
'Only as a gesture towards Elizabeth.' She sdd nothing.
Patrick sighed. 'I would, at least, that the women did as I told them – one woman in particular!'
'Enough do, I believe, to keep you from… discomfort!' She looked away again. 'And yet you… you deny me even George Ogilvie!'
It was the man's turn to be silent He began to pace the garden path, and quite naturally she fell into step beside him.
'George tells me,' she went on, in another voice, 'that the Master of Glamis is back in Angus, at his castle of Aldbar. That my lord Bothwell has been seen in Dundee, and the Earl of Mar is said to be on Donside. None of them without your knowledge.. I am sure?'
'Your George would seem to be notably well informed for a heather lairdling!'
'He says that the whole north country buzzes with it. All the Ruthven lords are back- and to some purpose, no doubt'
'And does your knowledgeable Ogilvie suggest what these purposes may be?'
'He says – he but repeats the clash of the countryside – that it is your doing, Patrick. That you have brought them back, in order to constrain the King… without your hand seeming to appear.'
'Lord, was ever a man so detracted! Whatever ill is done in Scotland, it must be my doing, for some deep and sinister motive! And do you believe all this, Marie?'
'I do not know. I have long since given up trying to know what to believe of you, Patrick. Save that you will go your own gait, always.'
'And would have you go it with me, my dear. That, too, you know.'
'George Ogilvie notwithstanding?'
He shrugged. 'As you say, George Ogilvie, or the Devil himself, notwithstanding!'
'But this… this is most generous of you!' she exclaimed, though her voice broke a little. 'Am I to be almost as privileged as you are? Permitted the magnificent freedom of a man, plucking fruit by the way where I will?'
'Aye,' he said, heavily for Patrick Gray. 'If needs be. If that is how you would have it. For have you, I must, Marie.' Wryly he smiled. 'You see how much means your talk of me being master of all!'
She was moved – but hardened herself. You conceive this as the only way to master me, perhaps?'
'I think that I shall never master you. I do not know that I wish to. Only to marry you, woman – and that is different.'
'Yes, Patrick, marriage is different, as you say. But you know my views on marriage, to be sure.'
'Aye. That is why I came here with some hopes tonight, Marie. Perhaps foolishly. But tonight I am a free man – save for your toils. Today, I had word that my marriage to Elizabeth Lyon is no more.'
He heard the catch in her breath, as she turned to him. 'Patrick!'
'Aye. Or better than no more – that it has never been. It is annulled, as void and invalid.' 'Annulled…?'
'The Kirk, in its wisdom, finds this the better course And who am I to question it? Moreover, I think that you will take it kinder than a divorcement…'
'Oh, yes, yes! I do! I do! Patrick – you did not tell me…! This is…'
'You are happy, my dear?'
'Of course. Of course. Can you doubt it?'
'Then… does it mean… can I believe… that you will indeed wed me now? At last, my love?'
Brokenly she laughed. 'I cannot see… how I can refuse, any more! Can you?' Abruptly she swung round, to bury her face against his chest, clutching him convulsively. 'Oh, Patrick! It has been so long! A very long time. I can hardly understand it. That at last there is nothing to stand between us…'
'Save the Master of Gray?' he asked, holding her fast, 'This… monster who must rule Scotland and all men! The satyr who uses all to serve his own wicked ends?'
She looked up at him. 'Even he does not stand between us,' she said. 'Perhaps he should. Perhaps I am a fool, weak, sinful. But I love you, Patrick- all of you, the good and the bad. I am not so very good, my own self, And I will wed you as you are. Once I told you that, a free man, I would give you an honest answer. There you have it.'
'My beloved! And… your door that was to stand wide open for me, one day?'
She raised a hand to his hair. 'It stands open, my heart. I could not hold it shut, any longer. I am but a weak woman. But… I would esteem you the more if you would bear with me, and wait… a little longer. Until we are wed. Or is that too much to ask of the Master of Gray?'
He drew a long breath. T faith, Marie Stewart, you drive a hard bargain! Is life with you going to be this way, always?'
'I think not, Patrick. But… if it is?'
'I will wed you, just the same – God help me!'
They were married on a grey November day, with great pomp and ceremony, at Holyroodhouse, in the presence of the King -who indeed gave away his cousin – and all the great ones of the land. Mariota saw her father there, for the first time since Patrick's earlier marriage; the Bishop was prepared to be affable, but his daughter was not.
James once more suggested that to celebrate the occasion he should make the happy couple earl and countess, but again Patrick declined. He was the Master of Gray. Let that stand. One day, God being merciful, he would succeed his father as sixth Lord Gray; until then he would serve his King very well as he was. He did, however accept the Commendatorship of the prosperous Priory of Culross as a small mark of his monarch's esteem – which at?5000 Scots a year, was always a help to a man taking on the burdens of matrimony.
Actually, Patrick had another and personal request to put to the King, that he humbly ventured to suggest might fittingly mark this joyful occasion. He pleaded that James might, of his royal goodness and clemency, see fit to transfer the unfortunate Earl of Arran from durance vile in St. Andrews Castle, to less rigorous ward in his own house of Kinneil – under due and strict guard, of course. He had had a word with Wotton on the subject, and he agreed with him that Queen Elizabeth was not likely at this stage to differentiate between the two forms of imprisonment. His Majesty was of course graciously, indeed eagerly, pleased to accede to this generous request on the part of the bridegroom. Indeed, everybody was pleased – fond monarch; Arran, who had himself written to Patrick suggesting the move and offering as inducement to his friend the great and influential Commendatorship of Dunfermline, the wealthiest church lands in all Scotland, which he had held for some time; and the returned Ruthven lords, who now knew where they could lay hands on Arran's person, that had been hitherto safe from them behind the impregnable walls of St. Andrews Castle.
Altogether it was an auspicious wedding-day, even though somewhat less dramatically celebrated than had been its predecessor eleven years before.
Patrick Gray had now reached the mature age of twenty-seven years. The bridal pair were still delectably engaged in the discovery of each other, in one of the remoter Gray castles of northern Perthshire, when the reunited and assembled Ruthven lords, with a following of almost eight thousand men, struck without warning at Stirling, where James was in residence. The move was well planned, the royal defence half-hearted in the extreme, the town fell, and the great castle surrendered with scarcely a blow struck. James, in dire agitation, and vowing that this could never have happened had his good Master Patrick been on hand, nevertheless found that his former harsh captors had adopted a new attitude towards him. Instead of hectoring and bullying, they knelt at his feet, swearing devotion and allegiance, and assured him that only His Grace's true good and the weal of the realm had moved them to act thus drastically in order to remove the traitors and scoundrels with whom the unprincipled Arran had surrounded his liege lord. For themselves they had no claims nor ambitions – only the triumph of the true Protestant faith and the King's gracious goodwill. In token of which they did not claim any hand in the government for themselves, suggesting instead that James chose some faithful, well-tried and experienced minister of his own whom his loyal Reformed subjects might support and serve in the interests of all Scotland – for instance, the Master of Gray, if he could be persuaded to exchange his present blissful dalliance for the burden of state affairs.
Nothing loth and mightily relieved, James sent forthwith for the innocent Master of Gray with pleas, indeed imperative royal commands, to come quickly and take control of the rudderless ship of state.
Arran, warned, bolted from Kinneil, the royal guards conveniendy looking the other way, and fled the country.
Patrick sighed, complained that they might at least leave a man alone to his nuptial exercises – and returned to duty, resolutely refusing to admit that he was now indisputably the master of Scotland, even to his wife.
Happy Scotland, that seldom in her long history can have known a ruler at once so able and so devoid of personal ambition.