'MY lord is getting old, I think,' Patrick laughed. He was bolder once, if reports do not lie. Mary's friend in more than mere name! We must not encourage his unworthy fears, Davy. But we could nowise do as he says, in any case, for all is in train. Events move – they move. Or are moved! And, faith, we cannot turn them back, if we would!'
David turned heavily, determinedly, at his most levelly bull-like, to d'Aubigny. 'You, my lord – you have heard. My lord of Gray believes that you may have more regard to your own neck than perhaps has Patrick here. He bade me tell you that Morton is bound to win- and the penalty for losing will be your head. The heads of both of you. Morton still rules here – and kills.'
"Yes, Esme, pay your due heed to our good sober councillor!' Patrick mocked.
D'Aubigny smiled. 'Mon cher Davy, I appreciate your care and thought for us. And that of my lord of Gray. But we do not esteem your terrible Morton quite so terribly as do you. An angry vengeful savage, vraiment – like a bear. But even bears may be baited – when they provide sport for folk with more wits than themselves. I think Morton may well provide that sport Mort dieu, even now, he begins to chase our ban-dogs, rather than ourselves!'
Patrick nodded. 'You see, we have not idled, Davy. We hope, before nightfall, to have a messenger from the Borders bring us the word that the bear has struck – at thin air. Then, heigho – it is Stirling for us, and the sunrise of youthful majesty!'
Mystified, David looked from one to the other. They were closeted in a room of the small but strong tower-house of Restalrig, the home of Patrick's cousin Logan, above its little loch, a mere mile from the royal but empty palace of Holyrood-house. From its windows they looked in one direction upon the long smoky skyline of Edinburgh, climbing up its spine of hill from palace to stern dominating castle; in the other, out over the smiling fields and woods and links of Lothian, down to the green cone of North Berwick Law and the scalloped sandy bays of the silver Forth. It was five days since their arrival from France, for it had taken David longer than he had hoped to make his return passage from Dundee.
Patrick explained. 'A well-lined pocket, I have found, will achieve much, Davy – especially in a land where so many men hate Morton. Two days ago, Cousin Rob Logan headed south for the Borders, where he has friends as you know – and Morton has both unfriends and lands. Lands in upper Teviotdale -Hawick and beyond. Around those parts are many Scotts and Turnbulls and the like – mere Border freebooters and rapscallions, but with a grudge against Morton for the Warden of the Marches he has set over them… and grievously short of siller, as ever. Last night, sundry houses of Morton's would be burning, I fear – so barbarous are the natives of those parts! This morning, at any rate, Morton rode southwards hot-foot from his palace of Dalkeith – that we know from an eye-witness. Since it is his own Douglas lands that smoke, he has not just sent some underling. We but wait to hear that he is safely chasing Scotts and Turnbulls over the moss-hags south of Eildon – then Stirling and the King!'
'Our bear, Monsieur Davy, is decoyed, you see.'
'For how long?' David asked.
'Until, no doubt, he hears from the Master of Glamis, or. other, that King Jamie has taken into his royal arms his dear cousin Esme Stuart Then, methinks he will come north again without undue delay! And by then, Davy, I hope that we will have a right royal reception awaiting the good Morton – with the aid of the Captain of the King's Guard. You see, we have not been entirely laggard, or as innocently witless, as our potent sire believes.'
David nodded slowly. 'I see,' he said. 'You will not give up your ploy, then, Patrick? You will not do as my lord says, this time either?'
'I fear not, Davy. Would you?'
'I do not know,' David admitted, honestly.
Patrick laughed, and jumped over to clap his brother on the back. 'Good for you, man – that from you is encouragement indeed! All will be well now, Esme – for our Davy does not know! So usually, he knows all too clearly – and always against what I desire! It only remains for you to come with us, Davy, to Stirling, and our cause is as good as won! Be our secretary, guide, and mentor – aye, and our fervent intercessor with Scotland's Protestant God – and who can best us?'
David eyed his gay and beautiful brother steadily. These were my lord's own orders also, should he fail to get Patrick to abandon his project It seemed that there was to beno connubial bliss for him at Castle Huntly yet awhile. 'I'll come with you if I must' he said. Though, God knows, I'd rather be otherwhere.'
'Bravo! Esme, you hear? The flagon, man. We'll drink to this, tete dieu! And now, Davy – what of the fair Mariota? And of that exquisite daughter of yours…?'
D'Aubigny and David sat their mounts before the main gatehouse of the great fortress of Stirling, with all the grey town in steps and stairs beneath them, the winding Forth, a mere serpent of a river here, coiling below, and the soaring ramparts of the Highland mountains filling the vista to north and west as though to make but doll's fortifications of these man-made ramparts nearer at hand. The six Barbary blacks, gallant, groomed and gleaming, sidled and stamped at their backs, for now, advisedly, the travellers bestrode less splendid beasts. The massive gates stood open before them, guarded by bored and insolent men-at-arms clad in the royal livery of Scotland – King Jamie's gaolers. The noon-day sun shone down on them, and on a fair scene. David wondered how many more such noons they might live to see.
At length Patrick came back down the cobbled roadway within the castle, strolling at ease and laughing, and with him a tall and resplendent figure, richly clad in gold-inlaid half-armour, with the red lion Rampant enamelled on the breastplate, and on his head a magnificent plumed helmet with the royal arms in gold embossed thereon. A handsome arrogant swaggering man this, a full head taller than Patrick and of a very different sort of good looks – bold, sanguine, aquiline, of age somewhere between Patrick and d'Aubigny. He looked the latter up and down, now, with undisguised interest if scant respect – and then his glance passed on to the horses behind, and more esteem was born.
'All is well, Esme,' Patrick cried. 'Here is our good friend Captain Stewart of Ochiltree. The Sieur d'Aubigny, Captain. I suppose that, far enough back, you two are probably related?'
Stewart shrugged, but d'Aubigny was very gracious, assuring the other of his pleasure and satisfaction at the meeting.
'Our friend has arranged all,' Patrick went on. 'With notable effect His Highness awaits us. He has arranged a formal audience, as being the safest plan in the circumstances – the more open our arrival at Court, now, the better. Not that there seems to be much danger…'
'None,' the newcomer announced curtly. 'I control the guard, and the King's person. My men are everywhere. No man in this castle will quarrel with James Stewart, and no message leaves but by my permission.' Stewart had strolled past d'Aubigny and David casually, and was stroking and running his eye over the black horses, but his fleeting glance flickered swiftly towards the two visitors. David, of course, he ignored entirely. 'A pair of these beasts will suit me very nicely,' he mentioned. 'This one, I think-and this!'
D'Aubigny stiffened, but Patrick caught his eye and an eloquent glance passed between them.
'His Highness may well so decide,' the latter said, quickly. 'It is most fortunate, is it not, Esme – the Treasurer, my old friend the Master of Glamis, was at Court but two days agone, and is now returned to his castle in Angus. The Chamberlain is here, but he is elderly -next to a dotard, the Captain says. My Lord Ruthven is but new arrived from Perth – but happily, though one of Morton's men, he is also my mother's brother. The only other great lord in the castle is Glencairn, but he apparently is always drunk by this hour. So, allons!'
Sauntering with exasperating slowness, Stewart led them in under the gate-towers, up the cobbled roadway and through the inner walls, skirting the Douglas Tower and into the Palace quadrangle. At a strongly guarded doorway on the north side, the horsemen dismounted. Stewart was giving curt orders for the beasts to be led away and stalled, when Patrick intervened, explaining that they would prefer the blacks to be left where they were meantime.
Stewart frowned, but Patrick met his glare with an easy smiling firmness, and after a moment, the former shrugged again, and stalked on within. The three visitors followed.
Stewart was heading straight for great double doors, guarded by gorgeously apparelled men-at-arms, beyond the wide vestibule, and d'Aubigny realised with a shock that they were being taken directly into the presence chamber forthwith, just as they were. Hurriedly he protested, pointing but that they could not come before a monarch dressed thus, in riding attire, dishevelled and dust-covered after a forty-mile ride.
The Captain tossed a brief laugh over his shoulder. 'It matters nothing. He is but a laddie. There is no one here this day worth the dressing up for!' And he strolled on, to throw open the door.
D'Aubigny looked at Patrick, and then at David Stewart, with a perfunctory nod rather than an obeisance into the great room, spoke a few words to an elderly man stationed just within the doorway, and then beckoned forward the callers. For want of any instructions to the contrary, David moved onwards behind Patrick.
Their door opened half-way down a long high narrow chamber, somewhat dark because of the smallish windows of a fortress, the dusty arras-hung wood-panelling of the walls, and the smoky massive timbering of the lofty ceiling. To their left a number of people stood and talked and circulated in the lower end of the stone-flagged hall, at the base of which a wide fireplace held, even on this warm August day, a large fire of spluttering hissing logs – perhaps with reason, for it was a gloomy, chilly place within the thick stone walls. To their right were only three persons; two, halberdiers in royal livery and helmets, guarded two doors in the far wall; and near a raised dais bearing a throne of tarnished gilt with a sagging purple canopy, an ungainly youthful figure stood, in nondescript clothes, nibbling at a finger-nail and glancing nervously now towards the newcomers, now out of the nearest window.
The old man at the main door thumped with his staff on the stone floor. 'Your Highness' he declared, in a high cracked voice. 'The Lord Esme, Seigneur of Aubigny in France, to answer Your Grace's royal summons. The Master of Gray, likewise.' The Chamberlain looked doubtfully at David, sniffed, and added 'Aye.'
There was a pregnant silence, save for the spitting of the fire.
D'Aubigny and Patrick swept low in profound obeisance, graceful, elaborate. At their side, Captain Stewart grinned mockingly. Behind them David bowed as comprehensively as his stiff nature would permit
The youth up near the throne made no move, other than to hang his head that was distinctly over-large for his misshapen body, and stare at the visitors from under lowered brows. He continued to bite his nails.
Straightening up, d'Aubigny and Patrick bowed once again, a little less low, but in unison, and then began to pace forward, Patrick a pace behind the other. David stayed where he was near the door..
James, by the grace of God, King, shambled over to the Chair of State, and sat uncomfortably on the very edge of it, where the stuffing was escaping from the torn purple cushion. At first glance he was quite the most unprepossessing boy that might be met with on a long day's journey, and the contrast with the two superlatively handsome, graceful and assured gallants advancing upon him was fantastic. Without being actually undersized, he had a skimped twisted body, thin weak legs and no presence whatsoever. His mouth was large and slack, but even so it was not big enough for his tongue, which was apt to protrude and slobber. His nose was long and ill-shaped, his hair was thin and wispy; moreover, he did not smell altogether pleasantly. Only his eyes redeemed an otherwise repellent exterior – huge, liquid dark eyes, timorous, darting, expressive, but intelligent.
D'Aubigny went down on one, knee before him, kissed the grubby nail-bitten hand that was jerkily extended towards him. Still kneeling, he looked up, and smiled, warmly, brilliantly, kindly.
'Your Majesty,' he said, low-voiced. Here is the greatest pleasure of my life – that I have travelled five hundred miles to enjoy. I am your very humble servitor, subject… and friend.'
'Ummm,' James mumbled. 'Oh, aye.'
Still d'Aubigny knelt and smiled, looking deep into those great frightened eyes. He saw therein the child who had been, a couple of months unborn, at the brutal murder of Rizzio; who a year later had screamed to the explosion at Kirk o' Held that blew up his father Darnley; who was taken from his mother the same dread year, when she ran off with Bothwell, and had not seen her since; who had known in this thirteen years no true friend, scarcely an honest associate or a kind action; the child who had been torn between ruthless greedy nobles, kidnapped, scorned, bullied, preached over, the pawn of power-seekers -yet the true heir of a line of kings that was the oldest in Europe, stretching back over a thousand years.
'May I rise, Cousin?' he asked, gently.
James had never been asked such a thing, before. He had never been spoken to in a voice so intriguing, so melodious, yet so friendly. He had never been smiled to, thus; he was used to being smiled at, mocked, when smiles came in his direction at all.
'Y-yes, my lord,' he said, jumping up himself!
'Do not call me that, Sire. I am your own true cousin, you know. Esme. Esmi Stuart,'
'Aye. You are son of the Lord John who was brother to my grandfather Lennox.' That came out in a little gabbled rush.
Rising, d'Aubigny nod honoured. Cousin.'
'And you… you are legitimate. No' like the others.' Half-scared, half-defiantly, the boy blurted out 'That's different, eh? You… you're no' after my crown, man?' A nervous snigger finished that
The other's own eyes widened as he looked into those deep young-old brown eyes of the boy, and saw therein more than just intelligence. He raised a perfumed lace handkerchief to lips and nose, to give him a moment's grace. 'It is not your crown I seek, Cousin – only your love,' he said.
James stared at him – or rather, at the handkerchief. 'Yon's a right bonny smell,' he declared.
'Yours, Sire.' d'Aubigny said, and handed the trifle to him, bowing.
The boy put it to his big nose, and sniffed, and smiled over it, a fleeting smile at once acquisitive, ginning and simply pleased.
D'Aubigny turned. 'Here is my good friend and companion Patrick, Master of Gray, Highness,' he announced. Patrick, who had been standing back a little, sank down on one knee likewise. 'Another who wishes you very well, and can serve you notably, I think.'
'Aye – he's bonny, too,' Majesty said, and thrust out the grubby hand again. 'You are both right bonny.'
'Your most humble subject, Sire – as was my father to your lady-mother,' Patrick murmured.
'Much good it did her!' the boy jerked, with a strange half-laugh. 'And you are Greysteil's nephew, are you no'?'
Rising, Patrick darted a quick glance at this strange youth, who was so uncommonly well-versed in genealogy. 'The Lord Ruthven was brother to my mother, yes, Highness – though I have not had word with him for years.' Something about the way that James had enunciated that ominous nickname of Greysteil, one of the men who had butchered Rizzio, warned him to go cautiously.
'Better no' let him see yon wee crucifix peeking out o' your doublet then, Master Patrick – for he's here in this room, mind! Or the godly Master Buchanan, either!' James said, low-voiced, giggling. 'Or they'll give you your paiks, I tell you!'
'H'mmm.' Patrick hastily moved a hand down the front of his doublet, which had opened slightly with his elaborate bowing, and tucked away the little silver cross that hung there. Only a tiny corner of it could have shown – which meant that those limpid dark eyes were as keen as they were expressive. He gave a little laugh. 'I am entirely grateful… and at Your Majesty's mercy now, more than ever!' he declared, but conspiratorially, almost below his breath. 'You can let me serve you – or tell the Kirk, to my sad ruin!'
He could not have chosen a surer road to the boy's heart and sympathy – and vanity. For James to hold power over someone was almost a unique experience, and delightful – especially over a handsome gentleman such as this – as was the thought of deceiving his dour Calvinist gaolers. 'I'll no' tell, Master Patrick – never fear!' he whispered. 'And Fm no' so much assured, mind, that the use o' symbols and sacred ornamentation is altogether contrary and displeasing to the mind o' Almighty God. For, see you, the Crown itsel' is a symbol, is it no', o' the divine authority here oh earth. Aye.'
Both visitors blinked at this extraordinary pronouncement from the suddenly and pathetically eager youth, shifting from one foot to the other before them.
'Er… quite so,' d' Aubigny said, clearing his throat 'Exactly, Your Highness.'
'I am greatly indebted to you, Sire,' Patrick declared, still in a suitably intriguing whisper.
Entering into the spirit of the thing, d'Aubigny murmured, 'The fiery men of God's true Kirk, in ire, See in his Cross but timber for their fire!'
James stared, his eyes alight 'You… you are a poet, sir? he gasped.
'Say but a versifier, Cousin.
The name of Esme, in the Halls of Fame
Shall ne'er be writ,
His Muse is lame
– and there's an end to it.
'Och, man, that's grand!' the boy exclaimed, quite forgetting to whisper. 'I write poetry my own self,' he revealed. 'I… I canna just rattle it off like yon, mind. It takes me a whilie…
"True poetry comes only out of sweat and tears,' d'Aubigny nodded. 'That is where I fail, unlike yourself…'
He paused. The murmuring and whispering and stirring from the lower end of the chamber was growing very noticeable. Undoubtedly men there were becoming restive at this prolonged tete a tete. The elderly Chamberlain made no move to check the unseemly disturbance – indeed, his own glance at the trio up near the throne was distinctly suspicious as he strained his old ears to catch some hint of what was being said there. David, standing nearby, noted it all, perceived the hostility amongst the waiting throng – and also that the Captain of the Guard, for all his insolent-seeming lounging stance, was more tense than he appeared. As Patrick swept a glance around the room, and it met his own, David raised a hand, warning forefinger uplifted.
King James did not seem to notice; no doubt he was used to noise and hostility. 'I will write you a poem, Cousin Esme! he said. 'About you – aye, and Master Patrick here. Bonny men. And bonny France. The sun, they say, shines there a deal more than it does here?' He sighed a little. 'It will take me a whilie. I'm no' quick at it. And Master Buchanan gives me my paiks if I waste my time. Though poetry shouldna be a waste o' time, surely? You'll no' be gone, sir? You'll no' be away, that soon, before I get it done…!'
'Indeed we will not, Your Majesty. We have come a long way, in answer to your royal summons. Until you send us away, we are at your disposal, Highness, and esteeem your Court to be our greatest joy.'
'Fine, fine. Give me but a day or two, sirs, and I'll have it ready. I vow I will. It will maybe be no' that fine, mind – no' in the French fashion…'
Patrick coughed, as James sought words for his over-large tongue. 'We must not weary His Highness, Esme!' he said, almost imperceptibly jerking his head towards the other end of the presence chamber. 'We must not monopolise too much of his royal time. And there is yet the matter of the horses.'! 'But, yes. Sire, we have brought a small gift for you from the illustrious Duke of Guise and the Cardinal his brother. A horse or two. They are without If Your Majesty will deign to come inspect them…?"
'Horses? For me?'
'Yes, Cousin – all the way from France. From Africa, indeed -from the Barbary coast'
'Barbary! Eh, sirs – Barbary horses! For me!' The boy's excitement swelled up within him in slobbering incoherence. Then suddenly he began to chew at a slack lower lip. 'I canna,' he got out 'I canna come. No' just now.' That was almost a wail.
'Cannot, Your Majesty…?' d'Aubigny wondered.
'I'm no' allowed, man. Fm no' let to the stables until after my studies. Master Buchanan is right hot on that. He was hot against this audience, too. He wasna for letting me come – but Captain Jamie said he must.'
'I see. This Buchanan…?
'His Highness's tutor,' Patrick explained, one eye on the other end of the long apartment 'The renowned scholar, Master George Buchanan, a pillar of the Kirk and lately Principal of Glasgow University.'
'And something of a tyrant, it seems?'
'He's a right hard man,' the royal student agreed, feelingly.
'Still, Sire, the audience is not yet over, is it?' Patrick asked. 'You can include therein the inspection of the presents that we have brought from the high and mighty princes of Guise, your mother's cousins, surely? It is a matter of state, I'd say.'
'I'm no' allowed, Master Patrick,' James repeated, miserably. 'I'd like it fine. But they'll no' let me out I have to bow to them, and then go out the wee door at the back here. Master Buchanan's man is waiting for me behind there to take me back. Fm never allowed out the big doors.'
'Mortdieu! I think that you have not your Court entirely well arranged, Cousin!' d'Aubigny declared. 'I have visited many princes, and never have I seen it this wise!'
'Have you no'. Cousin Esme?'
'You are the King, Sire. You can do as you will,'Patrick put in.
'I wish I could, sir -but I canna…'
'I suggest, Esme, that we prove to His Highness that his powers are greater than he thinks,' Patrick said, and laughed softly, easily, lest the boy be further affrighted.
'I agree. Sire, it is time that you asserted your royal self, I think. After all, you are nearly a man, now. You rule this Kingdom, for the Regency is at an end. Moreover, Cousin, I fear that their Graces of Guise might be much offended if they were to hear that you had not taken note of their gifts for hours.'. 'Would they? Och, but… look – there's that Greysteil glowering at me, now! He aye glowers at me. He doesna like me, yon black Ruthven man. He'd no' let me past…'
Patrick laughed again. 'Leave you my uncle to me, Sire. Leave you it all to us. Just walk between us… and remember that you are the King of Scots in your castle of Stirling, and that fifty generations of your fathers have had their boots cleaned by the likes of William Ruthven!'
The King gulped, and looked from one to another, as they took place on either side of him. Each lightly touched a bony
elbow.
'We go look at your Barbary nags' Patrick said. 'And there is no hurry, at all'
So, together, the strangely assorted trio came pacing down the chamber, the two men at smiling ease, the boy in shambling Up-biting alarm. Great now was the stir at the fire end of the room. Men stared at each other, nonplussed – for there were no women present in this Court. The Chamberlain started forward, tugging at his beard and all but falling over his staff of office. Stewart of Ochiltree, all lounging past now glanced swiftly around, and especially over in the direction of one man at the front of the uncertain throng. That man did not look uncertain. Tall and lean, and hatchet-faced, in clothing more suitable for the hunt than a Court, of middle years, stooping a little, hawklike, he stepped forward determinedly. At the sight, the two escorts felt the boy between them falter and hold back.
Patrick spoke quickly. 'Sire – my uncle,' he declared loudly. 'We have not met with each other for years. Has the Lord Ruthven Your Highness's permission to greet me?
Into the sudden hush that followed, the King's uncertain voice croaked. 'A-aye.'
'We are well met, my lord,' Patrick said immediately. His Highness has been speaking of you.'
'I am glad to hear it, Nephew,' Ruthven answered, in a voice like a rasp. 'I wouldna like to think that he would forget me! Nor you either, my cockerel! Where are you going?'
The Sieur d'Aubigny, of the house of Lennox,' Patrick gestured. 'My mother's brother, the Lord Ruthven, one of the King's most faithful supporters, Esme.'
D'Aubigny bowed, but Ruthven scarcely glanced at him.
'I said where are you going, Nephew?
His Highness is minded to inspect a gift of horseflesh sent to him by the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine. The suggestion is that you, Uncle, as a renowned judge of a horse, accompany the King and give him the benefit of your knowledge.'
There was a tense pause. Ruthven, who was a man of violent action rather than nimble wits, stared at his nephew from under beetling brows. Patrick' gazed back, and meeting the other's fierce eye, lowered one eyelid gently but distinctly. Then smiling, he turned again to James and pressed his elbow.
'Come, Sire,' he said. There is nothing that my lord does not know about horses.'
It was as easy as that They moved on towards the door, and the terrible Greysteil, finding himself moving along behind, hastily strode forward to stalk alongside. The Chamberlain, at the sight of the four of them bearing down on him, hesitated and backed. Other men, with none of the great lords amongst them, stood irresolute. But Captain Stewart at least did not misjudge the situation. He raised his voice authoritatively.
'Way for His Grace!' he called 'Aside, for the King's Highness!' And though on the face of it, his orders were for the guard at the door, none questioned the generality of their application. Men stood aside and bowed the quartet out
David and Stewart fell in behind, and after a moment or two the flustered Chamberlain came bustling along also, to be followed by the entire throng.
Out in the quadrangle the horses stood where they had been left with the guard, the three nondescript saddled beasts and the six magnificent unsaddled blacks. At sight of them, James forgot his alarm, forgot the company he was in, forgot all save his delight in those splendid gleaming animals. He burst away from his companions and went running forward
'Six!' he cried. 'Six o' them! Look – the bonny beasts! Och, they're bonny, bonny! And for me! You said they were all for me?'
Smiling, d'Aubigny went strolling after the boy, calling reassurances.
Patrick elected to direct his attention upon Ruthven, however. 'A pleasant sight, is it not, Uncle?' he said 'So much youthful enthusiasm! And enthusiasm in a prince, properly directed, can achieve much – can it not?'
Greysteil looked at him, broodingly. 'You're no' blate, Patrick – I'll say that for you!' he declared 'You've a glib tongue in your head But how long, think you, will you keep that head on your shoulders man, playing this game?'
'I shall keep my head, never fear,' his nephew laughed 'I use it, you see. As, I have no doubt, you are using yours. You know more than just horseflesh, I think?'
'I ken who rules Scotland, boy!'
'Who ruled it,' Patrick amended He pointed 'Yonder is the rule in Scotland, hereafter – the pair of them. The King and his cousin Esme. Or shall we say Esme and his cousin the King? It is a wise man who recognises a fact like that in good time!'
His uncle snorted 'What think you Morton will say that that?'
'What he says is of small matter. What he does depends on who supports him!'
'The whole Council supports him, laddie.'
'Does it? Does Huntly support him? Does Erroll, the Constable? Does Hemes, or Montrose, or Balmerino, or Sutherland…?
Ruthven spat on the cobble-stones. 'Papists!' he exclaimed.
'Are they? But still of the Council, even though they have not attended it of late! In letters to mc, they indicate that they are thinking of taking a greater interest in their duties, Uncle!'
Greysteil said nothing to that
'And the Kirk?' Patrick went on. 'Is the Kirk united in support of my lord of Morton?'
The Kirk will no' support any Catholic Frenchie, I'll tell you that, boy!'
His nephew coughed. 'I have it on the best authority that Esme" Stuart has h'm, leanings towards Protestantism!' he said.
'God!' the older man commented, simply.
'The Guise brothers have been extraordinarily generous,' Patrick added, as though on another subject altogether. 'Not only in horses. They have entrusted me with considerable gold. As have.. others. In the interests of amity and peace in Scotland, you understand. A noble cause, you will agree?'
Ruthven licked his thin lips.
'Elizabeth Tudor, I have heard, is finding her dole to Morton waxing unprofitable. She is thinking of cutting it off, they do say.' The younger man sighed. 'Pardieu – the problems of steering the galley of state!'
His uncle was staring ahead of him, but not seemingly at the black horses. He appeared to be thinking very hard indeed.