Lord and Master

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Born of one of Scotland's noblest families, Patrick Gray was fascinating, irresistible, ambitious and ruthless. Involved in a daring plot to free the imprisoned Mary Queen of Scots, and immersed in the intrigues of Elizabeth I's Tudor court, he strode imperiously across the turbulent stage of European history, crushing those who resisted his legendary charm. The great events of the sixteenth century provide a colourful backdrop to this stirring tale of love, adventure and betrayal. 'Through his imaginative dialogue, he provides a voice for Scotland's heroes' Scotland on Sunday

Release date: December 20, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

WAS the Master of Gray a devil incarnate? The historians say so. They unanimously portray him in ‘colours so odious that, to find his parallel as a master of unprincipled statecraft, we must search amongst the Machiavellian politicians of Italy’. He was, we read, ‘a young man of singular beauty and no scruples’. Again, ‘He carried a heart as black and treacherous as any in that profligate age.’ And so on.

Yet he was admittedly the most successful and remarkable Scottish adventurer of his adventurous age – the age of Mary, Queen of Scots, of Elizabeth, and of James the Sixth; of Reformation Scotland, the Huguenot Wars and the Spanish Armada, in all of which he had his finger. Moreover, he was accepted to be the handsomest man of his day – it was said, of all Europe – as well as one of the most fascinating, talented and witty. None, apparently, could withstand his charm – and though it is claimed that he betrayed everyone with whom he had any dealings, the same folk continued to trust him to the end.

What sort of a man could this be? What lies behind a man like that? Could so black a traitor be yet a lover of beauty, a notable poet and one of the closest friends of the noble Sir Philip Sidney? Or have the historians all missed something? Was the Master of Gray as black as he was painted – or even blacker?

What follows here is no more than a novel. Mere fiction. One writer’s notion of Patrick Gray as he might have been; one man’s attempt to clothe the bare bones of history with warm human flesh, however erring. In the process many liberties have been taken with historical characters – and to a much lesser extent with dates. Probably I have been less than fair to Chancellor Maitland, for instance, an able man and apparently more honest than most.

I have invented the important character of David Gray, the Master’s illegitimate half-brother, in order to provide the necessary reporter close enough to highlight and interpret the latter’s extraordinary career – so much of which, of course, must have taken place in secret assignations and behind locked doors, many of them bedroom ones!

Castle Huntly still stands, high on its rock, frowning out over the fertile Carse of Gowrie. It is perhaps no more than poetic if ironic justice that it now serves the purpose of a house of correction for young men who have strayed from the broader paths of virtue – and been caught.

NIGEL TRANTER

Aberlady 1960

In order of appearance

(Fictional characters printed in Italics)

PATRICK, MASTER OF GRAY, son and heir of the 5th Lord Gray.

David Gray, illegitimate eldest son of the same.

PATRICK, 5TH LORD GRAY, twice an Extraordinary Lord of Session, and a close friend of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Andrew Davidson, an agile cleric, former Abbot of Holy Church, nowreformed, and Principal of St. Mary’s College, St. Andrews.

Mariota Davidson, his daughter, duly legitimated.

ELIZABETH LYON, eldest daughter of the 8th Lord Glamis, Chancellor of Scotland – first wife of the Master of Gray.

SIR THOMAS LYON, MASTER OF GLAMIS, brother to Lord Glamis, later Treasurer of Scotland.

JAMES DOUGLAS, 4TH EARL OF MORTON, Regent of Scotland for the child King James the Sixth.

Hortense, Countess de Verlac, paramour and protectress of the Master of Gray, in France.

ESMÉ STUART, SEIGNEUR D’AUBIGNY, a cousin of Darnley and therefore second cousin of King James, later Earl and Duke of Lennox, and Chancellor of Scotland.

JAMES STEWART OF OCHILTREE, Captain of the King’s Guard, later Earl of Arran and Chancellor of Scotland.

KING JAMES THE SIXTH OF SCOTS, son of Mary, Queen of Scots.

ROBERT LOGAN OF RESTALRIG, adventurer, cousin of the Master of Gray.

LORD ROBERT STEWART, illegitimate half-brother of Mary the Queen, and later Earl of Orkney.

LADY MARIE STEWART, daughter of above, second wife of the Master of Gray.

LADY ELIZABETH STEWART, notorious courtesan, daughter of the Earl of Atholl, and wife successively to the Lord Lovat, the Earl of March and the Earl of Arran.

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM, Chief Secretary of State to Queen Elizabeth.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, poet, diplomat and soldier.

QUEEN ELIZABETH OF ENGLAND.

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, prisoner of Elizabeth.

SIR JOHN MAITLAND, Principal Secretary of State to King James, later Chancellor of Scotland.

SIR WILLIAM STEWART, brother to Arran, assistant to Secretary Maitland.

In addition to the above, amongst the many historical characters, prominent during the colourful twelve-year period covered by this story, are the following:

JOHN, 8TH LORD GLAMIS, Chancellor of Scotland.

HENRI, DUC DE GUISE, Marshal of France, cousin of Queen Mary, and instigator of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve.

LOUIS, CARDINAL OF LORRAINE, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, brother to the above, international plotter.

JAMES BEATON, ARCHBISHOP OF GLASGOW, exile, and Ambassador of Mary in France.

WILLIAM, 4TH LORD RUTHVEN, uncle to the Master of Gray, later first Earl of Gowrie and Treasurer of Scotland. Chief actor in the Raid of Ruthven.

ANDREW, 8TH EARL OF ERROLL, High Constable of Scotland and Chief of the Hays.

SIR THOMAS RANDOLPH, English Ambassador.

M. CLAUDE NAU, Secretary to Mary, Queen of Scots.

ROBERT DUDLEY, EARL OF LEICESTER, favourite of Queen Elizabeth.

WILLIAM CECIL, LORD BURLEIGH, former Chief Secretary, later Lord High Treasurer of England.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH, diplomat and explorer.

SIR RALPH SADLER, of Wingfield, jailer to Mary, Queen of Scots.

GEORGE, 6TH EARL OF HUNTLY, Chief of Clan Gordon.

THE two young men were boys enough still to have chosen to await the summons to the great Lord Gray out of doors and in a favourite haunt of their childhood days – a narrow grassy platform or terrace before a little cave in the cliff-face, a sunny, south-facing, secure place, divided by a steep and narrow little ravine from the fierce and sombre towering castle that challenged earth and sky from its taller soaring rock opposite. Here, always, they had found their own castle, where they could watch the comings and goings to that other arrogant pile, close enough to see all that was to be seen, and to be hailed when required, distant enough to be out of the way and, when necessary, hidden in the cave – which was equipped with its own secret stairway, like the many within the thick walls of Castle Huntly itself, out at the back by a climbing earthy passage, up into the bushes and trees that crowned their cliff, and away. They had come here almost automatically, and without discussing the matter, when they heard from Rob Powrie the steward that my lord of Gray was not yet back from Dundee town, though expected at any time – and was expecting to see them when he did come. If this repairing to their cave and ledge was a harking back to childhood custom, it did not strike either of them that way.

For young men they were, even though for the taller slender one it was actually only his sixteenth birthday. The other was six months older, though frequently he seemed the younger. Young men matured early in the Scotland of King Jamie Sixth – and as well that they did, since so few achieved any length of years, what with one thing and another. The King himself, of course, was but eight years old, and his unhappy and beautiful mother Mary was already six years a prisoner of Elizabeth of England, at thirty-two – which all had something to do with it.

The youths passed their time of waiting differently – as indeed they did most things differently, despite the closeness of their friendship. Patrick, the slender one, paced back and forth along the little grassy terrace – but not in any caged or heavy fashion; in fact he skipped lightly, almost danced, every now and again in his pacing, in tune with a song that he sang, a song with a catchy jigging air and words that were almost as grossly indecent as they were dangerously sacrilegious, while he twanged at an imaginary lute with long delicate fingers and laughed and grimaced and gestured the while, at David, at the soaring sinister castle opposite, at all the wide-spreading green levels of the Carse of Gowrie and the blue estuary of the Tay that lay below their cliffs. Patrick Gray was like that, a born appreciator of life.

His companion, a stocky plain-faced youth, with level grey eyes where the other’s were dancing and dark, sat hunched at the mouth of the cave, and, stubborn chin on hand, stared out across the fair carselands and over the sparkling firth beyond to the green hills of Fife. He did not join in any of the ribald verses of Patrick’s song, nor even tap the toe of his worn and scuffed shoe to the lilt of it. He was not sulking, nor surly, however heavy his expression might seem in comparison with that of the gay and ebullient Patrick; merely thoughtful, quiet, reserved. His heavy brows and jutting chin perhaps did David Gray some small injustice.

Each very much in his own way was awaiting the fateful summons, on which, neither required to be told, so much depended.

‘He takes a plaguey time – eh, Davy?’ the younger interrupted – not his jigging but his singing – to remark. He laughed. ‘No doubt the old lecher requires to fortify himself – with a sleep, perhaps – after the exhausting facilities of Dundee! I have heard that the Provost’s wife is exceeding sportive – despite her bulk. Tiring, it may be, for a man of his years!’ They had observed my Lord Gray’s return from the town, with a small cavalcade, fully half-an-hour previously.

‘Houts, Patrick man – what way is that to speak of your own father!’ the other protested. ‘My lord was in Dundee on the business of the Kirk, did not Rob Powrie say?’

‘And you think that the two ploys wouldna mix? God’s Body, Davy – and you living in godly Reformed St. Andrews these past two years! Faith, man – the holier the occasion, the fiercer the grapple!’

David Gray considered his companion with his level gaze, and said nothing. He had a great gift for silence, that young man – of which no-one was likely to accuse the other.

Patrick laughed again, tossing back the dark curling hair that framed his delicately handsome features, and resumed his song – only now he inserted the name of Patrick Lord Gray into the lewder parts of the ballad in place of the late lamented Cardinal Archbishop David Beaton, of notable memory. And the refrain he changed from ‘Iram Coram Dago’ to ‘Frown, Davy, Frown-oh!’

Even if he did not laugh in sympathy, the other did not frown. Few people ever frowned on Patrick Gray – or if they did, not for long. He was much too good to look at for frowns, and his own scintillating and unfailing good humour, barbed as it generally might be, was apt to be infectious. Beautiful, Patrick had been called, in face and in figure, but there was a quality in both which saved that beauty from the taint of effeminacy. From waving black hair and high noble brows above flashing brilliant eyes, a straight finely-chiselled nose over a smiling mouth whose sweetness was balanced by a firm and so far beardless pointed chin, down past a body that was as lithe and slender and graceful as a rapier blade, to those neat dancing feet, Patrick, Master of Gray, was all shapely comely fascination and charm – and knew it. A pretty boy, yes – but a deal more than that. Not a few had found that out, of both sexes, for he was as good as a honeypot to men and women alike. It was all, perhaps, just a little hard on his brother David.

For they were brothers, these two, despite all the difference in build and feature and manner and voice, in dress even – and despite the paltry six months between their ages. There were times when it could be seen that they might be brothers, too, in the lift of their chins, their habit of shrugging a single shoulder, and so on – attributes these, presumably, passed on by the puissant and potent Patrick, fifth Lord Gray, to his firstborn David, as well as to his seven legitimate offspring, and his Maker only knew how many others. Nevertheless, where the one youth looked a thoroughbred and a delight to the eye, as became a son of the late Lady Barbara of the fierce and haughty breed of Ruthven, the other, rather, appeared a cob, serviceable but unexciting, as befitted the bastard of Nance Affleck, daughter of the miller of Inchture.

The diverting song was pierced by a shout from across the ravine – pierced but not halted. Patrick, as a matter of principle, finished the verse before he so much as glanced over to the forecourt of the castle. But David stood up, and waved a hand to the man with the bull-like voice who stood at the edge of the other cliff, and promptly began to make his way down the steep slope of the gully, using roots and rocks as handholds. After a suitable interval, his half-brother followed him.

The climb up to that beetling fortalice was a taxing business, even to young lungs – and a daunting one too, for any but these two, for the place all but overhung its precipice, and seemed to scowl down harshly, threateningly, in the process. Castle Huntly, as well as crowning an upthrusting rock that rose abruptly from the plain of Gowrie, was, and still is, perhaps the loftiest castle in a land of such, soaring at the cliffward side no fewer than seven storeys to its windy battlements, a tall stern dominating tower, rising on a plan of the letter L in walls of immensely thick red sandstone, past small iron-barred windows, to turrets and crowstepped gables and parapets, dwarfed by height, its base so grafted and grouted into different levels of the living rock as to leave almost indistinguishable where nature left off and man began.

Breathless, inevitably, the young men reached the level of the forecourt, where horses stood champing, a level which was already three storeys high on the cliffward side, and found Rob Powrie, the castle steward and major domo, awaiting them in a mixture of impatience and sympathy. He was a friend of theirs, though only too well aware that his master was not a man to be kept waiting, especially when aggrieved.

‘Why could ye no’ bide decently aboot the place, laddies, instead of ower in yon hole, there?’ he complained. He was a big burly man, plainly dressed, more like a farmer than a nobleman’s steward. ‘My lord’s shouting for you. You’d ha’ done better to cosset him a wee, this day, than keep him waiting, you foolish loons. Up wi’ you, now . . .’

‘My father has plenty to cosset him, Rob – too many for his years, I think!’ Patrick returned. ‘The Provost’s wife, for instance . . .’

‘Wheesht, Master Patrick – wheesht, for sweet Mary’s sake! Och, I mean for whoever’s sake looks after us, these days!’

‘Ha! Hark to the good Reformed steward of the Kirk’s holy Lord Gray!’

‘Wheesht, I say! Davy – can ye no’ mak him see sense? Get him in a better frame o’ mind than this? My lord’s right hot against the pair o’ you, I tell you. It will pay you to use him softly, I warrant.’

‘Come on, Patrick – hurry, man,’ David jerked. ‘And for God’s sake, have a care what you say.’

The other laughed. ‘Never fear for me, Davy – look to yourself!’ he said.

‘Haste you both. My lord is in his own chamber . . .’

They continued their climb, first up a light outside timber stairway, which could be removed for security, to the only entrance to the keep proper, past the great dark stone-vaulted hall within, where a number of folk, lairds and officers and ministers in the sombre black of the Kirk, set about long tables of elm, and up the winding stone turnpike stair within the thickness of the tremendous walling, David leading. At the landing above the hall, before a studded door of oak, he halted, panting, and waited for Patrick to join him.

Before the latter could do so, the door was flung open, and their father stood there. He frowned at them both, heavily, the underhung jaw thrust forward, but said nothing.

‘My lord!’ David gulped.

‘Good day to you, Father,’ Patrick called, courteously.

The older man merely stared at them head sunk between massive shoulders, rather like a bull about to charge. Lord Gray was a bulky fleshy man, florid of face and spare of hair. Though only of early middle years he looked older, with the lines of dissipation heavy upon him, from sagging jowls to thrusting paunch. The little eyes in that gross face were shrewd, however, and the mouth tight enough. A more likely father, it would appear, for the stocky silent David than for the beautiful Patrick, Master of Gray, his heir.

Equally without a word, the former stood before him now, stiff, wary, waiting. The latter fetched an elaborate bow, that was only redeemed from being a mockery by the sweetness of the smile that accompanied it.

The Lord Gray jerked his head towards the inner room, and turning about, stamped inside, the spurs of his long leather riding-boots jingling. The young men followed, with Patrick now to the fore.

It was a comparatively small chamber, the stone floor, that was but the top of the hall vaulting, covered in skins of deer and sheep, the walls hung with arras save where two little wooden doors, one on either side of the room, hid the cunningly contrived ducts in the walling which led down to the deep window embrasures of the hall, and by which the castle’s lord could listen, when so inclined, to most of what was said in the great room below. Despite its being late May, a fire of logs blazed in the stone fireplace with the heraldic overmantel bearing the graven rampant red lion on silver of Gray. It was very warm in that room.

To this fireplace Lord Gray limped, to turn and face his sons. ‘Well?’ he said. That was all.

‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ Patrick answered lightly – but not too lightly. ‘I trust that I see you equally so – and that your leg but little pains you?’ That was solicitude itself, its sincerity not to be doubted.

The older man’s frown seemed to melt a little as he looked at his namesake. Then swiftly he shook his head and his brows came down again, as he transferred his gaze to the other young man. ‘You, sirrah!’ he cried, and he shouted now, in reaction to that shameful moment of weakness. ‘You, you graceless whelp, you spawn of the miller’s bitch – you that I’ve cherished and supported in idleness all these years! What have you to say for yourself, a’ God’s name? What do you mean by permitting this to happen? Fine you ken that I only sent you to St. Andrews College to keep this simpering poppet here out o’ mischief. D’you think I threw my siller away on a chance by-blow like yoursel’, for nothing? Do you? Answer me! What a pox ha’ you been doing, to fail me thus? Out with it, damn you!’

David Gray drew a long and uneven breath, but his level gaze was steady on his father’s purpling congested face. ‘My lord – I have worked at my studies, and waited on Patrick here, as you ordained.’

‘Waited on him! Fiend seize me – held up the lassie’s skirts for him, mair like!’ the older man burst out coarsely. ‘Is that it? Is that the way you carried out my charges? Speak, fool!’

‘No, sir.’ Heavily, almost tonelessly, the young man answered him. He was used to being the whipping-boy for the Master of Gray. It was so much easier to pour out wrath upon himself than upon his fascinating and talented brother. Not that he enjoyed the process. ‘I have done as you ordained, to the best of my ability . . .’

‘God’s Passion – your ability! Your ability means that the pair o’ you are sent down from the University as a stink, a disgrace to the name and honour of Gray . . . and Master Davidson’s daughter with a bairn in her belly!’

David stared straight in front of him, and said nothing.

‘Speak, man – don’t stand there glowering like a stirk? Give me an answer – or I’ll have the glower wiped off your face with a horse-whip!’

David could have pointed out that it was not really the pair of them that had been expelled from St. Mary’s College, but only Patrick. Likewise, that Mariota Davidson’s bairn had not been conceived as a joint operation of the brothers. But such objections, he knew, would be as profitless as they were irrelevant. He had no illusions as to his position and what was required of him. Inevitably there were handicaps in the privileged situation of being foster-brother, squire, bodyservant and conscience for the winsome Master of Gray. ‘I am sorry,’ he said simply, flatly – but less than humbly. David Gray was in fact no more humble at heart than any other Gray.

‘Sorry. . . .’ Lord Gray’s face contorted and his fists clenched beneath his somewhat soiled ruffles.

Patrick, misliking the sight and the ugliness of it all, stared away out of the small window, and sought to dwell on pleasanter things.

David thought that his father was going to strike him, and steeled himself to stand the blow unflinching – as he had stood many another, when younger. But the head-turned stance of his other son seemed to affect the nobleman – possibly also the fact that he could thus look at him without having to meet the half-mocking, half-reproachful and wholly disarming glance of Patrick’s fine dark eyes.

‘You, you prinking ninny! You papingo! Does this not concern you, likewise, boy?’ Lord Gray looked down as the younger man turned. ‘And these clothes? These mummer’s trappings? This fool’s finery? Where did you get it? How come you dressed so – like a Popish whoremonger? Not with my siller, by God!’ He gestured disgustedly at his heir’s costume. ‘How dare you show yoursel’ in a godly household, so?’

Certainly Patrick was dressed very differently from his father. He wore a crimson velvet doublet with an upstanding collar piped in gold thread, reaching high at the back to set off a cascading lace ruff. The sleeves were slashed with yellow satin, and ended in lace ruffles. The shoulders were padded out into prominent epaulettes. The waist of the doublet reached down low in a V to emphasise the groin, and the breeches were short, ending above the knee, slashed also in yellow and padded out at the hips and thighs. The long hose were of yellow silk, and the shoes sported knots of crimson ribbon. Lord Gray, on the other hand, as became a pillar of the new Kirk, was soberly clad in dark broadcloth, the doublet fitting the body and skirted, in the old-fashioned way, with only a small collar, and the ruff a mere fringe of white. The breeches were unmodishly long enough to reach below his knees and disappear into the tops of his riding-boots. The only gesture towards richness was the heavy sword-belt of solid wrought gold. As for David, his patched doublet and breeches of plain brown homespun, darned woven hose and solid but worn shoes, were all clean enough and as neat as they might be – and that was about the best that could be said for them.

Patrick glanced down at himself with no indication of shame or dissatisfaction. ‘An honest penny may always be earned in St. Andrews town, at a pinch,’ he said. ‘Learning, I have found, does not always damp out lesser delights. Even ministers of your Kirk, sir, can be generous, on occasion – and their ladies still more so, Heaven be praised!’

‘Lord – what d’you mean, boy?’ his father spluttered. ‘What is this, now? Do not tell me that . . .’

‘I shall tell you nothing, my lord, that would distress you – God forbid! Indeed, there is little to tell. Is there, Davy? My lord of Gray’s son is inevitably welcome in many a house. You would not have him churlishly reject such . . . hospitality?’

The older man swallowed, all but choked, and almost thankfully, if viciously, turned back to David. ‘This . . . this, then, is how you guided and looked after your brother! You’ll pay for this – both of you! I’ll not be used thus. To drag my name in the dirt . . .!’

‘Never that, Father,’ Patrick assured. ‘The reverse, rather. Indeed, always your name meant a great deal to us, I vow. Is that not so, Davy? And your honour, sir, of value above, h’mm, rubies!’

The Lord Gray opened his mouth to speak, shut it again almost with a snap, and went limping over to a desk. He picked up a paper there, and brought it back to them, and waved it under the boys’ faces.

‘Here is how you valued my name and honour,’ he exclaimed. ‘A letter from Principal Davidson apprising me . . . me! . . . that he must banish you from his University by reason of your filthy lewdness, naming you as father of his daughter’s unborn bairn, and hinting at a marriage. God’s death – marriage! With Gray!’

Even Patrick faltered at that cri de coeur. ‘Marriage . . .?’ he repeated. ‘With Mariota? The old turkey-cock talks of marriage, i’ faith! Lord – here is madness!’

‘Madness? Aye, by the sweet Christ! But whose madness? With all the other trollops of St. Andrews to sport with, you had to go begetting a bastard on the worthy Principal’s daughter! Why, man? Why?’

Patrick mustered a one-shouldered shrug. ‘I have it on good authority, sir, that the daughter herself was a bastard of the worthy Principal, until a few years syne – when he was the holy Lord Abbot of Inchaffray.’

‘What of it, boy? Can we no’ all make mistakes?’ my lord asked, and then coughed.

‘Quite, Father.’

‘Aye – but there are mistakes and mistakes, Patrick. Mistakes o’ the flesh can come upon us all unawares, at times. But mistakes o’ the wits and the mind are another matter, boy.’

‘Which was good Master Davidson’s, Father?’ Patrick wondered innocently.

‘Tush – his mistakes are by with. Yours are not. Principal Davidson saw the bright light o’ Reform in good time . . . and so wed a decent woman in place o’ the Harlot o’ Rome. So he now can decently own his lass, and call her legitimate. Moreover, he is a coming man in the Kirk, and wi’ the ear o’ the Regent and o’ Master Buchanan, the King’s Tutor. He is no’ a man to offend, I tell you.’

‘Must Gray go in fear and respect, then, of a jumped-up coat-turned cleric, my lord?’

‘God’s Splendour – no! But . . . laddie, you ken not what you say. My position is no’ that secure. The country is in a steer, and Morton the Regent loves me not. He and the Kirk rule the land – and I am known as a friend o’ Mary the Queen, whom the Kirk loves not. Where the Kirk is concerned, I maun watch my step . . .’

‘But you yourself are one of the leaders of the Kirk party, are you not?’

‘Aye . . . but I have my unfriends. In the same Kirk. Why did you bring the Kirk into this cantrip, boy? I’m no’ so sure o’ Davidson. You heard – the man hints at marriage. And if he talks that gait loud enough, it will surely come to the ear o’ my lord of Glamis. And how will you fare then, jackanapes?’

‘Glamis?’

‘Aye, Glamis. I have, God aiding me, arranged a marriage contract between yoursel’ and the Lady Elizabeth Lyon o’ Glamis. After much labour, and but a few days past. What will my lord say when he hears o’ this, then? Glamis is strong in the Kirk party. None shall shake him. ’Twas the best match in the land for you. And, now . . .’

Patrick was not listening. ‘Glamis!’ he repeated. ‘Elizabeth Lyon of Glamis.’ Those fine eyes had narrowed. The speaker leaned forward, suddenly urgent, his voice altered – indeed all of him altered, as in a moment. ‘This . . . this is different, I think,’ he said slowly. ‘My lord – I knew nothing of this.’

‘Think you I must inform you, a stripling, of all I plan . . .?’

‘I am old enough for the injury of your plans, sir, it seems – so old enough to be told of them when they concern myself, surely? Old enough for marriage, too . . .’

‘Aye. Marriage to a cleric’s mischance in a college backyard – or marriage to the daughter of the Chancellor, one of the greatest lords of the land . . . and the richest!’

Patrick smiled, and swiftly, as in a flash, was all light and cheer and attraction again. ‘Elizabeth Lyon, as I mind her, is very fair,’ he said. ‘And notably well endowered . . . in more than just her dowry!’ And he laughed.

‘Aye – she has big breasts, if that is what you like,’ his forthright father agreed. ‘A pity that you ha’ thrown them away, and what goes wi’ them, for this strumpet o’ Davidson’s. Devil damn it – I had set my heart on this union between our two houses . . .’

‘She is no strumpet.’ That was quietly, levelly said.

Both Patricks, senior and junior, turned on David who had so abruptly but simply made that announcement. The elder’s glance was hot and angry, but the younger’s was quick and very keen.

‘Silence, sirrah!’ Lord Gray said. ‘Speak when you are spoken to.’

‘Davy likes the gentle Mariota well enough, I think,’ his brother observed, significantly.

‘I carena who he likes or doesna like – or you, either,’ their father declared, ‘What I care for is the ruin o’ my plans, and the welfare o’ our house and name. That you have spat upon, and cast aside . . .’

‘I think you do me wrong, Father,’ Patrick said quietly.

‘Eh? Wrong? A pox – you say so? You mincing jackdaw!’ Lord Gray took a wrathful step forward.

Patrick held his ground. ‘Only because I judge you to be misinformed, sir. Your plans are not ruined, yet.’

‘How mean you . . .?’

‘I mean that it is not I that should be the object of Master Davidson’s ambitions – but Davy, here! Heigho, Davy is the culprit, I fear!’

There was little of difference between the gasps of breath drawn by each of his hearers. David turned s