“Will sent a message—they met at that cattle raid affair, I think. I don’t know if Lymond is involved—officially, I don’t know anything: Sybilla is the one in Wat’s confidence at the moment. But I got a wee glisk a the note when it came, and it said—”
“Wait a bit.” Richard rubbed two fingers and a thumb over his brow, transferring to it a long smear of harness dye. “Before you say any more. Buccleuch and I had words recently. We’re not on good terms, and we’ve got different opinions about how this business of Lymond should be treated. You know all that. The last thing Buccleuch wants is to have this piece of information in my hands.”
“What Buccleuch wants and what he gets,” said Dame Janet serenely, “don’t always coincide in my experience. Don’t be a fool, man. You may whinny at the method, but you can’t deny we’ve got motive and provocation enough to defend it to the Pope, if need be. With or without Lymond, Will’s engaged to meet Buccleuch in the beech wood at the foot of the Crumhaugh—the hill between Branxholm and Slitrig Water—at dusk on the first Sunday in February.” She rose laboriously. “There you are. Do what you like about it.”
Richard looked past her into the Hall. A new dance had begun and the Queen—the youngest Queen, aged five—was leading it, cheeks like fruit below a fiercely combed and shining head, one arm erect as a flag in her partner’s grasp. The lines of long, slow sleeves marched and swayed with the music; coloured limbs were pleached and latticed in pattern. The music, piping, thudding, nasal, escorted the murmur of voices. Somewhere in one of the ranks Mariotta was dancing, and behind her, Agnes Herries with the Master of Maxwell.
Richard looked down at his own muddy clothes and rubbed his face again. “Yes.” He added abruptly, “You understand, I’m not interested in Will. I want to take my brother.”
“Do that, and the boy will come back of his own accord,” said Janet. “Look, there’s Wat hunting for me. Goodbye. If you’ve a grain of sense you’ll go straight home to bed.”
“Good night—and thank you. I’ll take care Buccleuch doesn’t hear where my information came from,” said Culter.
“Och, I’ll tell him myself,” said Dame Janet. “Just so soon as it’s all over. He’ll be all the better of a good row after mincing away with Kincurd and his morals. Wicked Wat of Buccleuch! Saints preserve us.” She turned back into the Hall, and Richard went home.
3. Another Royal Lady Enters the Game
To Lord Grey of Wilton, the Protector’s Lord Lieutenant of the North, Gideon Somerville reported in full the incident of the cattle raid and of the assault on his home and the taking of Sir George Douglas’s letter. He was frank and even pointedly detailed with one exception: he held back the name of the interloper. Gideon had no intention of being asked to reopen negotiations with him, should he be known to Lord Grey.
The interview took place in the Castle of Warkworth on the bright, bracing coast of Northumberland.
For domestic reasons, the English Protector urgently needed a splendid success at something, and his first instinct was to put a stop to the squabbling inaction in the north. This he did, characteristically, by ordering his Lords Warden to meet and devise an instant plan for, first, devastating the House of Buccleuch; second, pulverizing the House of Douglas; and third, joining the power of the three Border Marches and burning Scotland up to the eyebrows. The object of this last, as ever, was to wrest the child Queen from these antique and wiry arms and rear her, unequivocably, as the bride of the King of England. The Lords Warden, answering faintly, undertook to excel themselves and arranged to meet on this last Friday in January at the Castle of Warkworth. The Lords Warden detested each other, but they distrusted the Protector more.
Gideon was present at the historic meeting, and with him was Lord Wharton, who had spent a night at Flaw Valleys on his way. The fourth member was Sir Thomas Bowes, a large and silent man who was Warden of the Middle Marches.
As senior commander, Lord Grey chose to open the meeting with a striking list of his activities on the east of Scotland. In the front of his mind was a courteous desire to complete the military picture for his fellow officers. In the back of it marched a procession of letters from the Lord Protector, making concise reference to some aspect of Lord Wharton’s energy and initiative on the west. He went on.
“Now, what we have to do most urgently is to break this mood of optimism. This French arrival has done a lot of damage: men and money pouring into Scotland from the French king, and the promise of more—we can’t ignore that. And your friend Lennox crawling into Dumfries and home again like a half-drowned kitten, Wharton, hardly had the appearance of a military tour de force.”
“The Earl of Lennox, like the baker of Ferrara, thinks he is made of butter,” said Wharton dryly. “I am in no position to disabuse him of the idea.”
“Well, he’s no tactician: that’s obvious,” said Grey. “Figureheads are dangerous. Would never touch ’em. And if I had to, I should go with them and make damn sure they didn’t get into mischief.”
“I bow to expert opinion, of course. But the gentleman is married to the King’s cousin. The effect is to make him touchy about bear-leading.”
“Tact!” said Lord Grey.
“It is a little difficult,” said Lord Wharton, “to convey acceptably to a noble gentleman that he is an interfering fool.” And he let a pause develop just sufficiently before going on. “If I might suggest it, we should be better employed in considering just how Lord Lennox might be used—since inescapably he must be used—in the next combined raid. And how he can help us against the Douglases.…”
They had got exactly so far when Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, was announced.
* * *
Meg Douglas in girlhood had possessed the gorgeous, leonine sort of beauty that her uncle Henry VIII had frittered away, and of which her father, the Earl of Angus, was the vestigial affidavit. In sixteen years’ residence in England, careening at Henry’s whim from near-throne to near-block, Margaret had kept her splendour.
Her mother, Margaret Tudor of England, had been married to King James of Scotland nearly fifty years before; and had stayed in Scotland to become Angus’s wife when her first husband lost his life at Flodden.
Now Henry was dead; his sister was dead; Angus had married again and Margaret Douglas had become the good-conduct prize which persuaded the Earl of Lennox to abandon his singlehanded bid for the Scottish throne, and throw in his lot with England. She was not an unwilling bride. Once, when Henry was in the throes of illegitimizing his children, the Lady Margaret had been heiress to the throne of England. The royal blood which she and Lennox shared and which ran in their children was a powerful claim to both the English and Scottish thrones. Lennox might be a bad tactician, but his wife was not.
Her entry into the solar at Warkworth was consciously magnificent. Gideon, effacing himself, studied her. Her hair was a dark, lichen-blond and the features strongly marked in a pale skin, the mouth warm and decided, the chin cleft, the eyes observant. His impression was one of natural graces overlaid by years of merciless experience.
She was speaking with perfect composure. “I’m afraid my family have been troubling you greatly. It’s never easy for an Englishman to understand all the pressures Scots are subject to.”
No one had any illusions that this was a social call. Lord Wharton was blunt. “Saving your presence, Lady Lennox, I have made no secret of my views about the Douglases. I know the difficulties they are under. But until they show themselves friends, we must treat them as enemies. I have raided Angus’s land and Drumlanrig’s land on instructions from the Lord Protector, and I regret if Lord Grey feels that his friendship with Sir George and his private promises of immunity are endangered, but further than that I cannot go.”
The Lord Lieutenant was taut with temper and the need to preserve the social decencies. “I dislike, as any gentleman would, the appearance of breaking my pledged word,” he said. “The damage done, however, I agree that the Douglases have taken u
nwarrantable revenge and, as you know perfectly, I have pledged my word to punish them.”
“We’ll be lucky if we get the chance,” said Wharton bluntly. “But in case we do, I’ve asked everyone who is able, to report to me for service as soon as they can. If you will carry out your second raid on Buccleuch, Lord Lieutenant, I shall put all the force I can to shake the Douglases out of their bushes.”
“Wait a moment.” Lady Lennox spoke, and both Grey and Wharton, intent as circling dogs in their antagonism, showed their surprise. “The Protector told me his intention was that you should enter Scotland again, Lord Grey, and form a new centre of operations at Haddington, just south of Edinburgh. Is that right?”
“The Protector wanted all three armies to invade at once, but that is impossible because of the weather and the ground, Lady Lennox. Quite impossible. In a month’s time, I might be in a position to march to Haddington. In the meantime, we are to attack Buccleuch.”
“I understand.” She looked at her wine. “In that case, it seems a pity for Lord Wharton to draw on himself the undivided attention of the west. Would it not be better to wait a week or two for better weather, and then to synchronize your raids?”
Bowes ventured. “But time is against us, Lady Lennox. The French—”
“The same wind blows in the Channel as on the Solway,” she said. “No fleet will put out in this weather.”
Gideon interposed briefly. “The Protector is asking for action quickly against the Douglases, Lady Lennox.”
“And that he shall have,” said the woman serenely. “If you will allow me to make a suggestion.” She looked up at four, noncommittal faces and smiled. “There was a time when I was a Douglas, and then I became more Tudor than Douglas. Now I am more Stewart than either. Listen.”
And she outlined a plan which was bold, practical and, unintentionally, quite formidable in its ultimate effect. In which she showed herself to be, after all, more Tudor and Douglas than Stewart.
* * *
With Will Scott at his side, Lymond met John Maxwell briefly by appointment in a bothy of mud and thatch in the hills near Thornhill.
Sitting watching by the bright, whining fire, Scott saw that Maxwell was now handling the other man carefully. He made one flattering reference to the conduct of December’s cattle raid, but did not repeat the mistake. He referred also to his meeting with Agnes Herries.… “That goes very well. You were right about the letters. She had already created the mould, and I stepped into it. Not a bad thing. I shall try not to disappoint her.”
“What did you make of her?” Lymond asked.
“Your reading was perfectly accurate. She will make an excellent wife—if that were the main issue. And if her marriage were a matter of free choice, I should be Lord Herries tomorrow. But of course, it’s not. I’m afraid it will take more than one cattle raid to shake off Arran. He’s determined to have her for his son, and he has a promise on paper.”
“The Queen Dowager is not unsympathetic,” remarked Lymond.
“But Arran is Governor.”
“And as such is accountable to the French for the fervent persecution of the enemy.”
“Arran won’t attack: he has neither the stomach nor the power.”
“He won’t attack; but he’ll have to defend, shortly. There’s another combined attack from Carlisle and Berwick coming next month.”
The pupils in the golden eyes narrowed and expanded. “How do you know that?”
“Spies. I have no direct contact with Carlisle,” said Lymond laconically. “If you want my opinion to reinforce your own, then that’s your bargain. Throw the Maxwells openly this time against Wharton, and you have the Dowager on your side. She likes the girl, and she’s being pushed for results by her relatives in France as well as by the French Ambassador. Let her persuade Arran for you.”
There was a long silence. Then the Master of Maxwell said, “The real deterrent lies with my hostages at Carlisle. If I turn, they may hang. But, as you no doubt will tell me, life is cheap.”
Lymond raised fair brows. “It is another disease that grieveth me. What I will say is that sentimentality is expensive. Let them hang: it is still a good bargain.”
Maxwell said, “I am not so ruthless.”
“We might differ about that.… But save the Carlisle chickens, and you let the Stirling stables burn.”
“Some might feel one hen of a sort was worth twenty horses,” said Maxwell.
“And yet you won’t get far without horses, be your poultry never so prolific.”
Lymond was clearly mocking, and the other switched subjects curtly. “Do you wish to continue the letters to Agnes Herries? We agreed that you should have this channel for messages.”
Lymond said, “Let it lapse. I can find other means now, if need be.” He rose. “I am grateful for your co-operation. We may still meet, of course. Next month, for example. In spite of your fondness for the chicken run.”
Maxwell also got up. He hesitated, stooping a little under the low roof, his half-armour fogged with condensation. “There is one piece of news you might find of interest,” he said. “It’s not the kind I should pass on to Edinburgh, as the woman is, I suppose, a niece by marriage.…”
Lymond’s face and voice were his first weapons, and he used them consciously with the same control that in his brother kept expression away.
But this time, something new filled the blue eyes; and Scott, sitting forgotten, saw it, and his breathing stopped. Then it was over, and Maxwell, unobserving, was still talking.
“Lennox and Wharton are trying a new gambit this time. The Countess of Lennox is being sent north to Drumlanrig to try and splint together all these burst Douglas loyalties before the army invades.”
Lymond said in his accustomed voice, “The Lady Margaret Douglas? Angus’s daughter? When is she coming?”
Maxwell shook his head and took up his hat. “I have no other details. But I expect she’ll arrive shortly before they march, and wait for her husband. I thought you might be interested.”
He turned in the doorway, one hand on the lintel. “Good day to you both. I fancy these meetings will not be to our loss.”
“I fancy not,” said Lymond dryly; and Maxwell, mounted, leaned down. “You have a nice touch with the Latin tag, but I found the French a little indelicate, here and there.” And, one of his infrequent smiles lighting the solemn face, the Master of Maxwell rode off.
Scott, straightening from dousing the fire, found Lymond waiting with both horses at the door, his expression angelical. “O rubicund blossom and star of humility! O famous bud, full of benignity! O beautiful Master of Maxwell!”
Scott came out and took his horse. “What’s happened, sir?”
“Ce n’est rien: c’est une femme qui se noie,” said Lymond, and laughed. “Love Mr. Maxwell, my cherub: he has brought your old age with him today. We require a hostage to exchange for Samuel Harvey. And behold, we have a hostage. My brilliant devil, my imitation queen; my past, my future, my hope of heaven and my knowledge of hell … Margaret, Countess of Lennox.”
Part Three
THE PLAY FOR
SAMUEL HARVEY
CHAPTER I: Bitter Exchange
II: The Queen’s Progress Becomes Critical
III: Mate for the Master
IV: Concerted Attack
I
Bitter Exchange
This knycht he aw his folk for to defend …
Off gret corage he is that has no dreid
And dowtis nocht his fais multitude
Bot starkly fechtis for his querell gud.
1. Offer of a Pawn Is Discussed
MEG DOUGLAS, the boy Scott was thinking, his hands slack on the reins. Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox. What could have forged a link between the refulgent, self-contained Lymond and this woman?
The meeting with Maxwell lay behind them. Riding north with the Master, Scott had time to dwell on these and other matters, other women. He remembered the cold dawn cam
p after the cattle raid. Lymond was unique: perhaps he was entitled to a unique relationship with the Stewart girl. Perhaps. It was none of his business.
But because of it—every man has his private affairs—he had said nothing to the Master of his promise to meet Buccleuch.
His motives were wholly chaste: he meant to toy a little with the old man, giving his father the chance of a good look at him. He wanted to inspect the banners of the angels so near to the merry ranks of Mahoun, and make self-satisfied comparisons.
But he said nothing of that to Lymond. The devyll, they say, is dede; the devyll is dede. But Kincurd, renegade, would revive him fast enough, thought Will Scott, and kept quiet as they moved toward their new winter quarters.
Affairs around the Peel Tower were becoming a little too busy; and Lymond had decided to move. Tomorrow, Scott was to leave for the old Tower to supervise its final dismantling. Tonight he would spend at the new Tower, at Crawfordmuir.
The gold mines at Crawfordmuir were not very old. For thirty years, Dutch and Germans and Scots had been mining there, and the Queen Dowager Mary of Guise had also brought French miners from Lorraine. Since James V died, the Dowager Queen had not renewed the contract.
So the mines lay derelict, the ruins of workmen’s huts and storehouses littering the broken moorland, with rotting spades and wheelbarrows and crumbling dams and shallow, timbered pits.
The rock yielded no fabulous artery of yellow ore, but pebbles and scourings grained and gritted with gold dust and, rarely, an attenuated nugget. Mining was furtive and unlicensed. Week in, week out, the earth brought down by the spring rains was cherished and riddled, and the sparkling fragments folded in twists and rags and taken to a friendly goldsmith who might choose to forget that a tenth of all lawful takings on Crawfordmuir belonged to the Crown.
This was the land to which the Master brought Scott: up through bog and heather and packed moss and harsh root to two thousand feet above sea level where they stopped, and the boy looked about him. Here were four rivers, Lymond had told him, and Eldorado between them as the ancients thought it lay between the four rivers of Paradise. There were other graces. In this harness of high, safe hills they were surrounded by escape routes.