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them Secretary of Scotland, Maitland, clutching a roll of parchment that he tap-tapped against his leg, perhaps indicating a suppressed frustration that James put poetry before the
affairs of state. The man who currently was entertaining James with a poem that praised the King’s prowess on the hunting field, Hugh recognized as ‘Old Scott’ – who in
Mary’s day had written ‘Welcome illustrat Lady and our Queen’. – How easy it is for a poet, Hugh thought – change a word here, alter another there, and old allegiances
as easily replaced
.
That he would shortly be up there with them, posturing and pretending a friendship that he intended to keep only for so long as was necessary, did not make him any more
sympathetic to the ploys of others. As he despised what he was about to do, so he despised the manner in which others also prostituted themselves before James.
    Patrick leant sideways and spoke softly in his ear. ‘Have a care, Hugh. Your thoughts are as plain as the red in your hair: a child could read them, and the King, for all he hasn’t
reached his full majority, is no child. Nor Glencairn either, and as for William, he may play the fop, but it won’t have addled his brain. . . . And if you don’t let go of my arm, I
shall bear the mark for months to come.’
    Unclenching his hand, Hugh released Patrick, who bent his arm sideways until the elbow joint cracked, flexing his fingers. ‘Better mine than Cunninghame’s, I do suppose. I
shan’t need a fighting arm for the present – or not I trust, till I am back in France.’
    There was a stir around James. Hugh saw that Old Scott had finished his piece and was moving back to let another of the group take his place.
    Patrick whistled under his breath. ‘Perhaps there is something in this poetry game. I hadn’t thought to see a lady among the company, and pretty at that. I must ask Alexander . .
.’
    ‘We aren’t here to play, Patrick. Nor will we stay long.’
    ‘Oh I don’t need long,’ Patrick grinned, showing even, white teeth, ‘I never need long – indeed I tire easily, and must perforce rest between bouts.’
    ‘This lady keeps dangerous company; little use my taking care of appearance, if you will cause an affront to one of James’ inner circle.’ Aware that his grip was again over
hard, Hugh relaxed and made a conscious effort to sound casual, ‘A poet might have higher expectations than even you can meet. This is not Leyden. Nor do we wish to close doors that may be to
our advantage. Offence here would be inconvenient, at the very least.’
    Patrick half-turned, so that the tall, thin man nearest to them, who showed his restiveness in the way he alternately swivelled the cairngorm ring on his left hand and picked at imaginary specks
of fluff on his clothes, might not pick up his words. ‘I have no intention of causing offence, but a little pleasant conversation in the right direction may open doors to us, not close them.
Have you ever known me to sail so close to the wind that I am over-turned?’ Despite himself, Hugh grinned at him. It was true that he hadn’t yet met a lady who remembered an encounter
with Patrick with anything other than pleasure, though there were many who wished that they might have held onto him a little longer.
    At the other side of the hall Glencairn moved through the throng, William on his tail, halting, at just such a distance to indicate availability, yet deference to the moment of the King’s
choosing. Robert Montgomerie also stepped forward, bringing himself into James’ sightline, but not close enough to Glencairn for discomfort. Hugh and Patrick edged towards him. Hugh saw
William glance in their direction and then turn to make some comment to the man who stood behind him. If he had any doubt that it was in disparagement, the way in which the other man looked around
as if to see if the remark had been overheard, would have confirmed it. He noted the man’s bearing – light build,