CHRISTMAS WITH QUEEN BESS
Christmas morning came and went as if on swallow-wings, in a gale of
royal merriment. Four hundred sat to dinner that day in Greenwich halls,
and all the palace streamed with banners and green garlands.
Within the courtyard two hundred horses neighed and stamped around a
water-fountain playing in a bowl of ice and evergreen. Grooms and pages,
hostlers and dames, went hurry-scurrying to and fro; cooks, bakers, and
scullions steamed about, leaving hot, mouth-watering streaks of
fragrance in the air; bluff men-at-arms went whistling here and there;
and serving-maids with rosy cheeks ran breathlessly up and down the
winding stairways.
The palace stirred like a mighty pot that boils to its utmost verge, for
the hour of the revelries was come.
Over the beech-wood and far across the black heath where Jack Cade
marshaled the men of Kent, the wind trembled with the boom of the castle
bell. Within the walls of the palace its clang was muffled by a sound of
voices that rose and fell like the wind upon the sea.
The ambassadors of Venice and France were there, with their courtly
trains. The Lord High Constable of England was come to sit below the
Queen. The earls, too, of Southampton, Montgomery, Pembroke, and
Huntington were there; and William Cecil, Lord Burleigh, the Queen’s
High Treasurer, to smooth his care-lined forehead with a Yuletide jest.
Up from the entry ports came shouts of “Room! room! room for my Lord
Strange! Room for the Duke of Devonshire!” and about the outer gates
there was a tumult like the cheering of a great crowd.
The palace corridors were lined with guards. Gentlemen pensioners under
arms went flashing to and fro. Now and then through the inner throng
some handsome page with wind-blown hair and rainbow-colored cloak pushed
to the great door, calling: “Way, sirs, way for my Lord—way for my Lady
of Alderstone!” and one by one, or in blithe groups, the courtiers, clad
in silks and satins, velvets, jewels, and lace of gold, came up through
the lofty folding-doors to their places in the hall.
There, where the Usher of the Black Rod stood, and the gentlemen of the
chamber came and went with golden chains about their necks, was bowing
and scraping without stint, and reverent civility; for men that were
wise and noble were passing by, men that were handsome and brave; and
ladies sweet as a summer day, and as fair to see as spring, laughed by
their sides and chatted behind their fans, or daintily nibbled comfits,
lacking anything to say.
The windows were all curtained in, making a night-time in midday; and
from the walls and galleries flaring links and great bouquets of candles
threw an eddying flood of yellow light across the stirring scene. From
clump to clump of banner-staves and burnished arms, spiked above the
wainscot, garlands of red-berried holly, spruce, and mistletoe were
twined across the tapestry, till all the room was bound about with a
chain of living green.
There were sweet odors floating through the air, and hazy threads of
fragrant smoke from perfumes burning in rich braziers; and under foot
was the crisp, clean rustle of new rushes.
From time to time, above the hum of voices, came the sound of music from
a room beyond—cornets and flutes, fifes, lutes, and harps, with an
organ exquisitely played, and voices singing to it; and from behind the
players’ curtain, swaying slowly on its rings at the back of the stage,
came a murmur of whispering childish voices, now high in eager
questioning, now low, rehearsing some doubtful fragment of a song.
Behind the curtain it was dark—not total darkness, but twilight; for a
dull glow came down overhead from the lights in the hall without, and
faint yellow bars went up and down the dusk from crevices in the screen.
The boys stood here and there in nervous groups. Now and then a sharp
complaint was heard from the tire-woman when an impatient lad would not
stand still to be dressed.
Master Gyles went to and fro, twisting the manuscript of the Revel in
his hands, or pausing kindly to pat some faltering lad upon the back.
Nick and Colley were peeping by turns through a hole in the screen at
the throng in the audience-chamber.
They could see a confusion of fans, jewels, and faces, and now and again
could hear a burst of subdued laughter over the steadily increasing buzz
of voices. Then from the gallery above, all at once there came a murmur
of instruments tuning together; a voice in the corridor was heard
calling, “Way here, way here!” in masterful tones; the tall
folding-doors at the side of the hall swung wide, and eight dapper pages
in white and gold came in with the Master of Revels. After them came
fifty ladies and noblemen clad in white and gold, and a guard of
gentlemen pensioners with glittering halberds.
There was a sharp rustle. Every head in the audience-chamber louted low.
Nick’s heart gave a jump—for the Queen was there!
She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself
haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her
very well. She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing
face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young. Her
complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked;
her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and
bright, were pleasant and merry withal. Her hair was a coppery, tawny
red, and false, moreover. In her ears hung two great pearls; and there
was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a
necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck. She was
attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and
over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads.
Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very
long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than
Elizabeth did of ruling her realm.
“The Queen!” gasped Colley.
“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to
beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen.
He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and
in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively
and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to
their tongue—in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny
Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin,
at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it
meant or not. Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais
near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all
her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players
to begin.
“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind
the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to
speak the foreword of the piece. He was frightened, and his voice shook
as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart.
“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both
claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each
her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard
and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock
dance, for Summer-time. And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry
Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—with which he snapped
his fingers in the faces of them all—“God save Queen Bess!”
At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so
that every one clapped mightily.
The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause. Spring
won. The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took
their fancy, too. “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a
chance to cut fine capers with his heels.
Then the stage stood empty and the music stopped.
At this strange end a whisper of surprise ran through the hall. The
Queen tapped with the inner side of her rings upon the broad arm of her
chair. From the look on her face she was whetting her tongue. But before
she could speak, Nick and Colley, dressed as a farmer boy and girl, with
a garland of house-grown flowers about them, came down the stage from
the arras, hand in hand, bowing.
The audience-chamber grew very still—_this_ was something new. Nick
felt a swallowing in his throat, and Colley’s hand winced in his grip.
There was no sound but a silky rustling in the room.
Then suddenly the boys behind the players’ curtain laughed together,
not loud, but such a jolly little laugh that all the people smiled to
hear it. After the laughter came a hush.
Then the pipes overhead made a merry sound as of shepherds piping on
oaten straws in new grass where there are daisies; and there was a
little elfish laughter of clarionets, and a fluttering among the cool
flutes like spring wind blowing through crisp young leaves in April. The
harps began to pulse and throb with a soft cadence like raindrops
falling into a clear pool where brown leaves lie upon the bottom and
bubbles float above green stones and smooth white pebbles. Nick lifted
up his head and sang.
It was a happy little song of the coming and the triumph of the spring.
The words were all forgotten long ago. They were not much: enough to
serve the turn, no more; but the notes to which they went were like barn
swallows twittering under the eaves, goldfinches clinking in purple
weeds beside old roads, and robins singing in common gardens at dawn.
And wherever Nick’s voice ran Colley’s followed, the pipes laughing
after them a note or two below; while the flutes kept gurgling softly to
themselves as a hill brook gurgles through the woods, and the harps ran
gently up and down like rain among the daffodils. One voice called, the
other answered; there were echo-like refrains; and as they sang Nick’s
heart grew full. He cared not a stiver for the crowd, the golden palace,
or the great folk there—the Queen no more—he only listened for
Colley’s voice coming up lovingly after his own and running away when he
followed it down, like a lad and a lass through the bloom of the May.
And Colley was singing as if his heart would leap out of his round mouth
for joy to follow after the song they sung, till they came to the end
and the skylark’s song.
There Colley ceased, and Nick went singing on alone, forgetting, caring
for, heeding nought but the song that was in his throat.
The Queen’s fan dropped from her hand upon the floor. No one saw it or
picked it up. The Venetian ambassador scarcely breathed.
Nick came down the stage, his hands before him, lifted as if he saw the
very lark he followed with his song, up, up, up into the sun. His cheeks
were flushed and his eyes were wet, though his voice was a song and a
laugh in one.
Then they were gone behind the curtain, into the shadow and the twilight
there, Colley with his arms about Nick’s neck, not quite laughing, not
quite sobbing. The manuscript of the Revel lay torn in two upon the
floor, and Master Gyles had a foot upon each piece.
In the hall beyond the curtain was a silence that was deeper than a
hush, a stillness rising from the hearts of men.
Then Elizabeth turned in the chair where she sat. Her eyes were as
bright as a blaze. And out of the sides of her eyes she looked at the
Venetian ambassador. He was sitting far out on the edge of his chair,
and his lips had fallen apart. She laughed to herself. “It is a good
song, signor,” said she, and those about her started at the sound of her
voice. “_Chi tace confessa—_it is so! There are no songs like English
songs—there is no spring like an English spring—there is no land like
England, _my_ England!” She clapped her hands. “I will speak with those
lads,” said she.
Straightway certain pages ran through the press and came behind the
curtain where Nick and Colley stood together, still trembling with the
music not yet gone out of them, and brought them through the hall to
where the Queen sat, every one whispering, “Look!” as they passed.
On the dais they knelt together, bowing, side by side. Elizabeth, with a
kindly smile, leaning a little forward, raised them with her slender
hand. “Stand, dear lads,” said she, heartily. “Be lifted up by thine own
singing, as our hearts have been uplifted by thy song. And name me the
price of that same song—’twas sweeter than the sweetest song we ever
heard before.”
“Or ever shall hear again,” said the Venetian ambassador, under his
breath, rubbing his forehead as if just wakening out of a dream.
“Come,” said Elizabeth, tapping Colley’s cheek with her fan, “what wilt
thou have of me, fair maid?”
Colley turned red, then very pale. “That I may stay in the palace
forever and sing for your Majesty,” said he. His fingers shivered
in Nick’s.
“Now that is right prettily asked,” she cried, and was well pleased.
“Thou shalt indeed stay for a singing page in our household—a voice and
a face like thine are merry things upon a rainy Monday. And thou, Master
Lark,” said she, fanning the hair back from Nick’s forehead with her
perfumed fan—“thou that comest up out of the field with a song like the
angels sing—what wilt thou have: that thou mayst sing in our choir and
play on the lute for us?”
Nick looked up at the torches on the wall, drawing a deep, long breath.
When he looked down again his eyes were dazzled and he could not see
the Queen.
“What wilt thou have?” he heard her ask.
“Let me go home,” said he.
There were red and green spots in the air. He tried to count them, since
he could see nothing else, and everything was very still; but they all
ran into one purple spot which came and went like a firefly’s glow, and
in the middle of the purple spot he saw the Queen’s face coming
and going.
“Surely, boy, that is an ill-considered speech,” said she, “or thou dost
deem us very poor, or most exceeding stingy!” Nick hung his head, for
the walls seemed tapestried with staring eyes. “Or else this home of
thine must be a very famous place.”
The maids of honour tittered. Further off somebody laughed. Nick looked
up, and squared his shoulders.
They had rubbed the cat the wrong way.
It is hard to be a stranger in a palace, young, country-bred, and
laughed at all at once; but down in Nick Attwood’s heart was a stubborn
streak that all the flattery on earth could not cajole nor ridicule
efface. He might be simple, shy, and slow, but what he loved he loved:
that much he knew; and when they laughed at him for loving home they
seemed to mock not him, but home—and _that_ touched the fighting-spot.
“I would rather be there than here,” said he.
The Queen’s face flushed. “Thou art more curt than courteous,” said she.
“Is it not good enough for thee here?”
“I could na live in such a place.”
The Queen’s eyes snapped. “In such a place? Marry, art thou so choice?
These others find no fault with the life.”
“Then they be born to it,” said Nick, “or they could abide no more than
I—they would na fit.”
“Haw, haw!” said the Lord High Constable.
The Queen shot one quick glance at him. “Old pegs have been made to fit
new holes before to-day,” said she; “and the trick can be done again.”
The Constable smothered the rest of that laugh in his hand, “But come,
boy, speak up; what hath put thee so out of conceit with our
best-beloved palace?”
“There is na one thing likes me here. I can na bide in a place so fine,
for there’s not so much as a corner in it feels like home. I could na
sleep in the bed last night.”
“What, how? We commanded good beds!” exclaimed Elizabeth, angrily, for
the Venetian ambassador was smiling in his beard. “This shall be
seen to.”
“Oh, it _was_ a good bed—a very good bed indeed, your Majesty!” cried
Nick. “But the mattress puffed up like a cloud in a bag, and almost
smothered me; and it was so soft and so hot that it gave me a fever.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and laughed. The Lord High Constable
hastily finished the laugh that he had hidden in his hand. Everybody
laughed. “Upon my word,” said the Queen, “it is an odd skylark cannot
sleep in feathers! What didst thou do, forsooth?”
“I slept in the coverlid on the floor,” said Nick. “It was na hurt,—I
dusted the place well,—and I slept like a top.”
“Now verily,” laughed Elizabeth, “if it be floors that thou dost desire,
we have acres to spare—thou shalt have thy pick of the lot. Come, we
are ill used to begging people to be favored—thou’lt stay?”
Nick shook his head.
“_Ma foi!”_ exclaimed the Queen, “it is a queer fancy makes a face at
such a pleasant dwelling! What is it sticks in thy throat?”
Nick stood silent. What was there to say? If he came here he never would
see Stratford town again; and _this_ was no abiding-place for him. They
would not even let him go to the fountain himself to draw water with
which to wash, but fetched it, three at a time, in a silver ewer and a
copper basin with towels and a flask of perfume.
Elizabeth was tapping with her fan. “Thou art be-dazzled like,” she
said. “Think twice—preferment does not gooseberry on the hedge-row
every day; and this is a rare chance which hangs ripening on thy tongue.
Consider well. Come, thou wilt accept?”
Nick slowly shook his head.
“Go then, if thou wilt go!” said she; and as she spoke she shrugged her
shoulders, illy pleased, and turning toward Colley, took him by the hand
and drew him closer to her, smiling at his guise. “Thy comrade hath
more wit.”
“He hath no mother,” Nick said quietly, loosing his hold at last on
Colley’s hand. “I would rather have my mother than his wit.”
Elizabeth turned sharply back. Her keen eyes were sparkling, yet soft.
“Thou art no fool,” said she.
A little murmur ran through the room.
She sat a moment, silent, studying his face. “Or if thou art, upon my
word I like the breed. It is a stubborn, froward dog; but Hold-fast is
his name. Ay, sirs,” she said, and sat up very straight, looking into
the faces of her court, “Brag is a good dog, but Hold-fast is better. A
lad who loves his mother thus makes a man who loveth his native
land—and it’s no bad streak in the blood. Master Skylark, thou shalt
have thy wish; to London thou shalt go this very night.”
“I do na live in London,” Nick began.
“What matters the place?” said she. “Live wheresoever thine heart doth
please. It is enough—so. Thou mayst kiss our hand.” She held her hand
out, bright with jewels. He knelt and kissed it as if it were all a
doing in a dream, or in some unlikely story he had read. But a long
while after he could smell the perfume from her slender fingers on
his lips.
Then a page standing by him touched his arm as he arose, and bowing
backward from the throne, came with him to the curtain and the rest. Old
Master Gyles was standing there apart. It was too dark to see his face,
but he laid his hand upon Nick’s head.
“Thy cake is burned to a coal,” said he.