THE GARDEN AT AMBOISE
It was the Dauphin who conducted us to Amboise--why, I did not at
the time know. And such a way as it proved from Cour Cheverney, past
telling of--all along the green river banks, the blossoms of the fruit
trees blushing in the sunshine, a pink haze of blown petals, like a
morning mist, pearling all across the orchards of Touraine--a sweet
thing to see, that high day and holiday of the year.
This time we rode quietly and steadily; for Varlet had been exercised
of late, and--I had no need to run away from three men who, each
according to his possible, loved me, or at least told me that he did.
With these about me, I cared little even for the shifty, baleful,
yellowish eye of the Dauphin Louis. For (as I thought then) William
was his equal in statecraft; James certainly could have cut him in
twelve, like the Levite’s concubine, with as many strokes of his
sword; and as for Larry, Louis de Valois was afraid that, in his
quality of abbot, he would ban him with bell, book, and candle.
So I rode and held myself safe, not knowing of the depth of the
creature’s guile, and the cruelties which even then were fermenting
like yeast in his brain.
As usual, William Douglas and the Dauphin rode together--hard at it,
now in fierce debate, now in hushed conference, the miles padding
unheeded between their horses’ hoofs, and the fair landscape lying all
unregarded.
A little behind, Laurence rode with one or two of his ambassador’s
suite about him, on his white mule; and, save for the wistful eyes he
turned upon me whenever I looked his way, one might have thought him
happy enough. But, since I knew that by the turn of a finger I could
bring him to my side, I stayed with James, who, as usual, was the
gayest of all that company.
I think, too, that I was a little revengeful, because of what Laurence
had taken it upon him to say in the wood the day we set the
water-mills whirling. After all, though I liked Laurence M‘Kim, and he
was of the pleasant of the earth, he had no right to dictate to me
what I should say or with whom I should speak.
At any rate, he should learn his lesson, and then, when I had
need--why, I could always call him back as one whistles to heel a
well-trained dog. So, and because of these things, I rode with James.
There were besides several good Scottish knights with us, but, their
kindred ignorance of French shutting them in like a cage, they had
little to say even to each other--nothing at all to me.
Now, in all that bright land of Touraine there is no castle (and there
are many) so beautiful for situation as that of Amboise. I, who am now
an old woman and have lived in these latter days to see vast changes,
have seen no vaster change anywhere than in the architecture of the
houses in which great folk live.
Now (they tell me) Amboise glistens with round tower and embayed
window like a piece of jewellery new coft in St. Mark’s Square at
Venice. Then, as I mind it, though the residence of the gayest court
in the world, with the king and all his folk flaunting in gold and
colours, the castle itself had little of splendour, being an ancient
keep with courtyard and flanking towers--not near so fine, indeed, as
Cour Cheverney, albeit very much larger. Thick walls, great towers,
with low doors therein--no entrance gate half so splendid as that of
Thrieve--mighty wastes of masonry, doubtless good against gun and
archery, but with slotted windows which made the lower storeys like a
vault, while to the upper the staircases were so narrow and difficult
that scarce two could ascend at one time abreast, all of them after
the old fashion, too, twisting and turning in the thickness of the
wall.
But as to the setting of this wilderness of stone and lime, never had
I seen such a place.
From the great terrace, lo! all fertile Touraine, the Garden of
France--which is to say, of the world. Yonder was the green of the
river banks, shining emerant through a lawny drift of peach blossom,
the clearer hue of almond, the white wax of cherry and apple--on and
on till the distance turned into a land of dream, or some Avalon lost
among the clouds of sunset. Beneath, the Loire swung past in a great
circle, almost bending back upon itself, and blue as only a river of
France can be under the sky of May and Gaul.
In the outer courts and gardens were many courtiers, who saluted the
Dauphin with deep reverences. But Louis, striding through the press of
them in his apparel of dusty black, his buckleless belt tied with
whip-cord, his spurs uncleaned, and narrow-brimmed steel cap which
many a gay arquebusier would have scorned to wear, never so much as
acknowledged one of their greetings. He passed through a gate which
led out of a courtyard into a garden, never pausing till, at a certain
iron port, a man in armour stood on guard.
“None must pass within!” the sentry grumbled, frowning and grounding
his pike with an air of authority.
But it was fine to see how the Dauphin set him aside, as if he had
been a wooden puppet.
“I go to my father,” he said; “let me pass this instant!”
And then, with an officiousness mightily impressive, there came one
who, by his chain of office, was a sort of major-domo or chief
steward, and he stood before Louis of Valois in all the bravery of
gold-worked tabard and silver-hilted sword, the latter shaped like a
toothpick, and of as much use. He had on his head a broad flat bonnet
of purple velvet, which he doffed as he bowed low before his master’s
son. James, amused and yet no little amazed, regarded him as if he had
been a green frog swelling himself to croak.
“The king takes the air,” the major-domo said; “will it inconvenience
His Highness the Dauphin to wait a moment while his servant announces
him to the king?”
“It would inconvenience me exceedingly,” said the Dauphin, with a
sneer, “only the Dauphin of France has no idea of being preceded into
his father’s presence by--let us say with as little offence as
possible--Sir Pandarus of Troy!”
And with that he opened the door with his own hand, and I could see
within as through a crevice in a wall.
It was a fine enclosure, laid out with green paths and shady with
noble trees, having little fountains that babbled all about. The place
was full as it could hold of the lilies of the Virgin, orange and
straw-colour and white, jetting up from the green and nodding
graciously in the breeze.
James Douglas had stood aside for me to enter first, as my right was.
But William Douglas came and caught me by the wrist when I had already
set my foot on the threshold. He gripped me almost fiercely, and,
indeed, even hurt my wrist.
He drew back with some rudeness, saying only, “Let the Dauphin go find
his father first. It is ill coming between such a son and such a
father!”
Then I sulked a little and pouted, holding out my hand, as a child
does with a hurt. Of this William Douglas took no notice at all, but
only stood with his back to the garden door. Then came James up, and,
taking my wrist between his fingers, pretended to chafe it, murmuring
many jesting bairnlinesses--yet with some of the accompaniments of
real tenderness as well. Laurence, in deep dudgeon at something,
gnawed at his under lip and gloomed at me from afar.
So I could not help laughing at him. I laughed indeed so that, leaving
James, I went up to him and said, “If it pleases his reverency, the
Abbot of Dulce Cor, to girn at me like to a sheep’s head in the tongs,
perhaps he would like to swage the ill himself!”
And I held out the arm and wrist to him, knowing well that in his
heart his desire was to kiss it, and that he dared not before so many.
It is good to be able to tease a man thus in safety, and yet nobody
know of it.
“What was the cause of the misfortune?” he said, suddenly rallying a
little as I made to leave him again.
“Methinks,” said I, “it was only a certain bull, that hath taken it
upon him to show his horns a little too soon!”
It seemed as if neither William nor Laurence took my meaning, for both
remained fixed and with grave countenances. But with his head thrown
back, my great outspoken James shouted a laugh to the skies, which the
Dauphin must have heard in the garden.
“She is a very vixen-reynard, this one,” he said. “She nips shrewdly.
Will, my lad, she means the pope’s Bull that you have gotten to marry
her! And she twits you that you are not married yet, and have no
authority over her impishness!”
“Ah!” said William calmly, without appearing to have heard the
explanation of the sorry jest (all jests are sorry when explicated),
“here is the Dauphin. Doubtless he comes to bring us to the king, his
father.”
Now, when I thought of the King of France, Charles, seventh of that
name, I took him for a sovereign of power and inches, making men obey
him as did Will, my cousin, or able to drive a lance with any man,
like James. So I was ill prepared for that which indeed I saw--a man
of the middle height, fleshy and otiose, with red-rimmed smallish
eyes, full of good humour and slow laughters, which, though most
silent, shook him like a jelly. He was walking in a certain alley, the
widest of all, under the sparse sprinkling shadow of high lilac
bushes. He held by the hand the most beautiful lady and the sweetest
to look upon that eyes ever beheld. And I, Margaret Douglas, that have
been made mickle of all my life, in mine own country and elsewhere,
may, in such a matter, be trusted to tell the truth.
And as the men all uncovered except Laurence (who, being a clerk, only
bowed deeply), the king broke into a volley of thick guttural speech,
very rapidly spoken--which, though my ears had been attuned to nothing
but French for years, it was still difficult for me to make out.
Charles extended his right hand to be kissed, and one by one all bent
and kissed the plump fingers--white, scented, and spanned with rings,
like those of any court dame. But I, having nothing to ask of him and
nothing to fear, with great gravity gave him my hand to kiss (an it
liked him), whereat he laughed, and the lady by his side, whose hand
he had held all the while, smiled, and nodded at me approvingly.
“Do it!” she bade the king. “If I mistake not, it is a privilege which
more than one of these gentlemen present will envy you!”
“Indeed, nay!” I cried. “Why, no more than five minutes ago I offered
it to two of them, and”--
But the king, with his hat off, was kissing my hand, while the
Dauphin, in whose eyes I caught death and murder, stood glaring at the
beautiful lady at his father’s side as if he would like to kill her
upon the spot.
Then Charles VII. presented us all to her--myself, the Earl of
Douglas, my Lord James, his brother, and that holy ecclesiast _in
partibus_, Laurence, Abbot of Dulce Cor.
“The Lady Agnes Sorel!” said the King of France, with manifest pride,
“sometime Demoiselle de Fromentau, now Comtesse de Penthièvre, and,
above all” (here he smiled), “Dame de Beauté.”
I took my eyes just long enough off that radiant face, full of
gentleness and pity, as well as extraordinary beauty, to observe the
effect she produced upon my companions. As for me, I had the grace to
feel but a schoolgirl beside her. Indeed, I have never been jealous of
a woman in my life. It is not my way--nor, indeed, my need. So I said
to myself, “I am but a girl, it is true--but I will grow older. This
Dame de Beauté is a woman, and will grow old.”
The which, alas! she never did, dying to the roar of the wind through
the northern woods she had helped the king to reconquer--the Seine
running below brimful, past the ancient abbey of Jumièges, where
dwelt the Dauphin of France--this same Louis de Valois, who is sore
belied if he knew not in what manner she died.
Well, be that as it may, William stood stock-still, silent, stern,
gloomy as a fir wood in November. He made her the reverence which he
never refused to any woman, old or young, sinner or saint. And I said
to myself, “Here, surely, is the man that will never be touched by the
power of woman. Even now he is thinking of his plans and plottings!”
The which, doubtless, should have been a great comfort to me!
But, as usual, James made up for all. He knelt on one knee and kissed
the hand of the Dame de Beauté with such lingering courtesy and
lover-like fervour that he well-nigh made me laugh.
Then the king, taking Will suddenly by the arm, perhaps in dudgeon at
James’s forwardness, marched him off, the Dauphin accompanying
them--probably more to listen to their conversation than to attend
upon his father from any idea of filial obedience.
We were, therefore, left a party of three. For Laurence and his monks
had withdrawn themselves to another part of the garden. It was a
festal day, indeed, for our gallant James--with two women, both young
and one of them beautiful, to squire here and there among the hawthorn
and daffodillies.
He found time, however, while the lady turned to give some directions
to her maids, to communicate to me the name by which Agnes Sorel will
be known to the end of time.
“La Belle des Belles!” he whispered, with his finger on his lip.
Yet, knowing James as I did, I think he meant the lady to hear. For
James could only be James to the world’s end.