PROTHALAMIUM: VENUS WINS FAIR ADONIS
Mr. Thomas Randolph, Ambassador of England to the Scottish Queen,
told himself more than once that in seeking the lady of his heart he
did not swerve the breadth of a hair from loyalty to the sovereign of
his destinies. Yet he found it necessary to protest his wisdom in the
letters he wrote to his patron, the Earl of Leicester. Mary Beaton was
the Nut-brown Maid of his ballatry. ‘I do assure your lordship, better
friend hath no man than this worthy Mistress Beaton, who vows herself to
me, by what sweet rites you shall not ask me, the humble servant of your
lordship.’
All this as it might be: Mary Beaton used to smile when twitted by her
mates about the Englishman’s formalised passion, and ask to be let alone.
‘He’s not for ever at the sonnets,’ she said; ‘we discourse of England
between bouts; and it may be I shall learn something worth a rhyme or
two.’
They played piquet, the new game, together, and each used it as a
vantage-ground. He could not keep his desires, nor she her curiosity, out
of the hands.
‘Is four cards good?’ he would ask her; and when she looked (or he
thought she looked) quizzingly at his frosted hair: ‘Is one-and-forty
good?’
Then she must laugh and shake her head: ‘One-and-forty’s too many for me,
sir.’
‘I’ve a terce to my Queen, mistress.’
But she crowed over that. ‘And I’ve a quint to a knave, Mr. Randolph;
and three kings I have in my hand!’
She found out that they were not best pleased in England at the turn of
affairs in Fife.
‘My Queen, Mistress Beaton,’ said the enamoured Randolph, ‘cannot view
with comfort the unqueening of a sister. Nay, but it is so. Your mistress
courts the young lord with too open a face. To sit like one forsworn when
he is away; or when he is present, to crouch at his feet! To beg his
gauntlet for a plaything—to fondle his hunter’s whip! To be meek, to cast
down the eyes; to falter and breathe low, “At your will, my lord”! Thus
does not my Queen go to work.’
Mary Beaton looked wise. ‘Sir James Melvill hath reported her manner of
working, sir. We are well advertised how she disports.’
‘I take your leave to say,’ replied the ambassador, ‘her plan is at once
more queenly and more satisfying. For why? She charges men upon their
obedience to love her. And they do—and they do! No, no, I am troubled: I
own to it. If you find me backward, sweet Beaton, you shall not be harsh.
How or whence I am to get temper to bear much longer with this toss-pot
boy, I know not. He is the subject of my Queen; he is—I say it stoutly—my
own subject in this realm. But what does he? How comports himself? “Ha,
Randolph, you are here yet?” This, as he parades my Lord Ruthven before
me, with a hand on his shoulder, my faith! I tell you, a dangerous
friend for the young man. And one day it was thus, when we passed in the
tennis-court. “Stay, Randolph, my man”—his man! “I had something for your
ear; but it’s gone.” It’s gone, saith he! Oh, mistress, this is unhappy
work. He doth not use the like at Greenwich, I promise you.’
‘He is not now at Greenwich,’ says Beaton. ‘He is come back to his own.’
Mr. Randolph jumped about. ‘His own? Have at you on that! How if his own
receive him not? He may prove a very fish-bone in some fine throats here.
Well, we shall see, we shall see. To-day or to-morrow comes my Lord of
Moray into the lists. The Black Knight, we may call him. Then let the
Green Knight look to himself—ho, ho! We shall see some jousting then.’
Mary Beaton shuffled the cards.
These joustings occurred, not at Callander, where Livingstone had been
wedded to her Sempill and the Queen had danced all the night after, but
at Wemyss, in the midst of a full court, kept and made splendid in the
prince’s honour. The place pleased its mistress in its young spring
dress, attuned itself with her thoughts and desires. Blue, white, and
green was all this world: a gentle, April sky; not far off, the sea;
white lambs in the pastures, and the trees in the forest studded with
golden buds. Wemyss had for her an air of France, with its great winged
house of stone, its _tourelles_, balustrades, ordered avenues raying
out from the terrace, each tapering to a sunny point; its marble nymphs
and sea-gods with shells; its bowers, and the music of lutes in hidden
grass-walks, not too loud to quell the music in her heart. It was a pity
that the prince knew so little of the tongue, or it had been pleasant to
read with him—
Filz de Venus, voz deux yeux despendez,
Et mes ecrits lisez et entendez,
Pour voir comment
D’un desloyal service me rendez:
Las, punissez-le, ou bien luy commandez
Vivre autrement—
and see his fine blushes over the words. But although he had never
heard of Maître Clément, he was in love without him, and could take an
Englishman’s reasonable pleasure in hearing himself called ‘Venus’ boy,’
or Rose-cheekt Adonis.’
Certainly he must have been in love. He told Antony Standen so every
night over their cups; and little Forrest, a pert child who slept (like
a little dog) at the foot of his great bed—he knew it too; for it had
thrust a new duty upon him and many stripes. All the Court knew that when
Forrest had red eyes the prince had overslept himself.
It was the Queen’s romantic device: she was full of them at this time.
From her wing of the house you could see the prince’s; her bedchamber
windows gave right across the grass-plat to his. Now, at an early hour,
she—who woke still earlier, and lay long, thinking—stirred Mary Fleming
from her side by biting her shoulder, not hard. Sleepy Fleming, when she
had learned the rules, slipped out of bed and pulled aside the curtains
to let in the day; then robed the Queen in a bedgown of blue, with white
fur, her furred slippers, and a hood. Armed thus for the amorous fray,
as Mr. Randolph put it—at any rate, with shining eyes and auroral hues,
Queen Mary went to watch at the window; and so intent did she stand
there, looking out over the wet grass, that she heeded neither the rooks
drifting in the high wind, nor the guards of the door who were spying at
her, nor the guard by the privy-postern, who beckoned to his fellow to
come out of the guard-house and witness what he saw. Not only was she
heedless, but she would have been indifferent had she heeded.
After a time of motionless attention, this always occurred. She raised
her hand with a handkerchief in it, and signalled once—then twice—then
three times—then four times. Then she dropped her hand and stood
stone-still again; and then Fleming came to take her away, if she would
go. The guards, greatly diverted, were some time before they found out
that the appearance of the prince at his window was the thing signalised,
and that he duly answered every dip of the handkerchief. It was, in fact,
a flag-language, planned by the Queen soon after she came to Wemyss.
_One_ meant, ‘Oh, happy day!’ _two_, ‘I am well.—And you?’ _three_, ‘I
love you’; _four_, ‘I would kiss you if I were near’; and _five_, which
was a later addition, and not always given, ‘I am kissing you in my
heart.’ To this one was generally added a gesture of the knuckles to
the lips. Now, it was the business of young Forrest to awaken his lord
in time for this ceremony: obviously, her Majesty could not be left to
a solitary vigil for long. The prince was a heavy sleeper, to bed late,
and lamentably unsober. Forrest, then, must needs suffer; for my lord
was furious when disturbed in his morning sleep. But the lad found that
he suffered more when, by a dire mischance, one day he did not wake him
at all. For that he was beaten with a great stick; nor is it wonderful.
There had been wild work in the corridors the morn: maids half-dressed
with messages for men half-tipsy; and the Queen in her chamber, sobbing
in Mary Fleming’s arms.
I think that the young man is to be excused for believing himself
overweeningly loved. I think he was at first flattered by the attention,
and believed that he returned ardour for ardour. But either he was cold
by nature, or (as the Italian held) assotted of himself: there is little
doubt but he soon tired of the lovers’ food. Clearer facts are these:
that he was not touched by the Queen’s generous surrender, and did not
see that it was generous. ‘You may say, if you choose,’ writes he of _Le
Secret des Secrets_, ‘that a vain man is a gross feeder, to whom flattery
is but a snack; but the old half-truth takes me nearer, which says that
every man is dog or cat. If you stroke your dog, he adores the stooping
godhead in you. The cat sees you a fool for your pains. So for every
testimony of the submiss heart given him by my lady, my lord added one
cubit to his stature. I myself, Jean-Marie Des-Essars, heard him speak of
her to my Lord Ruthven, and other friends of his, as “the fond Queen.”
Encouraged by their applause, he was tardy to respond. He danced with her
at her desire, and might not, of course, ask her in return: that is, by
strict custom. But my mistress was no stickler for Court rules; and if he
had asked her I know she would have been moved. However, he never did. He
danced with Mary Seton when he could; and as for Madame de Sempill, when
she returned after her marriage, if ever a young lord was at the mercy of
a young woman, that was his case. Handsome, black-eyed lady! his knees
were running water before her; but she chose not to look at him. Failing
her, therefore, he sought lower for his pleasures; how much lower, it is
not convenient to declare.’
Mary Sempill resumed her duties in mid-April, having been wedded at
the end of March, and came to Wemyss but a few days in advance of two
great men—my Lord of Moray, to wit, the Queen’s base-brother, and my
Lord of Morton, Chancellor and cousin of the prince. Before she saw her
mistress, she was put into the state of affairs by Mary Seton.
‘_Ma mye_,’ said that shrewd little beauty to her comrade, ‘in a good
hour you come back, but a week syne had been a better. She is fond,
fond, fond! She is all melted with love—just a phial of sweet liquor
for his broth. I blame Fleming; I’ve been at her night and morning—but
a fine work! The lass is as bad as the Queen, being handmaid to her
withered Lethington, so much clay for that dry-fingered potter. But
our mistress—oh, she goes too fast! She is eating love up: there’ll be
satiety, you shall see. Our young princekin is so set up that he’ll lie
back in his chair and whistle for her before long—you’ll see, you’ll
see! If he were to whistle to-day she’d come running like a spaniel dog,
holding out her hands to him, saying, “Dear my heart, pity me, not blame,
that I am so slow!” Oh, Livingstone, I am sore to see it! So high a head,
lowered to this flushing loon! Presumptuous, glorious boy! Now, do you
hear this. He raised his hand against Ruthven the other Tuesday, a loose
glove in it, to flack him on the mouth. And so he handles all alike.
’Twas at the butts they had words: there was our lady and Lindsay shot
against Beaton and him. Lindsay scored the main—every man knew it; but
the other makes an outcry, red in the face, puffed like a cock-sparrow.
Ruthven stands by scowling, chattering to himself, “The Queen’s main, the
Queen’s main.” “You lie, Ruthven,” says the Young Fool (so we all call
him); and Ruthven, “That’s an ill word, my Lord Darnley.” “You make it
a worse when you say it in my face,” cries he; “and I have a mind——” He
has his glove in his hand, swinging. “Have you a mind indeed?” says black
Ruthven; “’tis the first time I have heard it.” Lindsay was listening,
but not caring to look. I was by Beaton—you never saw Lethington so
scared: his eyebrows in his hair! But we were all affrighted, save
one: ’twas the Queen stepped lightly between them. “Dear cousin,” she
says, “we two will shoot a main, and win it.” And to Ruthven, “My Lord
Ruthven,” says she, “you have done too much for me to call down a cloud
on this my spring-time.” He melted, the bitten man, he melted, and bent
over her hand. My young gentleman shot with her and lost her the match—in
such a rage that he had not a word to say. Now I must tell you ...’; and
then she gave the history of the love-signals at the window.
Mary Sempill listened with sombre cheer. ‘I see that it’s done. The
bird’s in the net. Jesu Christ, why was I not here—or Thyself?’
She did what she could that very night: divorced the Master of Sempill
and shared her mistress’s chamber. In the morning there was a great
to-do—a love-sick lady coaxing her Livingstone, stroking her cheeks; but
no flagwork could be allowed.
‘No, no, my bonny queen, that is no sport for thee. That is a wench’s
trick.’
The truth was not to be denied; yet not Dido on her pyre anguished more
sharply than this burning queen. And little good was done, more’s the
pity: measures had been taken too late. For she made humble access to her
prince afterwards and sued out a forgiveness, which to have got easily
would have distressed her. You may compare wenches and queens as much
as you will—it’s not a surface affair: but the fact is, the heavier a
crown weighs upon a girl in love, the more thankfully will she cast it to
ground. Are you to be reminded that Queen Mary was not the first generous
lover in history? There was Queen Venus before her.
* * * * *
My Lord of Moray, most respectable of men, rode orderly from Edinburgh to
Wemyss, with a train of some thirty persons, six of whom were ministers
of the Word. He had not asked Mr. Knox to come along with him, for the
reason that the uncompromising prophet had lately married a cousin of
the Queen’s, a Stuart and very young girl—fifteen years old, they say.
Whether this was done, as the light-minded averred, out of pique that her
Majesty would not be kind to him, or on some motion even less agreeable
to imagine—my Lord of Moray was hurt at the levity of the deed, and
suspected that the Queen would be more than hurt. But I believe that she
knew Mr. Knox better than her base-brother did. However, failing Mr.
Knox, he had six divines behind him, men of great acceptance. The Earl of
Morton was waiting for him at Burntisland: side by side the two weighty
lords traversed the woods of Fife. It might have been astonishing how
little they had to say to each other.
‘Likely we shall have wet before morn.’
‘Ay, belike,’ said the Earl of Moray.
‘These lands will be none the worse of it.’
‘So I believe.’
‘There was a French pink in the basin. Did your lordship see her?’
‘Ay, I saw her.’
‘Ha! And they say there shall come a new ambassador from the Pope.’
‘Is that so?’
‘By way of France, he must travel.’
‘Ay?’
‘Bothwell will be in France the now, I doubt.’
‘I’m thinking so, my lord, indeed,’ says the Earl of Moray.
There was more, but not much more. A man tires of picking at granite with
a needle.
They reached Wemyss before nightfall; but already torches were flaming
here and there, and men running made smoky comets of them, low-flying
over the park. The Queen was at supper in her closet; there would be
no dancing to-night, because her Majesty was tired with hunting. ‘No
doubt,’ said Lethington, ‘my Lord of Moray would be received.’ Chambers
were prepared for both their lordships. Mr. Archibald Douglas would have
charge of his noble kinsman’s comfort, while by the Queen’s desire he,
Lethington, would wait upon my lord. Bowing, and quickly turning about,
the Secretary bent his learned head as he announced these news.
Something, one knows not what, had invited urbanity into the dark Earl of
Moray. He was all for abnegation in favour of the Chancellor.
‘See, Mr. Secretar,’ he said, ‘see to the Chancellor’s bestowing, I beg
of you. Lead my lord the Chancellor to his lodging; trust me to myself
the while. My lord will be weary from his journey—nay, my good lord, but
I know what a long road must bring upon a charged statesman: grievous
burden indeed! Pray, Mr. Secretar, my lord the Chancellor!’ and the like.
‘Now, the devil fly away with black Jamie if I can bottom him,’ muttered
the Chancellor to himself as—burly man—he stamped up the house. Mr.
Archie Douglas, his kinsman, at the top of the staircase, bowed his grey
head till his nose was pointing between his knees.
‘Man, Archie, ye’ll split yoursel’,’ says the Chancellor. ‘You may leave
me, Mr. Secretar, to my wicked cousin,’ says he.
Lethington sped back to his master, and found him still obstinately
gracious.
‘Hurry not, Mr. Secretar, hurry not for me!’
‘Nay, my good lord, but my devotion is a jealous god.’
The Earl waved his hand about. ‘Ill work to pervert the Scriptures and
serve a quip,’ he said ruefully,—‘but in this house!’
Mr. Secretary, knowing his Earl of Moray, said no more, but led him in
silence to the chambers, and silently served him—that is, he stood by,
alert and watchful, while his people served him. The Earl’s condescension
increased; he was determined to please and be pleased. He talked freely
of Edinburgh, of the Assembly, of Mr. Knox’s unhappy backsliding and of
Mr. Wood’s stirring reminders. Incidents of travel, too: he was concerned
for some poor foreign-looking thief whom he had seen on the gibbet at
Aberdour.
‘Justice, Mr. Secretar, Justice wears a woful face on a blithe spring
morning. And you may well think, as I did, that upon yonder twisting
wretch had once dropped the waters of baptism. Man, there had been a
hoping soul in him once! Sad work on the bonny braeside; woful work in
the realm of a glad young queen!’
‘Woful indeed, my lord,’ said Mr. Secretary, ‘and woe would she be to
hear of it. But in these days—in these days especially—we keep such
miserable knowledge from her. She strays, my lord, at this present, in a
garden of enchantment.’
‘And you do well, Mr. Secretar, you do well—if the Queen my sister does
well. There is the hinge of the argument. What says my young friend Mr.
Bonnar to that?’
Mr. Bonnar, my lord’s chaplain, a lean, solemn young man, was not
immediately ready. The Earl replied for him.
‘Mr. Bonnar will allow for the season, and Mr. Bonnar will be wise. What
saith the old poet?—
Ac neque jam stabulis gaudet pecus, aut aratror igni:
Nec prata canis albicant pruinis——
Eh, man, how does he pursue? Eh, Mr. Bonnar, what saith he next?
Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus, imminente luna!’
‘The moon is overhead, indeed, my lord,’ says the Secretary, ‘and her
glamour all about us.’
But his master jumped away, and was soon sighing.
‘There is always a grain of sadness in the cup for us elders, Mr.
Secretar; _amari aliquid_, alas! But I am served.’ He was supping in his
room. ‘Master Bonnar will call down a blessing from on high.’ Master
Bonnar was now ready.
The game went on through the meal. Lethington seemed to be standing on
razors, the Earl not disapproving. The great man ate sparingly, and drank
cold water; but his talk was incessant—of nothing at all—ever skirting
realities, leading his hearers on, then skipping away. Not until the
table was cleared and young Mr. Bonnar released from his blinking duties
was the Secretary also delivered from torments. The scene shifted, the
Earl suddenly chilled, and Lethington knew his ground. They got to
work over letters from England, a new tone in which had troubled the
Secretary’s dreams. He expounded them—some being in cypher—then summed up
his difficulties.
‘It stands thus, my lord, as I take it. Here came over to us this young
prince from England, _with a free hand_. We took what seemed fairly
proffered; and why indeed should we be backward? We were as free to take
him as her English Majesty was free to send him. Oh, there have been
freedoms! I will not say we could have done no better, in all ways. No
matter! We opened our arms to what came, as we thought, sped lovingly
towards us. Mr. Randolph himself could not deny that we had reason; and I
shall make bold to say that never did lady show such kindness to a match,
not of her own providing, as our mistress showed to this. But now, my
lord, now, when the sun hath swelled the buds, there is a change in the
wind from England—a nip, a hint of malice. These letters exhibit it, to
my sense. I think Mr. Randolph may be recalled: I am not sure, but I do
think it. I know that he desires it; I know that he suffers discomfort,
that he does not see his way. “Is this young man our subject or yours?”
he asketh. “Is he subject at all, or Regent rather? And if Regent, whom
is he to rule?” No, my lord, Mr. Randolph, whether instructed or not,
is itching to be off. And that is pity, because he is bond-slave of the
Beaton, and would lavish all his counsel at her feet if she desired him.
Briefly, my lord, I jalouse the despatch of Throckmorton to our Court,
not upon a friendly mission.’
The Earl listened, but moved not a muscle. He looked like an image of old
wax, when the pigment is all faded out, and the wan smooth stuff presents
no lines to be read.
‘You are right,’ he said presently: ‘Mr. Throckmorton comes, but Mr.
Randolph remains. The Queen of England——’ He stopped.
‘She is against us, my lord? She grudges us the heir of both crowns!’
‘I say not. She thinks him unworthy: but I must not believe it, nor must
you. Mr. Secretar, you shall go to England. Presently—presently—we must
be very patient. Now of my sister, how doth she?’
‘The Queen dotes, my lord,’ said Lethington, and angered the Earl, it
seemed.
‘Shame, sir! Shame, Mr. Secretar! Fie! Queens must not dote.’
It was characteristic of the relation between this pair that the master
was always leading the man into admissions and professing to be cut to
the soul by them. But Mr. Secretary had the habit of allowing for it. ‘I
withdraw the word, my lord. Maybe I know nothing. Who am I, when all’s
said, to judge?’
The Earl lowered his eyelids until they fluttered over his eyes like two
white moths. ‘How stand you with the Fleming, Lethington? How stand you
there? Can she make no judge of you?’
It was the stroke too much. The stricken creature flinched; and then
something real came out of him. ‘Ah, my good lord,’ he said, with dignity
in arms for his secret honour, ‘you shall please to consider me there as
the suitor of an honest lady, and very sensible of the privilege.’
Lord Moray opened his eyes, stood up and held out his hands. ‘I ask
your pardon, Mr. Secretar—freely I ask it of you. Come—enough of weary
business. Crave an audience for me. I will go to the Queen.’
Mr. Secretary kissed his patron’s hand. ‘My prince shall forgive his
servant——’
‘Oh, man, say no more!’
‘——and accept his humble duty. I will carry your lordship to the Queen.
Will you first see the Italian?’
Quickly his lordship changed his face. ‘Why should I see the Italian?
What have I to do with him? Mr. Secretar, Mr. Secretar, let every man do
cheerfully his own office, so shall the state thrive.’
He had the air of quoting Scripture.
The Queen saw her brother for a few moments, and he in her what he
desired to be sure of: eyes like dancing water, and about her a glow such
as the sun casts early on a dewy glade. He had never known her so gentle,
or so without wit; nor had she ever before kissed him of her own accord.
Lady Argyll, his own sister, was with her, the swarthy, handsome, large
woman.
‘You are welcome, brother James,’ Queen Mary said; ‘and now we’ll all be
happy together.’
‘I shall believe it, having it from your Majesty’s lips,’ said he.
She touched her lips, as if she were caressing what had been blessed to
her. ‘I think my lips will never dare be false.’
He said warmly, ‘There speaketh a queen in her own right!’ What need had
he to see the Italian?
Now, for the sake of contrast, look for one moment upon that other great
man, the Chancellor Morton, in his privacy. Booted and spurred, he
plumped himself down in a chair, clapped his big hands to his thighs and
stuck out his elbows. He stared up open-mouthed at his kinsman Archie,
twinkling his eyes, all prepared to guffaw. Humour was working through
the heavy face. ‘Well, man? Well, man? How is it with Cousin Adonis?’
Archie Douglas, scared at first, peered about him into all corners of
the room before he could meet the naughty eyes. Catching them at last
expectant, he made a grimace and flipped finger and thumb in the air.
‘Adonis! Hoots! a prancing pie!’
The Earl of Morton rubbed his hands together. ‘Plenty of rope, man,
Archie! Plenty of rope for the likes of him!’
* * * * *
Des-Essars has a long piece concerning the official presentation of the
two earls to the prince, which seems to have been done with as much state
as the Scottish Court could achieve.
‘My Lord of Darnley’s mistake,’ he says, ‘was to be stiff with the wrong
man. He was civil to the Chancellor, his cousin—where a certain insolence
would have been salutary; he made him a French bow, and gave him his
hand afterwards, English fashion. But to my Lord of Moray, a cruelly
proud man, he chose to show the true blood’s consciousness of the base;
and in so doing, the hurt he may have inflicted at the moment was as
nothing to what he laid up for himself. It was late in the day to insist
upon the Lord James’s bastardy. Yet——“Ah, my Lord of Moray! Servant of
your lordship, I protest.” And then: “Standen, my gloves. I have the
headache.” He used scented gloves as a febrifuge. “A prancing pie!” said
Monsieur de Douglas in my hearing. Nevertheless, my Lord of Moray spoke
his oration; very fine, but marred by a too level, monotonous delivery—a
blank wall of sound—to which, for all that, one must needs listen. He was
not a personable man; for his jaw was too spare and his mouth too tight.
His flat brows, also, had that air of strain which makes intercourse
uncomfortable. But he was a great man, and a deliberate man, and the most
patient man I ever knew or heard of, except Job the Patriarch. So he
spoke his oration, and left everybody as wise as they were before.’
I myself suspect that the good Lord James was gaining time to look round
and consider what he should do. And although he had scouted the notion
that he could have anything to say to the Italian, the fact is noteworthy
that to seek him out privately was one of the first things he did with
his time. Signior David told him frankly two things: first, that if the
Queen did not marry her prince soon she would come to loathing the sight
of him; secondly, he said that if she did marry him the lords would get
him murdered. ‘These two considerations,’ said Davy in effect, ‘really
hang together. The lords, your lordship’s colleagues, are not in love
with the young man, and so are quite ready to be at him. But she at
present is so, and in full cry. When she slackens, and has time to open
her eyes and see him as he is——Hoo! let him then say his _Confiteor_!’
It is not to be supposed that such perilous topics were discussed with
this brevity and point—certainly not where the Earl of Moray was one of
the discutants; this, however, is the sum, confirmed to the Earl by what
he observed of the Court. There was no doubt but that the two things did
indeed hang together.
The Queen, his sister, as he saw very soon, did not go half-heartedly to
work in this marriage project. And the louder grew the murmurs of Mr.
Randolph, handing on English threats, the more loyally she clung—not to
her prince, perhaps, but to what she had convinced herself her prince
was. He studied that young man minutely upon every occasion, spent smiles
and civilities upon him, received rebuffs in return, and (with an air of
saying ‘I like your spirit’) came next day for more. He saw him hector
Signior Davy, tempt Lord Ruthven to _rabies_, run after Mary Sempill,
allow the Queen to run after him, get drunk. He saw him ride with his
hounds, break in a colt, thrash a gentleman, kiss two women, lose money
at a tennis match, and draw his dagger on the Master of Lindsay who had
won it. A very little conversation with the Court circle, and two words
with his sister of Argyll, sufficed him.
‘Ill blood,’ said that stern lady. ‘The little bloat frog will swell till
he burst unless we prick him beforehand. Not all Scots lords have your
fortitude, brother James.’
‘Hush, sister, hush! I think better of poor Scotland than you do. Who are
we—unhappy pensioners—to judge her Majesty’s choice?’
He walked away, being a most respectable man, lest his fierce sister
should lead him farther than it was convenient to go; and after a week’s
reflection sent Mr. Secretary Lethington into England, with sealed
letters for Mr. Cecil and open letters for the Queen. In these he echoed
English sentiments, that the marriage was deplorable from every view,
to be opposed by every lover of peace and true religion. He should do
what could be done to serve her English Majesty, being convinced that
no better way of serving his own Queen was open to him. The bearer was
in possession of his full mind; the Lord of Lethington would convince
his friends by lively testimonies, etc. etc. This done, even then (so
slow-dealing was he) he took another week to deliberate before he
selected his plan of action and his hour. He could afford so much time,
but not much more.
It was an hour of a night when there was dancing and mumchance: torches,
musicians in the gallery, a mask of satyrs, an ode of Mr. Buchanan’s
declaimed, and some French singing, in which Des-Essars eclipsed his
former self and won the spleen of Adam Gordon. For if her Majesty had
sent Adam into the Lothians and rewarded him for it with a pat of the
cheek, now she called the other up to the daïs, publicly kissed him, and
gave him a little purse worked in roses by herself. There were broad
pieces in it too.
‘I shall pay you for that, Baptist my man; see you to it,’ says Adam.
But Jean-Marie flourished his purse before he put it into his bosom and
hooked his doublet upon it. ‘Draw upon me, Monsieur de Gordon, and let it
be for blood if you choose. I can well afford it.’
For the first time since her entry into Scotland the Queen wore colours.
She appeared in a broad-skirted, much-quilted, tagged and spangled gown
of yellow satin; netted over with lace-work done in pearls. The bodice
was long and pointed, low in the neck; but a ruff edged with pearls ran
up from either shoulder, like two great petals, within which her neck and
feathered head were as the stamen of the flower. It did not suit her to
be so sumptuous, because that involved stiffness; and she was too slim to
carry the gear, and too active, too supple and humoursome to be anything
but miserable in it. But she chose to shine that night, so that she might
honour her prince in her brother’s cold eyes.
After supper, when there was general dancing, the Earl of Moray surprised
everybody by walking across the hall to where Lord Darnley stood. A dozen
or more heard his exact words: ‘Come, my lord,’ he said, ‘I am spokesman
for us all; and here is my humble suit, that you will lead the Queen in a
measure. It would be her own choice, so you cannot deny me. Come, I will
lead you to her Majesty.’
He spoke more loudly but no less deliberately than usual; there was quite
a little commotion. Even the young prince himself knew that this was an
extraordinary civility. One may add, perhaps, that even he received it
graciously. Bowing, blushing a little, he said: ‘My lord, I shall always
serve the Queen’s grace, and, I hope, content her. I take it thankfully
from your lordship that in this yours is the common voice.’
The Earl took him by the hand up the hall. The Queen had starry eyes when
she saw them coming.
‘Madam,’ said her half-brother, ‘here I bring a partner for your Majesty
whom I am persuaded you will not refuse. If you think him more backward
than he should be and myself more forward, you shall reflect, madam, that
by these means my zeal is enabled to join hands with his modesty.’
‘We thank you, brother,’ replied the Queen, in a voice scarcely audible.
She was certainly touched, as she looked up at her prince with quivering
lips. But he laughed a brave answer back, and held out his hand to take
hers. The musicians in the gallery, who had been primed beforehand,
struck into a galliard.
This dance is really a formal comedy, what we call a ballet, with grave,
high-handed turns to left and right, curtseyings, bowings, retreats and
pursuits. It quickens or dies according to the air. You make your first
stately steps, you bow and separate; you dance apart, upon signal you
return. The theme of every galliard is Difference and Reconciliation.
It is a Roman thing, and has five airs to it. The air chosen here was,
‘_Baisons-nous, ma belle_.’
The prince was a stilted dancer, Queen Mary the best of her day—the
exercise was a passion of hers. As for him, he could never be any better,
for, doubting his own dignity, he was extremely jealous of it. It seemed
to him that to be limber would be to exhibit weakness. The result of this
disparity between the partners was, to the spectators, that the Queen had
the air of drawing him on, of enticing him, of inspiring all this parade
of tiffs and sweet accord. It was she who, at the curtsey, showed herself
saucy and _maline_—she who, like a rustic beauty, glanced and shook her
head, hunched her white shoulder and tossed his presence away. So it was
she who came tripping back, held off, invited pursuit, suffered capture,
melted suddenly to kindness. He regained her hand, as it appeared, by
right and without effort; she let it rest, they thought, in thankful
duty. It was make-believe, of course; but she lived her part, and he did
not. So blockish was he that, Mary Seton said, the Queen seemed like a
girl hanging garlands round a garden god. All watched and all passed
judgment, but were prejudiced by the knowledge that, as she danced, so
she would choose to be. In the midst, and unperceived, the Earl of Moray
went out of the hall, and sought the Italian in his writing cabinet.
Signior Davy was at work there by the light of a tallow candle. His hair
was disordered, his bonnet awry; he had unfastened his doublet, and his
shirt had overflowed his breeches. He wrote fast, but like an artist,
with his head well away from his hand. It went now to one side, now to
another, as he estimated the shapes of his thin lettering. ‘Eh! probiamo!
Ma sì, ma sì—così va meglio.’ So he chattered to himself at his happy
craft.
The Earl of Moray stepped quietly into the room and closed the door
behind him. The scribe lifted up his head without ceasing to write. ‘Ah,
Monsieur de Moray! Qu’il soit le bienvenu!’ He finished the foliation of
a word, jumped up, snatched at his patron’s hand, briskly kissed it, and
said, ‘Commandi!’
They talked in French, in which the Earl was an exact, if formal,
practitioner. There was no fencing between them. My lord did not affect
to be shocked at hearing what he desired to know, nor the Italian to mean
what he did not say.
‘I have been witness of great doings this night, Signior David.’
‘The night is the time for doings, I consider,’ replied the Italian.
This general reflection the Earl passed over for the moment. ‘They dance
the galliard in hall—the Queen and the Prince. You can hear the rebecks
from here.’
‘I know the tune, sir!’ cried Davy. ‘I set it. I scored it for her long
ago. It is _Baisons-nous, ma belle_. But they murder it by clinging to
the fall. It needs passion if it is to breed passion. That music should
hurt you.’
‘Passion is not wanting, Signior David,’ said my lord, with narrowed,
ever narrowing eyes. ‘And passion is much. But opportunity is more.’
The Italian started. ‘You think it is a good hour?’
‘Judge you of the hour,’ said the Earl of Moray.
The Italian frowned, as he drummed with his fingers on the table. He
sang a little air: _Belle, qui tiens ma vie!_ My lord took a ring from
his finger and laid it down: a thin ring with a flat-cut single diamond
in it, of great size and water. Singing still, the Italian picked it up,
looked lazily at it. He embodied his criticism in his song—‘Non c’è male,
Signore! No-o-o-o-on c’è-è male!’ All at once he clapped it down upon
the desk and jumped round—fire-fraught, quivering, a changed man.
‘You wish your opportunity—you think the hour is struck! You observe—you
judge—you make your plans—you wait—you watch—and—ah! You come to me—you
say, Passion is not wanting, but opportunity is all. And my music lends
it: _Baisons-nous, ma belle_, hey? Good, sir! good, sir! I thank you, and
I meet you half-way. In a little moment—ha! here is the moment. Listen.’
A bell in the tower began to toll.
‘Midnight, sir!’ cried the Italian, leaping about and waving his arms.
‘That is the midnight bell!’ He struck a great pose—head thrown back, one
hand in his breast. ‘_Era già l’ ora che volge il disio!_ Come, come, my
lord, we will put the point to the pyramid. Wait for me.’
He ran out, cloaking head and shoulders as he went; the Earl awaited
him massively. In a little while he was back again, cheerful, almost
riotously cheerful, accompanied by a blue-chinned young man, a priest of
the old religion, whose eyes looked beady with fright to see the grim
Protestant lord.
‘No, no, my reverend, have no fears at all,’ said the Italian; ‘see
nobody, hear nothing; but go to the chapel and vest yourself for midnight
mass. Quick, my dear, quick!—off with you!’
My lord had contrived to freeze himself out of sight or conscience of
this part of the business. It was droll to see how abstractedly he looked
at the wall. The priest had disappeared before the Italian touched his
arm, beckoning him to follow.
They descended from the turret upon the long corridor which connected
the two wings of the house; they went down a little stair, and came to
the Queen’s door, which led from the hall to her own side. This door was
closed, but not locked. Pushing it gently open, Signior Davy saw young
Gordon looking at the crowd in the dusty hall, his elbows on his knees.
The hum and buzz of talk came eddying up the stair—little cries, manly
assurance, protestations, and so on. ‘Hist, Monsieur de Gordon, hist!’
Adam looked up, Des-Essars peeped round the corner: those two were never
far apart.
The Italian whispered, ‘I must have a word with the Queen as she comes
up. It is serious. Warn her of it.’ Adam coloured up; he was flustered.
It was Des-Essars who, looking sharply at the incisive man, nodded his
head. Signior David drew back, and drew his companion back. They waited
at the head of the stair in the shadow, listening to the rumours of the
hall.
There came presently a lull in the talk, a hushing-down; some sort
of preparation, expectancy; they heard the Queen say, quite clearly,
‘To-morrow, to-morrow I will consider it. I cannot hear you now.’ A voice
pleaded, ‘Ah, madam, in pity——!’ and hers again: ‘No, no, no! Come,
ladies.’
‘Room there, sirs! Give room there, my ladies!’ cried the usher.
Good-nights followed, laughing and confused speech, shuffling of feet,
and some rustling—kissing of hands, no doubt. Then, as one knows what one
cannot see, they felt her coming.
Arthur Erskine, Captain of the Guard, marched up first, solemnly, with
two great torches; Bastien the valet, some more servants. Margaret
Carwood, bedchamber-woman, appeared at the stair-head. Some of the maids
of honour passed up—Mary Beaton and a young French girl, hand-in-hand,
Mary Sempill, and others. Des-Essars stepped from his place at the foot
of the stairs and was no more seen.
He was the next to reach the upper floor: Des-Essars himself, white and
tense. ‘She will speak to you here,’ he told the Italian. ‘Show yourself
to her.’
‘Altro!’ said Davy. Immediately after, they heard the Queen coming.
She paused on the landing and looked about her. Then she saw the Italian.
‘You wait for me, David? Go in, _mes belles_,’ she said to Fleming and
Seton, who were with her; ‘and you too, Carwood. I am coming.’
They left her, and she stood alone, waiting, but not beckoning. She
looked very tired.
The Italian approached her on tiptoe, and began to talk. He talked
in whispers, with his hasty voice, with his darting, inspired hands,
with every nerve of his body. She was startled at first—but he flooded
her with words: she had turned her face quickly towards him, with an
‘Oh! Oh!’ and then had looked as if she would run. But he held out his
imploring hands; he talked faster and faster; he pointed to heaven,
extended his arms, patted his breast, jerked his head, sobbed, dashed
away real tears. She was trembling; he saw her trembling. He folded arms
over breast, flung them desperately apart, clasped his hands, seemed to
be praying. Godlike clemency seemed to sit in him as he talked on; he
looked at her with calm, pitying, far-searching eyes. His words came more
slowly, as if he was now announcing the inevitable sum of his frenzy. She
considered, hanging her head; but when he named her brother she started
violently, could not control her shaking-fit, nor bring herself to look
into the shadow. The Italian beckoned to his patron, who then came softly
forward out of the dark.
‘Dear madam, dear sister——’ he began; but she stopped him by a look.
‘Brother, are you leading me?’
He denied it with an oath.
‘Brother,’ she said again, ‘I do think it.’
Then he changed, saying: ‘Why, then, sister, if I am, it is whither your
heart has cried to go.’
‘I believe that is the very truth,’ she owned, and looked wistfully into
his face. Signior Davy went downstairs.
She pleaded for a little time. She had not confessed for five days—she
was not ready—there should be more form observed in the mating of
princes—what was the English use? In France—but this was not France.
He admitted everything. And yet, he said, the heart was an instant
lover, happiest in simplicity. A prince was a prince from birth, before
the solemn anointing. So a bride might be a wife before the Queen had a
Consort.
‘True,’ she said, ‘but a sovereign should consult his subjects.’
‘Ah, sister,’ says he, ‘what woman could be denied her heart’s choice?’
She hid her face. ‘God knoweth, God knoweth I do well!’
‘Why, then, courage!’ said he. ‘Content your God, madam, and follow
conscience. It lies not in woman born to do better.’
At this point the Italian came back, leading my lord. The prince was
flushed, as always at night, but sober, and undoubtedly moved. He
knelt before her Majesty unaffectedly, bowing his head. ‘Oh, madam, my
sovereign——’ he began to say; but then she gave a little sharp cry, and
took him up. Tenderly she looked at him, searching his face.
‘Oh, I am here, my lord. Do you seek me?’
In return, after a moment’s regard of her beauty, he choked a sob in his
breath, shook his head and lifted it.
‘Now God judge me, if I seek thee not, my Mary!’
‘Come then,’ said the Queen—yet stood timorously still.
The Earl of Moray stepped forward with his arms uplifted. His face was
deadly white, but his eyes were fires. ‘Go in—go in——!’ he said with
fierce breath, and seemed to beat them before him into the open doorway.
* * * * *
When he had his royal pair safe in the chapel, the candles lit and the
priest at his secret prayers before the altar[2]—then, and not before,
did Signior Davy call in the maids, Arthur Erskine, and Des-Essars. They
came trooping in together—nine, of them, all told—saw the lit altar, the
priest in yellow and white, the server, and those two who knelt at the
rail in their tumbled finery. Mary Sempill gasped and would have cried
out, Mary Seton blinked her eyes, as if to give herself courage; but Davy
pointed awfully to the priest, who had made his introit and opened the
missal, and now stood rapt, with his hands stuck out. If Arthur Erskine
had moved, if Des-Essars had started for the door, these fluttered
women might have——But Erskine stood like a stone Crusader, and little
Jean-Marie was saying his prayers. The Earl of Moray was without the
door, having refused to come in.
Thus the deed was done. The Italian himself shut the chamber door upon
them and warned off the scared maids.
Outside that door, Adam Gordon and Des-Essars whispered their quarrel out.
‘She gave me a ring when I came back from Liddesdale and hunting
Bothwell,’ says Adam.
‘Pooh, man: that she would have thrown to a groom. Bastien has had the
like. And what matters it now whether she gave thee anything, or me
anything? _Ah!_’
‘Let me hold that purse, Baptist, or I’ll scrag ye. ’Tis my right.’
‘How your right, my fine sir?’
‘You swore that we should share her. The plan was yours. You swore it on
the cross. And you’ve held my ring twice in your hands, and had it on
your finger the length of the Sentinel’s Walk. You disgrace yourself by
this avarice.’
‘You shall not hold my purse, Adam; but you may feel it.’
‘Let me feel it, then. For how long?’
‘Till the bell goes the hour.’
‘That is only a minute or two.’
‘It will be ten minutes, I tell you. Now then, if you care.’
Master Gordon put his hand into the bosom of Master Des-Essars and
solemnly pinched the purse.
‘She’ll be sleeping now,’ said Adam.
‘I doubt it,’ said Jean-Marie.
[2] She had asked for Father Roche the moment she saw the celebrant
come in; but was told that he was not at Wemyss. This we learn from
Des-Essars.