XIV

It was Monday, and the eyes of London and the court were turned

towards Greenwich Park, where the Queen was to give entertainment to

the French envoy who had come once more to urge upon the Queen

marriage with a son of the Medici, and to obtain an assurance that

she would return to France the widow of the great Montgomery and his

valiant lieutenant, Michel de la Forêt. The river was covered with

boats and barges, festooned, canopied, and hung with banners and

devices; and from sunrise music and singing conducted down the stream

the gayly dressed populace--for those were the days when a man spent

on his ruff and his hose and his russet coat as much as would feed

and house a family for a year; when the fine-figured ruffler with

sables about his neck, corked slipper, trimmed buskin, and cloak of

silk or damask furred, carried his all upon his back.

Loud-voiced gallants came floating by; men of a hundred guilds

bearing devices pompously held on their way to the great pageant;

country bumpkins up from Surrey roistered and swore that there was

but one land that God had blessed, and challenged the grinning

watermen from Gravesend and Hampton Court to deny it; and the sun

with ardor drove from the sky every invading cloud, leaving Essex and

Kent, as far as eye could see, perfect green gardens of opulence.

Before Elizabeth had left her bed, London had emptied itself in

Greenwich Park. Thither the London companies had come in their varied

dazzling accoutrements--hundreds armed in fine corselets bearing the

long Moorish pike; tall halberdiers in the unique armor called

Almain-rivets, and gunners or muleteers equipped in shirts of mail,

with morions or steel caps. Here, too, were to come the Gentlemen

Pensioners, resplendent in scarlet, to “run with the spear”; and

hundreds of men-at-arms were set at every point to give garish

bravery to all. Thousands of citizens, open-mouthed, gazed down the

long arenas of green festooned with every sort of decoration and

picturesque invention. Cages of large birds from the Indies, fruits,

corn, fishes, grapes hung in the trees, players perched in the

branches discoursed sweet music, and poets recited their verses from

rustic bridges or on platforms with weapons and armor hung trophywise

on ragged staves. Upon a small lake a dolphin, four-and-twenty feet

in length, came swimming, within its belly a lively orchestra;

Italian tumblers swung from rope to bar; and crowds gathered at the

places where bear and bull baiting were to excite the none too

fastidious tastes of the time.

All morning the gay delights went on, and at high noon the cry was

carried from mouth to mouth, “The Queen! The Queen!”

She appeared on a balcony, surrounded by her lords and ladies, and

there received the diplomatists, speaking at length to the French

envoy in a tone of lightness and elusive cheerfulness which he was at

a loss to understand, and tried in vain to pierce by cogent remarks

bearing on matters of moment involved in his embassage. Not far away

stood Leicester, but the Queen had done no more than note his

presence by a glance, and now and again with ostentatious emphasis

she spoke to Angèle, whom she had had brought to her in the morning

before chapel-going. Thus early, after a few questions and some

scrutiny, she had sent her in charge of a gentleman-at-arms and a

maid of the Duke’s Daughter to her father’s lodging, with orders to

change her robe, to return to the palace in good time before noon,

and to bring her father to a safe place where he could watch the

pleasures of the people. When Angèle came to the presence again, she

saw that the Queen was wearing a gown of pure white, with the sleeves

shot with black, such as she herself had worn when admitted to

audience yesterday. Vexed, agitated, imbittered as Elizabeth had

been by the news brought to her the night before, she had kept her

wardrobers and seamstresses at work the whole night to alter a white

satin habit to the simplicity and style of that which Angèle had

worn.

“What think you of my gown, my lady refugee?” she said to Angèle, at

last, as the Gentlemen Pensioners paraded in the space below,

followed by the Knights-Tilters--at their head the Queen’s champion,

Sir Henry Lee: twenty-five of the most gallant and favored of the

courtiers of Elizabeth, including the gravest of her counsellors and

the youngest gallant who had won her smile, Master Christopher

Hatton. Some of these brave suitors, taken from the noblest families,

had appeared in the tilt-yard every anniversary of the year of her

accession and had lifted their romantic office, which seemed but the

service of enamoured knights, into an almost solemn dignity.

The vast crowd disposed itself around the great improvised yard where

the Knights-Tilters were to engage, and the Queen, followed by her

retinue, descended to the dais which had been set up near the palace.

Her white satin gown, roped with pearls only at the neck and breast,

glistened in the bright sun, and her fair hair took on a burnished

radiance. As Angèle passed with her in the gorgeous procession, she

could not but view the scene with admiring eye, albeit her own sweet,

sober attire--a pearly gray--seemed little in keeping; for the ladies

and lords were most richly attired, and the damask and satin cloaks,

crimson velvet gowns, silk hoods, and jewelled swords and daggers

made a brave show. She was like some moth in a whorl of butterflies.

Her face was pale, and her eyes had a curious, disturbed look, as

though they had seen frightening things. The events of last evening

had tried her simple spirit, and she shrank from this glittering

show; but the knowledge that her lover’s life was in danger, and that

her happiness was here and now at stake, held her bravely to her

place, beset as it was with peril; for the Queen, with that

eccentricity which had lifted her up yesterday, might cast her down

to-day, and she had good reason to fear the power and influence of

Leicester, who she knew with a sure instinct was intent on Michel’s

ruin. Behind all her nervous shrinking and her heart’s doubt, the

memory of the face of the stranger she had seen last night with Sir

Andrew Melvill tortured her. She could not find the time and place

where she had seen the eyes that, in the palace, had filled her with

mislike and abhorrence as they looked upon the Queen. Again and again

in her fitful sleep had she dreamed of him, and a sense of foreboding

was heavy upon her--she seemed to hear the footfall of coming

disaster. The anxiety of her soul lent an unnatural brightness to her

eyes; so that more than one enamoured courtier made essay to engage

her in conversation, and paid her deferential compliment when the

Queen’s eyes were not turned her way. Come to the dais, she was

placed not far from her Majesty, beside the Duke’s Daughter, whose

whimsical nature found frequent expression in what the Queen was wont

to call “a merry volt.” She seemed a privileged person, with whom

none ventured to take liberties, and against whom none was entitled

to bear offence, for her quips were free from malice, and her

ingenuity in humor of mark. She it was who had put into the Queen’s

head that morning an idea which was presently to startle Angèle and

all others.

Leicester was riding with the Knights-Tilters, and as they cantered

lightly past the dais, trailing their spears in obeisance, Elizabeth

engaged herself in talk with Cecil, who was standing near, and

appeared not to see the favorite. This was the first time since he

had mounted to good fortune that she had not thrown him a favor to

pick up with his spear and wear in her honor, and he could scarce

believe that she had meant to neglect him. He half halted, but she

only deigned an inclination of the head, and he spurred his horse

angrily on with a muttered imprecation, yet, to all seeming,

gallantly paying homage.

“There shall be doings ere this day is done. ‘Beware the Gypsy!’”

said the Duke’s Daughter, in a low tone, to Angèle, and she laughed

lightly.

“Who is the Gypsy?” asked Angèle, with good suspicion, however.

“Who but Leicester,” answered the other. “Is he not black enough?”

“Why was he so called? Who put the name upon him?”

“Who but the Earl of Sussex, as he died--as noble a chief, as true a

counsellor as ever spoke truth to a queen. But truth is not all at

court, and Sussex was no flatterer. Leicester bowed under the storm

for a moment when Sussex showed him in his true colors; but Sussex

had no gift of intrigue, the tide turned, and so he broke his heart

and died. But he left a message which I sometimes remember with my

collects. ‘I am now passing to another world,’ said he, ‘and must

leave you to your fortunes and to the Queen’s grace and goodness; but

beware the Gypsy, for he will be too hard for all of you; you know

not the beast so well as I do.’ But my Lord Sussex was wrong. One

there is who knows him through and through, and hath little joy in

the knowing.”

The look in the eyes of the Duke’s Daughter became like steel and her

voice hardened, and Angèle realized that Leicester had in this

beautiful and delicate maid-of-honor as bitter an enemy as ever

brought down the mighty from their seats; that a pride had been

sometime wounded, suffered an unwarrantable affront, which only

innocence could feel so acutely. Her heart went out to the Duke’s

Daughter as it had never gone out to any of her sex since her

mother’s death, and she showed her admiration in her glance. The

other saw it and smiled, slipping a hand in hers for a moment; and

then a look, half-debating, half-triumphant, came into her face as

her eyes followed Leicester down the green stretches of the

tilting-yard.

The trumpet sounded, the people broke out in shouts of delight, the

tilting began. For an hour the handsome joust went on, the Earl of

Oxford, Charles Howard, Sir Henry Lee, Sir Christopher Hatton, and

Leicester challenging, and so even was the combat that victory

seemed to settle in the plumes of neither, though Leicester of them

all showed not the greatest skill, while in some regards greatest

grace and deportment. Suddenly there rode into the lists, whence no

one seemed to know, so intent had the public gaze been fixed, so

quickly had he come, a mounted figure all in white, and at the moment

when Sir Henry Lee had cried aloud his challenge for the last time.

Silence fell as the bright figure cantered down the list, lifted the

gauge, and sat still upon his black steed. Consternation fell. None

among the people or the Knights-Tilters knew who the invader was, and

Leicester called upon the masters of the ceremonies to demand his

name and quality. The white horseman made no reply, but sat unmoved,

while noise and turmoil suddenly sprang up around him.

Presently the voice of the Queen was heard clearly ringing through

the lists. “His quality hath evidence. Set on.”

The Duke’s Daughter laughed, and whispered mischievously in Angèle’s

ear.

The gentlemen of England fared ill that day in the sight of all the

people, for the challenger of the Knights-Tilters was more than a

match for each that came upon him. He rode like a wild horseman of

Yucatan. Wary, resourceful, sudden in device and powerful in onset,

he bore all down, until the Queen cried: “There hath not been such

skill in England since my father rode these lists. Three of my best

gentlemen down, and it hath been but breathing to him. Now, Sir Harry

Lee, it is thy turn,” she laughed, as she saw the champion ride

forward; “and next ’tis thine, Leicester. Ah, Leicester, would have

at him now?” she added, sharply, as she saw the favorite spur forward

before the gallant Lee. “He is full of choler--it becomes him, but it

shall not be; bravery is not all. And if he failed”--she smiled

acidly--“he would get him home to Kenilworth and show himself no

more--if he failed, and the white knight failed not! What think you,

dove?” she cried to the Duke’s Daughter. “Would he not fall in the

megrims for that England’s honor had been overthrown? Leicester

could not live if England’s honor should be toppled down like my dear

Chris Hatton and his gallants, yonder.”

The Duke’s Daughter courtesied. “Methinks England’s honor is in

little peril--your Majesty knows well how to ‘fend it. No subject

keeps it.”

“If I must ‘fend it, dove, then Leicester there must not fight

to-day. It shall surely be Sir Harry Lee. My Lord Leicester must have

the place of honor at the last,” she called aloud. Leicester swung

his horse round, and galloped to the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” he cried, in suppressed anger, “must I give place?”

“When all have failed and Leicester has won, then all yield place to

Leicester,” said the Queen, dryly.

The look on his face was not good to see, but he saluted gravely and

rode away to watch the encounter between the most gallant

Knight-Tilter in England and the stranger. Rage was in his heart, and

it blinded him to the certainty of his defeat, for he was not expert

in the lists. But by a sure instinct he had guessed the identity of

the white horseman, and every nerve quivered with desire to meet him

in combat. Last night’s good work seemed to have gone for naught.

Elizabeth’s humor had changed; and to-day she seemed set on

humiliating him before the nobles who hated him, before the people

who had found in him the cause why the Queen had not married, so

giving no heir to the throne. Perturbed and charged with anger as he

was, however, the combat now forward soon chained his attention. Not

in many a year had there been seen in England such a display of skill

and determination. The veteran Knight-Tilter, who knew that the

result of this business meant more than life to him, and that more

than the honor of his comrades was at stake--even the valor of

England, which had been challenged--fought as he had never fought

before, as no man had fought in England for many a year. At first the

people cried aloud their encouragement; but as onset and attack after

onset and attack showed that two masters of their craft, two

desperate men had met, and that the great sport had become a vital

combat between their own champion and the champion of another

land--Spain, France, Denmark, Russia, Italy?--a hush spread over the

great space, and every eye was strained; men gazed with bated breath.

The green turf was torn and mangled, the horses reeked with sweat and

foam, but overhead the soaring skylark sang, as it were, to express

the joyance of the day. During many minutes the only sound that broke

the stillness was the clash of armed men, the thud of hoofs, and the

snorting and the wild breathing of the chargers. The lark’s notes,

however, ringing out over the lists, freed the tongue of the Queen’s

fool, who suddenly ran out into the lists, in his motley and cap and

bells, and in his high, trilling voice sang a fool’s song to the

fighting twain:

“Who would lie down and close his eyes

While yet the lark sings o’er the dale?

Who would to Love make no replies,

Nor drink the nut-brown ale,

While throbs the pulse, and full’s the purse

And all the world’s for sale?”

Suddenly a cry of relief, of roaring excitement, burst from the

people. Both horsemen and their chargers were on the ground. The

fight was over, the fierce game at an end. That which all had feared,

even the Queen herself, as the fight fared on, had not come to

pass--England’s champion had not been beaten by the armed mystery,

though the odds had seemed against him.

“Though wintry blasts may prove unkind,

When winter’s past we do forget;

Love’s breast in summer-time is kind,

And all’s well while life’s with us yet--

Hey, ho, now the lark is mating,

Life’s sweet wages are in waiting!”

Thus sang the fool as the two warriors were helped to their feet.

Cumbered with their armor, and all dust-covered and blood-stained,

though not seriously hurt, they were helped to their horses, and rode

to the dais where the Queen sat.

“Ye have fought like men of old,” she said, “and neither had

advantage at the last. England’s champion still may cry his challenge

and not be forsworn, and he who challenged goeth in honor again from

the lists. You, sir, who have challenged, shall we not see your face

or hear your voice? For what country, for what prince lifted you the

gauge and challenged England’s honor?”

“I crave your high Majesty’s pardon”--Angèle’s heart stood still. Her

love had not pierced his disguise, though Leicester’s hate had done

so on the instant--“I crave your noble Majesty’s grace,” answered the

stranger, “that I may still keep my face covered in humility. My

voice speaks for no country and for no prince. I have fought for mine

own honor, and to prove to England’s Queen that she hath a champion

who smiteth with strong arm, as on me and my steed this hath been

seen to-day.”

“Gallantly thought and well said,” answered Elizabeth; “but England’s

champion and his strong arm have no victory. If gifts were given they

must needs be cut in twain. But answer me, what is your country? I

will not have it that any man pick up the gauge of England for his

own honor. What is your country?”

“I am an exile, your high Majesty; and the only land for which I

raise my sword this day is that land where I have found safety from

my enemies.”

The Queen turned and smiled at the Duke’s Daughter. “I knew not where

my own question might lead, but he hath turned it to full account,”

she said, under her breath. “His tongue is as ready as his spear.

Then ye have both labored in England’s honor, and I drink to you

both,” she added, and raised to her lips a glass of wine which a page

presented. “I love ye both--in your high qualities,” she hastened to

add, with dry irony, and her eye rested mockingly on Leicester.

“My lords and gentlemen and all of my kingdom,” she added, in a clear

voice, insistent in its force, “ye have come upon May Day to take

delight of England in my gardens, and ye are welcome. Ye have seen

such a sight as doeth good to the eyes of brave men. It hath pleased

me well, and I am constrained to say to you what, for divers great

reasons, I have kept to my own counsels, laboring for your good. The

day hath come, however, the day and the hour, when ye shall know that

wherein I propose to serve you as ye well deserve. It is my will--and

now I see my way to its good fulfilment--that I remain no longer in

that virgin state wherein I have ever lived.”

Great cheering here broke in, and for a time she could get no

further. Ever alive to the bent of the popular mind, she had chosen a

perfect occasion to take them into her confidence--however little or

much she would abide by her words, or intended the union of which she

spoke. In the past she had counselled with her great advisers, with

Cecil and the rest, and through them messages were borne to the

people; but now she spoke direct to them all, and it had its

immediate reward--the acclamations were as those with which she was

greeted when she first passed through the streets of London on

inheriting the crown.

Well pleased, she continued: “This I will do with expedition and

weightiest judgment, for of little account though I am, he that sits

with the Queen of England in this realm, must needs be a prince

indeed.... So be ye sure of this that ye shall have your heartmost

wishes, and there shall be one to come after me who will wear this

crown even as I have worn, in direct descent, my father’s crown. Our

dearest sister, the Queen of the Scots, hath been delivered of a fair

son; and in high affection the news thereof she hath sent me, with a

palfrey which I shall ride among you in token of the love I bear her

Majesty. She hath in her time got an heir to the throne with which we

are ever in kinship and alliance, and I in my time shall give ye your

hearts’ desire.”

Angèle, who had, with palpitating heart and swimming head, seen

Michel de la Forêt leave the lists and disappear among the trees, as

mysteriously as he came, was scarce conscious of the cheers and

riotous delight that followed Elizabeth’s tactful if delusive speech

to the people. A few whispered words from the Duke’s Daughter had

told her that Michel had obeyed the Queen’s command in entering the

lists and taking up the challenge; and that she herself, carrying

the royal message to him and making arrangements for his accoutrement

and mounting, had urged him to obedience. She observed dryly that he

had needed little pressure, and that his eyes had lighted at the

prospect of the combat. Apart from his innate love of fighting, he

had realized that in the moment of declining to enter the Queen’s

service he had been at a disadvantage, and that his courage was open

to attack by the incredulous or malicious. This would have mattered

little were it not that he had been given unusual importance as a

prisoner by the Queen’s personal notice of himself. He had,

therefore, sprung to the acceptance, and sent his humble duty to the

Queen by her winsome messenger, who, with conspicuous dramatic skill,

had arranged secretly, with the help of a Gentleman Pensioner and the

Master of the Horse, his appearance and his exit. That all succeeded

as she had planned quickened her pulses, and made her heart still

warmer to Angèle, who, now that all was over, and her Huguenot lover

had gone his mysterious way, seemed lost in a troubled reverie.

It was a troubled reverie, indeed, for Angèle’s eyes were on the

stranger who was present with Sir Andrew Melvill the night before.

Her gaze upon him now became fixed and insistent, for the sense of

foreboding so heavy on her deepened to a torturing suspense. Where

had she seen this man before? To what day or hour in her past did he

belong? What was there in his smooth, smiling, malicious face that

made her blood run cold? As she watched him, he turned his head. She

followed his eyes. The horse which Mary Queen of Scots had sent with

the message of the birth of her son was being led to the Queen by the

dark-browed, pale-faced churl who had brought it from Scotland. She

saw a sharp, dark look pass between the two.

Suddenly her sight swam, she swayed and would have fainted, but

resolution steadied her, and a low exclamation broke from her lips.

Now she knew!

The face that had eluded her was at last in the grasp of horrified

memory. It was the face of one who many years ago was known to have

poisoned the Duc de Chambly by anointing the pommel of his saddle

with a delicate poison which the rider would touch, and touching

would, perhaps, carry to his nostrils or mouth as he rode, and die

upon the instant. She herself had seen the Duc de Chambly fall; had

seen this man fly from Paris for his life; and had thereafter known

of his return to favor at the court of Mary and Francis, for nothing

could be proved against him. The memory flashed like lightning

through her brain. She moved swiftly forward despite the detaining

hand of the Duke’s Daughter. The Queen was already mounted, her hand

already upon the pommel of the saddle.

Elizabeth noted the look of anguished anxiety in Angèle’s eyes, her

face like that of one who had seen souls in purgatory; and some swift

instinct, born of years upon years of peril in old days when her life

was no boon to her enemies, made her lean towards the girl, whose

quick whispered words were to her as loud as thunder. She was,

however, composed and still. Not a tremor passed through her.

“Your wish is granted, mistress,” she said aloud, then addressed a

word to Cecil at her side, who passed on her command. Presently she

turned slowly to the spot where Sir Andrew Melvill and the other sat

upon their horses. She scanned complacently the faces of both, then

her eyes settled steadily on the face of the murderer. Still gazing

intently, she drew the back of her gloved fingers along the pommel.

The man saw the motion, unnoted and unsignificant to any other save

Angèle, meaningless even to Melvill, the innocent and honest

gentleman at his side; and he realized that the Queen had had a

warning. Noting the slight stir among the gentlemen round him, he

knew that his game was foiled, that there was no escape. He was not

prepared for what followed.

In a voice to be heard only at small distance, the Queen said,

calmly:

“This palfrey sent me by my dear sister of Scotland shall bear me

among you, friends; and in days to come _I will remember how she

hath given new life to me by her loving message_. Sir Andrew Melvill,

I shall have further speech with you; and you, sir”--speaking to the

sinister figure by his side--“come hither.”

The man dismounted, and with unsteady step came forward. Elizabeth

held out her gloved hand for him to kiss. His face turned white. It

was come soon, his punishment. None knew save Angèle and the Queen

the doom that was upon him, if Angèle’s warning was well founded. He

knelt, and bent his head over her hand.

“Salute sir,” she said, in a low voice.

He touched his lips to her fingers. She pressed them swiftly against

his mouth. An instant, then he rose and stepped backward to his

horse. Tremblingly, blindly, he mounted.

A moment passed, then Elizabeth rode on with her ladies behind her,

her gentlemen beside her. As she passed slowly, the would-be regicide

swayed and fell from his horse, and stirred no more.

Elizabeth rode on, her hand upon the pommel of the saddle. So she

rode for a full half-hour, and came back to her palace. But she

raised not her gloved right hand above the pommel, and she dismounted

with exceeding care.

That night the man who cared for the horse died secretly, as had done

his master, with the Queen’s glove pressed to his nostrils by one

whom Cecil could trust. And the matter was hidden from the court and

the people; for it was given out that Melvill’s friend had died of

some heart trouble.