Chapter XI: 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.