Chapter I: Opinions of French Paris Upon Some Late Events

Nicholas the lacquey, whom they call ‘French Paris,’ can neither read nor write, nor cipher save with notches in a wand; but he has travelled much, and in shrewd company; and has seen things—whatever men may do—of interest moral and otherwise. And whether he work his sum by aid of his not over-orderly notches, or upon his not over-scrupulous fingers, the dog can infer; he will get the quotient just, and present it you in divers tongues, with divers analogies drawn from his knowledge of affairs: France, England, the Low Countries, Upper Italy, the Debateable Land—from one, any, or all, French Paris can pick his case in point. Therefore, his thoughts upon events in Scotland, both those which led to his coming thither in the train of my Lord Bothwell, his master, and those which followed hard upon it, should be worth having, if by means of a joke and a crown-piece one could get at them.

You may see the man, if you will, lounging any afternoon away with his fellows on the cawsey—by the Market Cross, in the parvise of Saint Giles’s, by the big house at the head of Peebles Wynd (‘late my Lord of Moray’s,’ he will tell you with a wink), or, best of all, in the forecourt of Holyrood—holding his master’s cloak upon his arm. He is to be known at once by the clove carnation or sprig of rosemary in his mouth, and by his way of looking Scotchwomen in their faces with that mixture of impudence and _naïveté_ which his nation lends her sons. Being whose son he is, he will be a smooth-chinned, lithe young man, passably vicious, and pale with it; grey in the eye, dressed finely in a good shirt, good jacket and breeches. But for certain these two last will not meet; the snowy lawn will force itself between, and, like a vow of continence, sunder two loves. Paris will be tender of his waist. He will look at all women as they pass, not with reverence (as if they were a holier kind of flesh), but rather, like his namesake, as if he held the apple weighing in his hand. Seems to have no eye for men—will tell you, if you ask him of them, that there are none in Scotland but his master and Mr. Knox; and yet can judge them quicker than any one. It was he who said of the King, having seen him but once, after supper, at Stirling: ‘This young man fuddles himself to brave out his failure. He is frigid—wants a sex.’ And of the Queen, on the same short acquaintance, but helped by hearsay: ‘She had been so long the pet of women that she thought herself safe with any man. But now she knows that it takes more than a cod-piece to make a man. Trust Paris.’ Trust Paris! A crown will purchase the rogue, and yet he has a kind of faithfulness. He will endure enormously for his master’s sake, shun no fatigues, wince at no pain, consider no shame—to be sure, he has none—blink at few perils. Talk to him, having slipped in your crown, he will be frank. He will tell you of his master.

A quick word of thanks, whistled off into the air, will introduce him to the broad piece. He will give it a flick in the air, catch it as it comes down, rattle it in his hollowed palm, with a grin into your face. ‘This is the upright servant, this pretty knave,’ he will say of his coin. ‘For, look you, sir, this white-faced, thin courtier is the one in all the world whom you need not buy for more than his value. God of Gods, if my master thought fully of it he would be just such another. Because it is as plain as a monk’s lullaby that, if you need not give more for him than he is worth, you cannot give less!’

His master, you have been told, is the great Earl of Bothwell, now Lord Admiral of Scotland, Lieutenant-General of the East, West, and Middle Marches, and right hand of the Queen’s Majesty. How is the story of so high a man involved in your crown-piece? Why, thus.

French Paris displays the coin. ‘Do you see these two children’s faces, these sharp and tender chins, these slim necks, these perching crowns? What says the circumscription? MARIA ET HENRICUS D. G. SCOTORUM REGINA ET REX. How! the mare before the sire? You have touched, sir!’ For observe, Paris’ master came into Scotland, a pardoned rebel, because this legend at first had run HENRICUS ET MARIA REX ET REGINA, and there was outcry raised, flat rebellion. And so surely, says Paris, as he had come, and been received, him with his friends, and had given that quick shake of the head (which so well becomes him), and lifted his war-shout of ‘Hoo! hoo! A Hepburn, hoo!’—so surely they struck a new coinage, at this very Christmas past—and here we are over Candlemas—with MARIA ET HENRICUS, and the mare before the sire. ‘That is how my master came back to Scotland, sir, and here upon the face of your bounty you see the _prémices_. But there will be a more abundant harvest, if I mistake not the husbandman.’

‘That is a droll reflection for me,’ he will add, ‘who have been with my master as near beggary as a swan in the winter, and nearer to death than the Devil can have understood. I have served him here and there for many years—Flanders, Brabant, Gueldres, Picardy, Savoy, England. Do you happen to know the port of Yarmouth? They can drink in Yarmouth. I have hidden with him in the hills of this country: that was when he had broken out of prison in this town, and before he hanged Pringle with his own hands. I have skulked there, I say, until the fog rotted my bones. I have sailed the seas in roaring weather, and upon my word, sir, have had experiences enough to make the fortune of a preacher. There was a pirate of Brill in our company, Oudekirk by name, who denied the existence of God in a tempest, and perished by a thunderbolt. Pam! It clove him. “There is no God!” cried he, and with the last word there was a blare of white light, a crackling, hissing, tearing noise, a crash; and when we looked at Oudekirk one side of him was coal-black from the hair to the midriff, and his jaws clamped together! But I could not tell you all—some is not very convenient, I must allow.

‘We were at Lille when the Queen’s messenger—the little smutty-eyed Brabanter—found us. He brought two letters: the Queen’s very short, a stiff letter of recall, promising pardon “as you behave yourself towards us.” The other was from that large Italian, who sprawls where he ought not, in his own tongue; as much as may be, like this:—

‘“Most serene, cultivable lord, it is very certain that if you come to this country you will be well received; the more so, seeing that certain of your unfriends (he meant Monsieur de Moray) have been treated lately as they well deserve. The Queen weds Prince Henry Stuart, of whom I will only write that I wish he were older and more resembled your magnificence.”

‘All Italians lie, sir; yet so it is that their lies always please you. You may be sure my master needed no more encouragement to make his preparation of travel. It was soon after this that he showed me a glove he had, and an old letter of the Queen’s. We were in his bedchamber, he in his bed. He has many such pledges, many and many, but he was sure of this glove because it was stiff in two fingers. When he told me that he intended for Scotland and must take the glove with him, I said, “Master, be careful what you are about. It is certain that the Queen will know her own glove again, and should this prove the wrong one it will be worse for you than not to show it at all.”

‘“Pooh, man,” says he, “the glove is right enough. There are no others stiff from a wetting. But look and see. Let’s be sure.”

‘It was true there were no others quite so stiff in the fingers. Tears had done it, the letter said: but who knows, with women?’ French Paris, here, would give a hoist to his breeches.

‘In September last we made land, after a chase in furious weather. An English ship sighted us off Holy Island: we ran near to be aground on that pious territory, but our Lady or Saint Denis, or a holy partnership between them, saved us. They sent out a long boat to head us into shoal water; we slipped in between. My master had the helm and rammed it down with his heel; we came about to the wind, we flew, with the water hissing along the gunwale. We saw them in the breakers as we gained the deeps. “There goes some beef into the pickle-tub!” cried he, and stood up and hailed them with mockery. “Sooner you than me, ye drowning swine!” he roars against the tempest. Such a man is my master.

‘We found anchorage at Eyemouth, and pricked up the coast-road to this place. The war—if you can call it war, which was a chasing of rats in a rickyard—was as good as over, but by no means the cause of war. The Queen was home from the field, where they tell me she had shown the most intrepid front of any of her company. Not much to say, perhaps. Yet remember that she had Monsieur de Huntly with her, that had been Gordon—a fine stark man, like a hawk, whom she had set free from prison and restored to his Earldom before the rebellion broke out; and he is passably courageous. But it was a valet of his, Forbes, “red Sandy Forbes,” they call him, who told me that he had never in his life seen anything like the Queen of Scots upon that hunting of outlaws. Think of this, dear sir! The King in a gilt corslet, casque of feathers, red cloak and all, greatly attended by his Englishmen—his pavilion, his bed, his cooks and scullions; his pampered, prying boys, his little Forrest, his little Ross, his Jack and his Dick; with that greyhead, bowing, soft-handed cousin of his, Monsieur Archibald, for secretary—hey? Very good: you picture the young man And she!’ French Paris threatens you with one finger, presented like a pistol at your eyes. ‘She had one lady of company, upon my soul, one only, the fair Seton; that one and no other with her in a camp full of half-naked, cannibal men—for what else are they, these Scots? She wore breastplate and gorget of leather, a leather cap for her head, a short red petticoat, the boots of a man. As for her hair, it streamed behind her like a pennon in the wind. It was hell’s weather, said Sandy Forbes; rain and gusty wind, freshening now and again to tempest; there were quags to be crossed, torrents to be forded; the rain drove like sleet across the hills. Well, she throve upon it, her eyes like stars. There was no tarrying because of her; she raced like a coursing dog, and nearly caught the Bastard of Scotland. He was the root of all mischance, as always in a kingdom; for a bastard, do you see? means fire somewhere. Have you ever heard tell of my Lord Don John of Austria? Ah, if we are to talk of fire, look out for him.

‘It was in the flats below Stirling that she felt the scent hot in her face. The Bastard had had six hours’ start; but if spurring could have brought horses to face that weather, she had had him in jail at this hour, or in Purgatory. “Half my kingdom,” cries she, “sooner than lose him now!” But he got clear away, he and Monsieur le Duc, and the old Earl of Argyll, and Milord Rothes and the rest of them. They crossed the March into England, and she dared not follow them against advice. My master, when he came, confirmed it: he would not have her venture, knowing England as well as he did; and I need not tell you, sir, that—for that once—he had the support of the King. He was out of breath, that King! But, of course! If you drink to get courage you must pay for it. Your wind goes, and then where is your courage? In the bottle, in the bottle! You drink again—and so you go the vicious round.’ French Paris flips his finger and thumb, extinguishing the King of Scots. ‘The King, sir? Pouf! Perished, gone out, snuffered out, finished, done with—adieu!’ He kisses his hand to the sky. This is treason: let us shift our ground.

‘I did not see my master’s reception, down there in the palace: that was not for a lacquey. Very fine, very curious, knowing what I know. They met him in the hall, a number of the lords—none too friendly as yet, but each waiting on the other to get a line: my Lord of Atholl, a grave, honest man, my Lord of Ruthven, pallid, mad and struggling with his madness, my Lord of Lindsay, who ought to be a hackbutter, or a drawer in a tavern; there were many others, men of no account. My master entered on the arm of the new Earl of Huntly, just restored, the fine young man, to the honours of his late father. In this country, you must know, a certain number of the lords are always in rebellion against the King. He imprisons, not executes, them; for he knows very well that before long another faction will be out against him; and then it is very convenient to release the doers in the former. For by that act of grace you convert them into friends, who will beat your new foes for you. They in their turn go to prison. You know the fate of M. de Huntly’s father, for instance—how he rebelled and died, and was dug out of the grave that they might spit upon his old body? The Bastard’s doing, but the Queen allowed it. And now, here is the Bastard hiding in the rocks, and old Huntly’s son hunting him high and low. _Drôle de pays!_ But, I was about to tell you, rebels though we have been, they received us well—crowded about us—clapped our shoulders—cheered, laughed, talked all at once. My master was nearly off his feet as they bore him down the hall towards the fire. Now, there by the fire, warming himself, stood a nobleman, very broad in the back, very pursy, with short-fingered, fat hands, and well-cushioned little eyes in his face. So soon as he saw us coming he grew red and walked away.

‘“Ho, ho, my Lord of Morton, whither away so fast?” cried out my master.

‘And my Lord of Livingstone said: “To sit on the Great Seal, lest Davy get it from him”; and they all burst out laughing like a pack of boys. I suppose he is still sitting close, for he has not been seen this long time.

‘We sent up our names and waited—but we waited an hour! Then came my Lord of Traquair and took up my master alone. He had his glove and letter with him, I knew. He was determined to risk them.

‘The Queen had nobody with her; and he told me that the first thing she said to him was this:—“My lord, you have things of mine which I need. Will you not give them to me?”

‘He took them out of his bosom—if you know him you will see his twinkling eyes, never off her—and held them up. “They have been well cared for, madam. I trust that your Majesty will be as gentle with them.”

‘“They are safe with me,” says the Queen. So then, after a fine reverence, he gave them up, and she thanked him, and put them in her bosom; and I would give forty crowns to know where they are now. I know where they will be before long.

‘Now what do you think of that? It shows you, first, that he was right and I wrong; for she never looked at the thing, and any woman’s glove would have done, with a little sea-water on the fingers. My master, let me tell you, is a wise man, even at his wildest. He did more good to himself by that little act than by any foolish play of the constant lover. He showed her that she might trust him. True. But much more than that, he showed her that he did not need her tokens; and that was the master-stroke.

‘The same line he has followed ever since—he alone, like the singling hound in a pack. He has held her at arm’s length. She has trusted him, and shown it; he has served her well, but at arm’s length. That Italian fiddler, rolling about in her chamber, too much aware of his value, takes another way. Lord forgive him! he is beginning to play the patron. That can only lead him to one place, in my opinion. Hated! that is a thin word to use in his respect. He makes the lords sick with fear and loathing. They see a toad in the Queen’s lap, as in the nursery tale, and no one dare touch the warty thing, to dash it to the wall. My master would dare, for sure; but he does not choose. For all that, he says that Monsieur David is a fool.

‘It is when I am trussing him in the mornings, kneeling before him, that he speaks his mind most freely. He is like that—you must be beneath his notice to get his familiarity. Do you know the course he takes here in this world of rats and women? To laugh, and laugh, and laugh again: _voilà!_ He varies his derision, of course. He will not rally the King or put him to shame, but listens, rather, and watches, and nods his head at his prancings, and says, “Ha, a fine bold game, now!”; or, if he is appealed to directly, will ask, “Sir, what am I to say to you? the same as Brutus said to Cæsar?” “And what said Brutus?” cries the King. “Why, sir,” replies my master, “he said, Sooner you than me, Cæsar.” That is his favourite adage. And so he plays with the King, his eyes twinkling and his mouth broad, but no teeth showing. He shows neither his teeth nor his hand. He is a good card-player; and so he should be, who has been at the table with the Queen-Mother Catherine, daughter of Mischief and the Apothecary.

‘The King hates my master without understanding; the Queen leans on him to gain understanding; but she has not gained it yet. You may trust my lord for that. Did you hear of the mass on Candlemas Day, a week past to-day? How she thought this a fine occasion to restore the ancient use: her enemies beaten over the border, all her friends should carry tapers, so that the Queen of Heaven might be purified again of her spotless act? She required it personally of all the lords, one by one, herself beseeching them with soft eyes and motions of the hands hard to be denied. Moreover, she is to have need of purification herself if all goes well. For she is ... but you can judge for yourself. Many promised her on whom she had not counted; my master, on whom she did count, refused her point-blank. The strangest part of the business is, however, that his credit is higher now than it was before. So much so that she has made him a fine marriage. Monsieur de Huntly’s sister is the lady; I have seen her, but reserve my judgment. I think that she will not like me—I feel it in the ridges of my ears, a very sensitive part with me. She was in the Queen’s circle one day—the day on which I saw her—a statue of a woman, upon whom the Queen cast the eyes of that lover who goes to church to view his mistress afar off, and has no regard for any but her, and waits and hopes, and counts every little turn of her head—as patient as a watching dog. Curious! curious government of women! Hey—pardon! The Council is up. I must be forward. Sir, I thank you, and humbly salute you.’

French Paris pushes through the huddle of servants, the rosemary sprig in his mouth.

My Lord Admiral the Earl of Bothwell comes out one of the first, between the Lords Seton and Caithness. He talks fast, you notice, with a good deal of wrist and finger-work, acknowledges no salutations though he is offered many. My Lord Seton takes them all upon himself, misses not one. The Earl of Caithness is an oldish man, rather hard of hearing. Heeding nobody, speaking as he feels, laughing at his own jokes, capping one with another, the burly admiral stands barehead in the raw drizzle, swinging his feathered hat in his hand. There seems much to say, if he could only remember it, and no hurry. Horses are brought up, gentlemen mount by the post and spur away. Three ushers come running, waving their wands. ‘Sirs, the King!’ The crowd gathers; the Lord Admiral continues his conversation.

The King comes out, taller by a head than most, exceedingly magnificent, light-haired, hot in the face. Hats and bonnets are doffed, but in silence. The great grey stallion with red trappings is his; and he can hold it though two grooms cannot well. He stands for a while, pulling on his gauntlet, scowling and screwing his mouth as he tussles with it. But the scowls, you gather, are less for the glove than for a calm-eyed, fleshy, pink man with a light red beard, who has emerged but just now; whose furred cloak is over-fringed, whose bonnet sags too much over one eye, the jewel in it too broad. This is Signior Davy, too cool and too much master to please one who is hot and not master of himself. You can see the King’s mood grow furious to the point of unreason, while my Lord Bothwell continues his tales, and the Italian, secure in a crowd, seems to be daring an attack.

The King is mounted, the King is away. The crowd drives back to right and left. He goes swinging down the steep street, his gentlemen after him. The Earl of Bothwell calls out, ‘Paris, my cloak.’

Paris turns the rosemary sprig. ‘Le voici, monseigneur.’

He walks away to his lodging like any plain burgess of the town, and Paris trips jauntily after him, looking Scotchwomen in the face.