The Queen's Caprice Page 5

  He felt sorry for the Queen, forced to live among such detestable people, and, kneeling at his red velvet prie-dieu, he looked at her anxiously, and with compassion.

  *

  The Queen felt free in the chapel where no Protestant ever entered, where she was alone with her household and her friends, where she heard no alien Scots tongue, but only the Latin and the French with which she was familiar.

  She knelt erect, slim, and stately in her heavy black robe. Her bright hair was gathered under a little cap, her beads of ebony, her crucifix of ivory hung at her waist. She kept her hands lightly joined together. She was conscious of the splendid young man behind her, gazing at her with a reluctant adoration. The place, walled against the light, with carvings and windows of coloured glass, soothed her sensuous nature. The smoke from the pure wax candles mingled with the incense from the thurible.

  The priest sang, the choir chanted, at the altar frontal the altar ornaments shimmered like sunshine on a water-break.

  The Queen’s mood became exalted, she felt an impulse of piety towards this God whose worship was so luxurious, so pleasant. Yes, she believed this was the one ancient and true Faith. How delicious to think of Heaven, as gorgeous as Fontainebleau, awaiting after one was satiated with the delights of the earth. She felt comforted to think of those strong angels and pitying saints watching over her; if she was guilty of some little sin they would see that she was forgiven. As long as she was true to them they would be true to her, save her, absolve and protect her. When she came at last to die they would lift her soul out of her body and carry it to lovely peace and cool magnificence.

  The singing ceased gently. The priests moved to and fro. The Queen rose, her black skirts spread out far either side of her tiny waist. As the priests passed, she bent her head humbly. When the priests and the choir had left the chapel she looked, unsmiling, over her shoulder at Henry Stewart, standing stiffly before his prie-dieu.

  He thought she was very smooth and meek and appealed for pity. He flushed slowly, feeling himself manly, strong, potent to save her fragile weakness.

  *

  Florestan, the Queen’s favourite monkey, had escaped. With his quick, dry brown hands he had broken his chain and run out of the Queen’s chambers.

  He had soon been missed and was seen in various places, perched on a door, swinging on a fold of tapestry, running over the poles of a window curtain.

  The Queen became quite agitated; it was terrible to think of the frail little animal, lured by curiosity, wandering away from safety and comfort out into the cold, and perishing in the stinging wind and rain. So many of her pretty little monkeys had died since she came to Scotland, though she took such care with them.

  She lifted her long black skirts from her feet and ran here and there, down the corridors of the palace, as the alarm was given that here, there, the truant had been seen.

  A man whose face she knew quite well, but to whom she had never spoken, stopped in front of her and spoke very respectfully, bowing low.

  The monkey was in the chapel. If Her Majesty wished, he would get it for her, without a scandal.

  The Queen, curious, asked:

  “A scandal?”

  He explained himself. He spoke French very well, but she knew him to be an Italian, for she had already been to the trouble of discovering something about him, and she listened, leaning against the gilded wall. She liked his manner of speaking, and the mind behind the speech.

  Well, about the monkey; if the evil-minded Puritans got to know of it being in the chapel, they would say ugly things. It was better not to give such stupid fools a chance. If Her Grace understood him? These fanatics! They saw the devil everywhere. Even he, alone in the chapel by the light of one candle, had been quite startled when he had looked up suddenly and seen the monkey running about.

  He had gone there to fetch some music. Her Grace would not recall him, but he sang bass in the choir and had done so since Christmas.

  The Queen said:

  “I understand. Come with me and help me to catch Florestan. It will be a good thing if no one sees us. I remember you, yes, you came with the Duke of Savoy’s envoy last autumn. You and your brother.”

  She nodded to him to follow her to the chapel. The young man obeyed, nervous at being alone with the Queen, at whom he had so often looked over his book as he sang, but whom he had never thought to speak with. He was silent, wondering what he could do with this brilliant opportunity. His usual cleverness seemed of no use to him here. The Queen, careless and easy with everyone, hastened ahead to the chapel. She paused in the doorway. She had never seen this sanctified place save when there was a service. Now it seemed quite quenched and cold, with the one candle, burning to a blackened wick, stuck in a holder near the choir stalls.

  The light of this was sufficient to reveal Florestan crouched on the altar, gripping his thin legs with taut hands, while his shadow, huge and wavering, was flung on the sacred picture behind, like that of some aerial devil, hovering to corrupt the atmosphere.

  The Queen was startled. She drew back and touched the young man behind her and he lost his head, because he, poor wretch, had felt the Queen’s gown brush him, her veil touch him. He could have put his arms round her shoulders, but he stood rigid, his large dark eyes shifting and furtive. He was used to the great world, but only as a servant.

  The Queen stared at him over the edge of her stiff ruff.

  “Catch Florestan for me. This is horrible, to see him on the altar.” As he passed her, trying to master his self-consciousness, she asked: “Are you Giuseppe Rizzio?”

  “No, madame, my name is David. Giuseppe is my younger brother.”

  She had known this, but wanted to force him to explain himself. She had often noticed him in the choir; he had extraordinary eyes, so dark and dense that the iris could not be distinguished from the pupil, and arched, lively brows. His face was thin, pale amber in colour, and healthy. He was quite elegant; there was something swift and eager about him, too. A pity that he was so shabby.

  She watched him, moving cautiously among the shadows, endeavouring to surprise Florestan. He had lit some more of the candles and the cross lights wavered, reaching tall and tremulous on the gilded fan tracery of the ceiling. They seemed far away from everyone else; it was not likely they would be looked for here.

  The young Italian moved cautiously, retreated, advanced, while Florestan watched him with melancholy eyes of imbecile mockery. The youth’s slim body in the black clothes, his long dark hair which hung over his shoulders, his soundless tread, made him appear part of the shadows, a phantasmagoria, like a puppet-show against this strange background — man, monkey, in some malicious dance.

  As the monkey leaped suddenly on to the pyx the Queen crossed herself with a thrill of superstitious horror — it seemed, for a second, as if the devil were indeed loose in a holy place.

  The Italian sprang at the altar and grasped the animal. One of the candles went over with a clatter. Terribly excited, the little grey beast bit and scratched into the man’s thin-clad arms, but without a murmur he carried him to the Queen in the doorway.

  “I will take him to your apartments, madame — he is too angry for you to touch him. Afterwards I shall return and put out the candles.”

  He shook Florestan free of his arm, but gently, and grasped him by the collar.

  “You are hurt!” She saw the torn sleeve, the quick welling blood, and she smiled with pleasure at his bravery. She admired courage above all virtues. She leaned towards him. “Come, I will see that your arm is dressed.”

  “I feel nothing,” he answered, and it was true. He felt nothing of the wound because of his joy at having attracted the attention of the Queen. He was feasted, glutted by the miraculous moment.

  *

  The two Italian boys lay snug in the cramped chamber in the servants’ quarters that had been allotted to them when they joined the royal choir. They were shut away from all the grandeur of the palace like mice in wainscoting
. Out of their hole they peered and pryed, ran in and back, learning, noticing, for they were quick, neat, and patient, familiar with every scandal and rumour.

  David, who was the elder by three years, lay along the trestle-bed and proudly showed his bandaged arm.

  Mary Seaton had tended him, while the Queen looked on. In his deep, husky voice he related her gracious kindness, the dazzling richness of her apartments, her sweet, sharp beauty, which was far more marvellous when seen close than when viewed across the smoke-hazed chapel. He was quite bemused with his good luck and chattered foolishly as if his fortunes were already made.

  Giuseppe listened shrewdly. They had always been so poor and led a hard, adventurous life, kicked from this filthy drudgery to that, learning sly tricks and how to fawn and cringe. A gift of music had raised them from the scraps and the broken pots. They had come to Scotland in M. de Moreta’s train and then found employment in the royal chapel because they were Romanists and there were not so many of these from which to choose voices.

  The little, dark room was cold. Giuseppe huddled under the patched coverlet of his bed; he hated these northern winters. He was not as sanguine as his brother; no one had taken any notice of him except to scold, cuff, or abuse. Lean, dark, and with huge eyes full of disillusion and prejudice, he listened to the boastings of the elder, who by the light of the coarse candle showed the arm bandaged in the Queen’s apartment.

  “What did you ask of her?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. That was the cleverness. It would have been a great mistake to have taken a reward. Now she will remember me, try to do something for me.”

  He fell silent, his chin in his hand, his long hair sweeping over his face. The sudden thought that this chance might come to nothing made him feel quite sick. It was such a little service! Why should she remember it? What prospect was there that he would ever again come to the threshold of her gorgeous chamber, ever again stand close to her as he had stood in the door of the chapel? He cast round for a possible patron to advance him, the poor, despised foreigner, someone in whose train he might slink again into the Queen’s presence, someone who would give him an opportunity to remind her by an eloquent glance — no, not of his paltry service, but of the humble adoration that he felt for so divine a mistress.

  “It is very cold,” grumbled Giuseppe. “I am going to sleep.”

  He huddled down in his clothes in the trestle-bed, pulling the thin coverlet over him. The brothers were little better lodged than they had been when they had first come to Holyrood and M. de Moreta had dismissed them, from economy. They had then slept on an old chest in the porter’s lodge.

  David shivered too. He began to pray with servile intensity, as was his nightly custom, to a little image of wood set up in the corner which he had brought from Piedmont and which he took to be his patron saint — that his base fortunes might change. Then, like an answer to his petition, a name slipped into his arid mind.

  Lennox — whose son might marry the Queen — why not try to take service with him? Was there with him a refuge from his present misery? The Queen! Maybe she was not so far from him after all.

  *

  The Queen went to Leith, riding on a white horse. She was plainly dressed and the soft wind blew in her face. She was restless and had insisted on going out, although the weather was drab and chill. The men and woman following her whispered among themselves that she had not spoken to Lennox for two days and that Lord Darnley had not recently been to the palace. They all glanced with added respect at Moray, who rode beside the Queen. There was a strong man who would endure no interference in his schemes. How could the worn-out, discredited Lennox and that sullen young fool of his, hope to displace a man like Moray?

  Under his assured, austere manner, Moray felt his triumph keenly. He enjoyed the mild indifference of his half-sister’s glance, her soft, affectionate words, her manner of appealing to him in everything, of deferring to his judgment, his wisdom, his experience.

  Well, he had subdued her pert rebellion against his authority. She had had the sense to see how flimsy her own ideas were compared to his grand, statesmanlike designs.

  A thin mist blotted out the horizon; the breeze stirred the sea into sullen wavelets and there was a dull sense of depression in the air. The sea-birds, swooping over the slowly heaving water, were livid in their clear brightness.

  The Queen sighed and spoke regretfully of the chill season of the year. How pleasant it was on Leith Sands when they were able to ride at the ring or shoot at the butts! Would the spring never come?

  Moray looked at her with satisfaction. She seemed hardy, simple, almost austere in her simple gown and hood, with her pale, serious face. He was proud of her and felt master of her destiny and his own. But when she spoke next it was to say something that entirely shattered his elegant self-assurance.

  “I saw Murray of Tullibardine this morning. He came from Earl Bothwell.” The Queen spoke ingenuously, stroking the neck of her white horse.

  “And I did not know about it?”

  “Indeed, how was that? But it hardly matters.”

  “It was a great insolence for Earl Bothwell to send anyone to see you.” Moray could say no more for rage.

  “He begged to be allowed to return to Edinburgh,” said the Queen.

  “Where is he?”

  “On the Border somewhere — in hiding. Perhaps at Borthwick.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Oh, I was angry. I said: ‘How could such a villain ask such a favour?’ I said: ‘Why did he not stay in France where he was Captain of the Scotch Guard?’”

  “You should not have answered him at all, you should have sent him to me.”

  Moray was deeply angered. The Queen turned her shoulder with a shrug as if she cast off indifferently his ill-humour. Out at sea a faint line of light broke through the mist; the Queen pulled at her bridle and turned her horse towards Edinburgh.

  In a lowered voice meant for her ears only, Moray reviled Bothwell — a man who had been driven out of Scotland. One who should be, by birth, an upstanding man, but who was instead a filthy rogue, a lying villain, rotten to the very soul.

  “You speak so earnestly,” said the Queen, “I might think that you were afraid of him.”

  “I am afraid of seeing Scotland trampled on by that domineering young man.”

  “How serious you make it!” laughed the Queen; “I like to have him like a bird on a string to let fly or to pull in and cage as I will.”

  “A cruel and a dangerous game.”

  Moray thought the case was serious. Despite her ingenuous ways and indifferent, half-weary smile he suspected her of a hundred duplicities; so close to his uneasy affection for her was an unquenchable doubt of her integrity. But he endeavoured to make an effort over his great and, he thought, most justifiable anger, and to speak to her lightly, as an adult to a child, as a wise man to a foolish woman, treating the whole business as a caprice, but he warned her that it was a caprice which must not be carried any further. She must not hold any communication with Bothwell nor with any of his friends, not even with Murray of Tullibardine, who was a respectable and well-meaning man. “There are not many such,” added Moray with a sneer, “that one could count among Bothwell’s acquaintances.”

  The Queen did not reply to this warning. She rode carelessly beside her half-brother, and whether or not she listened, he could not be sure. Before them the purple hills round the city rose into a pellucid sky from which the mists were blowing away; a plentiful light was overtaking the last of the day. Moray, perceiving this transfiguration, felt his spirits rise, his strength increase. After all, he could circumvent the Queen and Bothwell and the Lennox Stewarts.

  He continued, though in a more good-humoured tone, his rebukes and his warnings:

  “Madame, you must consider your position. With the coming of Lord Lennox the Hamiltons are deeply offended. Though they are poor there are many of them. The little favours that you have shown Lord Lennox and hi
s son, though I know they are nothing but courtesies, have set many against you. You promised me to have little to do with Papists.”

  She twisted his reproaches on to him, saying over her shoulder:

  “Lord Bothwell is a heretic like yourself.”

  “Bothwell is beneath my contempt,” answered Moray. “Let him keep away from Edinburgh, let him remember that he is outlawed, let him take care how he makes a league with Huntly, who abetted his father’s treason.”

  “You fear them?” urged the Queen again,

  Moray shook his head.

  “It is base to fear creatures like that, but I must be careful they do not disturb our tranquillity.”

  Disregarding everything serious in what he had said, the Queen, slipping her reins in and out of her doeskin gauntlets, said lightly:

  “Earl Bothwell may not come to Edinburgh, then? It is a pity — he has excellent manner and graces any company.”

  “Madame,” said Moray directly, “if Lord Bothwell comes into Scotland I go out of it.”

  Moray meant this; he believed that without him and Lethington the country would go to pieces beyond her management to put together again. He wished he could make her understand that it was he and he alone who kept her in her place, gave her leisure in which to play her silly tricks, her elegant games. Only he, always by her side advising and guiding, represented a strong, stable government upon which men looked with some confidence.

  The Queen spoke in a challenging tone.

  “I’ll not have Bothwell outlawed! Let him be! He served me honourably and I cannot hate him.”