The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  “I…,” I attempted to speak, but the knot in my throat prevented any further words from escaping. She looked at me with suspicion and entreated me to continue.

  “What is it? Do you know something that I do not?” Her eyes searched mine, and I felt as though the secrets of my soul had just been laid bare for her superior mind to judge.

  I quickly searched the recesses of my mind for a way to cover my embarrassment.

  “I do not have an answer for you. Knox is a very influential man, but he is not the only voice making noise in Scotland. Keep your wits about you. Surround yourself with men who will give you sound counsel, but do not fully trust anyone.”

  Just then we heard the footsteps of someone coming behind us. Not many people traversed this hallway, so I was quite disturbed when I turned about and beheld David Rizzio approaching.

  Mary quickly wiped her eyes and put on her most persuasive smile to greet him. This was the first time, since the first evening that Mary arrived, that I was forced to have to speak to him again. It was an opportunity that I could have done without.

  “Thomas, I don't believe I have had a chance to introduce you to my newly-appointed personal secretary, David Rizzio.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. Secretary? She chose this man to be her secretary? She would become the brunt of many a joke in Scotland with this man in her service. What was she thinking?

  But before I had time to acknowledge this newly revealed information Rizzio spoke. “Your Grace, there is an urgent matter that I must speak to you about alone.”

  The last word was tossed at me, and I took the hint. I spoke no more but simply bowed myself to them and backed away three steps before turning to leave.

  “Thomas,” Mary stopped me before I could get away. I turned back to see her eyes shining brightly, a stark contrast to the tears I had just witnessed a moment before. “Thank you for your counsel. I don’t know what has gotten into me as of late. I feel that I have become a watering pot, for I have done nothing but cry since I arrived.”

  “You have suffered a great loss of recent months and have taken it upon yourself to return to Scotland after a very long absence. I imagine that has been a difficult adjustment, for things here are not as you were accustomed to in France. It is understandable if you are feeling a little overwhelmed.”

  She nodded and said, “Yes, well, thank you all the same.”

  And with that I bowed to her once more then removed myself as quickly as I could.

  ~7~

  October 1561

  Heat had overtaken me, wrapping its hot claws around my neck, and squeezing to the point of suffocation. The choking pain came in spasms, and I quickly sought relief from its grip. I considered my desired escape and whether I needed the cool air of a brisk walk or the cold wind of a hard ride. I chose the latter and made my way to the stables where the groomsman was shoeing a chestnut mare.

  “Hammond, I need Achaius,” I said hastily.

  “What ails thee, Master? What need have ye of such a fast horse this brisk evening?” Then a clouded look took over his face. “Her Majesty is well, I hope.”

  “Her Majesty will be fine. I just need to clear my head.”

  Hammond nodded in understanding before handing off the mare to a stable boy and turning to retrieve Achaius.

  I mounted quickly, then snapped the reins at Achaius and guided him through the doorway of the stable.

  “Don't wait for us, Hammond. I'll settle him in when we return.” I tossed the words over my shoulder, but I wasn't sure he heard me, for I had Achaius at a fast gallop before we were even out of the courtyard.

  I lifted my face and straightened my back to inhale the chilled October air with more ease. The horizon lay before me, its gray expanse stretching far into the distance with no urgency, no reason to feel as if it had some duty to perform. It was just there, as if the Great Creator refrained from finishing his masterpiece, leaving it to be completed at his leisure on some other day. But what the horizon lacked in beauty, the Artist more than made up for in landscape.

  The Palace of Holyroodhouse sat at the bottom of a very high hill, surrounded by trees and the jagged black rock that lie beneath the surface of most of this blessed land. Vast, once-green hills rolled on before me, giving the illusion of fertile soil though all the while masking the rock that was hidden just below. Ancient volcanic eruptions had pushed the inside of the earth to the surface thousands of years before, bending and folding the earth like a soft satin cloth. The crags and dykes that were the result of such force now graced the land as if that were the Creator's intent to begin with.

  For the sake of solitude, I chose to ride westward, and I pushed Achaius harder, urging him to go faster. I desperately wanted to get away from that which pursued me, and the steed was the only means with which to do it. My mind was muddled. I couldn't make sense of my thoughts and felt as though I wasn't even thinking in complete sentences. We rode hard for some time before I let Achaius slow down to a steady gallop. I tried to sort my thoughts and figure out why I was so irritated.

  I ticked away the checklist in my mind. Two things immediately made themselves apparent, and I felt shame concerning them both. First, I didn't like Rizzio. He was ill-fitted for the position and must have charmed his way into Mary's court with no attributes to qualify him. But it was neither his lack of qualifications nor my opinion of him that bothered me the most. It was why I cared anything at all about his recent promotion. And that was my second issue—I was jealous.

  There it was. Laid there before the Almighty for Him to rebuke and chastise me at His discretion. Not jealous of his position, but jealous of his close approximation to Mary. He would accompany her on all her tours, be consulted on all her business affairs and share bread and wine with her at all hours of the day or night. I felt the heat enter my veins as soon as I admitted it. How long had these feelings been lying dormant? I searched for some indication that I might have felt this way before now and had just not admitted it.

  It didn't matter. However long the feeling had been there, the important thing now was to rid myself of it. We finally came to a stop, and I dismounted Achaius, leading him to a grassy patch of ground that the coming winter had not already stolen. I situated myself on the ground and gazed out across the land. I looked, but I wasn't really seeing anything. My mind was fixed on plotting my course and removing myself from this uncomfortable predicament. Archbishop Porterfield had indicated his sincere disappointment when I wrote to him asking to be released from my duties at the church in Glasgow in order to fulfill the queen's wishes. I was fairly confident he would have me back, if not for the same position, then in some other capacity.

  I laid back on the grassy patch of ground and threw my arm over my eyes. I tried to concentrate, but my thoughts would not comply. I could not get the queen out of my mind. I laid there for quite a while before I was startled suddenly by what felt like a hovering presence. I opened my eyes to see Isobel, standing over me.

  “Hello there,” she said, with a mischievous smile.

  I sat up quickly, startled at the not-altogether unwelcomed intrusion. She held a basket of cotoneaster on her hip and looked as if she had been out in the elements for quite a while. The color on her cheeks competed against the color of the berries in her basket, and her golden hair, which usually hung in little ringlets that framed her round face, looked especially wind-blown. Her blue eyes danced, even in the falling sunlight, and held an other-worldly, entrancing look. She was too beautiful to be an imp, but the unexplainable attraction I instantly felt toward her startled me. I didn’t trust her, and I didn’t trust myself.

  “You are looking well, Isobel.” I noticed the dark stains under her eyes were not as pronounced, and her smile had returned.

  “I am feeling better, thank you. You look quite well yourself, Thomas.” Her eyes bore into mine without propriety, and I felt as if she looked straight into my soul. My devotion to God was usually enough to circumvent the flirtations that co
nstantly surrounded me. But for some reason Isobel intoxicated me and always left my head spinning when she was near.

  The shawl she had wrapped around herself clung tightly to every curve of her body, pressing itself firmly against her in refusal to the wind’s attempt to whip the cloth from her. It was far too thin for this late in the year and I feared she stood a good chance of catching the chill because of it. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

  “You'll catch your death out here with such inadequate covering.”

  “If I die tonight, I doubt it will be from a chill. What are you doing out here anyway?”

  “Running from my demons.” I motioned for her to sit down, her warm presence winning the war within me.

  She tossed her basket down first, and then leaned on my shoulder to steady herself as she sat down. Her forthrightness always unnerved me, but tonight her closeness arrested me.

  “My demons are my constant companions.” Her voice was barely audible, and I wondered if she whispered in hopes that God himself would not hear.

  “What are you doing all the way out here? You must have walked for a very long time to be so far from Holyroodhouse.” I glanced at her with suspicion, but she would not look at me.

  “Aye,” was her only reply. We sat for quite a spell, staring out into the distance, and watching the pink shades of a hidden sun slip slowly into darkness.

  “We need a good fire,” she finally stated. Then moving closer to me, she curled herself into a ball and leaned into me. This was not a good idea. My thoughts were of Mary, but my body felt only Isobel.

  Few words were spoken between us as we sat, lost in our own concerns. Eventually, I spoke again, “We should go.”

  She pushed herself closer to me, and I could feel her limbs trembling from the cold. “Just a moment longer,” she said. “I've dreamt of this moment since I was ten and four.”

  I stared at her dumbly until suddenly she pressed her lips against mine, leaving a sweet taste on my tongue to tempt me. I felt the reprimanding sting of guilt twisting in my chest. Mary....but my flesh was weakened at this point. I had no strength to fight against the spell Isobel cast on me with her eyes. Before I could think about what was happening, I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her in to me. This time I kissed her, but with less constraint. She responded readily and pressed her body against me one more time. Even now, as I enjoyed the scent of Isobel’s skin and her soft body against mine, I pulled away from her suddenly.

  “You have bewitched me,” I muttered.

  She threw her head back and laughed a cheerful sort of laugh. It was cheerful, I reasoned, and not elfish as I had imagined her to be moments earlier. I hastened to my feet, embarrassed by what had just transpired. Isobel turned her face from me and pretended to be occupied gathering the contents of her basket, which must have scattered in my haste to taste her.

  I called for Achaius who had wondered away contenting himself on grasses and clover. I hoisted myself onto his back then led him back to where Isobel was finishing up her re-gathering. I held my hand out to help her onto Achaius, but she refused.

  “He is too big for me. He frightens me.”

  “Don’t be silly, he’s as gentle as a lamb once you’re on him.”

  “I don’t believe you, Thomas Broune. I have night terrors about this sort of thing. I’ve dreamt, over and over again since I was a little girl, of being thrown from a great black horse and dashing my head upon a stone.”

  “Well, there you have it then. Achaius is not black. And I give you my word that I will not ride him half as hard as I did to get here. We will go gently.” My hand was still outstretched, but I could see the fear in her eyes as she contemplated my words.

  I dismounted the horse and walked closer to her. Great drops of water had formed in the corners of her eyes. Her body shook but I knew not if it was from fear or the cold.

  “Have you never ridden a horse, Isobel?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even a pony?”

  “No.”

  I stepped closer to her. The wind had blown a lock of blonde curls over her eye. I brushed it away with my hand.

  “Isobel, please. I assure you no harm shall come to you. You will be in my ever-watchful care.” I jested now and could see it was working for she fought back a slight smile that tried to turn her lips up on both sides.

  She nodded silently, and I took her hand to lead her back to Achaius. I placed my hands above her hips and lifted her swiftly atop the horse before she could have time to change her mind. I quickly mounted then situated myself behind her on the saddle. The seat was fairly small. We would have to sit closely, so that neither one of us would hurt ourselves. If I sat further back, I risked a very sore backside by the end of the ride, or possibly even tumbling off the back of Achaius entirely. If she moved forward, she might injure herself on the pommel. I slid my hands around her waist, in order to grab the horse’s reins. I spoke calmly to Achaius, reminding him that we had a guest and he would have to be on his best behavior. I snapped the reins softly, and Achaius gently moved forward as if he understood the situation. I felt Isobel’s body tense as we began to move. I pressed my mouth close to her ear, and I assured her that Achaius was a superb horse and she had nothing to fear.

  We really weren’t far from Holyroodhouse, but because we had to ride so slowly, it took longer to get there. I had still hoped to be back before darkness overtook us completely, and as we came upon the palace the last bit of light was sinking beyond the western sky. We scarcely spoke more than ten words during the ride, for once Isobel’s fear eased she slipped into the trance that overcomes many a rider when they are not the person responsible for the reins.

  In the silence, I wondered at the conscience of a man. I loved Mary. That much was now apparent. So how is it that I could so easily be drawn into such temptations that I previously was able to shun? I was frustrated, I reasoned. A man will do unheard of things when he can’t get what he really wants. Was my flesh that weak that I would sin against the Almighty, or even Isobel, for my own satisfaction?

  We rounded the courtyard, and I coaxed Achaius toward the stable with a promise of fresh hay. Once inside, I swung my leg out over Achaius’ rear taking great care not to knock Isobel off as I dismounted. She slid easily off the horse and into my arms, and I lowered her to the ground beside me. She looked as if she were about to speak when we heard a rustling at the stable entrance. I turned about to see Mary standing in the doorway.

  “Your Grace.” I dropped my hands from Isobel’s waist.

  A look of consternation shaded her usually light and cheerful countenance. She spoke abruptly. “Thomas, where have you been? I have been looking for you for nearly three-quarters of an hour. I need to speak with you.” Her eyes moved from my face to that of Isobel’s, then swept the length of Isobel’s skirts and back up again. “Girl, why on earth are you out riding in such a thin shawl? You will catch your death in this cold weather with nothing covering your body but that thread-bare thing.”

  “Yes, my queen,” Isobel muttered and curtsied as she tried to pull the shawl closer around her body.

  To me, Mary continued, “It is getting too late now. Please join me for breakfast on the morrow. I have some business to discuss with you.” The irritation scratched in her voice.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The words slipped out before I had a chance to correct them. She shot me a hurt look.

  “And for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on,” she rebuked Isobel. And with that she strolled out of the stable and out of sight.

  “Girl?” Isobel scorned.

  “She doesn’t know your name, Isobel. She’s only been here for two months.”

  “I don’t care. There are still friendlier ways that ye can address someone when ye do not know their name.”

  “Careful, Isobel. She is still your queen.”

  Isobel shot me a look of betrayal. I couldn’t win tonight.

  She whipped off the shawl and walked toward the st
able entrance. “My dear shawl, I can no longer wear ye. Ye are a thread-bare piece of a garment, and a shameful testimony of what a good shawl is supposed to look like. Because of ye, I will catch my death in this bitter cold and die a young, unhappy death.”

  By now I was thoroughly convinced that she was bewitched. I left Achaius standing in the middle of the stable and walked to her. I pulled the shawl gently from her hands and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight and tucking it in to the waist of her skirt to hold it in place.

  “Go warm yourself by a fire, Isobel. Take some bread and cheese. Grab a flask of sweet wine. Get some rest. You are tired and hungry. Yes, surely that is it.”

  She pulled the shawl closer about her once more, then giving me a cold glance, she turned and sulked out of the stable.

  ~8~

  October 1561

  I did not sleep well and therefore was up before dawn the next morning. My thoughts had banged against my head like a pine marten caught in a caged trap. My feelings for Mary, my behavior toward Isobel, and Mary’s apparent agitation with me all converged at once, making it extremely difficult to find rest.

  I reluctantly rose before the sun was up and began my daily preparations before the rest of the inhabitants had even stirred. I donned my linen undergarment then pulled my clerical robe up over my shoulders. As I began the painstaking task of buttoning the tiny buttons that lined the front of my robe a conversation came back to me that I had with Mary about a fortnight ago concerning this familiar garment. She had commented how smug the clerical vestments were and how much she detested the high collar and over-abundance of buttons.

  “I mean, should a lady wish to smell the scent of your skin, she'd have to wait a month of Sundays before she should get your robe unbuttoned.”

  I wondered at the bizarre comment and laughed it off, reminding her that a lady wouldn't do such a thing to begin with, and they were probably designed that way for that very reason.

  “I suppose you're right,” she concluded, then reaching out to me, she touched the pewter buttons of my woolen cloak and ran her hand down the length of my chest, stopping only when her hand had reached my waist. She didn't say anything, she just stood there puzzling over my buttons. Even then I broke out into a sort of panicked sweat, which I recognized now as a sign that should have been so apparent to me before.