When Riccio peeked in an hour later, he found her asleep, but groaning. He put his hand to her forehead and found it hot; he summoned Bourgoing.
During the next few hours she had worsened, baffling Bourgoing, until he had suddenly said, “I know what it is! It is ‘the New Acquaintance’—so called because it is so catching it makes many new acquaintances! I have heard of it, but never seen it myself.”
“Do you mean la influenza?” asked Riccio. “The ailment that comes from the influence of the stars?”
“Is that what causes it? I had heard it was prevalent in Italy; I have been told it is making its way north—”
“Now, pray, don’t blame Italy!” said Riccio with a laugh. “And don’t blame me—I didn’t bring it!”
“Of course I won’t blame you!” said Bourgoing. “What an absurd thing to say. Do you think everything centers on you?”
“It is not I who think it, but others. It is Riccio who is blamed for everything these days—the high price of grain, the drought, the Queen’s disinterest in Robert Dudley.”
“You exaggerate,” said Bourgoing. But the Italian had a point.
“No, it is they, the Lords, who exaggerate. They greatly exaggerate my influence—my influenza, ha, ha—with the Queen.”
Mary gave a groan and both men were instantly beside her. “Riccio, I am sorry … cannot finish the letters now … you do it … routine.…” Her eyes were closing again.
Riccio sighed. “And they are routine,” he assured Bourgoing. “A sympathy letter to Catherine de Médicis on the fifth anniversary of her widowhood, an inquiry to Her Majesty’s ambassador to Paris, Archbishop Beaton. Such things are all I attend to.”
Mary could hear them talking, but it was as if she were a great distance away, and the voices were echoing in the well of her head. Her head throbbed with the pulse in her temples; she felt so weak that she could barely lift her hand to tug at the covers, and her body was one giant ache. She slept, whirled away, but not into normal sleep. Dreams of huge dimension seized her, and thoughts began to run like stampeding animals through her mind.
Dudley. Robert Dudley, Elizabeth’s favourite … shall I take him, as she says? She wants me to marry him, her own subject, and hints that if I do so, then she will recognize me as her chosen successor.
But will she? What if I were to marry him, only to have her decline to name me after all?
Why, then, I’d be in bed with Master Robert. Lord of the Horse, Robin of Cumnor Place, Cumnor Place, broke her face, tripped on her lace, fell in haste.…
“Drink something!” A bowl was being forced between her lips, and she could feel liquid spilling down over her chin. Nothing was going down.
In bed with Robert, Robert, Robert … shall I?
She lay ill for five days, sweating, coughing, and floating in and out of consciousness. Then, abruptly, she began to feel better. She could feel the illness ebbing in her, giving up its grip. She struggled to sit up, but found that the exertion was more than she could bear. Instantly, Madame Rallay was beside her.
“Oh, my lamb, my dearest! Do not struggle! Are you better? Are you hungry?”
“Nay,” said Bourgoing, staying her hand. “First liquid, then food.” He held open her eyelids and examined the inside linings, then had her open her mouth so he could look in. “Food will be too rough on this throat; it will remain tender for many days.”
“Uhhh—” Mary attempted to speak for the first time since she had succumbed to the complete grip of the illness. Her throat felt unused, and the voice that issued from it was not her normal one.
“Don’t try to talk!” scolded Madame Rallay. “Now here, have this soup—”
* * *
By the next day she was sitting up in bed. Seton had come to brush and arrange her hair, combing through the tangles earned in the days tossing on a sweat-soaked pillow, and she felt presentable, attired in a bed-mantle.
Her first visitor was Maitland. He came into the room, neatly dressed as always, his thinning hair combed so that it did not look quite so thin. She expected him to look around furtively for Flamina (why else had he combed his hair that way?) but he did not; he seemed genuinely concerned only for Mary herself. “Thank God!” he said. “Although we knew you were healthy, and the New Acquaintance prefers her victims feeble, still, when a Queen is ill, it is a dangerous thing.” He smiled, and extended his hand. In it was a just-opened, deep red rose. The scent was as rich as incense. “The first blossom from your imported roses, planted last year. Is it not a sign?”
She took the rose and held it carefully. Indeed it seemed to be. The roses were blooming; the transplants were thriving. “Thank you, dear Maitland.”
* * *
The next day she insisted on getting up and calling for her Marys to help her dress, although she was still shaky on her feet. But when Beaton brought out her favourite spring-weight gown of pearl grey, she found that it was too big. She had lost a great deal of weight in the short time of her illness.
“We’ll have new ones made, then,” said Mary. The prospect of new gowns was not displeasing.
Balthazzar took out his tape measure and slid it around her waist, and chest, and even her upper arms, and shook his head. “Yes, you are much thinner. I could take in the other gowns. But I think it would be better, since, as you recover, you will regain your weight and strength, if we simply made two or three new ones for now. Is it time—is Your Majesty ready to wear colours again?”
“No, I will keep to grey, black, white, and violet.”
“Dearest Madam, if you are entertaining the suits of candidates for your hand,” said Seton, “then would not something gayer be more in keeping?’
“I will know when it is time, Seton,” Mary said quietly.
* * *
Late that afternoon Lord James arrived, bearing a letter that had come direct from Queen Elizabeth. He could barely restrain his curiosity as Mary broke open the seals and laboriously read the letter. She had always loved the beautiful signature:
“She asks that I allow the Earl of Lennox to return to Scotland and inspect his forfeited estates,” she said.
“That traitor!” said James. “He who sold himself like a mercenary to Henry VIII, to deliver Dumbarton Castle to the English! Well he deserved to lose his lands and titles!” James’s voice rose in disgust. “And all out of spite because our royal father did not adopt him as his heir. He did not have to, after you were born. So you see, he’s been your enemy since your birth, and doubtless still wishes you ill.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said. “If he now wishes to do penance, be forgiven—”
“Once a traitor, always a traitor. You are too softhearted, sister!”
“A good ruler must be merciful,” she insisted.
“A good ruler must look to his own safety before showing mercy.”
Her eyes returned to the letter, ignoring his comment. “And so I will show mercy,” she said, “though some mistake it for weakness. I will pardon the Earl of Lennox and restore him to his estates, as Elizabeth has requested me to do. It was twenty years ago that he turned and worked against his king. Twenty years … may not a sin be expiated after twenty years? How long must someone be forced to pay for a youthful mistake, a folly?”
“This is folly!” said Lord James, flatly. “One folly does not wipe out another. It only compounds the folly. One folly bred to another gives birth to disaster.”
“She does not mention Robert Dudley in this letter,” said Mary, trying to change the subject. Lord James looked so unhappy.
“And if she did?” he asked. “What would you say?”
“Why, I would say … that I would like to have a look at him, see what all the fuss is about.”
In spite of himself, Lord James laughed. “I have seen him.”
“And?”
“He’s … fetching, considering his low origins. Or rather, perhaps he is fetching because of his low origins. Some women like that sort. Queen Elizabe
th herself, so it seems.”
* * *
After he left the Queen’s quarters, Lord James hurried away to find Maitland. He almost forced him into a small chamber, hustling him in and locking the door behind them. “Queen Elizabeth wants the Earl of Lennox given leave to return. And our Queen is like to do it! Her illness has made her lightheaded. Stop her! She listens more to you than to me; she thinks you have less vested interest in things.”
“I cannot stop her. When she sets her mind on something, she is as stubborn as Elizabeth herself. The more I tried to argue against it, the more she would strain to do it.”
“Then pretend you are in favour of it! Oh, Maitland! If that man returns, everything changes. He will assert his claim to being heir to the throne, he’ll bring that son of his in his wake—”
“The pretty Lord Darnley?” Maitland mused. “And use him to dazzle the Queen? Oh, Jesu!”
“The two of them would be formidable, and undo all our good work. They care nothing for Scotland, that’s plain, but only for advancing themselves. Why, their family motto shows it: Avant Darnley! Jamais d’arrière! Forward Darnley! Never retreat! Stop her, Maitland, stop her!”
“I tell you, I am powerless.” And he was beginning to feel powerless, too. His legs were weak, and he had a pounding headache. “Pray let me sit down just a moment—”
Maitland took to his bed that evening. The New Acquaintance, notoriously catching, had found a new friend. The secretary’s kindness in being the first to visit his Queen and bring her a rose had earned him this reward. Consequently he was unable to discuss Lennox with her, and by the time he recovered, word had been sent to London granting Queen Elizabeth’s request.
XV
Madame Rallay had surprised Mary when she casually said, “I have been studying the stars, and great changes—some good, some not, all of great magnitude—are pending.”
“Studying the stars? How do you come by that?” she asked sharply. She looked over at her lifelong servant and thought, Are there surprises in every person?
“At the French court, you know, Catherine de Médicis had her astrologers and fortune-tellers. Do you not remember? She was quite dependent on them.” Madame Rallay paused. “Well, there were many hours, especially when we were at Chaumont, when time hung heavy. I used to talk to Ruggieri—you remember him, the one in the tower?”
Yes, Mary did remember. She had climbed up there, although it had been forbidden. There had been a mirror that he used to foretell the future. “Yes, a little,” she said.
“He taught me the rudiments of the science.”
“But it is forbidden!” said Mary. She looked carefully at Madame Rallay, who was now almost sixty. “You know Christians must not engage in fortune-telling! And you are of an age where people might suspect you of being a witch! For shame, Madame!”
“But astrologers are not witches,” Madame Rallay said. “They hold respectable positions in society. Why, Queen Elizabeth selected her Coronation Day on the advice of astrologers. And if it weren’t a science, and didn’t reveal the future, why would it be forbidden to consult them concerning a king’s health?” The old lady was eminently sensible. “It was a good skill to acquire, like darning hose or being able to dry herbs for medicines.” She paused. “However, it would be best if you did not mention this to Father Mamerot.”
Mary sighed. “Very well, then. What do you see?”
“I am no expert, so all I have been able to read is that there are major changes in the heavens.”
“I do not need the stars to tell me that!” said Mary, with a laugh. “First of all, there are always major changes afoot somewhere. And second, there are two in my own life: I have sent Melville to talk with Queen Elizabeth about her proposed husband for me, Robert Dudley. And I have also sent notice that the Earl of Lennox shall be allowed to return to Scotland.”
Both of these things had caused her much concern. She was puzzled by Queen Elizabeth’s offering her own favourite, Robert Dudley, as a husband. Did she really mean it? If so, why? Mary had almost laughed at it, it had seemed so ridiculous. Robert Dudley’s own father and grandfather had been executed for treason, and the family’s lineage before that was obscure. Dudley was described as coming from “a tribe of traitors.” Everything in the offer smacked of insult, except for one thing: although the whole world snickered at Robert Dudley and looked down upon him, it seemed that Elizabeth herself loved him above all others and considered him her dearest friend. Whatever the rest of the world thought, in offering him to Mary, Elizabeth was making a sacrifice herself.
The match with Don Carlos had come to nothing; Philip himself had withdrawn the offer and it seemed that Don Carlos was mad and had been locked up. Erik of Sweden had sent love letters but little else, and the Archduke Charles had suddenly been rediscovered by Elizabeth. Round and round it went.
Mary turned and said to Madame Rallay, “Come, brush my new clothes. They are almost ready for the ceremony and must please you, since they are in colours. You know I will allow myself to wear colours for state occasions.”
She called for Balthazzar and asked him to bring her gown. “Indeed it is almost ready, Your Majesty. And the coat of cloth-of-silver—!” He rolled his eyes.
* * *
Mary was now dressed for the elaborate ceremony that was part of the reception of the Earl of Lennox back into Scottish society. She sat in state in her presence chamber at Holyrood, waiting for him to make the final part of his journey down the Canongate. At this very moment he was being officially pardoned at the Mercat Cross by the Lord Lyon King of Arms, heraldic representative of the Crown, and his outlawry was being rescinded. The wand of peace would be delivered to his representative, and then he would come here.…
Matthew Stewart, or Stuart. What do I know of him, really? she thought, as she waited. I know he’s a second cousin, being descended from James II. I know there is a French branch of his family that spells its name Stuart, just as mine was spelt that way there. It dates back to the Hundred Years War, when Sir John Stewart of Darnley was one of the commanders of a Scottish force that helped the French in their struggles against the English. John Stewart turned into John Stuart, Sieur d’Aubigny, and his family is still there.
I know Matthew himself spent many years in France in his youth and even fought with François I in his Italian wars. He came back to Scotland briefly, joined the pro-English group, and was therefore declared a traitor and expelled. He went south to England and married Lady Margaret Douglas, my father’s half sister, and has been at the English court ever since.
She could hear the sound of the crowd outside. Lennox must be approaching. Swiftly she continued to review exactly what she knew of him. The Lennox Stuarts were the hereditary enemies of the Hamiltons, because both claimed to be the most direct descendant of James II, and therefore the next natural heir to the throne after the monarch’s children.
My father favoured Lennox’s claim, she remembered. He promised, if he had no child of his own, to recognize Lennox as his heir to the crown. But then I was born, and Lennox turned traitor and was banished.…
The trumpets were announcing his arrival. Mary could hear the footsteps as his large company mounted the stairs, and then the doors swung slowly open and the guard proclaimed, “Matthew Stuart, Earl of Lennox, petitions to be admitted.”
Standing in the midst of a retinue of some forty gentlemen, a middle-aged man was looking steadily across at her.
“You may enter.”
As he approached, she thought of his strange background, and how he would seem foreign to most of her nobles. But for this very reason, she expected him to contribute something to court, as he had a breadth of outlook and experience few local lords could match.
“Welcome,” Mary said, rising from her throne and allowing him to embrace her and bestow a kiss of homage. “As my cousin, as the husband of my dear father’s sister, I render you all affection and respect.”
He bowed low again, his bejewelled back
looking like that of a patterned tortoise. Then he straightened and smiled.
He had once been handsome, that much was evident. His round face still bore traces of boyish appeal, and his eyes were kindly.
Mary smiled at him. “We are pleased that you return to us, and pray that you find your estates in good order,” she said. His hereditary estates were in the midwestern area of Scotland, near Glasgow, and before he could pass by to inspect them, he must be formally pardoned and received by the Queen and the nobles.
“Your Majesty is too gracious,” he said.
* * *
“Another ale!” The serving girl called out to the tapster, and Melville gave her a conspiratorial smile. She smiled back, a long, slow smile, and he wondered what—if anything—it betokened?
She brought him the refilled leather mug and he paid. Probably nothing, he thought. It betokens nothing and it is just as well. I must needs keep my breeches on and my purse guarded. But it is sweet to imagine all the unknown things that could pass with an unknown woman.
“Where are ye comin’ from?” the man seated on the bench next to him asked suddenly. His voice was unpleasantly pitched.
“Edinburgh,” replied Melville. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the clatter in the dining room of the inn. “I’m on my way to London.”
“To see the Queen?” bellowed the man, then broke out singing, “Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to look at the Queen!” His fellow diners stared at him with distaste.
“No,” Melville lied. How surprised they would be if he were truthful.
“How long have you been on the road?” asked the man.
“Five days. I stopped first at Berwick, then at Newcastle.”
The man whistled and a bubble of pork fat flew from his lips, from the meat pie he was eating. “You move swiftly. Another day should see you in London. Or St. Albans at least.”
“I hope so. What condition will I find the road in?”
“I’ve heard that the road to London is dry and well travelled just now,” said the serving girl, mysteriously reappearing just at Melville’s left shoulder. “A group from London was here last night. They stopped early as they liked our sign.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 32
