This roused such disdain in Moray that he was ready to accuse her of almost any wickedness. He scorned to remind her again what Bothwell’s character, reputation, and offences were, and rode beside her in a haughty silence. He could not conceive how any woman could forget the crime for which Earl Bothwell had been cast into Edinburgh Castle. This had been nothing less than a scheme to abduct the Queen, murder Moray and those who stood nearest the Queen in relationship or confidence. It was true that this plot was not as simple as it appeared. Bothwell was a subtle man, he had involved the wild Arran in his infernal schemes, thinking to work the Hamilton’s ruin by using him as a cat’s-paw.
But Arran, frightened, had run squealing to Moray and divulged Bothwell’s evil plans.
Moray glanced sideways at his sister as she rode a pace away from him and recalled that day when they had been hunting at Falkland and Arran had come there gibbering with his half-incoherent tales of Bothwell’s treacheries. She had not been alarmed. When Bothwell had come, fast on the heels of the informer, to clear himself, she had listened to him, sat patiently while he had stood before her, justifying himself forcibly in a long speech, blaming Arran as an imbecile, blaming everyone who spoke against him; naming them as liars and traitors. If she had not been there Moray would have seen to it that Bothwell had died as Huntly had died — a sudden falling from his horse as he mounted it, a stab in a scuffle or a brawl. Ah, were he the King with full powers, Bothwell should have troubled no one any further! Instead, the Queen had listened and smiled and shrugged, said she did not believe Arran, she only half-believed Bothwell, and what did it matter, some wild tavern talk!
She put aside this hideous entanglement of murder, rape and treachery without investigation, as if it had been a trifling disagreement between gentlemen in her antechamber. Bothwell had been placed in Edinburgh Castle, certainly, but Moray could not forget nor forgive his quick and easy escape. It was too bitterly clear that the Queen had not been offended. She could not, indeed, as she had just declared, hate Bothwell.
Why should she remember. Moray asked himself, those slight services which Bothwell had rendered to her mother? Some generalship in Border skirmishes, a mission to France to ask for help. Others had done as much and been forgotten.
He told himself, as they rode in the park beneath the bare trees, that he must move sharply and cautiously, keep a wary eye on his half-sister. It was foolish of him to be lulled by her air of simplicity; it was dull-witted of him to indulge in those moments of confidence, when he held her above censure and believed that she was simple and innocent.
He looked at her again with hostile eyes; she seemed to be drooping in the saddle though she had not been long on horseback and he had known her to ride easily for hours. There was weariness, too, on her brow, and her lips, from which the paint had faded in the open air, were pale. She was inscrutable. Moray warned himself that he had better not vaunt his fortunes while he had this woman to deal with. Sometimes it really was as if she bewitched him with her affected airs, her seductive smiles and timid appeals for advice and guidance. Perhaps all the time she was deceiving him. At this he felt such a jealousy that the whole world suddenly seemed to him disgusting and filthy. He had noticed before that when he had a thought that smirched his sister’s image in his mind the very air became tainted and a slight physical nausea tormented him.
As they rode through the park with the last sudden light behind them she said easily:
“You must do what you will about Earl Bothwell, I am tired of the city. I believe that I shah go to Stirling.”
*
The graceful young Italian cringed before Lennox, who regarded him with some suspicion. Since he had come to Edinburgh and had been restored to his estates he had interviewed many people who wished to be his servants or to join his retinue. But he could afford few of these: his rents and lands had been nominally restored to him, but he had yet to set them in order and gather together his various incomes. Besides, the future looked dubious. His son, whom he named “sullen booby” in his mind, was difficult, and the Queen, most elusive and provoking of women, had withdrawn into a silence which might mean aversion.
The Italian had called twice at the house in the Netherbow before he had been admitted into the Earl’s presence. On this third occasion he had only obtained an audience by chance. But he made the most of the opportunity, and his quick, fluent speech, which had only a flavour of foreign accent, fascinated the Earl, who stared at him, wondering if here was good, cheap, serviceable material.
He was attracted by this fellow who was so different from himself, who was rather like a greyhound, lean and swift, who had such intelligent eyes. His talents were such, it seemed, as would grace a princely household: he could play the lute, the virginals, and several other instruments; he would be able to accompany the young prince, Henry Stewart, when he wished to sing or play. He had a quick eye and a deft hand at arranging a cloak, a doublet, a collar, or a jewel; he could keep accounts accurately, he could speak French, Latin, English, and a little Spanish, he could write a fair Roman hand, endorse a deed, draw up a contract. It was astonishing what small, useful arts the youth had learnt in his short, hard life, but strange, too, that he had never come to be employed honourably before. That, no doubt, was owing to his low birth and obscure up-bringing. He had found it difficult to obtain a chance, yet, after all, he had not done so badly for himself, having contrived somehow to hang on to the train of the Duke of Savoy’s Ambassador, and then to work his way into the royal chapel of Holyrood.
The Earl asked him why he wished to leave this decent livelihood within the Queen’s palace.
The Italian replied that he was scarcely paid at all, that between the Matins and the Masses and the practices he had little time to call his own, and who, he added, could compare the honour of being a singer in Holy-rood Chapel with that of being in the employ of so great and gracious a prince as the Earl of Lennox?
Lennox hesitated. He did not know if he could afford the man; he was aware how expensive and luxurious these foreign servants were. Besides, he did not altogether trust him, the fellow seemed too clever. He thought that he preferred Englishmen like those wild young Roman Catholics who were already in his son’s service, who joined him in all his sports and games, the two Antony Standens.
Then the Italian, who had been keenly watching the other’s puffy face, saw his chance vanishing and began to exaggerate, even to lie. He whispered that he had some secret influence in the palace, that the Queen favoured him, that she had employed him sometimes to write her letters because he was so good a scholar and wrote so clear a hand, had trusted him, even, with some secrets about money lent from the Pope. Oh yes, he had been more than a servant, a spy. He knew several cyphers, was within the confidence of all the great Papists, he had often sat in the Queen’s closet quite late at night inditing some of her secret correspondence, and afterwards he had played the lute to her, for she was much given to melancholy, after she had been tiring herself with political business.
Lennox listened attentively; the affairs sounded plausible. The Italian stressed his point: it was because of his ardour for the Roman Catholic religion that he offered his services to Lennox. He insinuated, though he did not put it into so many words, that he would be a convenient go-between to and from the palace and the Lennox lodgings; he wished very much to attach himself to the service of the young prince. Was it not to his advantage and that of all Roman Catholics from the Holy Father downwards to see Henry Stewart — He paused, and then added boldly: Was not the Queen to wed Henry Stewart?
Lennox liked the sound of that. Dull and slow but nonetheless ambitious, he had always moved in a slightly baffled fashion through the intrigues of courts. He understood that one must plot and scheme, if one were to keep a foothold among so many rogues, villains, and timeservers. He did not know quite how to do this, and in Scotland he was treated almost like an alien, therefore this subtle, cringing, clever tool would surely be useful.
H
e had no spies in Holyrood, having neither the influence nor the money to arrange this. Perhaps he had been a fool to spend the seven hundred pounds he had brought from England so openly, giving it in presents to giggling women and gaping pages instead of using it to employ a crafty, lying instrument like this Italian.
He looked at Rizzio critically. The fellow made quite a striking figure in his chestnut-coloured attire with the silver stripes, his long, thick black hair falling either side his thin, masculine face.
“You may wait on my son if you will. Perhaps he can find a use for you in his household.”
Unobservant and self-engrossed in his own vanities and troubles, Lennox did not notice the radiance which passed over the young Italian’s face. He fell on one knee and kissed the Earl’s podgy hands, then, anxious not to tarry now he had obtained his advantage, he departed, after begging permission to return on the following morning.
He turned into the street full of relief and triumph; he had staked a good deal on this chance with Lennox. He had been quite penniless when it had occurred to him to present himself before the Earl, and as no one either liked or trusted him he knew not where to turn to borrow a few pence. Yet it had been impossible to present himself before any prospective master in the shabby black which was the only garment he possessed, which he was always thankful to hide behind the livery that was provided for him when he sang in the chapel. In the bandage that Mary Seaton had put round his arm had been a gold pin with a white topaz head. He had not wanted to part with that, there were so many uses to which he could have put it. He could have kept it, to gaze at and gloat over; he could have returned it to the Queen and so made the excuse for another interview; he could, with some luck, have perhaps worn it in her presence and attracted her attention to it and evoked in her mind memories of the service he had rendered her once.
But he had not thought that any of these chances were as sure as that of employment in the Lennox household.
So he had reluctantly, for he valued highly the gift of the Queen, gone to a jeweller and pawned it for sufficient money to buy the chestnut-brown suit with silver lines, a pair of hose and shoes and a black cap with a silver chain.
But he had not been able to afford a cloak, and as he strode down the windy street he shivered, hunching his shoulders together to keep himself warm and rubbing his hands on his cheeks, which were sallow from the cold.
*
Lord Darnley condescended to accept the services of the young Italian, whom he did not understand in the least, but took to be a very humble, modest fellow, eager to be of any service. Henry Stewart, was, in the estimation of all members of the true Faith, heir-presumptive to the thrones of Scotland and England. Self-absorbed and simple, he suspected no double-dealing on the part of the newcomer, whom he thoroughly despised as a foreigner of low birth, but found extremely useful for his submissiveness, his talents, and his flattery.
Lord Darnley, like his father, knew nothing of the court except what he had been able to observe from the outside.
David Rizzio knew a great deal. From the little room where he and Giuseppe had peered and spied out like mice, he had watched and listened. But he was careful to emphasize his lies as to the confidence the Queen had shown him. Quickly he sized up the character of the man whom he had decided to serve: he was careful to do nothing to provoke the doubts, suspicions, or jealousies of this unsophisticated youth, whose ideas were all narrow, conventional, and honest. David Rizzio was careful never to do anything to shock or disturb the young prince, whose intellect and whose principles he despised.
But he could not compete with the Antony Standens, the Englishmen already installed in his master’s favour by the ways of games and sports, chess, billiards, fencing, hunting, riding at the ring, shooting at the butts, for in these things the Italian had not had any education.
Nor could he handle a tennis racquet, nor lead a lady through a dance. But he had many other accomplishments which he had brought to a fine pitch of perfection and which were extremely useful to Henry Stewart — his elegant letter writing, his quick translation of foreign languages, his adroit touch with clothes, his knowledge of where and what to buy in Edinburgh, his cleverness in engaging servants and keeping an eye on them, his quickness at casting up accounts and spending money well, making a good display for a little expenditure. Henry Stewart was grateful for all these gifts put at his disposal.
The Italian had, also, a real gift for music, and music was Henry Stewart’s one talent. There they met as equals; when they played and sang together the young prince forgot his unconscious contempt of the foreigner, and the Italian forgot his conscious contempt of his master. They respected, and even liked each other on these occasions, some queer affinity rose between them, the bass and tenor voice blended well together, they kept exquisite time on their musical instruments — the lute, the zithers, and the virginals. Quite seriously, forgetting their common disdain, their mutual scorns and differences, the tall blond prince and the lean swarthy servant would sit together in genuine amity playing over some new piece from Italy which relaxed Henry Stewart’s mind, so troubled by his father’s feverish ambitions and stirred David Rizzio’s fancy into a whirling fantasy of all the possibilities of his high promotion.
*
Lord Moray was satisfied. Bothwell’s emissary, Murray of Tullibardine, had withdrawn from Edinburgh with a sharp rebuke. Bothwell had been ordered to leave the Border or to appear in Edinburgh and answer to the charges against him. Moray smiled, feeling sure that no one, even of Bothwell’s insolent boldness, would dare to accept this challenge. But he gathered round him in the capital and the palace armed companies of his own followers.
The Queen was complaisant; she let Murray of Tullibardine go as she had let him come, with no comment. She did nothing to rouse Moray’s suspicion; she was courteous to Lennox and his son, but no more. She seemed to listen willingly to Thomas Randolph, Elizabeth’s Ambassador, who continued to press the suit of the Earl of Leicester, “that impossible marriage”.
The Queen played with the idea, saying that after all if the Earl was a proper man and he had pleased Elizabeth Tudor, he might please her. Also, she would do anything for peace and future union between the two countries, and if Elizabeth should choose her as her heir, she might also find her a husband.
Moray took this as mockery and watched his sister carefully. Why would she go to Stirling? She did not trouble to explain herself. She said he could guess her reasons, and when he asked her if it was the stench and crowd of the city, the tolling of the death-bell for those dead of the pox or the plague, the tumult of the executions by torchlight, she shrugged and was silent.
He questioned his sister, Lady Argyll, who seemed as much in the Queen’s confidence as any woman. The anxious lady, though a loyal Protestant, could give him no news to ease his mind. The Queen disclosed herself to none; even in her privacy she was light, careless, smiling, sunk in a gentle melancholy, a soft brooding.
Did she love Darnley? Moray queried anxiously.
Lady Argyll did not know. The Queen had praised him, but she was ready to praise any proper man — and Lord Darnley was handsome enough to make any woman stare.
Moray brushed that aside impatiently. That his difficult policies should be hampered by these feminine caprices!
“Will she marry a man for his fair face and wide shoulders?” he asked bitterly.
Lady Argyll did not know. She replied with a smile:
“Women have wedded for slighter and worse reasons.”
If the Queen did not love Darnley, did she love anybody? Moray’s anxiety showed in his frown, in the drooping lines of his mouth. He viewed with deep apprehension the journey to Stirling. Lennox and his son were going there, too. Did she want to escape from him, Moray, and his diligent eye, from his stern glance and tongue? Did she wish to continue her love-making in that remote fastness? He would not believe in such hypocrisy.
He consulted Sir William Maitland who, patient and amused, watche
d everything. He thought the Queen was deceiving her brother and laughing at him; at the same time he did not think she intended marrying the Lennox boy. He kept his own counsel on this matter and reassured Moray.
“Let her go to Stirling. What good will you achieve by tormenting her, restraining her liberty and her pleasures? The country is your business, you’ve enough to do there.”
“Ay, enough,” assented Moray grimly. “But with the Queen’s Majesty lies all. I must watch how she behaves, which way she turns, whom she likes—” He stopped suddenly. “That young Italian, now! Why is he suddenly in the Lennox service?”
Maitland replied lightly:
“He is a clever rogue who knows how to twist and turn to his own advantage.”
Moray frowned.
“He has become intimate with Lord Darnley. They are always together; he is more with him now than those English gentlemen he brought from London. He takes him with him to the palace, to the presence of the Queen. I have had him watched. He spends money, too. I have learnt that when he came here he had not a cloak to his name and slept on a bare chest in the porter’s lodge.”
“What’s in this to do with us?” asked Maitland. “This is a cunning rogue who will make his way, and Lennox and his son are easily gulled, no doubt, by flattery.”
“I do not like such men,” said Moray, “to be close to the ear of princes. I think it’s dangerous to see a villain close to a fool. This is a Papist, a greedy mountebank with no spark of honour. In a few weeks he begins to behave almost as if he were a gentleman.”
“He is not in your service nor in mine,” replied Maitland, “why should you think him dangerous? Let him cheat those who pamper him.”
“But Darnley takes him to the presence of the Queen,” fretted Moray. “It is like a bloated spider—”
Maitland’s brows went up, and he compressed his lips. Here, he thought, comes the core of a matter which must never be glanced upon. Perhaps I also have my jealousies, but I control them with more dexterity.
The Queen's Caprice Page 6
