The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  In her scramble to get up, I took a sharp elbow to my ribs and couldn’t resist the laugh that escaped my lips. Isobel’s eyes grew round as wagon wheels, and she let out a giggle. “Are you ticklish, Reverend?” She attempted a second poke at my ribs with her finger.

  Grabbing her hand, I stayed her efforts and warned playfully, “I would not advise another attempt.” A rush of color immediately flushed her cheeks, and she stared at me, waiting for my next move. I could feel the heat rising in my own face and recognized a familiar, and perhaps even pleasant, situation. “Are you hurt?” I whispered. She shook her head but did not speak.

  Instead of releasing her hand, I slowly intertwined my fingers with hers. “I appreciate your offer to help me down the stairs. How can I repay your kindness?”

  She stared at me with her big, blue eyes a moment longer, then said, “Kiss me.” I stirred in an attempt to recover, second-guessing whether I wanted to pursue this course. But she held fast to my hand. “That took a lot of courage for me to ask, Thomas. I shall be mortified if ye don’t grant me my wish.”

  In that moment I decided I didn’t want to do that to her. I couldn’t lead her on with heated words or touches. If I was going to follow this course, I needed to act now. I pulled her closer to me and touched her lips lightly with mine. She let out a soft sigh, and I allowed myself one more indulgence. When we heard voices in the hallway, she immediately removed herself from my lap.

  “How am I going to get ye off the floor?” she lamented, straightening her skirts, and righting herself.

  I looked about me, then spying a chair next to the desk I said, “Bring that chair over here. I will use it to pull myself up, then we will try again.”

  Isobel rushed to retrieve the chair. “Are ye sure ye want to make another attempt?”

  I pulled myself up and sat on the chair for a moment. Nodding, I said, “Aye, I am sure. We just need to take it very slow.”

  With no injury to myself or Isobel, I stood once more, and we made our way to the servant’s quarters. It was an agonizingly slow trip, but we finally made it.

  I was sure I would only get better and faster with practice. If Isobel kept her promise to come help me exercise my legs every day, I would be up and around in no time. And I found myself hopeful that my strength would fully return and glad that it was Isobel who would be with me.

  ~21~

  May 1563

  I stood outside of Edinburgh Castle, leaning against Mons Meg. The enormous cannon given to James II a century before now stood, as if on guard, pointing its large finger out across the water and giving warning to any who should dare to infringe upon the castle.

  The mid-May sun set gloriously in the distance as a gentle breeze blew in from the Firth of Forth. The evening was clear, giving me an unobstructed view of the firth. In the distance, tiny fishing boats floated on the gentle waves as gulls and gannets dotted the waters waiting for a stray fish or two to drop from the heavy-laden nets of the boats. I drew in a deep breath, enjoying the salty-fresh sea air yet dreading the evening ahead of me.

  I had been bed-ridden for about four months. Then I spent another month strengthening my legs and working on regaining my balance, with Isobel helping me. I was thankful for her assistance, and I felt a friendship growing between us that I never expected. If it hadn’t been for her, I would probably still be floundering in my rooms, barely dragging myself across the floor.

  I saw very little of Mary since the night I had scared her away from my room, with the exception of one incident. And I had replayed that episode over and over in my mind since then.

  “I am quite surprised to see you in Reverend Broune’s apartments, Isobel.” The unexpected sound of Mary’s voice stopped me in the hallway as I was on my way back from prayers one morning. I drew close to the doorway of my room without being detected.

  “I…I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” I heard Isobel stammer. Her voice shook, and I imagined her twisting her skirts in her hands as she was often wont to do when she was nervous. “I’ve only come to say good-bye to the Reverend. I am to leave for Hawick today.”

  I could hear the click of Mary’s heels on the hard wood floor as I presumed she drew closer to Isobel and away from the door.

  “Yes, you have been suffering from debilitating headaches, have you not?”

  “Aye, well…I don’t know that I would say debilitating. But they can prevent me from completing my tasks at times and my superiors think that the rest will do me some good.”

  There was an awkward pause, and I could almost imagine the wheels of Mary’s mind turning as she contemplated her next line of questioning.

  “Has the reverend been giving you spiritual advice, lass? For I cannot think why you would need to say your farewells to him.”

  “Nay, Your Grace. I…I have been helping him with his…I’ve been helping him walk again.” I noted the sound of pride in Isobel’s voice at her admission, and it seemed to give her a boldness she otherwise never held in the queen’s presence.

  Another pause made me consider making myself known to them from the doorway, but when Mary started to speak again, I decided against it. However, it wasn’t necessarily the words she spoke, but the thickness of emotion with which she spoke them.

  “That is very kind of you to help the reverend. I daresay this has been a difficult time for him, for he is such an independent man.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “Allow me to repay you for your troubles. I will send you a stipend for your efforts and to thank you for the service you have done for me toward my very good friend.”

  “Oh, nay, Your Grace!” Isobel blurted. “I could never take payment for such a task. It was my pleasure to assist the reverend.”

  I heard a choking sound like the clearing of a throat. Since I couldn’t tell from whence the sound came, I decided that would be a good time to make myself scarce. I did not wish to compound the awkward situation by adding my presence to it. I have since wondered what else I might have missed in the conversation.

  Now that I was fully recovered, Mary had insisted on hosting a dance in my honor. I wasn’t much for the lavish attention; however, I did see it as an opportunity to speak with the queen about the change in my duties. I had received word back from the presbytery offering me the position of Instructor of Divinity at the University of St. Andrews. This was a position that I could have only dreamed of before. I was sure my close proximity to the throne had propelled me into such a position. I was more than qualified but having not the kinship nor connections to bolster such claims, I remained at the mercy of my reputation alone to uphold me.

  I pushed myself from Mons Meg and made my way toward the palace yard and subsequently, the Royal Palace, where Mary had taken up the apartments therein. I knew I could not see her, for she had sequestered herself in her rooms, along with the four Marys, in preparation for the celebration. I walked the stone path until, changing my mind, I altered my route and instead made my way to St. Margaret's Chapel. Once a beautiful little chapel where royal families could find solitude and peace to conduct their prayers, it had, in recent years, been turned into a storehouse to hold gunpowder and ammunition. My hope was, now that Mary had returned, that she might find beauty in the little chapel as I had and return it to its original purpose for prayer.

  Upon reaching the entryway of the chapel, I pushed the heavy, wooden door inward, pressing slowly to prevent the inevitable creaking that always accompanies such ancient doors. The room was dark and smelled of a mixture of musty wood and gunpowder. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found a low, wooden bench in the corner of the room and sat myself upon it. In the quiet of the small room, my mind returned to the letter that I had received from Reverend John Spottiswoode. He was to be my mentor and advisor at St. Andrews but had promised me free reign to teach all that was within the guidelines of my conscience and godly doctrine. He was put upon to recommend that I find a wife as soon as possible, for he had heard that I was still unmar
ried. He informed me that he himself had married and had sired several children in the following years and had been a happier and more satisfied man because of it. I chuckled at the directness of his letter. Where Catholic priests were forbidden to marry and father children, the Protestant ministers took pride in their separation from catholic doctrine and almost insisted that their clergy marry to avoid the temptation of sinful lust.

  The thought of marriage quickly sobered me. I had not allowed myself to think on Reverend Spottiswoode’s advice too much. I loved only one, and that love would never, could never, come to fruition. Yet, I knew I should think upon marriage. A union with a respectable young woman would grant me access to more circles and afford me more influence.

  My mind quickly reverted to Isobel. Since she left Holyroodhouse, there was a void in my life that she had filled during her last month. I knew it was more than her enticing curves and playful personality that I found attractive, it was the way she understood me. I couldn't help but smile when I thought of her. She was a sweet lass, if not a little audacious, and I found that the more I thought on her, the more my mind began to explore the possibilities.

  “Isobel,” I said her name to myself and caught myself smiling again.

  As I made my way up the pathway, I could hear the chatter of many voices. I did not desire any type of celebration to be made in my honor, but if I had a choice it would be made amongst a small, intimate group of friends, and not a whole castle full of people.

  I stepped through the door and immediately began to look for someone familiar. I did not think I dawdled long, but when I spotted Mary at the front of the great hall, I ascertained that I was later than expected.

  When she caught sight of me, her eyes lit, and I noticed a pink tint had colored her creamy skin. She smiled wide and I was immediately set at ease. I feared that the awkwardness of our last meeting might taint our relationship, making it uncomfortably painful. But Mary showed no mortification. Instead, she rushed to me, and with her arms opened wide, pulled me into a warm hug.

  “The guest of honor has arrived,” she said, smiling. Then turning about announced the same to the crowd. “The guest of honor has arrived. Let the music begin!”

  At that, I heard the gushing air of a bagpipe flare and immediately those in attendance began to dance. Mary grabbed my arm and began to swing with me, laughing and stumbling over her feet as the music charged on.

  “You are not used to dancing with the pipes,” I observed after several minutes. Mary's celebrations usually featured more refined sounds; lutes, lyres, and recorders being the principle players. She stumbled and laughed again, this time falling breathlessly into my arms.

  “Yes, I heard the bagpipe played not long ago while on a visit to Linlithgow Palace. They remind me of you, Thomas—strong, forceful, yet beautifully melodic. I knew that I had to have them played at your celebration.”

  I felt the heat of her body as I looked into those gloriously golden green eyes so close to mine. I quailed at my body's reaction to her nearness. I foolishly thought that the time spent apart would lessen the feelings that I held for her. But to no avail. She was in as much danger of my urges as she had been the day I chased her away. Thankfully, the music came to a sudden stop, and I was obliged to deposit Mary back on her feet. She gripped my arm as she caught her breath, smiling at me again in that innocently alluring way.

  “Mary, I must speak to you about a very important matter,” I said the words before I lost my nerve.

  “Of course, Thomas. What is on your mind?”

  I looked at her in her cream-colored dress. The light damask was embroidered with a fine gold thread, casting a shimmer over Mary's figure. The under-layer, a form-fitting frock, with a double layer wrapped about the hinder part to enhance her backside. She looked beautiful, as always, but it was the deep cut of her lace collar that caught my attention more than I care to admit. Mary almost always wore a ruffle of lace about her neck when in public gatherings. But this collar stood stiff, up the whole length of her neck, practically touching the lobes of her ears. The collar cut into a “v”, revealing the hollow of her neck, and plunging down until it reached her bust line. It was here that my eyes rested, the end of my vision, but the beginning of my imaginings.

  For a moment I doubted myself. Even if I chose to sin against God, and took Mary for myself, I could never live with the ruination of the most enchanting woman that I had ever met. But could there ever be anyone for me but Mary? Yes, I told myself. Yes, there had to be. There was no other way.

  “Thomas?” Mary's voice drew me out of my thoughts and back to the great hall.

  “I, uhh...perhaps we could find a more private place for our discourse,” I fumbled.

  “Yes, it is quite noisy here. Why don't we meet in St. Margaret's Chapel after dinner? It is a quiet and secluded place and I dare say we shall not be disturbed.”

  I smiled. Her thoughts and mine were two birds of one egg: distinctly separate, yet mysteriously and unexplainably the same.

  “Yes, that would be perfect.” I raised her hand to my lips and planted a soft kiss on the top of her hand. Then, stepping away from her, released her to make merry with the other guests in the room.

  The music and dancing went on for more than two hours. Dinner was an even longer affair, with four courses being served in a leisurely fashion. Wine flowed in abundance, and the guests were fed on fine fare, poetry, and music throughout. When the fourth course had been served, Mary rose to her feet and lifted her glass in salute.

  “My dear friends,” she began. “I want to thank you all for coming to celebrate the survival and recovery of one of my closest friends. As many of you know, Thomas and I have been as close as two siblings could be since the day I was born. He, being six years older than I, saw it as his personal responsibility to protect and defend me, in the absence of my own dear father upon his death when I was six days old. Through the years, and even during my emprise in France, he has remained a devoted friend and faithful confidant.” Here she paused and took a deep breath before continuing.

  “Last October, I came close to losing him. He sustained a grievous injury at the Battle of Corrichie, the which rendered him unconscious for a fortnight and imperiously weak and unable to walk for months afterward. There was a time, during the first crucial weeks after the battle, that I feared that he was lost to me forever.” Mary’s voice quivered, and she reached for my hand for reassurance. “As you can see, he sits here before us today, completely recovered, able to walk, able to think, and able to speak with as much intellectual fortitude as he had before the accident. Let us raise our glasses to my dear friend, Thomas Broune, in celebration of his return from the dead, and let the Almighty be praised for such miraculous works!”

  “Hear, hear!” shouted the attendants, nodding their heads and lifting their glasses in agreement.

  Mary took another sip of wine, then motioned to a servant. A minute later, the young man returned with a lute and handed it to Mary. The queen had become quite skilled in music, and particularly the lute, while living in France. I always enjoyed listening to her play when she ventured to do so. As she situated herself with her instrument, I noticed David Rizzio rise and join Mary at her seat with an instrument of his own. Memories of the first night I met him flashed in my mind, and although I had come to tolerate his presence, the shared love and talent for music that he and Mary held admittedly turned my cheeks an unwelcome shade of scarlet.

  The queen tipped her glass one last time, then set it aside to position her long, slender fingers on her lute.

  “You all know that I have not the voice of a lark. I have recruited David to sing in my place.”

  Rizzio spoke up, “Ah, but what Her Grace lacks in vocal ability, she more than makes up for in poetic verse and instrumental skill. The song we perform here tonight for you all was written by Her Grace.” A chorus of delighted sighs resounded as the two artists prepared for their performance.

  The song was beautiful, and I
must confess that the two of them playing together sounded heavenly. However, my favorite part was the last line where Rizzio stopped singing and Mary softly crooned the emotional, final words. She may not sing like an angel, but her heartfelt words, sung softly with a gentle shyness, was enough to squeeze my heart in two. She never said, but the song reminded me of the two of us, and our friendship, our closeness. It made the decision I made, and the words that I needed to say, even that much more difficult.

  Even though I was the guest of honor, I had a better chance of escaping after dinner than Mary did. I slipped out after the company had urged Rizzio on to his third song and made my way back toward St. Margaret’s Chapel. By this time, the night had chilled considerable, but the sky remained clear and bright with the moon at its fullest phase.

  As I approached the chapel I could hear a faint whining sound. Unsure from whence the sound was coming, I poked around the bushes, looking for the source of the distressed whimper. After several minutes, I turned to continue on to the chapel when I finally spied the culprit. Curled up in a cluster of bluebells was a small, brown and white dog. I bent to lift him out of the flowers, whispering to him as I smoothed his tangled fur.

  “No, no, this will not do, little fellow. You don’t want to eat those buds; they will make you sick.”

  I lifted him up and he immediately nuzzled my neck in an attempt to warm himself, for he was shivering. I tucked him into my cloak to warm him, then looked around the yard to see if there were any others. Confident that he was the sole perpetuator of the whining, I walked toward the chapel. I contemplated returning to the castle, or at least the kitchens, to see if I could find him a morsel of food and some water. But I was afraid I might miss Mary, so I waited, sitting on the same bench I had sat on previously. This time, however, I had something less depressing to occupy my thoughts. I scratched the pup behind the ears and smoothed his fluffy fur back from his face. Two tiny black eyes shone back at me.