The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

“Hello, Thomas,” Rizzio offered, giving a nod in my direction, as he too poured himself some wine.

  “David,” I replied, nodding my head at him as well.

  When the meal had concluded Mary rang for the servants to come and clear the table. Darnley grabbed the flask of wine and his cup and moved to a seat situated at the window that faced the courtyard. He caught a maid by the arm as she was leaving and said, “Frannie, be a dear and bring us some more wine.” He winked at the lass, and she blushed. Curtseying, she replied, “Yes, my lord.”

  I glanced at Mary. She had either not noticed or had turned a blind eye to Darnley’s behavior toward the maid. She was speaking to Mary Seton who was about to leave on some errand.

  “Did my bride-to-be tell you? It has been decided that I am to serve as King consort once we are married.”

  My utter shock rendered me momentarily speechless. I quickly recovered and replied, “No, I only just arrived a mere quarter hour before you came. We have not had an opportunity to discuss much of anything.”

  “Yes, well, I thought perhaps she had written it to you in a letter. I know how much the two of you like to keep in touch.” He wore a friendly smile on his face, but the undertones indicated in his words said something entirely different.

  “I would think that Parliament would have some say in that decision. Has Mary spoken to the Lords of the Congregation concerning this plan?”

  “Oh, I do not foresee that approval will be a problem. I am generally well liked, and we all know that everyone prefers a king to a queen.”

  “Do we?” I cocked my head at him. “Sir, you are Catholic, and an Englishman. Do you not think these detrimental to your dynastic ambitions?”

  “Ambitions? Is that what you think this is? Do you think I’m just playing house in order to get the crown, my dear man?”

  “I think that you play a very dangerous game. You forget that Mary is well liked, but the Lords of the Congregation are a very powerful force to reckon with.”

  “Do you threaten me, Reverend Broune?” His voice was smooth and calm, but there was an edge of contempt in it as he clipped out his words.

  “I do not, sir. I’m merely looking out for the queen’s best interest.”

  “At least I know that you are not full of vain words and false pretenses.”

  “Nay, Her Grace has always been my only concern. However, you are her chosen heir presumptive. If protecting her means protecting you, then so be it.”

  “I appreciate your commitment but make no mistake: I will have the crown matrimonial, and when I do, I shall make sure your loyalty—or lack thereof—is repaid.”

  He drained his cup again then grabbed the flask and stood. He strode up to Mary and, taking her hand, kissed it, and swept himself into a low bow.

  “Will we enjoy our nightly game of billiards after supper this evening?” Mary asked as Darnley strode across the room to the door.

  “I don’t want lamb for supper. I’ve decided to take my sustenance at the Hoary Oak tonight.” And with that, he turned himself about and departed. The change in the atmosphere after his departure was palpable, and I found myself relieved at the improvement. Mary, however, was visibly distraught. The color drained from her face and her bottom lip quivered as if she were to cry. Rizzio sought to comfort her, but I had no words that could be useful for such purpose.

  “Does he always do that?” I queried. Mary looked up at me, the hurt on her face was almost too much for me to bear.

  “Do what?”

  “Speak to you as if you were a bothersome child. Sulk when he doesn’t get his way.” I couldn’t stop. I knew my words were probably hurtful, but I was bothered by the display I had just witness.

  “Thomas, please. Not you too. I summoned you here to support me, not throw in your lot against me also.”

  She stood abruptly, then gathering her skirts she hastily departed the room sniffing back tears. The look on Rizzio’s face was wary, but since only he and I remained in the room, I decided to probe a little further.

  “What think ye of this situation?” I knew Rizzio to be a close friend of Mary’s as well, and although I hadn’t always liked the man, I thought he had Mary’s best interest at heart.

  “I must admit, he is the perfect choice. He is English and holds a claim to the English throne as well. Her Grace is madly in love with him. In her eyes, he does no wrong. There is nothing that you can say to her.”

  “Have you tried? The man is an arrogant and childish boor who thinks he is going to reign over Mary once they are bound in holy matrimony. Did she promise him the crown matrimonial?”

  “Nay, but she did agree to make him king consort. She has already ordered for her name to be replaced with their joint names on all placards, but with hers listed foremost, of course. He was not happy about that, but I told him he must prove himself, and perhaps in time Her Majesty might see the wisdom in allowing him such power.”

  “You support Darnley having such power?”

  “I support Mary throwing off the yoke of Lord James and William Maitland. For too long they have intimidated her and perverted their power to get what they want. I believe Darnley can help Mary to wrest the power away from Lord James and those execrable Lords of the Congregation. Mary will then be able to restore the Catholic faith, and we shall be able to worship without fear of injury to our person or property. It is also my belief that he will pave the way for seizing the English throne when the time is right. And at that time, if not before, when Lord James is deposed, and Maitland is out of the way, I shall take the position of Secretary of State, and Darnley and Mary will reign in absolute power over all of Scotland and England to the glory of God and the Roman Catholic Church.”

  Evidently, I had misjudged Rizzio. Or perhaps, underestimated him. He wasn’t looking out for Mary’s best interest. He was looking out for his own. Furthermore, Mary had never intimated to me that her sole desire was to restore the Catholic church in Scotland. She may have paid lip service to the Pope, but Mary was all about ruling her subjects as she saw fit.

  “And what does Lord James have to say about this betrothal?”

  “He was quite unruffled by the prospect at first. He thought Darnley too supercilious to be a serious contender. But Darnley fell ill not long after he came to Scotland.” He lowered his voice and leaning toward me he whispered, “Rumor has it that he was afflicted with the French pox, but that information was kept from Mary.” Stepping away again, he continued, “She nursed him day and night for several weeks and by the time he had recovered, she was fully smitten. By then there was nothing Lord James could do.” At this point a wicked little smirk curled the corners of Rizzio’s mouth and sent a chill down my spine.

  I turned away from Rizzio at his last stabbing words. I knew what it was to be nursed, night and day, by such an intoxicating nursemaid. The memories of Mary’s touch that burnt hotter than Hades’ inferno, still seared my conscience. Her kiss, more alluring than, and just as dangerous as, a siren’s song, still wrenched my gut. Yes, I knew what it was like to experience the gentle ministrations of one so fair. Did he awaken to her gentle hand on his chest, cooling his fevered skin, or, her soft voice speaking soothing words in his ear? He must have, but he could never love her so blindly, so completely, so maddeningly, as I. Of that, I was sure.

  And even more disturbing was Rizzio’s description of their plans to overthrow James and the Protestant lords.

  I excused myself from Rizzio without further discussion. I had to compose myself. I had to find James and speak to him. And I had to find Mary and talk to her about Darnley. I knew she wanted my support. She wanted someone to stand by her and assure her she was making the right choice, but I couldn’t do that. If it cost me her friendship, yea, even kindled her anger against me, I must make her see the truth concerning Darnley and the danger of her plans.

  ~27~

  June 1565

  The meeting that I had planned with Mary was not meant to be. For very early the next morning
I was awakened by a pounding at my door. It was still dark, for the day was destined to be wet, and I pulled my breeches on in the dark, stumbling to the door to end the incessant pounding.

  “My deepest apologies, sir,” the footman bowed as he held out a letter to me. “A messenger arrived this morning from St. Andrews and said this letter must be given to you immediately. He has ridden hard for quite some time and was near delirium by the time he reached our doors.”

  Near delirium? I tore open the letter, and my heart sank at its contents. It was Isobel. Her pains had come upon her and she had sent a messenger to bring me home forthwith. She must have taken to her bed immediately after I left, I thought, as I dug in my desk drawer for a quill to write a note to Mary. I quickly scratched out an apology that I would not be there for their announcement and that I deeply regretted that I could not see her again before I departed. I explained that it was Isobel and the baby and that I must depart immediately. I folded it quickly then handed it to the footman who had brought the letter to my door. I asked him to then see to the messenger that Isobel had sent, and make sure he was fed and accommodated and to please tell him to stay put until he was rested enough to make the journey back home. I, on the other hand, would leave immediately.

  I chided myself for leaving her. I was so driven with madness to see Mary, to meet the man that she had fallen in love with. It seemed so urgent at the time, but now I realized how trivial, how risky, it had been.

  By the time I arrived in St. Andrews the next evening, I had ridden Achaius hard and was keenly aware of his near exhaustion. I murmured my apologies to my faithful companion, sliding from his back before he came to a complete stop. I spied the blacksmith’s son, Robbie Doyle walking up the way and called out to him.

  “Will you see to my horse? Give him water and fresh provender; he has been ridden hard for two days.” The boy nodded, wide-eyed, for I practically shouted in my haste. I handed him the reigns then dashed into our small cottage.

  Isobel had been in travail for nearly four days by this time. Anne Spottiswoode and her maid, Maggie, were attending to her, along with a midwife by the name of Agatha Brody. Anne was wiping Isobel’s brow with a wet cloth upon my entry. Maggie busied herself putting another pot of water on to boil, while the midwife prodded on Isobel’s stomach. She screamed out in pain just as I entered, for the midwife had pushed too hard, I ignorantly supposed. I immediately took up arms. “Stop! What are you doing?” I ran to her bedside, but Anne stopped me before I could reach the old woman with the stooped shoulders. “You are hurting her,” I cried out. I couldn’t get any closer, for Anne stood before me, blocking my way.

  “It is not Agatha who hurts her. ‘Tis the babe.” She spoke gently and laid her hand on my arm to try to keep me from getting too close. I looked over her shoulder and noticed the old woman had resumed her regimen of pushing and kneading.

  “Why hasn’t the babe come yet?” I spoke to the midwife, but it was Anne who responded.

  “The babe is turned. His feet are down, making it difficult for Isobel to birth him. Agatha has tried to turn him around, but, he is in a difficult position.”

  I looked over Anne’s shoulder again, this time at my lovely wife’s face as she lie in a sodden mess, sweat drenching her golden hair, and the pillow upon which it laid.

  “She has been in extreme pain for several days, but Agatha noted that her waters have just today burst. But now it is a race against time. The babe must be born soon or there could be other problems.” Her voice trailed off as Isobel let out another anguished cry, thrashing about on the bed.

  “Cannot you give her something for pain?” I cringed each time Isobel let out another scream. I couldn’t bear to hear her anguish.

  “Agatha has been administering small doses of opium on the hour for the past two days, but I’m afraid there is nothing that can completely dull the pain of childbirth. It is a curse that we women must bear.”

  I glanced again at my wife. She seemed to have not even noticed my presence. “May I go to her?” I inquired.

  Anne turned and looked at the midwife as if to seek approval. She nodded her head slightly, then they both stepped aside to grant me access. I laid the back of my hand upon her cheek and bent low to her ear. “Isobel, I am here my love. Thank you for waiting for my return. Now it is time to deliver our child. Your strength may be gone, but I know your tenacity is still intact.” She did not respond, and I sought Agatha’s eyes for understanding.

  “She has had several doses of opium, but now that her waters have broken I will need her alert. I stopped administering about a half hour ago. She should be coming around shortly,” the old lady explained.

  I continued to stroke her cheek, speaking comforting words into her ear and dabbing her forehead with the cloth Anne had supplied. Finally, the midwife spoke again.

  “Reverend Broune, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The birthing room is no place for a man, and I must see to your wife.”

  I stroked Isobel’s cheek one last time, then bent and kissed her on the head. I stepped into the only other room that our small cottage contained and began to pace. The room was stifling. Our bedroom needed to be kept warm for Isobel, but a fire burned energetically on the hearth here as well, where Maggie was kept busy, continuously boiling water and washing soiled bedclothes and linens.

  I paced for several hours. My thoughts harangued me and with each step a new word of condemnation rang in my ears. I should have been here. She was so worried that something would happen while I was away. She must have known somehow…The longer I paced, the more personal the accusations became. What kind of man leaves his wife while with child to answer the call of another woman to whom he is not married? And more importantly: What had I hoped to accomplish in my tryst to Edinburgh? She is lost to me…

  At one point, Maggie offered me some watery broth, but I refused, a sour knot in my stomach preventing me from taking any sustenance. When I could take the thick air and accusing voices no longer, I walked outside into the cool night. A moonless sky enveloped me with a blackness that could be felt. I looked up, searching for Polaris, but even that guiding light was lost to me. “Dear God!” I cried in anguish. No further words came to my mind. The black night left me feeling as forsaken as my circumstances. “For Isobel.” The words beat about in my head before I could finally force them through my lips. I searched the sky again for some sign, some indication that the Almighty heard my unspoken plea. Was this yet another punishment for the sins that I had so selfishly committed within my heart concerning Mary? I ran both hands through my hair, grabbing fistfuls of hair at the nape and pulling as hard as I could. A guttural sound came out of my mouth and I sank to the ground on my knees when the tears finally came. Memories of our elation when we first realized she was with child floated before my closed eyelids. It had truly been a miracle, for she thought it impossible. Now, those fears have been realized. Perhaps it was not the conceiving of the child but the delivering of him that would prove to be impossible.

  I lay, face down on the grassy earth, losing all track of time until Anne came and lifted me gently to my knees. “Reverend,” she spoke softly, but it was what she didn’t say that burnt my soul.

  “Isobel,” was all I could produce, then finally, “the babe?”

  “’Tis a boy.” She tried to sound hopeful, but I could hear the caution in her voice. I rose to my feet. A dull glow had begun to erupt from the horizon to the east by this time. I followed her into the cottage, wiping my tear-soaked face with the sleeve of my doublet. Isobel lie, as white as the bedsheets that surrounded her, with nary enough strength to give the babe suck. A weak little cry came from the bundle at her breast and I stepped closer to see our son.

  “Is he not the most beautiful boy ye have ever seen, Thomas?” Isobel lifted her dark, exhausted eyes to mine, searching for affirmation. I nodded, too overcome with emotion to say the words that were in my heart. Aye, he was beautiful, but he was also tiny, and tinged with
an odd color of blue that looked unusual for a newborn babe. Shouldn’t he be pink and fresh? I thought to myself. I held out my hand and he grabbed my finger, squeezing tightly as he built up a faint, weak cry that sounded more like a sputtering chimney than a newborn baby. Agatha turned the baby’s head toward Isobel once more, in an effort to give him milk. Yet, he pushed away, preferring the tiny knot of his fist to suck on, to her sunken breast.

  “What name shall ye christen the babe with?” This time Agatha spoke. I stared hard at the babe once more before speaking the name that Isobel and I had agreed on, should the babe be a boy. “William Henry Thomas Broune,” I pronounced, lifting the small bundle out of Isobel’s hands to feel the weight of him in my arms. The ladies cooed, and satisfaction was expressed all around for the hearty name he would bear. Should he live, I noted grimly, quickly giving him back to Isobel.

  “Maggie, my child,” Agatha croaked out. “Make haste and fetch Janet McInnis from Gray’s Close. We’ll see if she can serve as wet nurse to little William until Isobel is strong enough to nurse him herself.”

  “Yes, mum.” The maiden curtsied to the older woman then was off to town to find the designated woman.

  Agatha lifted William from Isobel’s arms once more. “In the meantime, this little one is going to say hello to his papa and give his mama some rest.”

  The old midwife placed little William back in my arms then showed me how to rub his arms and hands, legs and feet; in hopes of strengthening the circulation of his blood.

  “He shouldn’t look blue, should he?” I whispered, afraid that my words might be heard by Isobel, or worse, the Almighty. She eyed me thoughtfully as she rubbed his limbs vigorously, yet gently.

  “He was born too soon, Reverend. I’d venture to say that his little organs are not fully developed enough to sustain life. But we’ll do what we can and leave the rest to God.”

  “He must be baptized.” I spoke the words numbly, fearful of the implications I was admitting to. I knew Isobel would want to see his baptismal, but I truly feared he would not live long enough to have a formal baptism.