X
Mary watched as the light outside the windows of the Chapel Royal deepened into the murky sapphire hue that marked the early winter dusk. Here in Scotland it began darkening by three o’clock in the afternoon in December, and torches had to be lit in the courtyard at Holyrood. They winked in the blue gloom as the fireflies had in summer.
The memorial requiem mass for François was to begin at four o’clock. It was exactly a year since his death, an unbelievable year. Would François be startled at the changes in her if he could see her now? Were there any changes?
She was still wearing her mourning of black Florence serge, but she had provided her Marys and her French household with black velvet for the second mourning period. Glancing down the row of those around her, she saw that they had already had their garments made and were wearing them for the first time. Her gentlemen and domestic servants wore black cloth and mourning grey.
She looked around the chapel to see others filing in for the mass. None of the Lords would be there, of course, except the Earl of Huntly; their tender consciences would not permit it. But the two newly posted ambassadors from Savoy and France would attend, and her entire household, and her one remaining Guise relative, the Marquis d’Elboeuf.
Bishop Leslie of Ross, one of the few Catholic clergymen still in Scotland, entered in his black vestments, preceded by two tall lads bearing enormous candles in rimmed silver holders. He proceeded slowly to the altar while the sound of the dirge rose, softly and delicately, in the chapel.
Sound of agony! Sound that captured, somehow, her feelings of lost yesterdays, empty todays, lonely tomorrows, stretching out like a long corridor, a candle sconce for each year, and she walking alone down that corridor, leaving François farther and farther behind. Sound that embodied her own words in her poem, the words yearning and regret. Fragile, aching, the music touched her where no loud trumpets could have reached her.
I am proof against that, she thought. Strident noise, public eulogies, ceremonial clothes … they do not touch me. But this …
Just then a matchless voice, breathtaking in its purity, rose from the whispered lightness of the rest, rose in deep, rich, dark splendour, and both embodied all her grief and assuaged it.
He knows. He understands. He feels it, too.
The ecstasy of knowing that someone else had touched those depths was like a wild gift to her.
Thank You, God! she cried within her soul. Thank You for sending him, whoever he is. Perhaps he is not even real, but an angel.
She looked carefully around through her tears to see if others heard him, too. She did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved to see the rapture on everyone’s face as they listened to the mysterious voice.
* * *
Afterwards, Mary had planned a formal reception to mark the end of the year’s obsequies. Although her antechamber was hung with black, the fire burned brightly and the tables were furnished with the most elaborate “funeral meats” her French cooks could devise. There were rolls of roast swan sprinkled with gold dust, fish swimming in aspic seas, and—in one concession to simplicity—François’s favourite, smoked boar from Chambord.
The Ambassador of Savoy, Conte di Moretta, was talking to the Earl of Huntly at one end of the room. The Conte’s robes were that lovely blue that seemed to be found only in warm lands. She was very pleased that at last ambassadors were coming back to her realm. An English ambassador, Thomas Randolph, had also taken up residence—although he, as a Protestant, was of course not present today. But the French ambassador, de Foix, was munching on some dainty and listening in on Moretta and Huntly.
Standing in between them was—a dwarf? Mary started as she saw an exceptionally ugly man, as swarthy as an ape, cocking his head and engaging in conversation with the two men. He barely came up to their shoulders.
She made her way over to them, and she could hear a most strange sound: two languages being spoken simultaneously, then repeated back separately. The Italian was coming from Moretta, and the French from de Foix; the little ape-man would shut his eyes and twist up his face, then repeat back the words to each speaker. The effort was telling on him; sweat was rolling off his face despite the chill in the chamber. Moretta and de Foix would then redouble their efforts, speaking faster and in longer sentences. The little man looked as if he would burst.
“Stop torturing him!” said Mary with a laugh. But of course it was a command, and they had to stop immediately.
“Oh, he thrives on this,” Moretta assured her. “This is my secretary, David Riccio di Pancaliere. He speaks several languages, he claims all perfectly. He says he can even separate them out if they come in by different ears. So we were just testing him out. He’s as good as his word.” Moretta took a long sip of his spiced wine.
“My sovereign lady!” Riccio fell to his knees and took her hand, kissing it with reverence. His large eyes were shining.
Mary bade him rise. As he stood, she saw that he was not a dwarf, nor was there anything amiss with his limbs, he was just very short. “Your skills are impressive,” she said. “Where did you learn?”
“I was secretary to Monsignor the Archbishop of Turin for a spell, until he”—he winked at Moretta—“stole me.”
“He was content to be stolen,” said Moretta. “You enjoyed the posting at Nice, did you not?”
“Ah, yes! The sea, the warmth—”
At the word warmth, everyone laughed. Just the word evoked longings.
“You were from Pancalieri in Piedmont?” asked Mary. “How came you, then, to the household of the Archbishop of Turin?”
“My father was a musician, and it was actually as a musician that I entered his household; I was employed to play the lute and sing in his choir. But because of my command of the idioms of French and Italian, and my ability to write in elegant Tuscan—”
“Plus your modesty!” Moretta broke in.
Mary could not help laughing, but Riccio blushed.
“He hasn’t given up his music entirely, he still likes to slip off and sing at masses, he’s a bass, surprising, isn’t it, in one so tiny you’d think he’d be a soprano!”
Guffaw, guffaw.
It was him. He was the singer.
Mary felt her heart pounding. That beauty in sound, that deep knowledge of life and pain that he must have—otherwise his singing would be only a voice, and it was so much more than that, it was aching experience itself—to be wedded to such an earthly body! Was God absurd? Or merely being fair, saying, “These gifts and only these for one person; no one shall have all?”
“I—am deeply grateful that you sang today,” said Mary, looking into his dark, shining eyes, and all laughter ceased. “And I would be grateful if you could sing in my masses from now on.” She attempted to banish the tremble of excitement from her voice. “I am weary of having my priests and mass attacked. Perhaps if I have a chorister who is under diplomatic protection…”
Moretta tried not to look inconvenienced at losing Riccio’s valuable secretarial services. “Of course, Your Majesty. I present him to you with pleasure.”
* * *
Gone were the black hangings, and even Mary had laid aside her mourning—as she now permitted herself to do on ceremonial occasions—in honour of the Christmas festivities in her quarters. Fir branches decorated the walls, and satin ribbons were entwined within them. Down the long chamber ran the table, set for the high feast. In the back of the chamber, the musicians were practising, and the singers rehearsing. Riccio, attired in garnet-coloured satin, had taken his place among them with ease. Mary could hear his distinctive voice even when it blended with others.
This would be a curious, walled-in Christmas, confined only to the royal quarters. The Reformed Kirk did not celebrate it or allow it to be celebrated, and thus Christmas would stop at the doorsill of the Queen’s outermost chamber.
But, oh! Within all would be light—to drive back the oppressive night that seemed to last twenty hours—and warmth to rout t
he creeping chill that seeped in everywhere. And clear, soaring music to change the ordinary into beauty. And most scandalous of all, there would be dancing to that music, and there would be a puppet show from Italy—courtesy of Moretta—and games and … everything that offended the Reformers. Well, they were not invited.
Riccio had tried to tell her that perhaps that was not wise, but she had brushed him off. After all, he was a foreigner and could not understand the peculiar ways here.
“If you do not invite them, it will appear as if you were hiding something naughty from them,” he said.
“Since they consider everything that gives comfort, cheer, or beauty ‘naughty,’ then I suppose that is what I am doing,” she replied.
“Perhaps it would be better to invite them and have them refuse,” said Riccio. “That way they will not be slighted, but will feel they are slighting you.”
“I do not care for them to feel they are slighting me! What astonishing advice!”
“Very well.” He sighed. “Forgive me, Madam.” He bowed low.
No, there would be no Lords here tonight, although the English ambassador, Thomas Randolph, not being officially a member of the Kirk, had been invited. Christmas was still celebrated in splendour in his own country, and he longed to do homage to it here. That was what he had said, but the truth (if Mary had any eyes) was that he had developed an attraction for Mary Beaton and wished to have an opportunity to flirt with her.
The banquet was properly riotous. Gallons of wine—the finest from Bordeaux—flowed, and the number of geese alone was enough to warn Rome of enemy approach.
Mary herself drank little, but allowed herself to take pride in the fact that, four months after her arrival, she was so well settled. Her furniture and belongings had finally arrived from France, and seeing these old friends of her bedchambers and privy chambers had been comforting. Several beds, bedecked with hangings of red silk, crimson velvet, and white velvet, were now set up in Holyrood. Small couches, stools, seats, and folding chairs provided places for guests to sit, and her personal belongings made her feel that at last this alien place was home. Her harp and lute, her pictures, her embroidery, her globes of the heavens and earth, her maps and charts, her extensive library, had come to keep her company.
Up and down the table were the people she loved: the Marys, dressed now in holiday colours (by her royal permission), Father Mamerot (why should he not sit openly in company?), Madame Rallay, Bourgoing the physician, Bastian Pages, master of revels and head of her French staff. Other honoured guests brought a smile to her face: Moretta, with his high spirits; de Foix; Thomas Randolph, the serious English ambassador who kept glancing at Beaton. There were other members of her household, often related to the Marys, like Lord George Seton, and John Beaton, an attendant in her privy chamber. Some of the younger courtiers had managed to get themselves invited—those who were not keen on the deprivations of the Kirk. There were still young people in Scotland who wished to sing and dance, like John Sempill, son of one of the Reformers, who had been following Lusty about for several weeks.
After the banquet tables were cleared away, Moretta begged patience while the stage was set up for his puppet show. Everyone sought a place to sit down so as best to see this novelty—little dolls that could be made to dance and walk.
The play involved a great deal of hitting and yelling and lost objects. The puppeteer skillfully hid himself and did an admirable job of providing voices for all his characters. The play was carefully nonpolitical.
Then a deep voice said, “I will do a play as well! Put out the candles, leaving only three large ones some twelve feet from the curtain.”
Mary saw Riccio detaching himself from the musicians and making his way over to a place before the tiny stage curtain. What was he about? Did Moretta know?
The servants obeyed, and one by one the candles were put out. The only source of light was the candles before the curtain. Faces turned toward Riccio looked as though they were all wearing half-masks.
He flourished his fingers, weaving them in and out of each other. “Now, I wish you to look straight ahead. Do not look at me.”
On the curtain ahead were shadows that looked amazingly like Lord James and Maitland. Mary heard Flamina gasp.
“My dear Lord James,” said a voice exactly like Maitland’s, “have you been invited to John Knox’s feast?” The profile bobbed up and down.
“I did not know he ever feasted.” The imitation of Lord James was perfect—the nasal “I did not know” had been captured.
“He made a most delicious Scripture pudding. He took leaves from Deuteronomy, and layered them with Geneva cheese, and baked the whole until it was as dried out as an aged nun’s privy parts.”
“Sounds wonderful!” said Lord James.
The room exploded with laughter.
Next the Pope came on stage—they could recognize his Papal hat. The Pope fulminated against Elizabeth of England, who also came on stage and let loose a volley of obscene oaths.
Riccio’s mastery of the shadows and his uncanny vocal imitations were what impressed Mary, not the clumsy political jokes.
At the dance that followed, Mary’s change into satin breeches, with her Marys doing likewise as they had in France, excited little comment. Riccio had stolen the evening.
* * *
The next day he presented her with a gift. He looked somewhat embarrassed, and indeed, Mary did not know what to say to him. He had not done anything wrong, but his performance had been so unexpected.
She opened the box, and inside was a ruby brooch of a tortoise.
“Please take it with my humble apologies for last evening. I perhaps overstepped my bounds. I am, after all, newly in your service by your most gracious kindness—”
He did not mean a word of the rote apology. “I forgive you. But I would prefer that you think before you speak so freely in public. Although your skill has much to commend it.” She lifted the tortoise out of the box to show that she accepted his offering.
“The tortoise is the symbol of long life, which I wish you. But since it carries its house about on its back, it also symbolizes safety. What better gift for a Queen?”
* * *
Mary was sitting near the fire, laboriously pulling her needle in and out. Her fingers were cold and she could scarcely feel to hold the cloth. Madame Rallay was kneeling before her, adjusting the flannel over the silver chaufrettes, footwarmers from France, that she was putting under Mary’s feet.
The snows had come to Edinburgh, falling gently and coating everything with a cold blanket. January was a long tunnel of blue bleakness, although the snow made it prettier. Around her the Marys were also sewing: they were all making bedcovers, and they had been teasing each other about who would lie under the bedcovers with them.
Flamina’s bedcover was crimson, and she was embroidering a pattern of knights and unicorns on it.
“Oh, will it be Mr. Maitland who lies under it?” giggled Lusty. “Or snores under it. He’s so old, he probably wheezes at night and shivers and snorts.”
“He is not old, he is only thirty-three.”
“More than a decade older than you,” said Seton. Her own bedcover was of violet and grey silk, with leaves and flowers of cloth-of-silver. “Now, John Sempill is the right age, he’s young, stupid enough to fall in love devotedly—”
Madame Rallay adjusted Mary’s skirts daintily over the chaufrettes, so that the heat wafted up from them all around her legs. Mary continued sewing, hoping the warmth in her legs would somehow benefit her fingers. Her own bedcover was tawny satin, and she was embroidering her initials on it.
A decade older … will I have to wed someone a decade older, or younger? wondered Mary. I care not to think about it. But the Lords are beginning to talk about it, to suggest candidates. Why are they so anxious for it?
Beaton was carefully measuring out gold and violet silk threads to use on her own white velvet covers.
“Randolph is even older!”
said Flamina suddenly. “If you were to wed him, people would think he was his children’s grandfather!”
“No, he isn’t!” said Beaton, as heatedly as her languid nature would allow. “I am sure he is not forty.”
“Ah, my girls, look for love in whatever shape it comes, and do not disdain it if it is lowly,” said Madame Rallay.
Just then a message was brought to Mary. Melville was seeking audience.
“What about him?” Beaton giggled. “Does anyone here have a fancy for him?”
They all shook their heads and burst out laughing just as the unfortunate Melville made his entrance.
“Your Majesty…” He looked distressed. “You had told me I should call on you whenever…”
“Oh, you may speak freely here. These are my sisters, and Madame Rallay here is my mother.” Mary gladly put down her needlework—she was tired of it—and waited for her scolding.
“The Christmas revels—” he began.
“Yes, I realize what you will say,” she said contritely. “I thank you for calling it to my attention.”
“We understand that you would wish to celebrate the holiday, but it was the other … the dancing in breeches, the kissing and flirting, and the insulting shadow-show put on by that impudent Papist agent—”
“What do you mean,” asked Mary, “Papist agent?”
“Well, he was employed by the Archbishop of Turin, wasn’t he?”
“What of it? Archbishops everywhere keep large staffs.”
“They think that he must be a Papal agent.”
“Who is ‘they’?” demanded Mary.
“The Lords … Ruthven and Lindsay and Morton.”
“But not Lord James and Maitland. Of course not, they are too intelligent, even if he did make fun of them in his skit. Very well, Melville. Your criticisms are well taken.” She signed. Abstain from all appearance of evil is to be my lot. “But it was fun.”
He nodded. “I wish I could have been there,” he said wistfully.
XI
Mary had spread out one of her large maps of Scotland for Riccio to study.
“You are so insistent to know where all things are located, what lands lie next to what, who owns what—here, you may see for yourself!”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 27