Spy for the Queen of Scots

by Theresa Breslin

  Mary drew in her breath. ‘Why! He is even taller than I.’

  ‘Ah,’ Marie Fleming murmured in approval, ‘he is made large!’ adding under her breath, ‘In all parts, one hopes.’

  It seems such a trivial thing – that a man’s height would make an immediate positive impression. But all her life Mary had had to bend her neck to hold a conversation. Mostly when she danced with a man his head was positioned under her chin or lower. She’d learned to make light of it, claiming that she could tell the history of the hair of every man at court, which pomade he used and who would be bald in a twelvemonth.

  There was no such problem with this young man. His head was above everyone else in the room. Henry Darnley had a softly handsome face and long limbs, and his manners were like his appearance, elegant and gracious. His suit of silvered brocade, trimmed with white velvet ribbons, indicated a person of sophisticated tastes, a man who appreciated fine wine and gourmet food.

  Within minutes of being introduced to the queen, he had charmed her. With courtly reverence for her person and majesty, he addressed her by saying, ‘Lord Henry Darnley asks if it would be permissible for him to dance.’

  ‘Do you mean with myself, Lord Darnley?’ Mary asked.

  He lowered his eyes, drawing attention to the length of his lashes, and said, ‘I would not have presumed to ask such a favour. I only wished that I might join in your merrymaking and celebrate with you.’ He paused and then added, ‘However, if your majesty would like to help me in the steps of the morelia, then I would be greatly honoured.’

  Mary was enchanted. Apart from his obvious physical attractions, this young man was displaying the kind of courtliness she’d been used to in France and which was in short supply since she’d arrived in Scotland. She loved to dance, and Lord Darnley displayed a fine leg in his silken hose and moved with assured skill.

  Marie Livingston nudged me as they took the floor. ‘They make a striking couple.’

  I had to agree. Mary still wore mainly dark colours – tonight it was a gown of deepest blue. Beside her, Darnley, in lighter tones of silver and white, shone like a star in the night sky.

  When the dance was over they wandered towards a window. The queen’s laughter drifted over to her attendants, and we smiled at each other to see her so happy. But Lord James Stuart wasn’t smiling. He crossed the room and, on some pretext, drew Mary aside. He prevailed upon her to meet an important dignitary, and then another and another, but ever she was glancing round to catch sight of Lord Darnley. For his part, he stood where she had left him, gazing after her like a moonstruck boy.

  ‘He’s waiting by the window in the hope that the queen will come back,’ I said to Marie Fleming.

  ‘He’s by the window so that he can admire himself in the glass.’ Duncan Alexander had taken her place behind me.

  ‘Your words are unkind,’ I reproached him.

  ‘But true, nevertheless,’ he said. ‘Look at him. Preening and stroking his hair.’

  I was annoyed with him for souring the romantic scene – even more so because, since he’d pointed it out, I now saw that Henry Darnley was indeed studying his own reflection in the windowpane. ‘Are you jealous that the queen is attracted to a man?’ I asked him. ‘Is she not allowed the pleasure of an agreeable romance?’

  ‘Not with that fop,’ Duncan said crossly.

  ‘I would dance again.’ Mary rejoined us and beckoned to Lord Darnley, who came hurrying across the room.

  They danced another two dances and then supper was served. By the end of the evening, if the queen was not totally smitten with Lord Darnley, most of the other ladies were. His charm was considerable and he could talk extensively and knowledgeably about music, literature and art. When we had eaten he begged the queen for one more dance before she retired for the night.

  Mary whispered to me, ‘I like a man who stands above me. It is delightful to have a companion I can look up to.’ She raised her voice. ‘Sir Duncan, you must partner Jenny. Let us show how gracefully we can do these steps so it can be seen that dancing is not wicked, as that grim preaching minister Knox would have us believe, but a way of using the bodies the good God gave us to display our talents.’

  Duncan took my hand. I barely let my fingers touch his. When I was in the company of this man my emotions always ran contrary to what my head thought sensible.

  But no one was watching us. Every eye in the room was on Mary Stuart and Henry Darnley as they dipped and swayed in the movements of the dance. Mary’s colour was high and she looked more relaxed than she’d been for years. The appearance of this young man had roused her spirits in a way that no other Scottish lord had done.

  ‘You will excuse me?’ As soon as the dance was finished Duncan bowed and left the room.

  ‘Where is Sir Duncan off to in such a rush?’ Marie Fleming asked me. ‘Have you arranged to meet him later?’

  ‘Definitely not!’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a prude, Jenny. I was only teasing.’

  ‘It’s no concern of mine if he has a secret assignation,’ I said airily.

  ‘Of whom are we speaking?’ Marie Seton had come in from the garden.

  ‘Sir Duncan Alexander,’ said Marie Fleming. ‘You know, the man that Jenny has absolutely no interest in whatsoever, and doesn’t care whether he has arranged a tryst with another lady.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jenny.’ Marie Seton hugged me. ‘Sir Duncan is not with a lady. I saw him in the gardens. He had stopped to speak with Sir Gavin of Strathtay.’

  ‘And why is my name being mentioned?’ Gavin had appeared beside us. ‘Not that I mind it being on your lips,’ he added, looking directly at me.

  ‘You were chatting with Duncan Alexander,’ said Marie Seton, ‘recently returned from Europe. I wondered if he was in good health.’

  I gave her a grateful glance. She was always the most considerate and loyal of the Maries and I knew she was protecting me with her remark.

  ‘I scarce exchanged a word with him . . .’ He paused, and then said, ‘Sir Duncan was hurrying off to talk to one of the men attached to Lord Darnley’s party – I believe it was the Count of Cluny.’

  My throat constricted with fear when I heard that name, but I tried to steady my breathing. It was unlikely that the Count had followed me to Scotland to pursue me personally after a lapse of so many years. His presence must have something to do with Mary; with her attempts to find a husband. A cold suspicion seeped into my mind. Catherine de’ Medici also feared the might of Spain and would have heard of the negotiations between Scotland and Spain. Her daughter Elisabeth was now married to King Philip. She’d view Mary’s alliance to the king’s son by a former marriage as a threat to her own daughter’s position. No matter that the proposal had been dropped: she considered her daughter-in-law troublesome and a possible focal point for those who would rebel against the rule of the queen governor. The Count of Cluny was here and speaking to Duncan. I would have to be mindful of Mary’s safety.

  But within a month or so it was not Mary’s health that was causing concern. It was Lord Henry Darnley who fell ill.

  Chapter 31

  MARY WAS DISTRAUGHT. ‘What ails him? He was well when last we spoke.’

  It was Lord James Stuart who’d brought her the news, announcing unsympathetically that Lord Darnley was in bed with the ague. The court was at Stirling Castle, and Mary gave orders for an infusion to be made of herbs from the gardens there; so that she could bring it to him herself.

  ‘Don’t go so near that you might catch whatever ailment he has,’ said her half-brother. ‘My Lord Darnley has developed a nasty rash about his face and neck.’

  I wondered what sickness it could be that started with the ague and then developed into a rash. The fact that the Count of Cluny had been in Scotland brought thoughts of poison to my mind.

  ‘I’ll take him a message from your majesty,’ I offered. It would mean I could get closer to Darnley and see and hear for myself any gossip or careless tal
k.

  Mary wrote some lines and folded the paper within one of her monogrammed handkerchiefs. She doused it with scent and gave it to me. At Lord Darnley’s apartments I was asked to wait alone in an anteroom as his attendants were helping him to the privy. The door was ajar. I might not have such a chance again, I thought. I slipped inside his bedchamber and began to look around.

  I scarce knew what I was searching for. What evidence would there be to show that his illness was caused by an agent of Elizabeth of England or Catherine de’ Medici? From Lord James’s description of the mottling on Darnley’s face, it sounded similar to Duke Fernand’s when he’d died at Fontainebleau.

  ‘Jenny?’

  I jumped in fright. Duncan Alexander stood at the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  Agitated at being caught out by him scattered my wits. ‘You should know!’ I burst out.

  ‘I?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘What would I know?’

  ‘If anyone had interfered with—’ I stopped as caution reasserted itself.

  ‘If anyone had done what?’ Duncan asked, coming forward.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going to tell him that he’d been seen conferring with the Count of Cluny and why I distrusted that man.

  Suddenly we heard Darnley’s servants carrying him back from the privy. We both retreated, first into the antechamber and then to the passageway, but there were footsteps echoing along the corridor.

  ‘Go that way,’ Duncan indicated the servants’ stairway opposite.

  I ran down the spiral stairs, past the food trays, dishes and goblets piled in the alcove where the water ran from the sluice system. At the foot of the stairs I stopped. The dishes! The evidence could be in Lord Darnley’s food! Some of his uneaten dinner remained on his plate. If there were traces of mint-flavoured crystals, then I would have evidence that the Count of Cluny had tried to poison him.

  I retraced my steps. But then a noise! I skipped down a few steps out of sight and hid round the corner. Someone on the top corridor had stopped at the sluice. I risked a peep.

  It was Duncan Alexander!

  As I watched, he picked up a napkin to wipe the dishes. He was cleaning off any evidence! Folding the napkin he put it inside his tunic. Half turning, he caught sight of me, gave a cry of alarm and then demanded angrily, ‘Why are you there?’

  ‘Sir, I ask you the same question,’ I replied.

  ‘I said for you to return to your rooms.’

  ‘Sir, you are a minor laird and have no authority over me,’ I retorted.

  ‘And you are the daughter of a deceased army captain from a country for which the Scots bear no love, and an Italian mother – another race which, in the person of Master David Rizzio, is becoming even more unpopular within this court!’

  I reeled back under his onslaught. ‘At least I am loyal to the queen. She has need of people like me, for there are less and less of us with each passing day. So I will do as I think fit to protect her.’

  Duncan came down the steps towards me. ‘Do you not realize that treachery surrounds her? You should be more cautious in your actions. Have you no awareness of the deadly danger that you place yourself in?’

  There was the sound of footsteps above our heads. Duncan looked up. I did not need to be told twice: before his gaze had returned to me, I had fled.

  It was never established quite what illness Henry Darnley had contracted, but the more notice the queen gave him, the longer he lingered in convalescing. His manner with her remained docile and pleasing, but as she became increasingly indulgent, his graciousness to others evaporated. His arrogance and petulance antagonized servants, courtiers and almost every notable lord in the land. Mary had no sense of the depth of disapproval aroused by her increasing closeness to Darnley. It was the most joyous time for the queen. She was happier than I’d ever seen her. All the natural affection in her nature she lavished on Darnley. She prepared nourishing drinks for him with her own hand. She brought him presents, read to him and sang songs to soothe him to sleep at night. And he, who was spoiled and petted by his mother, wallowed in this kind of adoration.

  Mary, who’d pined for her own mother during childhood, now took it upon herself to give this young man the affection she felt she’d missed. She rose early to see how he’d passed the night, and dallied in his room until after midnight so that she was sure he’d fallen asleep. She wrote poems and devised short plays and amusements that would not tire him. I was reminded of her care of the children of the French royal family. Had she, instead of ruling a kingdom, been a noble lady with a handful of children and a loving husband, then she could not have been more content.

  Darnley responded to this treatment with an accommodating, pliant manner when Mary was there. But then, when one is the centre of attention, with every wish granted immediately, who would not be charming?

  As he regained his strength, he began to dress stylishly again and take a more active part in court entertainments. His soft features and pale blond locks stood out amidst the darker looks of the Scots nobles, his manners more akin to those of the French court where Mary had been raised, and he was skilled in gaming, which she loved. They spent evenings together in his rooms, playing and laughing together.

  One night, Mary, caught up in a game, wagered a ring with a tourmaline stone that she wore upon her finger. It wasn’t of huge worth, its value more sentimental than monetary. The cards fell wrong for her, she lost the game, and the ring was forfeit.

  ‘Misfortune,’ she whispered in distress. She hadn’t really meant to promise the tourmaline ring in payment, but she would not go back on her word. She started to tug it from her finger.

  ‘Nay,’ said Lord Darnley, ‘stay your hand.’ And he took a valuable ring from his own finger, worth twice as much as Mary’s, and offered it to her, saying, ‘Use this to pay your debt, for I’ll not have you looking so bereft.’

  Their fingers entwined as he handed her his ring.

  From that moment Mary was besotted. Against the advice of her councillors and in the face of stern warnings from Queen Elizabeth, she resolved to wed Henry Darnley.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she wailed, crushing the latest letter from England in her fist. As the number of complaints mounted, she’d summoned Duncan and me to her rooms for a conference. ‘Elizabeth sends Lord Darnley to me with a recommendation that I restore his father’s lands, confiscated by my father on account of some family transgression, yet when I do this and become enamoured of him, she writes to reprimand me!’

  ‘Perhaps she is jealous,’ I said, ‘that you have found love and she has not.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not such a trivial reason,’ Duncan Alexander commented. ‘Elizabeth might have allowed Lord Darnley to leave her court so that, being restored in Scotland, his family of Lennox Stuarts would cause acrimony as rival claimants of the Hamilton Stuarts to the Scottish throne.’

  Mary put her head in her hands. ‘I cannot thole this serpentine deceit.’ She raised a tearful face to me. ‘Where is my clear path through all of this?’

  I shook my head. I could scarcely speak. Duncan Alexander had just dismissed love as trivial. How had I ever become so attached to this man?

  On Mary’s instructions, I went to summon David Rizzio so that she might compose a letter in reply.

  Duncan Alexander hurried after me. ‘Have my words in some way offended you?’ he asked.

  ‘You think love trivial,’ I said tightly, not slowing my pace.

  ‘I do not. But, as I have said before, love cannot be the prime reason that a ruler weds.’

  Still feeling humiliated, I knocked briskly on Rizzio’s door.

  ‘Jenny . . .’ Duncan Alexander said this so softly that I barely heard it. But as the Italian opened his door, my sense of humiliation was so strong that, on entering the room, I indicated to Rizzio that he should shut the door at once behind me.

  Although Darnley did not attend mass, John Knox and certain Protestant lords objected
vociferously to the queen’s marriage on the grounds of his mother’s adherence to the Catholic religion. Foremost among these was Mary’s half-brother, Lord James Stuart, who was in truth, I thought, more concerned that his position as Mary’s chief adviser would be usurped by the Lennox Stuarts and that Darnley would connive to secure his estates. And as this thought came upon me, I realized that there was wisdom in Duncan Alexander’s words regarding a monarch’s duty in selecting a partner. Lord James and others banded together to declare that they would not accept a marriage between the queen and Lord Darnley. There was talk of them arming their clansmen.

  Those in the queen’s intimate circle considered this a gross betrayal. It was a grievous blow to Mary, and at court she railed against them, Lord James in particular. ‘I see these lords now for what they are,’ she said. ‘Power and wealth is their chief aim in life. Personal advancement is what governs their actions. With my wedded husband at my side, my half-brother James knows that he will no longer be the prime influence in my life. But I will proclaim Lord James Stuart outlawed and make Lord Darnley King of Scotland.’

  There was a silence, and then Darnley’s father, the Earl of Lennox, called out, ‘God save his grace! King Henry of Scotland!’

  Sir Gavin of Strathtay and others applauded, and then Mary’s secretary, David Rizzio, who always tried to win favours from anyone above him in rank, followed suit. The queen’s ladies, myself included, said nothing. Instinctively I looked for Duncan Alexander. The spot where he’d stood a moment earlier was empty.

  The queen and Lord Darnley married on 29 July 1565. Mary went to her wedding dressed in black to show that she was still a widow and to send a message to her people that her marriage was a serious business and did not require huge ceremony. But after the service was over she formally cast aside her widow’s garb, saying to me, ‘Jenny, you who knew me before and since my widowhood, please help relieve me of my mourning clothes.’

  As I removed the jewelled pin that secured her black hood, Mary tossed her head as if to shake all death and gloom away. Her hair came down, the pleated tresses uncoiling around her face, large curls of red gold spilling down onto her shoulders.