The Queen's Mary: In the Shadows of Power...

by Sarah Gristwood

  Beaton did look. The galliard was ending, the partners sinking into bow and curtsey. Could it really be a surprise to Beaton that Chastelard’s warm brown eyes were now gazing with exactly the same heat at her Majesty?

  The queen – impervious, of course – was calling the musicians for another measure. Seton’s brows rose as she heard the name of the dance. Even in more sophisticated circles – France, or England – la volta was considered decidedly risqué. The man lifted his partner and whirled her around, off the ground, and could she be sure of preserving her modesty?

  Several of the dancing couples moved off the floor, preferring not to make the attempt, but to be fair to him, Chastelard could hardly have refused the queen’s wish and of course – of course! – he had to dance it perfectly, lifting even the queen’s tall figure easily.

  Seton felt as much as heard a ripple of disapproval behind her. That same elderly peer, whose clothes proclaimed his religious leanings all too clearly, had come up to Lord Moray, and was almost shaking him in his urgency.

  ‘You see how it is – she’ll have to marry.’ This was clearly a conversation they’d had before, and no surprises there, when they’d all spent the last eighteen months speculating who her Majesty’s next husband would be. But his next words shocked Seton profoundly.

  ‘She’ll have to marry. Look at the state of her.’ I swear, Seton thought, I’ve seen grooms in the stable, lifting up the tail of a mare in season, discuss her breeding prospects with more delicacy.

  A minute ago she’d been blaming her Majesty for her carelessness with Beaton’s heart. Now, seeing how careless these men were of hers, she would have taken up cudgels for her mistress cheerfully.

  *

  Sometimes Seton thought it had been that masque that set them on the wrong footing to deal with what came next. To make them think it was all just play.

  But in truth she wasn’t sure how they’d have acted differently.

  They were in her Majesty’s bedchamber, a few days later, and officially the queen had retired for the night, although it was still early. It wasn’t as though the draughty hall offered much inducement to stay downstairs. Livy said as much quite openly, with a freedom that drew only a laugh from her Majesty.

  Better the chamber, where at least the fire stood some chance of warming the cramped quarters, a cup of hippocras all round – her Majesty had no wish to be served in state on these occasions – and a chance to talk over the encounters of the day. She liked the Marys to keep her company at this quiet bedtime hour. To abandon some – not all, of course – of the day’s formality.

  That afternoon, a tardy Christmas gift had arrived from one of the Highland lairds, his messenger blaming the bad roads without too much real apology. But the queen was not inclined to cavil – he’d sent a present of ermine skins, so fine she was aflame to wear them.

  Fleming held them up against first one garment, then the other, until the queen cried out to her to try one of the boxes, there was that crimson cape she had worn at Poissy…

  They’d all had several gulps of the hippocras by then, laughing as they watched Fleming flop to her knees and reach for one of the chests stored under the bed. Uncomprehending, Seton saw her face freeze, ludicrously.

  Fleming rocked backwards onto her heels, and slipped sideways as if someone had pushed her. It was the first time anyone had ever seen her move gracelessly.

  And then Beaton was by her side, tugging at something under the bed and it wasn’t a box it was… a boot? A boot with a leg in it, and a man’s body behind the leg, and they took it in with the silence of total incredulity.

  It was his voice, raised in a half-mutter of sleepy protest, that roused them.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ said Livy, unnecessarily.

  ‘Of course he’s drunk,’ the queen snapped, but already the shock was passing, and there was less real horror in her voice than mere outrage. This was only Chastelard, after all – the licensed fool, the lovable puppy. ‘He’ll sober up soon enough when I speak to him in the morning.’

  ‘But what’s he doing here?’ Seton heard her own voice squeak embarrassingly. And just for a second thought she saw the queen’s long chestnut lashes sweep down to veil her eyes with a consciousness that told Seton she was being silly.

  Men had always desired Queen Mary. Why wouldn’t he? And as for the idiot romantic action that had taken desire a step further – well, the ale had been passing round freely all evening in the hall, and at this time of year the nights were long and dreary.

  ‘How do we get him out?’ Beaton’s voice sounded flat and constrained.

  Of course that was the point – plenty of time tomorrow for her Majesty to tell Chastelard what she thought of his behaviour, and no doubt he’d be able to soften the rebuke with flattery.

  ‘We could just call the guard?’ – but even Livy, for once, spoke quietly, as if they’d all already taken a vow of secrecy.

  ‘No! Absolutely not. Think what they’d make of it.’ No need for her Majesty to explain who she meant by ‘they’.

  ‘The first thing is to sober him up.’ But Fleming sounded uncertain of how to do it and it was Livy, with her streak of practicality, who seized the jug from the washing stand and jerked the contents towards his face. The cold water splashed Beaton’s skirts, as she knelt behind Chastelard, supporting him as he sprawled, but she seemed not to notice. But one of her hands pressed hard over his mouth as he started to protest.

  He was coming to, no doubt about it. Now he was trying vainly to scrabble to his feet, reaching towards her Majesty. She stopped him dead – and, mercifully, silent – with a gesture that would have done credit to a statue of Dignity.

  ‘The backstairs! Quick, Livy, go and see.’ Fleming was right, the best chance was to get him out, not through the presence chamber, but down the small staircase that led to the unused consort’s apartment below.

  ‘No one there. If we can just keep him quiet we should do it.’ Livy was whisking back up the staircase, breathlessly.

  She was tugging at Chastelard’s sleeve as she spoke, and Seton gave him a good hard shove from behind to help him on his way. Beaton had both arms wrapped around him, so that they staggered along like a single ungainly entity. Seton let them go, with Fleming running ahead of them to check the coast was still clear, and turned back to the queen.

  To Seton’s surprise the Queen was half-smiling. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Thank the Lord that no one will ever know.’

  *

  But the next day, or at least by the day after, it seemed everyone did know. Seton had lived in a court too long for it to be a surprise, really. Perhaps the maid he bribed to let him in had talked – or the guard the other side of the door heard a man’s voice, perhaps.

  Or, it may be that this was never quite the solo piece of drunken silliness it appeared to be. That’s another thing about a court. When one person steps on stage, it always turns out there are a dozen more waiting in the wings, coaching him on what he should say.

  So, at least, George said, when he caught up with his sister late the next day. Seton had been almost avoiding him, not sure whether she could keep the secret or even whether she wanted to, but it seemed there was no need to juggle her loyalties.

  ‘The damned fool! What did he think was going to happen, anyway – that the queen was going to welcome him with open arms?’

  To Seton’s relief, he didn’t ask any questions. Knowledge of the story was obviously fait accompli.

  Seton shook her head. If the suspicion just floated through her mind that some people would think that – or pretend to think it – she swallowed it down, discreetly.

  ‘And now – well, I don’t know, maybe she’s handling it the best way.’

  The queen had been going about her usual business with her head held high. She had sent Chastelard a message, through Beaton, that she had no desire to see his face, or listen to his excuses, that day.

  When she did see him, she would be regal and icy. But by and large
she had decided – they had all agreed, later that night – to treat the incident as nothing more than an outrageous piece of horseplay. George might, or might not, have had other views, but for him and his friends it was paramount that nothing should mar smooth relations with the French party.

  Indeed when, two days later, Chastelard stood at the back of a crowd of courtiers to make his bow as the queen swept past without glancing his way, Seton really hoped it had all blown over. Perhaps, even, a lesson had been learned, she thought – and later had a grimace for her priggishness and naivety.

  *

  When Seton came up the stairway, a few days later at St Andrews, and heard male voices from the queen’s bedchamber, it was plain exasperation that first took hold of her. Not again!

  She’d lingered in the hall for a private word with George, and stayed longer than she intended. Now she stepped back into a recess as heavy footsteps clattered towards her.

  There were guards on either side of Chastelard, their hands heavy on his arms, but it was his face that struck Seton like a blow. No sign of the drunken lecher of a few nights ago, nor even of the foolish romantic they all knew.

  This was no puppy. He looked hard and set, like… like a man on a job, and with his job on his mind. With mind racing and heart pounding, tripping over her long skirts, she ran up the stairway.

  *

  As she slipped into the room she dropped the routine curtsey, but the two protagonists did not notice. Around the walls the other three stood, just as invisible to the queen, who was all but shrieking at Lord Moray.

  ‘You thought I knew! You think I’d demean myself like that? That’s really what you think of me? I’ll show you. Give me a sword and I’ll run him through myself, and then perhaps you’ll believe he’s nothing to me.’

  ‘It’s not a question of what I think.’ By contrast Lord Moray was calm, his voice slow and even. Almost as if he were taking pleasure in what he had to say. ‘It’s what others will believe – at home, and abroad.’ Though she continued to rub angrily at her eyes, the queen glanced up sharply.

  Moray pressed home his advantage. ‘It would be a tragedy if anything were to damage your reputation at this moment, however unjustly. If the King of Spain were to alter his good conceit of you – or the Queen of England either.’

  ‘The Queen of England is in no position to cast aspersions at anybody else!’ Queen Mary snapped back.

  ‘True indeed – and look where the scandal has got her. Alone on her throne, and barren of an heir.’

  You had to hand it to Moray, he knew how to attack on the left flank and the right flank simultaneously. He pressed his advantage home.

  ‘Your Majesty, you have to do it.’ His tone changed. ‘Sister…’ He held his hand out towards the queen and she reached for it, blindly.

  Seton edged round to Fleming. ‘Have to do what?’ she whispered. Silently Fleming looked back.

  *

  Seton knew, of course she did, really. No one lives near the throne for long without knowing the price some have to pay. They’d been fools to let Chastelard get away with it once. Twice would be an impossibility.

  If only the queen had dismissed him from court at the first, she thought – sent him back to France with a letter of complaint. But maybe even that wouldn’t have done it.

  When, just half an hour before, George broke the news of the wilder stories flying round, Seton had just brushed them away.

  They said that Chastelard had had more than romance on his mind, whether or not he’d had any encouragement from her Majesty. That his aim was to compromise her – or even to kill her, alone there in her room. That he was in some fanatical Protestant’s pay. Seton had thought it absurd until she remembered that glimpse of his face… Then all other thoughts vanished, as she saw Beaton sway.

  Seton caught at her hands, and shoved her out of the room, while Fleming closed the door behind them, noiselessly. Beaton’s breath was coming in short gasps as Seton pushed her down onto a stool, and her grip would leave bruises.

  ‘She can’t… She can’t!’ There was nothing Seton could say. She thought that probably the queen would, and that she would have to. But Beaton’s face was as ghastly as if it were she condemned to the scaffold, not her precious poet, and Seton’s eyes focused on her sharply.

  ‘Beaton – I know you care for him, but he didn’t…? You aren’t…?’ Seton glanced quickly down at Beaton’s belly. Beaton seemed hardly to hear her, but after a moment she shook her head dumbly. As if that were not a relief, but a pity.

  Fleming’s head appeared round the doorway. ‘Aqua vitae – now.’

  Seton ran to find a page and turned back into the chamber, her need to know what was going on more pressing than her need to help Beaton.

  In any case, there was little enough comfort she could give.

  Twelve

  They cut off Chastelard’s head in the marketplace of St Andrews. None of the court were in attendance. That’s the kind of thing that is easy to set down in words, Seton thought. To live it… that’s another story. But if you’re close to a throne it’s the kind of thing you – what? Get used to? Hardly.

  It’s more as if every courtier were a drop of the quicksilver alchemists use. Break the vial, and the pieces reform again, looking as if they had never been shaped in any other way.

  Or at least, that’s the way it was supposed to work. Sometimes, even the great machine that is the court has to make allowance for sheer humanity. Chastelard died on the Monday: by the Thursday, Seton told her brother that she had to get Beaton away, and to his credit he’d agreed instantly.

  *

  At first Seton had thought Beaton was going to win through, and guard the crack in her heart in privacy. The first day or two after Chastelard’s death, she seemed almost to rally, no more shocked than they all were – or perhaps they were just too shocked to study her clearly.

  It was not as though anyone was cheerful. For all in the queen’s rooms this was a tragedy. They’d wept together the morning of his execution – yes, the queen too.

  No one could have thought she wanted this, even though it was her hand that signed the warrant. And Seton found enough space in her mind to acknowledge that in some way, she had the hardest row of all to hoe.

  Every time she left the privacy of her chamber, the queen had to remember that there were greedy eyes watching to gloat, and to report if she seemed too sorry. In some ways it was easier for the rest of them. What did it matter if a mere maid of honour mourned, unconscionably?

  Seton tried – as did Fleming – to give Beaton sympathy, but they weren’t sure she even noticed. And as she moved mechanically about the queen’s rooms – she wouldn’t go outside them – she did so ever more slowly. As if the weight of grief were physically bowing her down.

  Still, she made the motions of going about her duties; and to speak honestly, many of the duties of a court lady are no more than empty motions.

  *

  Perhaps the queen didn’t even notice. Perhaps she did, and kept her silence. Seton wanted to think it was an act of generosity. Certainly she made no demur when, in the end, Seton asked if Beaton and she might take leave from the court, urgently.

  She’d found Beaton sobbing in the queen’s rooms, clutching the squirming form of one of her Majesty’s little lapdogs. She asked what was wrong, of course, but all Beaton could say was, ‘He looks so sorry!’

  The dog looked just the same as normal to Seton – dogs always look sorry for themselves, that’s how they get fed – but that was obviously not the real story. Later, Beaton said there was just something about its eyes… She said that it left her heart raw and bleeding.

  Like the red meat they cut in the kitchens, Seton thought – and then thought of Chastelard, and the block, and blood, and dragged her thoughts away.

  They took her to Seton Palace, and Isobel was kind, once reassured that there was nothing infectious, and that it was safe for the children to stay. Truth is, she was a little overawed
, especially once George let slip that her Majesty might be visiting the patient.

  They had put Beaton to bed, and called a doctor to prescribe for her. Isobel was certainly good in the still room. ‘The rosemary is easy, and we have vervain preserved as a tincture. St John’s wort, too. But viper’s bugloss won’t be in flower for weeks yet.’

  ‘The physician says that if we can’t get all the ingredients, what we have will just have to do. Lemon balm, maybe?’

  Beaton tried to explain how it had been. Not all at once, and not in the first few weeks, but slowly, when life began to come back to her, and she and Seton would sit together over the embroidery frames or walk in the greening country.

  One afternoon they went down to the shore. At this low tide the village girls were picking periwinkles off the rocks, but they kept a respectful distance away.

  As they stepped from boulder to boulder across the pools, taking refuge in the childishness of the game, Beaton began, bit by bit, to say how the private horrors started slowly, like something just seen out of the corner of your eye.

  ‘It was as if I were seeing two worlds at once. As I was doing something quite ordinary – keeping the cupbearer up to the mark, or picking the burrs out of that dog’s coat – when I’d feel the nightmare creep up over me. As if the world were as terrible as the painting of hell in the chapel at Poissy – do you remember, when we first got to the convent, how I’d scream the demons were coming to get me?’ Seton remembered, with a vivid flash of sympathy.

  Beaton said, it had been as if the ordinary world were a thin membrane, fragile as the skin on warm milk as it cools. As if they were all about to tumble down into the nightmare below, with a certainty only she could see. She said she hadn’t been able to speak of it to the rest of them, not just for fear they should think her mad, but for very pity.

  ‘It was as if you and Fleming – and Livy, of course – were just children, dancing on the edge of a well, and I couldn’t tell you the truth any more than I’d wake a sleepwalker suddenly.’