by Jane Yolen
“Often enough to make a decent appearance and little enough to avoid the sin of vanity, too.” He answered me seriously, as if he could not possibly conceive of a jest.
I opened and closed my mouth several times, chewing on his answer.
“I see from yer gaudy attire, mistress, that ye apply no such restraint to yer own conduct.” He had turned my feeble joke into some sort of lesson.
“I ... I dress to please the queen,” I said, recovering some measure of poise. I pulled feebly at the silk which tried to wrap around my legs. “I am her fool.”
“A fool ye are indeed, to please the queen and not to please God.” He leaned towards me, glaring with two coals for eyes.
I smiled and said lightly, “Do you mean that only what’s plain pleases God? Did He not make the lily and the rose, the rainbow and the ...” I struggled for another word.
“The de’il can show a fair face as an inducement to sin.”
“Well, then I am sure that you are no devil, sir,” I retorted tartly, folding my arms in front of me. “For your face is hardly fair.”
He frowned, not prepared to acknowledge such a barb from a mere girl—fool or otherwise. “This place is already full enough of de’ils, lass. They bring with them their wicked music and wanton dancing.”
“Does God not like dancing, either?” I asked, holding up my skirts and taking a few steps forward. “I thought it said in the Bible that David danced before the ark, and surely he was loved by God.”
“In its proper place, where it is done to honor the Lord, I can approve of dancing. But not the frivolous cavorting that aims merely to intoxicate the senses.”
“I should have thought ...” I said quietly, matching his serious tone, “that there are so many more serious sins that merit God’s anger, He can have none to waste on so light a thing as dancing.” I smiled.
But Knox thundered even more loudly, as if his voice could not be moderate, either. The sound bounced from stone wall to stone wall, and not even the heavy tapestries seemed to dampen it. “God willna overlook any occasion of sin through weariness or inattention, as a mortal judge might do.” His r’s rattled alarmingly.
“I am certain the angels dance,” I said, taking a few light steps, “and that they do so for the sheer joy of it. I think if you saw them, you would change your mind.”
My little dance seemed to make him even grimmer. His lips thinned down till they were no more than a slash across his face.
“Change my mind?” His voice rose to new heights. “Inconstancy is the mark of the feminine nature. Women are weak, frail, and foolish creatures whose rule can only bring ruination. As ye are showing me even as ye show yer legs.”
I stopped dancing and glared at him. “If God were as set against womankind as you say,” I shot back, “I hardly think He would tolerate France, England, and Scotland to be ruled by queens as they are this day.”
“He will set matters right in His own gud time,” Knox threatened darkly. Then he seemed to catch himself up and cocked his head to one side, looking entirely like a dark bird. “Och, lass, I have no quarrel with a child. And I tell ye, yer accent is execrable. Are ye French?” He peered at me and looked, for a moment, almost human.
The change of subject caught me off guard. I curtsied but kept my head up. “No, Italian. But I came with the queen from France.”
“And what of yer parents? What manner of folk are they to let ye fall into such a nest of vipers?”
“A cobbler and his wife, sir, and they are long dead and in heaven. So take care how you speak of them. I follow the queen now.
“Then I can hardly wonder at yer ignorance, lass,” Knox said, shaking his head. “I shall try to be gentler. It is not yer fault ye are a captive of the Church of Rome and that sorceress, and so are being dragged down to perdition. Raised in the wicked ways of the French court, ye have been denied the true word of God.”
“I believe I have heard rather a lot about the word of God,” I said, remembering a similar conversation with the cardinal months earlier. “I am beginning to think it must be a very long word and very difficult to pronounce.”
Knox made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat and waved my reply away like a bad smell.
“Lass, ye have fallen into damnable ways. Let me take ye from this cage of folly and find a decent godly Scottish family who will take care of ye and see to the gud of yer immortal soul.”
His absolute certainty only made me madder. No wonder the queen had cried. But he would not catch me so.
“If this palace is a cage,” I replied, “I would rather dance here as a prisoner than let misery be the price of my freedom.”
“Poor lass,” he said suddenly in a softer voice. “How little ye understand of the world.” He reached out a tentative hand, as though to pat my head. Then, as if thinking better of it—or fearing contagion—he withdrew his hand, stuffed it into the bosom of his robe, and stalked away.
“It took only a single serpent to destroy paradise,” he warned over his shoulder before going through the door. “One vain woman might yet put an end to this entire kingdom.”
21
ANGELS AND IMPS
If John Knox had been the only devil in our garden, Scotland could have become a paradise for us. The land had its own hard beauty and the people were honest and ready to love the queen. But to borrow a phrase from the old crow himself, the devils were many and came in pleasing guises. The angels sometimes looked like imps. In truth, though I thought I was on the lookout for them, I did not know them one from the other when they came.
I was strolling in the formal garden behind the Holyrood abbey one morning soon after my encounter with Knox. Often I walked there alone. They were not extensive gardens, not like the queen’s palaces in France, but still a maze for one who did not know them.
In Scotland as in France I had no true friends. Who would fool with a fool? I told myself, making the choice sound my own. But in truth I was lonely. On this day the queen and the Maries were still abed. So I did not even have them as companions.
As I turned a corner of a hedge, I heard the sound of coarse laughter and voices raised in mockery.
“Why, lads, look! Here is a toad in peacock’s feathers!”
“Pluck it, Duncan, and see if it squeals.”
I rounded the corner cautiously, having no wish to become involved in a brawl between any of the Scots lordlings. Their crude humor could turn to quick cruelty, especially if they had been drinking.
Up ahead were two young, brawny Scotsmen, six-footers clad in rough plaid with claymores—those two-handed swords—at their sides. They had penned in a third man, a small, hunched figure dressed in a salmon-colored doublet with matching sleeves slashed and pinked in a diagonal pattern. Beneath a jeweled bonnet and a mop of glossy black curls, the little man’s face was distorted, as though seen through a poorly-fashioned mirror.
“I think it be a witch’s bairn,” one of the Scots said, “fathered by a boggle.”
“What do ye say to Duncan’s guess, goblin?” challenged the other. “Hae ye a father who will own up to the deed?”
They laughed raucously at their own poor humor.
“Je suis ici avec le Duc de Savoy, ” the little man told them defiantly. I am here with the Duke of Savoy.
“It hisses like a snake, Malcolm.” Duncan gave the hunched figure a shove that almost knocked him over.
Clearly neither of them understood French, so they did not know that the man was here with the Duke de Savoy.
“I skinned an adder once,” said Malcolm, grabbing his victim by the pickadil collar. “And I can skin this little snake, too.”
The Duke de Savoy’s man pulled away and the delicate collar ripped, prompting further guffaws from the burly Scots.
Cursing under his breath, the foreigner turned his mangled face away from his tormentors and saw me, but did not call out.
“I know a lassie that this finery would suit,” said Duncan. “Peel that pea
cocking off, wee mannie, and I’ll make her a present of it. Or I will peel ye mysel’.” As he spoke, he pulled out a dirk, chuckling when the little man flinched away from the blade.
I could no longer stand still and watch. Picking my skirts up, I stepped out boldly and strode towards the men with as much dignity as I could muster, trying to sound like Regal Mary. I lifted my chin, straightened my back till it felt like a rod was there instead of bone, and spoke loudly as I walked.
“Your Magnanimity, I am so glad I have found you. The queen humbly begs the honor of your presence.”
“The queen humbly begs?” said Duncan, disbelievingly. He squinted at the little man. “Him?”
I pretended surprise. “Do you not recognize the Archduke Galliard of Barcarolle-sur-Mer, Prince of Saraband and Chief Regent of all Tarantella?” I rolled my r’s and added flourishes that would have made even Uncle Armand proud. “The prince has come to offer an alliance by which Scotland may stand or fall.”
“This is a great prince, this wee bogie?” gasped Malcolm.
“Can you not tell he is a prince by the richness of his clothes?” I demanded. “Who but a prince dares dress so ... flamboyantly?”
Both of the Scotsmen stood back and stared.
“And who might ye be?” Duncan asked suspiciously.
They did not know! Then—I would tell them! Drawing myself up proudly and putting on my haughtiest voice, I announced: “I am Lady Laetitia Hilaria de Moquerie, daughter of the Count of Brufort, first cousin to the Grand Margrave of Ambruzzi, chief lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty the Queen. You do not recognize me?”
While the young Scots tried their best to absorb this torrent of imaginary titles, I pushed my way past them.
“Come, Your Preponderance,” I said in Scots, “your army has just landed, and the queen wishes to review the troops.” Then I added quickly in an urgent whisper, “Venez avec moi, monsieur,” beckoning to him to follow me.
“What army is that, then?” growled Duncan.
“Five thousand Dragonard mercenaries,” I explained gravely. “The most bloodthirsty warriors in Christendom, each one having sworn an oath to die rather than see his prince dishonored.”
Nervously fingering the hilts of their claymores, the Scots exchanged unsettled glances. Malcolm finally said what was worrying them both. “But he was out here alone, without escort.”
I nodded. “I know, I know. And the queen worries about that. But it is the custom of His Grandiloquence to test the character of those nations he graces with one of his visits.” I looked around as if afraid to be overheard, then added in a low voice, “I believe he once went to war against the Palatinate of Haute Majestie because he heard a minstrel there singing out of key. What a slaughter there was that day!”
“I’ve not heard of any such massacre,” said Duncan slowly.
“That is because there were no survivors to tell the tale.”
“But how then do we know ...” Duncan said.
“It is a puzzle, is it not?” I nodded. “But never fear, this is just a friendly visit,” I assured them. “So far.”
They were looking more puzzled than satisfied, but I turned and made a deep curtsy to the little man. In a low voice, I said in French, “I have told them you are a prince, monsieur, and that I am the queen’s lady-in-waiting. Please act accordingly.”
He gave a curt nod, smiled slyly, put his hand out, and bid me rise.
We left together, though I walked—as was befitting his supposed rank—a few paces behind.
“We were just having a wee joke with him,” Malcolm called after us. “Tell him we meant no harm.”
Once we were inside, he turned to me and in elegant, courtly French proclaimed, “My dear young lady, my most profuse thanks. David Riccio at your service forever.”
“I am not a lady, David Riccio, only the queen’s fool.”
“A prettier fool and a prettier bit of foolery I could never hope to find,” he said. “How old are you, child?”
“Twelve. Well, almost thirteen,” I said.
“Thirteen! My heavenly child!” His accent betrayed him.
“Italian?” I asked.
“Si.”
I said back in the same tongue, “I, too. Nicola Ambruzzi. Well, part Italian anyway. My mother was French.”
“Italy’s loss, Scotland’s gain,” he said, bowing low, or as low as he could manage with his crooked back. “It was foolish of me to go out alone, but who could have expected such rough treatment within the grounds of the royal palace.”
“You are not hurt, are you?”
Fingering his torn collar with one hand, he waved away my concern with the other. “I am hardened to such cruelty. Since a small boy I have been the object of beatings and humiliations.”
“I, too, have known beatings,” I replied. And then, for some unknown reason, suddenly out of me poured the story of Troupe Brufort and how I came to be in the queen’s court.
“Ah, Nicola, here you are—so lovely a form and a fool. But my family thought that because of my deformity I should spend my life as a buffoon.” His eyebrows knotted in a frown which did not improve his looks.
“Your own family called you ... deformed?” I whispered the word, not wanting to offend him. “Did that anger you?”
“They told me no more than does my glass. How can I get angry at my mirror?”
“Then your mirror is false,” I said, not entirely telling the truth. “A man is counted by what is in his mind.”
He bowed to me again, a mocking gesture under the circumstances. “Noble sentiments, dear Nicola. My parents were more realistic. They told me that my appearance would amuse wealthy patrons, that I could live the cosseted life of a court clown. But my mind is as agile as my body is clumsy. I choose a harder way. Often that means that I am mocked by those who despise me on sight.”
I thought immediately of La Folle’s ridiculous capering and was suddenly embarrassed at how often I had laughed at her. I tried to imagine David Riccio submitting himself to such an audience.
“What did you choose?” I whispered the question.
“To learn letters and music and be a book for my master, not a buffoon for his amusement.”
“You were right to choose as you did, David,” I said.
He smiled at that. “Please, if we are to be friends, you must call me Davie.”
Friends! Could it be? I drew in a breath. My mouth must have known what my mind hadn’t, for I had already told him my life’s history. “Davie—what kind of work do you do for the duke?”
“As yet I am merely an assistant to his secretary of state. But I will not be an assistant forever. And since I can sing and play the lute as well, the duke has brought me along to Scotland.”
A sudden inspiration struck me. “The queen’s valets are planning to sing tonight in a little entertainment, but they have been looking for a fourth member for their company. If you can sing in French, perhaps you could join them?”
“Sing for the beautiful queen of the Scots?” He grinned, and it was an imp’s countenance. “Eh bien, I would be honored.”
“Bring your lute,” I said. “She loves music and poetry, and the lute best of all instruments in the world.”
22
A FRIEND AT LAST
So I took Davie to meet the valets, who were delighted to have a fourth, even though his twisted face and humped back took some getting use to in one who was not a fool.
I left him to rehearse, and that night he performed before the queen. Once he had completed the set of songs with the three valets, he brought out his lute and begged the queen’s indulgence.
She clapped her hands. “I hope you have good tone.”
“And good tunes, Majesty,” he said in reply.
The queen was delighted by his quick wit and was the one person there who seemed oblivious to his appearance.
As Davie sang, he seemed to cast off his misshapen body and rise upon wings of music, like a butterfly emerging from a
cocoon.
We were all entranced, the queen above all.
She leaned close to me. “Who is this charming fellow, Nicola? He reminds me of one of the puppies we had back in France, the weakest of the litter. Francis thought it not worth keeping, but I nursed it till it grew strong and loved me entirely.” She put her hand down and that same little dog, now full grown, licked her fingers.
“David Riccio, Your Majesty. He is in the keep of the Duke de Savoy. I met him walking in the garden.” I thought it best to say no more than that, lest I spoil the evening.
“We must persuade him to stay for a while,” the queen said.
I nodded eagerly, pleased for Davie that he had found favor in the queen’s eyes. And even more pleased for me.
In fact, I was only able to snatch an hour or so at a time in Davie’s company over the next few weeks, for he still had duties to perform for his own master. But in those moments we discovered that we shared a love of Monsieur Ronsard’s poetry and knew the same songs from Italy. I entertained him with my maman’s stories, especially the fables in which foxes and lions and mice play their parts. He told me all the news from Italy and France. I had not enjoyed such moments of friendship since Pierre had gone.
Yet a cloud over every meeting was the knowledge that day by day the time was coming closer when he would be sailing back to France with the duke.
Two days before that departure I was sitting in the queen’s parlor with Pious Mary, who was—once more and with little success—trying to teach me embroidery.
“Why is it,” I complained as I laboriously unpicked my latest disaster—a leaf whose bough looked mightily like a caterpillar. “Why is it that I can dance and garden and tumble and my hands give me no problem. But set an embroidery hoop in them and each finger becomes a thumb. Ow!” I dropped the hoop into my lap and sucked on the thumb I had just pricked.
She laughed, then leaned towards me, picked up the hoop, looked at it critically, and set it back in my lap. “It will come. All things come with patience. And time.”