The Queen's Almoner Page 2
I caught de Monte Rochen’s eye as he spoke, and he forced a slight smile at me. A half-nod of his head granted me entrance into their conversation.
“Broune.” He caught my elbow in his hand. “Allow me to introduce to you the honorable John Knox.”
Knox. I was right—almost. I did not know him personally, but the man had a reputation as such that made you feel as though you knew him. John Knox had been a Catholic clergyman who had converted to the Protestant faith by way of John Calvin’s influence. My own mentor, the Archbishop of Glasgow, was a disciple of Knox and had been instrumental in my persuasion toward the Protestant faith two years into my education. Archbishop Porterfield’s praises of John Knox had been almost idolatrous; so highly did he regard him. I bowed myself to Knox. “It is an honor, sir.”
His slow blink and slight bow perpetuated the bird-like appearance. He spoke piously, “Broune, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
I held a respect for him yet found myself leery of any man that allowed such high esteem of one’s personality. I was quite surprised that Mary’s half-brother, James, had dared to bring Knox before the queen. Given the fact that Mary was a devout Catholic, I thought it rather risky for James to chance a possible conflict. “Knox, the pleasure is all mine. But I must ask; who am I to you?”
“Lord James assured me you were the person to speak with should I desire an audience with the queen.”
“Ah. James overestimates my influence with Her Majesty. I dare say James himself has more influence than I. They share the same blood. I am merely a childhood friend.”
“It is my understanding that friendships are the queen’s greatest necessity at this point. She will benefit greatly by keeping trustworthy advisors close at hand.”
“I have not been asked to be an advisor, but I am at Her Majesty’s disposal, and I am bound to her by a providential obligation.”
The conversation may have continued if it were not for the sudden interruption of the heavy, ornately-carved, double doors behind us opening. The queen’s valets entered the great hall and the noise level increased as if the thought of music stirred unexpected excitement.
Two dozen Frenchmen entered carrying various kinds of musical instruments. Mary loved music, especially of the French derivative, and these musicians had accompanied her to Scotland for such a purpose. A man emerged from the sea of instruments as if they parted by some holy rod.
Although he was only of average height, he carried himself with a haughty confidence that drew the attention of more than one court royal. Perhaps it was his dark, piercing eyes that drew the women among us to gaze at him in admiration. Or maybe it was his fashionably trimmed mustache, or even his Italian-inspired doublet. Whatever it was, the man certainly had managed to arrest the curiosity of half the Scottish court. Although he entered the great hall with the Frenchmen, he was not French. From the looks of his hosiery and codpiece, I guessed he was an Italian. It was an easy guess, for the Italians had a penchant for embellishing their virility.
The whispers subsided when the enigma opened his mouth. He began with a verse from Lo Ferm Voler Qu'el Cor M’intra, a poem about a desperate lover longing for a forbidden love. The selection was not entirely appropriate for a queen’s welcoming, but the prurient French that accompanied the queen to Scotland hung on every word.
A frenzy of emotion mixed with the sweat of too many bodies rampaged within the hall. I felt a serpent coiling in my stomach. Were these exhibits what we were to expect at the new court of our Scottish queen? Did Mary approve of this display? Did she request it? I had nearly had my fill when the Italian finished his bequeathing and the doors of the great hall flung open again. The passion of the preceding soliloquy mixed with the excitement of a glimpse of the young queen was enough to send the queen’s guests into a lustful delirium.
As if signaled by an unseen hand, the instruments began to play a triumphant piece that seemed to cry the exaltations of an orphaned child learning that his mother still lived. Mary swept into the great hall with all the grandeur that a queen of any royal court in Europe would envy. She was escorted by her distant cousin, James Hamilton, the third Earl of Arran. The sight of the young man at her side was rather unsettling to me. Everyone knew that when Mary was just a baby, Arran’s father had tried to arrange a marriage for him with the young queen. It would come as no surprise if Arran still secretly desired to make Mary his wife.
The queen stepped gently to the big chair that sat at the head of the table. Two ladies-in-waiting assisted her in adjusting her skirts as she seated herself. The court followed, and I found myself seated between a middle-aged Frenchwoman and Ambassador de Monte Rochen. I spotted Lord James, Mary’s half-brother, from across the table, sitting at Mary’s right hand. Next to him sat the Italian. How he managed to find himself in such a favorable seating position eluded me. On the other side of de Monte Rochen was Knox.
“One must wonder what the Almighty would think of that impious display we were subjected to before dinner.” Knox spoke with a half sincere, half mocking tone to his voice. I knew he was right. I too felt a sickening disappointment at the chosen entertainment for this evening. Yet I knew there was an underlying meaning to his comment. Knox was a devout man of the cloth, but I couldn’t help but feel like he was a threat to Mary. Although we shared many of the same religious convictions, there was one thing that he and I did not share—and that was a devoted love and loyalty to the queen. He had not beheld her sweet, round face looking into his eyes with wonder and affection as a child. He had certainly not been akin to the knowledge of secret fears of a young woman as she was about to become a queen for the second time and wife for the first. Mary had shared all of those things through our letters, and although I had not been her closest confidant in recent years, I had reason to believe that she still looked to me for assurance and stability on this unsure and insecure course she had set herself upon.
I had no reply for Knox. He wasn’t really speaking to me, but I felt as though the comment had been made for my benefit. I was usually well versed in the art of conversation, but I was dumbfounded by her choices—if they were actually her choices—and knew not how to answer for them. I also felt a twinge of defensiveness arising in me—an emotion that I was not accustomed to—so I felt it wise for me to hold my tongue before making an utter fool of myself.
“The Catholics are becoming more carnal with each passing penance.” The words came from a small man with a tight pinched nose. Nervous laughter attempted to escape his lips.
“And a loose and insolent tongue is becoming more common among the Reformers,” quipped de Monte Rochen.
The man shifted uneasily in his chair, and Knox spoke again. “Ambassador, surely Dalmahoy meant no offense. And surely you must recognize that the Catholic Church does not have Scotland’s best interest at heart.”
“And surely you must realize the wisdom of the Romans: The prince who would know all, must ignore much,” he spat back.
Controlled, Knox spoke again, “Our conscience will not allow us to ignore much. The Catholics burn our churches and kill our families. They steal from the poor to feed their stuffed bellies and bulging pockets. Forgive me, for I know you have ties to the Catholic Church, but we Scotsmen will not allow this filth to decimate our souls and ravage the land of our forefathers. Furthermore, the Holy Writ does not recognize the authority of the lesser sex; therefore, we are at a great conundrum and must decide what course of action we must take next.”
I grew tired of this conversation. Guilt belonged on both sides. The Catholics had burnt and pillaged many a village in Scotland where resistors to their doctrine were reported, but hadn’t we done the same in the name of righteousness? We claimed to be the hand of the Almighty, flushing out the corruption and false doctrine and exposing the fallacy of ancient rituals in favor of the freedom to live by faith. This blessed reformation was intended to expose the malpractice of corrupt clergymen but somehow it had turned political—and deadly, for some.
I also did not share Knox’s opinion of godly authority. I feared that this could hold some danger for Mary. I would have to be her eyes and ears where she could not be, in order to protect her from this dangerous notion.
Even though I hadn’t eaten anything all day, my stomach had its fill of rotten disquisition. I excused myself from the table and glanced to see if Mary noticed my departure. She chatted with Lord James and Arran and didn’t even look in my direction.
Good. I won’t have to give an explanation for leaving.
~3~
August 1561
I stepped from the great hall into the coolness of the outer corridor. I knew all of the hidden passageways at Holyroodhouse, so I chose the second door to my right and opened it gently. Once inside, I paused as memories of childhood games came rushing back. Playing in the hidden passageways had been a favorite pastime of ours.
Now, I slid through the narrow opening and felt my way along the dark, rough wall. The musty smell of ancient oak mixed with earth and stale air awakened my dulled senses. I counted the doorways as I passed them and considered where I wanted to go. I sought solitude, for by this time, my head was heavy with ache. Two choices immediately came to mind: the evening drawing room or the morning drawing room. The former was more difficult to reach from this passageway, so I decided on the latter. I guided myself blindly through the passage until I found the door that I wanted and gently pressed my ear against it. I heard no voices and after a moment of hesitation, I decided it was safe. I turned the knob slowly to the left, pulled it upward and pushed it toward the door; a little trick I learned from our many games of hiding. The door resisted, but with a gentle nudge it finally gave way. I pushed it as slowly as I had the patience for. One thing you never want to do when emerging from a hidden door is to burst in on someone who may be occupying the room. Not only do you reveal your secret, but you risk the chance of having your eyes put out at the hand of a startled occupant.
After a quick glance around the room, I ascertained that the room was presently empty, and I was safe from disturbances for the time being. I chose a wide, cushioned chair covered with crimson silk damask. I sank down on the seat and laid my head back.
The events of the evening came pounding into my head, and I squeezed my eyes tighter to block them out. I sat in the silence for quite some time until I heard a light footstep then the door creak open. I opened my eyes in time to see the intruder.
“Isobel.” I stood to my feet. My mind reeled as I tried to remember when I last saw her.
“Thomas!” she exclaimed, then quickly adjusted her tone. “I beg your pardon, sir.” She bowed herself to me and clutched her skirts to make a quick exit, but I managed to waylay her.
“No pardon needed.” I paused, before continuing, “I am glad to see you still here. At Holyroodhouse.”
She made eye contact, then quickly looked away. “I will leave ye alone. I did not realize this room was occupied.”
“No need. I was just trying to escape the frivolity. Please—will you not sit?”
I usually tried to avoid the lass, for she was flirtatious and forward and always left me feeling a little nervous when I was in her presence. Though she was small in stature, she had enticing curves that could be used to her advantage. My flesh could easily succumb to her temptations; therefore, I stayed away from her.
But tonight I saw that something was amiss. She hesitated momentarily and opened her mouth as if she sought for some excuse not to stay. When nothing came, she closed her mouth and took a seat in the crimson silk chair that I offered her. I chose a crane-colored couch nearby and settled myself again.
I watched her for a moment as she twisted her skirt in her hands. This was not the same girl who had dared me to kiss her when we were younger. “Isobel, are you well?” Her usually rosy complexion was peaked and there were dark smudges under her eyes.
“No need to worry yourself.” She tried to tease, but it fell flat. A strange silence hung between us, then finally she said, “I…get extremely painful headaches at times. I am permitted to find a retreat when the pain overwhelms me. I come here because there is never anyone in here, and I know I won’t be in the way.”
I sat back in surprise. I had known Isobel for several years, and in that time, I had never seen her without a smile on her face. It was disturbing to see her in such a state now, and I feared for her well-being.
“I had no idea. How long have you suffered from this ailment?”
“Only since April. I slipped on a wet stone while I was walking last spring. I hit my head when I fell, but I do not remember anything else. When I awoke, I was lying in a bed surrounded by puffy pillows and fanning ladies fussing over me. Now, when I exert myself too much, my head becomes heavy and then the pain starts.”
With this last revelation, her voice cracked, and she stopped. She shifted in her seat and clutched nervously at her skirt, continuing to twist and wring the fabric in her hands. I felt as if I had pried too much already but was compelled to speak further. Moving closer, I spoke as if the walls had ears.
“My lady, I know of a very good physicker in Edinburgh. If it please you, allow me to speak to him on your behalf and inquire as to whether anything can be done for your condition.”
“Please, no. I will not be a burden to ye also. I have laid the trouble on my own family, so I cannot allow ye to trouble yourself on my behalf also. Please, please, there is no need to involve yourself.” She abruptly rose and ran to the door.
“Isobel, it is no trouble at all.” I stood to call after her, but my words fell to the floor. She was gone before I could say anything more. I had not anticipated such a reaction. I would never have intruded so boldly if I thought it would upset her in such a manner.
Isobel’s abrupt departure might have stung more had it not been for another intruder succeeding her exit. A messenger sought me out and caught me in the drawing room before I could pursue her. The short man had a little mouth drawn up into a knot and looked as if I had disturbed him. “Are ye Thomas Broune?”
“I am.”
He shoved a note into my hand. Then clicking his heels together, he abruptly spun around and dodged off in the direction from which he had come.
I turned the card over and studied the seal. Hot wax had been poured over the opening and pressed with a small instrument. Imprinted in the wax was the emblem of a rose with a branch of thistle entwined.
It was Mary’s emblem. She had chosen the symbol while she lived in France. She sealed all of her letters to me with it and used it when it wasn’t official business. I broke the seal quickly and read her request. She wanted me to meet her at the end of the dinner hour when the music had commenced, and she could step away for a moment. She begged me to stay at Holyroodhouse and not return to the inn where I had been staying since my arrival in Edinburgh.
I shoved the note into the pocket of my robe and stepped out freely into the hallway. Now that I had been discovered, I saw no point in going through the secret passages. At this point, if anyone saw me I could explain that I had business to attend to and would not have to be bothered.
I made my way down the hallway, glancing at the carved panels as I passed. The walls read like a book telling stories of the kings and queens of Scotland that had graced the halls of the abbey and more recently Holyroodhouse itself, since the time of David I. I turned in the direction of the northwest tower, for that is where Mary had settled her apartments. Her note indicated that she would be in her private garden. I knew the place well for we used to pick primrose and heather for her mother inside the gated walls there.
I allowed myself to sink further into thought as I walked the length of the corridor. I had been away from the table for quite some time, so I quickened my step to get there hastily. I feared by now that I may have kept her waiting, for I had no idea how long it had taken the messenger to find me in this vast house. Just as I reached the door that led to the courtyard, I was startled by a figure emerging from the outer
courts. It was the Italian.
“Ahhh, you must be the Reverend Broune.” He spoke with a thick accent that made me strain to understand his speech. “Her Majesty mentioned that she was awaiting your arrival. She is in the garden.”
“I know.” I spoke rather curtly and chastised myself for it afterward. What did he know of Mary? And what business was it of his to direct me to her? I was ashamed of the animosity I felt toward this man. I didn’t know him, yet I found myself deeply troubled by his presence and irritated that he was here speaking to me about Mary. I tried to recover the offensive reply, “That is—I just received her note and came straightway.”
With a deep, courtly bow he swept his hand away from me and then swiftly turned and walked down the corridor. I watched him walk away until I could see him no more, then I opened the door to the courtyard.
I would have to ask Mary about him.
~4~
August 1561
The rush of late-summer’s evening air stung as I stepped outside. I walked across the quadrangle and looked for Mary and her ladies. A heavy mist hung like a blanket upon the garden oaks. In the pale of the moon I saw her standing alone, inspecting a blossom, touching the petals, and smelling their aroma.
“Tulipa gesneriana, hailing from Turkey, they are named for their similarity to the bindings the Turks wear about their heads. Albeit, these came from bulbs given to your mother from a Dutch trader, I believe.”
She tilted her head slightly and looked at me with an amused expression. “Thomas, you were always so full of good advice and instruction for me. But you know I never cared for all those useless facts. Why can’t you just enjoy the flowers?” She laughed. “Sometimes beauty does not need an explanation.”
“No, it does not,” I replied, looking away quickly. Then I explained, “From the day you were born until now, I have been mandated to look out for you and help you in any way, when it is within my power to do so. If that means providing you amusement with my useless facts as well, then so be it.”