The Queen's Almoner Page 6

  This memory only served to confirm what my thoughts had incessantly impressed upon me after my sleepless night. I felt the necessity to write to Archbishop Porterfield and request a reinstatement to my prior position—or at least, a similar office. I hurriedly scratched the letter, but upon its completion felt I should wait to address Mary at breakfast before sending the letter on to the Archbishop.

  I carefully folded it and placed it in a small pocket, considering how to best broach the subject. But no matter how many times I rehearsed our impending conversation, my mind froze at that same spot. What if she implored me to stay? Even worse yet, what if she didn’t?

  I arrived in the breakfast room that morning to find Mary already seated and talking with a gentleman whom I had never seen before. He had a rogue look about him, for although he was dressed as a nobleman, he had a certain air that lent to him an outdoor-like appearance, as if he felt more at home in a forest than in a castle. His red-gold locks brushed his shoulders in a disheveled manner, yet his mustache was styled to a perfect point on both sides of his lip. He looked to be about five and twenty and his ruddy complexion appeared weathered as if he had been riding for some days to get here. I imagined they must have been deep in conversation, for they both started when I entered the room. Mary beckoned me to join them, and then announced the gentleman to be James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell. We mutually acknowledged each other, yet neither of us cared too deeply about the other’s opinion. I chose a seat across from Bothwell and listened quietly to their conversation.

  Why this invitation to breakfast, as if on some urgent matter, only to be distracted by this nobleman?

  “Thomas, Lord Bothwell has just arrived this morning from France. I don’t know if you knew this, but it was he who arranged my journey back to Scotland.”

  I nodded my head to him in silent acknowledgment but did not speak. She continued.

  “He was a friend to my mother and has always held Scotland’s best interest at heart. He fought heartily against the Lords of the Congregation and opposed the signing of the Treaty of Berwick. The Lords have always been convinced that France had its sights set on conquering Scotland, and they tried their best to drag England into our little squabble,” she laughed.

  “Well, you know the Lords of the Congregation always did oppose the influence of the French on your mother,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, well, it is England that I believe we have to worry about,” Bothwell interjected. “They have panted after us since the time of Robert the Bruce and whether by hook or by crook, they will have their way with us again, if possible. England has toyed with Scotland like a kitten with a ball of string for too long.”

  “Aye, but I believe the Lords of the Congregation were also trying to strengthen their religious hold. The Reformation has been steadily gaining ground here in Scotland for many years, and they feared the Guises with their French and subsequently Catholic leanings, were a threat to their cause,” I explained.

  Bothwell scoffed at that. “We have our own sovereign. There is no need for the Great Queen to concern herself with us now. And there is no reason that the Lords of the Congregation should worry about our Catholic Jewel. Her Highness has proven more tolerable than even the kings and queens of England.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you supported the Treaty of Berwick?” Mary asked, affronted.

  “Aye, I did.”

  The atmosphere was strained, but no sooner had I finished speaking than the doors opened, and the servants entered, bearing gilded plates and tiered, sterling silver towers, piled high with all manner of indulgences. The sight of food must have lifted everyone’s spirits for we spoke no more of treaties nor England after the food arrived.

  Mary brought her cooks with her from France, and the foods at her table were always flavorful and of excellent quality. The gold chargers bore cheeses of brie and some other type of a strong odor that I could not identify. There were apples and pears skewered together with long, ornate picks with handles bedecked with rubies and pearls. Another plate bore smoked cod and yet another, steamed crayfish. Baskets of small loaves of warm, brown bread came next, and small bowls with little pats of sweetened butter, no doubt churned fresh that morning, accompanied them. The sterling silver towers held flakey golden turnovers filled with fruits and drizzled with fresh honey. The top tier held intricately decorated sugared wafers filled with bright yellow, lemon cream. Crystal pitchers with mulberry wine and brass and copper beaten flasks held almond milk, giving us something to wash it all down.

  “I ordered a small breakfast, as I’m riding out this morning for Falkland Palace in Fife,” Mary explained to Bothwell.

  He praised her for the ability of her French cooks to replicate their culinary fare. He spoke of how well she looked and how the Scottish air had brightened her countenance and made her more beautiful since he had last beheld her in France. He noted how her face was plumper and her figure was fuller and shapelier since she had started eating again. She blushed and covered her mouth with her linen napkin as she stifled a small laugh. I observed him as he grabbed a turnover stuffed with apple filling and tore off the end of it with his perfectly straight teeth. He chewed, half talking, all the while his pointed mustache shifted back and forth, back and forth like a gardener beating out a rhythm in the fallow soil with a hoe. There was something in the way he spoke to her, with such familiarity that was not befitting to a man before his queen.

  I quickly lost my appetite and would have asked to be excused but Bothwell beat me to it. Rising abruptly, he stated that he hated to cut his visit short, but he had some business of a personal nature to attend to and asked if he might call upon her again when she returned from Fife. She acquiesced, and offering her hand, allowed him to kiss it, his pointed mustache brushing softly against her skin as he inhaled her scent.

  “Interesting character,” I observed when he had quitted the room. Mary giggled, once again hiding her mouth in an attempt to stifle a smile that had forced itself upon her lips. She is smitten with him, I observed silently, or, if not smitten, then at least flattered. “What made him cut his flattering short, I wonder?”

  Mary resumed her breakfast, choosing a sugared wafer and pulling it apart to get to the lemon cream in the middle. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I imagine he has a lot of business he needs to attend to while he is in Scotland, for he rarely makes it here.” She licked the yellow cream from the wafer, then popped the wafer into her mouth and brushed the crumbs from her hands.

  For a moment I saw the little girl again that I had protected so faithfully when we were children. But this time, instead of protection from witches, kelpies, or even bean-nighe from our childish folk tales, I feared the brusque man with flattering words.

  We barely had time to talk for, in another instant Mary Beaton and Mary Livingston walked hurriedly into the room, flushed and giggling about the “handsome nobleman” they had encountered in the hallway.

  “He speaks rather boldly for a gentleman who has not been introduced to us,” said Mary Beaton.

  “I felt like I was standing naked before him the way his eyes followed my form from head to toe to head again,” sighed Mary Livingston in a tone that hinted that she rather enjoyed the examination.

  “I told you that your new dress from Flanders would catch even a blind man's attention,” Mary Beaton teased. “The neckline leaves no room for imagination and the bust is cinched too tight. Don't laugh too hard or you'll be popping out all over the place, and Thomas will have to help you get yourself back in order.”

  Mary Livingston's cheeks immediately deepened into a bright red blush as both girls burst into another fit of laughter.

  “Ladies! Do mind your manners,” Mary chastised. “Have you forgotten Thomas is a man of the cloth now? To speak in such a manner before him is both improper and disrespectful.”

  Though I would never agree out loud, it was true that Mary Livingston's dress was quite flattering to her figure. It was an azure velvet,
trimmed with tiny pearls around the plunging neckline. The color of the velvet brought out the blue of her eyes which had always been her best feature. None of which I would actually say. Instead, I sipped from my goblet and focused my attention on my cod.

  The ladies ate their breakfast in silence from thenceforth. Mary finally turned her attention on me.

  “I've decided to make a journey to Inverness. I need to make myself known amongst my subjects in the north and secure a more loyal following than what I presently enjoy. I would like for you to accompany me. The Lords of the Congregation have been sowing seeds of discord amongst my subjects in the north of Scotland for some time now. I've been advised on several occasions to take heed of my northern countrymen, and my visit today from Bothwell has proven to be a timely message from Providence imparting a warning yet again. I've already lost the Baron Drumlanrig, and I fear that Lord Lorne will soon follow suit.”

  My thoughts were immediately drawn to the note I had scribbled earlier and stuffed into my pocket. Now I would have no time to talk with Mary about my decision, or to confirm with myself if that is what I truly wished to do.

  “Might I inquire as to what purpose you feel I could serve by accompanying you to Inverness?”

  She put a half-surprised look on her face then a smile broke forth.

  “Thomas, you are my almoner, so naturally you will assist with the collection of any charitable funds that might be donated along the way. But I also trust your opinion and advice on all things Protestant. I hoped that you could act as a buffer for me should any mishap arise from my dealings with the Lords of the Congregation. That is…unless you feel there will be conflict of interest…”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Somehow I knew our earlier conversation was not over.

  “My allegiance is to you, my queen. Now that you are here again, there is no doubt in my mind that you will do what is best for Scotland and Scotland alone. I believe you to be a fair sovereign that has all of her subjects’ interests in mind. More so, I’m afraid to admit, than your mother had, God rest her soul. But I must ask, what about Lord James? Won’t he want to have a say in any political or religious decisions you make?”

  “Yes, I know he will,” she sighed. “He will accompany us as well.”

  “I thought you told Bothwell you were leaving for Fife. Falkland Palace, you say?”

  “Yes, we are. That is the more immediate plan. I want to do a little hawking, and I have heard that my father preferred Falkland for hawking to any other of his castles in Scotland. But I also want to start thinking about our preparations for Inverness. It will be a lengthy trip.

  “The trip to Fife will take at least a week. The snow will be upon us before you know it. Are you sure a journey of this magnitude is wise this late in the year?”

  “It is true that we may be inclined to stay at Falkland Palace until spring. I had considered that. Or, if we have to spend Christmas there, then so be it. I feel an overwhelming desire to get out and do something. I can sit still no longer.”

  “You did not mention to Bothwell that you were going to Inverness in the spring?”

  “I did not. I was not inclined to share all of my plans with Bothwell. I’m still learning with whom I can share my secrets.” She laid her hand on my shoulder as she rose to leave the table.

  “And what are your instructions for me while you are away in Fife?”

  “My dear Thomas, you are coming with us. I had hoped to speak to you about it last evening so that you might have more time to prepare for such a journey, but you appeared to be—indisposed.”

  Her voice broke off and heat reddened my face as I thought back to her coming upon Isobel and me in the stable the night before. Things weren't as they appeared, but I could only imagine what she must be thinking. She cleared her throat before resuming.

  “I’ve already made arrangements. Eat your breakfast, and then see to your things. We shall depart before morning is out.”

  ~9~

  November 1561

  I stepped across the threshold to my room at Holyroodhouse and sighed in relief. I was most glad to be back. We stayed in Fife for a month, and though parts of the trip were pleasant, it was a blessed relief to be back in my private chambers. For most of the trip, I felt out of place without a moment alone with the queen. And it bothered me.

  I still held onto the letter, requesting to go back to my former duties at Glasgow. I had waited for the right time, but it never presented itself. But I didn’t want to think about that right now.

  When morning came, I was determined to get a moment alone with her. I told myself that I was merely checking up on her, that it was part of my duties. I eventually found Mary in the stables.

  “When you didn’t come to breakfast this morning, this was the first place I thought to look for you.” I said as I leaned comfortably against the doorway and watched her brush the snow-white horse, her half-brother, Robert, had gifted her while we were in Fife.

  “Isn’t he the most beautiful piece of horse flesh you have ever seen, Thomas? Her eyes gleamed as she ran the brush through the long white hair that flowed down the horse’s back.

  “He is indeed. Where did Robert get such a creature?”

  “Pureté comes from the county of Clydesdale. They have begun a new practice there of breeding Flemish stallions with Scottish mares. The result is this gentle giant with beautiful hair that covers his hooves.”

  I raised an eyebrow in interest. “Ahh, so you have decided on a name for the poor creature. I was beginning to think he would just be christened the horse.”

  Mary rolled her eyes at me, but her smile told me that she knew I was teasing. “’Tis no small thing to come up with the right name for a beloved pet. And I adore this horse. As you know, Pureté means purity in French. I think that describes him perfectly, on the outside and the inside. He is such a gentle creature. I believe his heart is just as pure as his white hair. From his gorgeous mane, down to the shaggy hair that covers his hooves. He is beauty, grace and purity personified.” She rubbed her nose against that of the stallion, and I smiled at the sweet picture they presented.

  I pushed myself away from the door frame and strode to where she stood.

  “I have a letter for you, from London.” I dangled the missive in front of her and watched as Mary’s eyes snapped to mine in anticipation. I knew it was much-awaited correspondence from Elizabeth, the queen of England, and I couldn’t help but make a little sport of it.

  She reached for the letter as I snatched it away, holding it higher and higher until it was totally out of her reach. “Thomas Broune!” she scolded, trying to give me a severe look, which was laughable.

  “You really need to work on your sternness,” I advised, lowering the letter within reach. I finally released it, but only after she had stood so close to me that I could smell the lovely lavender oil she had rubbed on her skin.

  She turned the letter over, studying the seal and looking for signs of tampering. “I shall read it over lunch,” she said, tucking it into the pocket of her doublet. I eyed her speculatively. “What?” she questioned, shifting uncomfortably then turning back to Pureté. “I simply reiterated to my dear cousin my love and devotion and assured her that I am the submissive sister in need of guidance and advice.”

  “I can’t wait to hear her response,” I quipped. I turned to leave her to Pureté, but then remembered something else I had come to tell her. “I almost forgot. In our absence, a young man arrived, and the servants installed him in one of the castle apartments until your return. His name is Pierre de Bocosel de Chastelard. Apparently he has letters of recommendation.”

  “Yes, I have already been told of Monsieur Chastelard. Evidently he is a favorite with the ladies, sweetly wooing them with his poetic verses and silky voice. I can’t wait to make his acquaintance,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes at me in exaggerated fashion. Now she teased me, and I found I did not like when the tables were turned.

  That eveni
ng, we dined with all the pageantry that Mary’s French cooks could muster. But it wasn’t the rich cuisine that bloated my belly that night. The supper started as any other with the common court conversation prevailing. But Chastelard hastened in, at least a quarter of an hour after supper had started, profusely bowing and babbling his apologies.

  “Your Majesty, thank you for the invitation to supper. I can assure you that my tardiness will not be repeated.” He took his seat that Mary had so graciously reserved for him, unfolding his napkin and perfectly placing it on his lap.

  Mary took a drink from her cup then turned her full attention on the young man. “Monsieur Chastelard, you come highly recommended. Your teacher, Ronsard, is a friend of mine. He praises your verse and your poetic skill. Shall we have a taste of that talent this evening?”

  “Your Majesty, I live to please you. If it be your desire, I shall recite for you a verse or two.”

  He began to recite poetry to the delight of all the females who dined with us. Mary, in her courtly manner, refrained from most of the girlish shrieks that escaped the others’ lips. His recitations included some from his poetic teacher, Ronsard, others he had picked up in his travels across the continent. All who were present enjoyed them and even Rizzio appeared to respect the artist and appreciate the art.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. But Mary watched him with rapt attention.

  “Very good, Monsieur Chastelard,” I complimented. “Now let us hear something of your own invention. Have you a verse or two that you have written on your own accord?” I asked.

  The lighthearted cheer that painted his flowery words suddenly disappeared, and heat shaded his eyes. In one final poem his intentions were made plain and his heart laid open. He recited a piece that he had written himself and boldly dedicated it to Her Majesty. When his eyes fastened upon her, Mary was entranced in his melodic verse.