The Queen's Almoner Read online

  “Mary Seton screamed and the queen shouted for someone to come and assist. That’s all we know,” Mary Livingston answered.

  “I woke up to doors slamming and feet thumping,” Rizzio said in my ear. “As I moved through the halls, castle guards pushed through like stampeding cattle. Within minutes, several of the castle guards emerged from Mary’s apartments with a cuffed Chastelard in tow.”

  “Chastelard,” I said through gritted teeth. “He finally succeeded in making it into Mary’s bedchamber.”

  “He struggled against the guards’ grip as they forced him down the stairs, all the while pleading and explaining that there had been a misunderstanding. He said all he wanted was to talk to the queen, and he meant no harm.”

  “Fool,” I said.

  “He continued to beg and reason, but the guards would have none of it.”

  “Good, I’m glad they have some sense. And the queen? How is she?”

  “The queen is shaken, demanding that he be sent to prison immediately for his indecency in coming into her bedchamber without invitation. Lord James is with her now. I heard him assuring her that the situation will be taken care of and that she should try not to let herself get so worked up by a wretch such as Chastelard.”

  I wanted to see her but knew there were too many people around. It would have to wait.

  As I made my way back to my rooms, I was no longer thinking of Isobel. Once again, Mary consumed my thoughts, and I would toss and turn the rest of the night with her on my mind.

  By the next morning she had already relented and pardoned Chastelard. I had not heard, but instead had the unpleasant surprise of running into him on my way to morning prayers. His flaxen locks were disheveled, and a crimson line of dried blood ran from a crack in his bottom lip to well below his chin. His clothes were ripped and stained with blood as if they had been the object of a game of tug-of-war between the guards and himself.

  “Good God, man! Where are his boots?” I directed the question at the guard who had accompanied Chastelard back to the castle but was only given a shrug. I didn’t care for Chastelard’s disgraceful behavior but did not wish to see his mistreatment at the hands of brute guards. “It’s the middle of winter. Why have you taken this man out with nothing on his feet?” I questioned again, but still did not get a reply from the guard.

  Instead, Chastelard ventured, “The beasts ripped them off of me practically as soon as they drug me from the castle. I spent the night in its entirety without them.” He sounded like a child whose feelings had been injured because a toy had been broken during play.

  I stopped a servant and gave him instructions. “Take this man to his apartment and get a warm bath ready for him. Dress that wound before it becomes infected and get him some clean clothes.”

  “Yes, sir,” was his quick reply as he wrapped Chastelard’s arm about his shoulder and helped him toward the stairs.

  “I always knew you were a good man, Thomas Broune. I’ll be sure to tell Her Majesty of your kind treatment of me in my time of need. I’m sure she’ll want to reward you for looking after her Dear Pierre.”

  I was at his throat before he could breathe another word. Grabbing ahold of his tunic I spoke more forcefully than I may have needed to. “I think it would be best if you removed yourself from Her Majesty’s company for a while. She may have pardoned your indiscretion, but her reputation is at stake. You would be wise to not mar her name nor risk your head.” I released him and brushed off his shoulder lightly, as if to right his disheveled appearance.

  “I, I meant no harm to her,” he stuttered. “I only wanted to talk to her about some verses she wrote to me.”

  “Go,” I sneered.

  He was still trying to exonerate himself as he walked away with the servant.

  ***

  I found Mary in the morning drawing room, her retreat of choice in the early part of the day. Here, the blinding sun could not afflict her eyes, yet she could still sit, basking in the warmth of the orange rays that persisted in disturbing the otherwise drab room. I stood just outside the door, watching her uninterrupted. But she wasn’t alone. Rizzio sat close by.

  I always felt as if I were disturbing them when I would come upon them working together. A light smile had softened her face and a faint laugh sat suppressed on Rizzio’s lips as I entered the room. A secret jest, no doubt. They were forever entertaining each other with private comments and inside jokes.

  Even on this winter morning, the sun stretched forth its dull fingers and lit the ample room with its bleak radiation. Mary sat, writing her daily correspondence. She usually performed this task in the sanctuary of her antechamber, and used this room for reading instead, but this morning she sat at the dark mahogany desk, with her head bent, yet her back stiffened in perfect posture. David Rizzio sat at another table close by, also writing correspondence and performing the tasks that Mary found too tedious to do herself.

  I cleared my throat so as not to startle them before stepping into the room.

  “Good morning, Thomas. I didn’t see you at supper last night, nor breakfast this morning. I do hope all is well. Are you ill?”

  “No. I am fine. Just a little trouble sleeping last night. That is all.”

  “Indeed! I know what you mean. I had a little trouble myself,” she said with a ruffled look.

  “Yes. About that….I saw Chastelard being brought back to the palace this morning.”

  She snuck a glance at Rizzio then proceeded. “I’ve already been scolded on that account, Thomas. No need to repeat the reprimand.”

  “Nay. Not a reprimand. Just curiosity. The man did sneak into your bedchamber with who-knows-what intentions.”

  “I admit, I was a little put off by his wanton behavior....”

  “A little?” I scoffed.

  “All right then, I was very put off by his behavior,” she acquiesced. “But, then I realized that I might have been partially to blame. I am much too familiar with him and must have led him to believe that there was more between us than just a mutual appreciation of poetry.”

  I stared at her. Had we not just had this conversation a fortnight ago? I tried to warn her, to convince her to tell him outright that she had no feelings for him and to send him away. Then again, maybe there were feelings there. Feelings she did not…could not admit to. I glanced at Rizzio who was busy trying to look occupied with his work, but his hand had stopped, and a blob of ink had congealed on the page beneath the spot where his quill had come to a halt. It felt like someone had stuffed my mouth with a linen rag. My tongue grew thick and my mouth dry. I licked my lips and then swallowed hard before continuing.

  “Are you quite certain there isn’t more there than you want to admit?” I was out of line, I knew it, and her eyes narrowed toward me in confirmation of my offense. “Mary, I cannot tell you how to conduct yourself. Please understand that my only concern is for your safety and reputation. It is at my highest recommendation that you rid yourself of this rogue once and for all. Put a stop to this, I beg you, before it’s too late.”

  In one instantaneous moment I saw hurt and choler flash in those striking green eyes. The gold flecks of fire that lied dormant on her melancholy days ignited and set her eyes aflame with defensive daggers. “I know that you feel obligated to look out for my welfare as a brother would look after a sister. But I am not a child. I am free to make my own decisions, and I feel that I am quite capable of determining when my reputation is in danger.”

  By this time color had flushed her cheeks and she was standing in an effort to level her eye contact with mine. A quick glance at Rizzio showed that he was hastily gathering his materials in order to make a swift exit from the room.

  It was my turn to be wroth, and I did not wait for Rizzio to leave the room before speaking. “I don’t think you are. I am sorry that you are offended at my concern. But I have heard the rumors that fly about you while you are oblivious to their threats. You asked me to stay on here—to serve you. I gave up my living—a va
lued and highly sought-after position in service to God Almighty, to serve you. You wanted my advice, my insight. Mary, you do not think like a Scot. Your head is so full of French frivolities that you have crowded out all reason and good sense. You underestimate the power and control of the Lords of the Congregation. Any misstep, no matter how insignificant, could cost you everything.”

  “Here you are. You and I are now alone in this room. Will not people chatter?”

  “I am not under your bed and you in your night clothes!”

  “But I am the queen.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You are a foreigner in the eyes of the Scottish people, a woman, and a Catholic. For these you are already condemned.”

  Her face showed injury and indignation concurrently. “But I am the queen!” she repeated.

  I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not for long,” I countered, adding, “not if you continue in this vein of reckless behavior.”

  She moved toward the door, but instead of walking out she shut it.

  “Are you telling me that I am not capable of controlling this land?” She stepped closer to me, her face so close I could feel the warmth of her sweet breath, a mixture of honey and spice.

  “I’m confused. How did this conversation turn into a discussion about your ability to rule?” I stepped toward her, bracing myself for the ensuing battle of wits.

  Her eyes still flaming and her cheeks still flushed enhanced her beauty so profoundly that I found myself swaying under her power to entice. She felt it too, for I watched the amulet that hung from a platinum chain around her neck, rise and fall in swift, jerky movements as the air moved in and out of her lungs in quick, short breaths. Her lips, soft and round drew my attention away from the bobbing amulet, its unearthly force attempting to pull me down into its devilish snare.

  “You are intoxicating,” I whispered.

  The color of her eyes changed from a striking green to soft amber with only traces of the earthy green substance remaining. Before I could say anything more, the dragon inside her subsided and she was the gentle queen again. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her face into my chest like a lost child, repeating over and over again how sorry she was for getting so angry. Had she heard what I said? Or had I merely thought the words? I had not received the response that I had hoped for, yet I took advantage of the proximity of her nearness anyway. I kissed her lightly on the head, drinking in the aroma of lavender and rosemary that so lightly bathed her hair.

  “There is a war that rages inside of me. Two beings struggle to manifest themselves. The one is a strong, courageous warrior with a banner of love and tolerance, righteousness, and wisdom. Marching forth to deliver her people and set things to right. The other is a femme fatale, furling a two-edged sword of pleasure and pain, gratification and guilt. Inflicting her powers to entice and persuade, in order to achieve her own selfish whims.”

  I stroked her hair gently, and then lifted her chin to look directly into her eyes again. “Mary, you are a good person. You have your Mother Eve in you, the flesh that cries out for something that she shouldn’t have. But the Almighty has placed within you a conscience that guides you and gives you wisdom when necessary. Feed the being that you want to have the most power and you will be a ruler with both righteousness and charm, wisdom and gratification.”

  She sniffed quietly and then looked up at me again. “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you for not being afraid to confront me and set me straight when I need it. And thank you for once again giving me wise counsel. This conversation has reiterated to me my need to find a husband. I must find a man of noble blood to share my throne, give advice when needed, and provide an heir to our people.” She wiped her nose with a piece of cloth as I removed the invisible dagger from my gut.

  “Yes, that was my intentions,” I lied, as she moved to unlock the door and reopen it. She may have taken this argument as a gentle reminder of something that she looked forward to, but it was a stark wake-up call for me. She would remarry. She would have a king that would protect her, advise her, and love her. All the things I was doing now, yet could not, would not be able to do in the future. And that thought scared the life out of me. Tell her about the letter, repeated in my head, but instead of listening to it, I walked out of the drawing room frustrated and defeated.

  ~11~

  February-March 1562

  Toward the end of February, Mary summoned me to her antechamber one morning to discuss a trip she wanted to take.

  “Thomas, I am preparing to go to Rossend Castle in Fife for a visit. As much as I would love to have you accompany us, I have some business I need for you to attend to in Glasgow.”

  The mention of my former residence caught me off guard, causing me to stand up a little straighter. The letter that I had written to Archbishop Porterfield, was still burning a hole in my pocket. I thought it would burst into flames at the very mention of my former employer.

  “What is it that my queen would have me do while in Glasgow?”

  “Your bishop has written to me with concerns as to the well-being of a particular widow there. Her late husband was a member of the Protestant congregation at the Cathedral of Glasgow, but his widow is a Catholic. She is due a pension from the church, but it seems there is an argument as to which church should pay her the pension. I would like for you to meet with your bishop and work this misunderstanding out. I am prepared to offer her assistance from the crown, if necessary, but I believe that this little cuffuffle can be easily remedied with your negotiation.”

  “I would be happy to help,” I said, my mind already spinning around this new task.

  “Good,” she smiled. “Why don’t you prepare to go immediately? The sooner you can return, the better.”

  I bowed myself to her then departed to make ready for my journey. I had been struggling for some time now as to what to do about the letter that I had written to the archbishop after I first realized my feelings for Mary. Perhaps this was a sign that I should quit vacillating and make my move back to Glasgow—or, somewhere. But for some reason I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to stay close at hand.

  Things were very precarious as far as Mary navigating the Scottish courts and the delicate balance between Protestant power and Catholic monarchy was still very much strained. Who better to advocate for Mary than someone like me who understood both sides? I finished packing and decided I would council with Archbishop Porterfield in person when I reached Glasgow. He was a man of God and would give me direction. This immediately set my mind at ease.

  ***

  I reached Glasgow by the next morning and turned Achaius toward the center of town in aim of our destination. The familiar sights and smells of this old city warmed me. But it wasn’t until the blackened stones of the cathedral, stained with time and element, came into view, that I truly felt at home. As the magnificent edifice, known as Glasgow Cathedral, loomed before me, I felt a quickening in my chest. It was here that I had begun my position as almoner, meeting the needs of the fatherless and the widows, and seeing to the well-being of the poor.

  I tied Achaius to a post then went in search of the archbishop. He would have finished up his morning lectures at the university by now and should already be back.

  I was delighted to see two familiar faces as I entered the Cathedral. “Do you mean the good archbishop is still wearing out his robes?” I stood in the doorway of a tiny chamber, grinning down on the two elderly widows busily working there.

  “Oh, Reverend Broune, there be me favorite cleric.” Widow Fee dropped the garment she was repairing and shakily stood to her feet to greet me.

  “Please, do not get up on my account,” I urged, as the aged woman shuffled her way to me and reached for my hand.

  “Ye know she won’t listen to a thing, even if the Good Lord himself were to walk in the room and say it.” Widow Smith scolded. “Especially not when there is a certain handsome young reverend involved.”

  Widow Fee squeezed my hand gently and cooe
d, “Ye have been gone far too long, Reverend. Are ye back for good?” She continued to pat and cluck over me, lamenting the amount of time I had been away.

  I hesitated, knowing that if I had my way, I would indeed be back in Glasgow shortly. Instead, I said, “I have some business with Archbishop Porterfield. You two ladies wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him would you?”

  “The bishop just left on a wee errand,” said Widow Smith, as she too continued to pat my cheek and rub the sleeve of my cloak.

  “Do you know when he will return?”

  “Oh, I’d say he should be back in two shakes of a lambs tale,” chimed in the other woman.

  I thanked the ladies for the information then disentangled myself from their attentions. As I walked toward the altar, an idea hit me. Slipping up the stairway, I made my way to a familiar room, the one where I found solace on many occasion.

  I entered the sacristy and stood for a moment, drinking in the silence. The gray stones that enshrouded the small chamber welcomed me like a well-worn robe. I crossed the room and sat down in the wooden chair where I had sat so many times before. This was the room where the clerical robes, supplies for the sacrament, and other items for service were stored. The ministers rarely came in here, except to prepare for the service, and so I found it to be a place of privacy and reflection. I took a deep breath, feeling the familiarity, and calm.

  “Hiding again, Reverend Broune?” The deep, booming voice of the archbishop pierced the quiet, causing me to start.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it hiding, sir.” I stood and crossed the room to greet my mentor and friend. “It’s more like…soul-searching.”

  “Ahh, I see,” he chuckled. “Widow Smith told me you were here. I bet I can guess why you are in Glasgow. Come, let us discuss Widow Shaw and her pension over some lunch. You must be starving after your journey.” He slapped my back in familiarity, and for a moment I felt keenly the loss of the life that I had given up to serve Mary.