Madame, I was true servant to thy mother,
And in her favour aye stood thankfullie,
And though that I to serve be not so able
As I was wont, because I may not see—
Yet that I hear thy people with high voice
And joyful hearts cry continuallie—
Viva! Marie, tre noble Reyne d'Ecosse!
SIR RICHARD MAITLAND.
For seven consecutive days our hero traversed the streets of his native capital, poking his nose under the velvet hood of every lady whose figure or air resembled in any way those of his fair innmorata; and in these seven days he ran at least an average of eight-and-twenty risks of being run through the body for his impudence; but his handsome face, his suave apologies and brave apparel, obtained him readily the pardon of those he followed, jostled, or accosted. One evening he was just about to leave the city by the gloomy arch of the Pleasance Porte, above which grinned the skulls of those who had abetted the Master of Forbes in his wicked attempt upon the life of James V., when the booming of Mons Meg and of forty other great culverins from the castle-wall made the windows of the city shake; while the clanging bells in every church, monastery, and convent, gave out a merry peal.
He asked one who passed him, "What caused these signs of honour and acclaim?"
"The return of the Queen-Mother from Falkland," replied this person, a burgher, who was hastening from his booth, clad in his steel bonnet and jazarine jacket, with an arquebuse on his shoulder.
"The Queen-Mother!"
He paused, and, with an emotion of alarm; he remembered his dispatches from Henry of Valois to Mary of Lorraine and the Regent Arran, and resolved on the morrow to atone for his delay. As the armed citizen left him and mingled with the gathering crowd, the tone of his voice, and something in his air, brought to Fawside's memory that man of the stout arm and long axe who had so suddenly befriended him on that night, the desperate events of which seemed likely to influence the whole of his future career. Here was a key, perhaps, to the name and dwelling of his unknown beauty; but the chance was scarcely thought of ere it was gone!—already the armed stranger was lost amid the crowd that hurried up the adjacent close, to mingle, in the High Street, with the masses who greeted Mary of Lorraine with shouts of applause. She entered in the dusk, surrounded by torch-bearers and guarded by a body of mounted spearmen, led by Errol, the lord high constable of Scotland, a peer who was secretly in league with England against her. She was preceded by a long train of merchants, wearing fine black gowns of camlet, lined with silk and trimmed with velvet, according to the rule for all above ten pounds of stent; by the provost in armour, and the city officers and piper wearing doublets of Rouen canvas, and black hats with white strings, and all armed with swords, daggers, and partizans.
Arrived in the city on the morrow, Fawside rode at once to the residence of the Queen-Mother. He was well mounted, carefully accoutred, and armed to the teeth; for in those days no man knew what manner of men or adventures he might meet if he ventured a rood from his own gate.
His armour was a light suit of that species of puffed or ribbed mail which was designed as an imitation of the slashed dresses of the age. On his head was one of those steel caps known as a coursing-hat, adorned by a white feather. The mail was as bright as the hands of the first finisher in Paris (M. Fourbisser, Rue St. Jacques, armourer to the Garde du Corps Ecossais) could render it; and the cuirass was inlaid in gold, with a representation of the Crucifixion, as a charm against danger—a style introduced by Benvenuto Cellini, and named damasquinée; and Dame Alison, who, with a deep and deadly interest in her louring but affectionate eyes, had watched her son equipping himself and loading his petronels, sighed with anger that it was only for the city he was departing again.
"Edinburgh," she muttered; "ever and always Edinburgh! What demon lures thee there? Is it but to prance along the causeway, or flaunt before the saucy kimmers at the Butter Tron and Cramers-wives, thou goest with all this useless iron about thee?"
"Useless?" reiterated Florence with surprise.
"Yes—-useless to thee, at least!" she said, almost fiercely.
"Speak not so unkindly to me, dear mother; I am going elsewhere than to Edinburgh."
"Hah—whither?" she demanded, with some alarm.
"To the regent, on the business of the King of France; and in the wilds of the Torwood, or of Cadzow Forest, I may not find this iron, as you stigmatize the best of Milan plate, perhaps so useless a covering."
For the first time, the mother and son parted with coldness on her side; for the delay he exhibited in challenging Preston to mortal combat, or assaulting and sacking his farms, if not his tower, filled her angry heart with doubt and with disdain; for her long-cherished hope seemed on the eve of being dissipated.
These bitter emotions gave place to anxiety when, about nightfall, she heard news of the enemy. Roger of the Westmains hurriedly entered the hall, and, after paying his devoirs as usual to the ale-barrel, announced that, while driving a few stirks home from Gladsmuir—the fatal land of contention,—he had seen Claude Hamilton depart at the head of an armed train of at least twenty mounted men, by the road direct for Edinburgh.
"And my son is there alone!" was her first thought; for, in his anxiety to depart, and that he might with more freedom prosecute the search after his unknown, he had galloped westward from Fawside, without other friends than his sharp sword and his stout young arm.
"By this time—yea, long ere this," said Roger, looking at the sundial on the window-corner, "he will be far on the way to the Lord Arran's house of Cadzow, and not a horse in the barony could overtake him."
"Pray Heaven he may be so," replied the grim mother, crossing herself thrice; "he will be here to-morrow."
But many a morning dawned, and many a night came on, before she again saw her son, whose adventures we will now rehearse.
He soon ascertained that her majesty the queen-mother was at her new private residence (on the north side of the Castle-Hill Street), which, with its little oratory and guard-house, she had erected after the almost total destruction of Edinburgh by the English army in 1544. Holyrood Palace was burned on that occasion. Thus, at the time of our story, many of its southern apartments were in ruin; and hence Mary of Lorraine was compelled to find a more secure habitation within the walls of the city, and in the vicinity of the fortress, of which the gallant Sir James Hamilton of Stain-house was governor, until he was slain in a bloody tumult by the French.
Several persons, apparently of good position, were loitering near this little private palace, and to one of these—a page apparently—Fawside addressed himself; and on receiving a somewhat supercilious answer, he exclaimed angrily,—
"Quick, sirrah—announce me, for I must speak with the queen ere I ride for the lord regent's."
These words were overheard by two gentlemen richly dressed and brilliantly armed in gorgets and cuirasses of fine steel, with their swords and daggers glittering with precious stones. They were each attended by two pages, and jostled so rudely past Fawside, who had now dismounted, and held his horse by the bridle, that, had he not been amply occupied by his own thoughts, he would have called them severely to account, as an insult was never tolerated in those days.
"Bothwell!"
"Glencairn!" were the exclamations, as these worthies recognized and cautiously saluted each other.
"'Tis our man Fawside," whispered the latter; "doubtless he goes now to deliver his missives. Accursed folly that spared him; but 'tis too late now; let the queen receive hers."
"And he goeth hereafter to Arran. I heard him say so."
"He shall never pass through Cadzow Wood alive. I have a thought—stay—get me a clerk to write. Where lodges Master Patten?"
"At the upper Bow Porte—not a pistol-shot from this."
"This way, then," said Glencairn, twitching his friend's mantle; and they hurried away together, while the unfortunate Fawside, without the least idea that he was watched so narrowly, approached the Guise Palace, as it was named by the citizens.
This edifice, which was built of polished stone, was three stories in height; the access to it was by a turnpike stair, above the carved doorway of which were the cipher of the queen, "M.R.," and the pious legend, Laus et honor Deo, to exclude evil. On the opposite side of the narrow close was the guard-house, where a party of thirty men-at-arms, under Livingstone of Champfleurie, an esquire, all equipped by the queen, and brought from her own lands as private vassals, furnished sentinels for her modest dwelling. These men were armed with sword, dagger, and arquebuse, and bore on their doublets—which were of the royal livery of Scotland, scarlet faced with yellow—the arms of the queen-dowager, or bendwise gules, charged with the three winglets of Lorraine, and quartered with the Scottish arms,—sol a lion rampant within a double treasure, flory, and counter-flory, mars.
In those simple times, people of rank were easily accessible; thus, there was not much ceremony observed by royal personages. In a very brief space of time, Fawside found himself treading the oak floors of Mary of Lorraine's dwelling, as he was ushered by a page into a large apartment, the sombre tapestry of which was rendered yet darker by the narrow and ancient alley into which its three tall windows opened. This room was furnished with regal magnificence. The arras, which had formed a portion of the dowry of Yolande of Anjou, depicted the career of Garin the Wild Boar, who figures in the romance of "Gaharin de Lorraine." The chairs were covered with crimson velvet fringed with silver, and all bore the royal crown and cipher. The door and panelling, some of which are still preserved, were all of dark oak exquisitely carved, and in each compartment was a device, an armorial bearing, or a likeness of some member of the royal family; James V., with his pointed moustache, and bonnet smartly slouched over the right ear, being most frequently depicted. The ceiling, which is still preserved at Edinburgh, is of wood, and very singularly decorated. In the centre is the figure of our Saviour, encircled by the legend,—
Ego sum via, veritas, et vita.
In each compartment is an allegorical subject, such as the Dream of Jacob, the Vision of Death from the Apocalyse, &c., and one representing the Saviour asleep in the storm, with a view of Edinburgh, its castle and St. Giles's church in the background, His galley being afloat, not in the Sea of Galilee, but, curiously enough, in the centre of the North Loch.
Within a stone recess, canopied like a Gothic niche, and secured thereto by a chain of steel, stood the famous old tankard known as the Fairy Cup of King William the Lion.
Delrio relates, from Gulielmus Neubrigensis, that a peasant, one night, when passing near a rocky grotto, heard sounds of merriment; and on peeping in, beheld a quaint-looking company of dwarfish elves dancing and feasting. One offered him a cup to drink with them; but he poured out the bright liquor it contained, and rode off with the vessel, which was of unknown material and strange of fashion. It became the property of Henry the Elder, of England, and was presented by him to King William the Lion, of Scotland; after whom it became an heirloom of our kings,[*] and was now in the custody of Mary of Lorraine.
[*] "Discovrse of Miracles in the Catholic Chvrch." Antwerp, 1676.
Florence Fawside had barely time to observe all this, to unclasp his coursing-hat, glance at his figure in a mirror, and give that last and most satisfactory adjust to his hair, which every man and woman infallibly do previous to an interview, when the arras at the further end of the apartment was suddenly parted by the hands of two pages. Two ladies in rich dresses advanced, and our hero knew that he was in the presence of the widow of James V. He sank upon his right knee, and bowed his head, until she desired him to rise and approach, with a welcome, to her mansion, in a voice, the tones of which stirred his inmost heart, by the emotions and recollections they awakened.
Mary of Lorraine was the sister of Francis, Duc de Guise, and widow of Louis of Orleans, Duc de Longueville, before her marriage with James V. of Scotland. She was beautiful and still young, being only in her thirty-second year. She was fair-complexioned, with a pale forehead and clear hazel eyes, which were expressive alike of intelligence, sweetness, and candour. Her red and cherub-like mouth ever wore the most charming smile; her hair was partly concealed by her lace coif; her high ruff came close round her dimpled chin; and on the breast of her puffed yellow satin dress, which was slashed with black velvet, and trimmed with black lace, sparkled a diamond cross, the farewell gift of her sister, who was prioress of the convent of St. Peter, at Rheims, in Champagne.
"Rise, monsieur—rise, sir," said she, smiling; "it seems almost strange when a gentleman kneels to me now."
"Alas, madam, that the widow of James V. should find it so in the kingdom of her daughter."
"Or a daughter of Lorraine; but so it is, sir—treason and heresy are spreading like a leprosy in the land; nor need I wonder that those decline to kneel in a palace, who refuse to do so before the altar of their God! Mon Dieu, M. de Fawside; but we live in strange and perilous times. You tremble, sir—are you unwell?"
Mary of Lorraine might well have asked this, for Florence grew pale, and tottered, so that he was compelled to grasp a chair for support, when, in the queen who addressed him, and in the lady her attendant, who remained a few paces behind, holding a feather fan partly before her face, he recognized those who had tended, nursed, and cured him of his wounds—she of the hazel, and she of the dark-blue eyes:
To the beautiful queen, and her still more beautiful friend and dame d'honneur, he was already as well known as if he had been the brother of both. In this bewilderment he gazed from one pair of charming eyes to the other, and played with the plume in his coursing-hat, utterly unable to speak; till the queen laughed merrily, and said,—
"Monsieur is most welcome to my poor house in l'Islebourg,"—for so the French named Edinburgh, from the number of lakes which surrounded its castle; "so our little romance is at an end—monsieur recognizes us, Madeline—all is discovered!"
"Madeline!" whispered Florence in his heart; "that name shall ever be a spell to me."
"Well, Laird of Fawside—so you have business with us. But first, I pray you, be seated, sir; your wounds cannot be entirely healed. I remember me, they were terrible!"
"Ah, madam!" said he, in a voice to which the fulness of his heart imparted a charming earnestness and richness of tone, as he again knelt down, "how shall I ever repay the honour you have already done me? The services of a life—a life of faith and gratitude—were indeed too little. But whence, came all this mystery?"
"For reasons which I disdain to acknowledge almost to myself," said the queen, with an inexplicable smile, which, whatever it meant, prevented the bewildered young man from saying more.
This royal lady seemed never to forget her lofty position when among those whom she knew to be the most uncompromising of the Scottish peers;—every graceful gesture, every proud glance of her clear and beautiful eyes, seemed to say,—
"I am Mary of Guise—Lorraine, Queen of Scotland! I cannot forget that I am the widow of James V., and the mother of Mary Queen of Scots."
But a gracious condescension, with a sweet gentleness of manner, to those whom she loved and trusted, made her wear a very different expression at times, and imparted to her features that alluring loveliness which, with her sorrows, became the dangerous inheritance of her daughter.
Like that unhappy daughter, her tastes were refined and exquisite; she was as passionately fond of music and poetry as the late king her husband, and maintained a foreign band of musicians and vocalists. Among the latter were five Italians, each of whom received from her privy purse thirteen pounds yearly, with a red bonnet and livery coat of yellow Bruges satin, trimmed and slashed with red,—the royal colours. M. Antoine (our pretended dumb valet), a Parisian, and her most trusted attendant, was master of this band, which included four violers, four trumpeters, two tabourners, and several Swiss drummers.
Danger, and the desperate game of politics as played by the Scottish noblesse, compelled this fair widow to use her beauty as a means of strengthening herself. Thus she pretended to receive the addresses of Lennox, Argyle, and Bothwell, luring them all to love her, while she deceived them all with hopes of a marriage, to gain time, till armed succour reached her court from France. She was fond of card-playing, and frequently lost a hundred crowns of the sun at one sitting to Bothwell, to Arran, and other peers; and now the former, filled with rage on discovering the emptiness of his hopes, had joined the faction of Somerset, who flattered his spirit of revenge and cupidity to the full by offering him the hand and fortune of the beautiful Katharine Willoughby.
His half-mad love for Mary of Lorraine was well known in Scotland, where, after his return from Venice, it prompted him to commit a thousand extravagances. It is yet remembered how, when sheathed in full armour, he galloped his barbed charger down the steep face of the Calton Hill, and made it leap, like another Pegasus, the barriers of the tilting-ground, that he might appear to advantage before her and the ladies of her court, when patronizing a great tournament near the old Carmelite monastery of Greenside.
But amid these historical details, which, as the Scots read all histories but their own, will no doubt be new to them, we are forgetting the bewildered young gentleman, who has just kissed the white jewelled hand of Mary of Lorraine, and risen to his feet by her command.
"And now, fair sir, that you have discovered us, you are no doubt come to proffer us your thanks for being your leeches and nurses," said the queen, laughing; "but we must insist upon sparing you all that; for, be assured, sir, we were performing but an act of simple Christian charity."
"I swear to your majesty, that until this moment I knew not who had so honoured me with protection and hospitality. I came but to place in your hands a paper——"
"Monsieur!"
"A paper, the possession, or supposed possession, of which, on the night that first brought me here, so nearly cost me my life; though by what means those ruffians guessed I was intrusted with it, I know not."
"'Tis a notice of some conspiracy, perhaps?"
"Nay—'tis a letter from his majesty the King of France."
"A letter from the Valois!" reiterated Mary, starting, while her eyes flashed with expectation.
"From Henry II.," replied the youth; and, drawing from his doublet the missive of the Most Christian king, he knelt again on presenting it to Mary of Lorraine.
"Thanks, sir, thanks. How droll, to think that I might have had this letter weeks ago, but for our little romance," she said merrily, while her hazel eyes seemed to dance in light, as she cut open the ribands by the scissors which hung at her gold chatelaine. She hastily read over the letter, the envelope of which, was spotted by the bearer's blood.
"If it please your grace—the news?" said the young lady, her attendant, in a soft voice.
"Countess, approach!" said the queen.
"She's a countess!" said Fawside inaudibly, and his heart sank at the discovery.
"'Tis brave news," exclaimed the queen with a tone of triumph; "Henry of Valois promises me succour; so my daughter shall never wed the son of English Henry—the offspring of a wretch who lived unsated with lust and blood, who put to death seventy-two thousand of his people, and who died at enmity with God and man. Read, Madeline, ma belle! ma, bonne!—read for yourself."
The lady read the letter, and presented it to the queen, who, ere she could speak, turned to Florence, saying,—
"Sir, as a faithful subject and true Scottish gentleman, it is but polite and just that you should know the contents of a letter with which you have been intrusted, and the defence of which has cost you so dear. But I rely on your honour—be secret and wary. Our schemes are great, for we are opposed to powerful and subtle schemers."
"Oh, madam, who would not die for your majesty?" exclaimed Florence in a burst of enthusiasm; for the beauty and condescension of the queen filled his soul with joy and pride, kindling within it a fervour which he had never known before.
The letter of Henry II. ran thus:—
"Madame ma Soeur, la Reine d'Ecosse:
"None in our kingdom of France can be better satisfied than we are with the good-will you have shown in the cause of our holy faith and common country; and knowing well the great need you have of assistance to further the great project of uniting our dear son the Dauphin to our kinswoman, your royal daughter the Queen of Scotland—to crush treason within and enemies without her realm, and ultimately to make you what you ought to be, Regent thereof, a portion of our valiant French army, veterans of the war in Italy, under wise and skilful captains, shall ere long land upon your shores. We would beseech you to keep in memory our notable plan of stirring up Ireland against the government of Edward VI., by supplying the O'Connors with arms, and proposing your young queen as a wife to Gerald, the youthful Earl of Kildare, to lure him to revolt against the aggressive English; though ere long the Sieur de Brezé, hereditary grand seneschal of Normandy, and M. le Chevalier de Villegaignon, admiral of our galleys, will be in the Scottish seas to convey her to France, of which—when I am borne by my faithful Scottish archers to my fathers' tomb at St. Denis—she shall be queen. Beseeching our Lord to give you, madame my sister, good health, a long life, and all you desire, we remain, your good brother,
"From St. Germain-en-Laye, "HENRI R.
"10 April, 1547."
"With ten thousand good French soldiers, united to the vassals of Huntley and other loyal peers, I shall be able alike to defy the power of England, of Arran, whom Somerset seeks to corrupt, and of those false Scots whom we have no doubt he has already corrupted," said the queen. "I must write at once to Arran, though he suspects me of aiming at the regency. A queen, a mother—I shall triumph! I will teach those rebel peers that Mary of Lorraine will struggle rather than stoop, and perish rather than yield! Champfleurie!—where is M. Champfleurie?"
"He is with the guard, madam," said the countess. "Shall I send for him?"
Now Livingstone of Champfleurie was a West-Lothian laird, who enjoyed the reputation of being one of the handsomest, but at the same time most dissipated men in Scotland; and on hearing him spoken of by the beautiful young countess, Florence experienced an unaccountable uneasiness; so he said hastily,—
"Madam, will you intrust me with your letter? I am on my way to the lord regent at Cadzow."
"A thousand thanks, sir; you shall be its bearer. And pray accept from me this chain in memory of your good service."
With these words, Mary of Lorraine, with an air of exquisite grace, took from her slender neck a chain of fine gold—the same chain which René II. of Lorraine wore in his famous battle with Charles the Bold,—and threw it over the bowed head of Florence.
"And you were presented to King Henry?" she asked.
"In the gallery of the Louvre, madam."
"By whom?"
"The Lord James Hamilton, captain of the archers of the Scottish Guard; and by M. le Comte d'Anguien."
"Ah! that brave old soldier, with his face of bronze and heart of steel! He is still alive?"
"Alive, and hale and well, madam; and most likely will command the troops destined for Scotland."
"The victor of Cerizoles, the conqueror of the Marquis del Vasto in Piedmont. And who else is to lead the troops that succour me?"
"M. le Comte de Martigues, say some; M. d'Essé d'Epainvilliers, say others."
"A brave soldier is d'Essé. According to the astrologer of Francis I., Mars was the shining lord of his nativity. Thus it was his destiny to lead the armies of France."
"Ah, madam," said the young countess, "is not this heathenish, like the preaching of the Lollards?"
"Of course; yet it was believed at the court of the Most Christian King. And what say they of our lord regent in France?"
"That he is true to French and Scottish interests, and hostile to the English alliance."
"That I well believe; but truer to his own interests than either."
"But they suspect him of wishing to secure the entire power of the kingdom, so that ere long Scotland may be governed by Hamiltons and nothing but Hamiltons; for already they hold the archbishopric of St. Andrew's and other sees; they govern half the royal castles, and hold priories and abbeys innumerable."
"That I know too well," said Mary, curling her proud red lip.
"And that, while printing the Bible in the Scottish tongue, and thus defying the bishops and disseminating heresy in Scotland, at Rome he seeks a cardinal's hat for his brother John, the archbishop of St. Andrew's."
"So—so; he would keep well with his Holiness there and well with the Lollards here! Has he yet to be taught that a man cannot serve two masters? Mon Dieu! poor M. l'Archevêque de Saint André should consider well what he seeks. Since Kirkaldy of Grange and the Melvilles slew David Beaton, the red barretta is a perilous cap for a Scot to wear. But when do you ride for Cadzow Castle?"
"The moment I am honoured with the missive of your majesty."
"That you shall shortly be, sir," replied Mary, sweeping up her train with one hand, while she joyously waved the other. "Oh, 'tis brave news this, of succour from France! I shall crush these traitors at last, and defy this insolent duke of Somerset. Dares he think that Mary of Scotland and Lorraine would peril her daughter's soul for his kingdom of England, with its lordship of Ireland to boot? Queen of Scotland she is, and queen of France and Navarre she shall be! I would rather don armour and die in the field by the side of d'Essé than yield up my child to the paid traitors of Henry VIII. and his successor, this boasting duke of Somerset. A queen, a mother, a woman, I shall appeal to all the gentlemen of Scotland; and if they fail me, I have still the noble chivalry of France!"
As the queen spoke, with a gesture of inimitable grace she withdrew through the arras, leaving Florence and the young countess together.