Take the sword from them .. . bind their hands .. . cast them into
prison .. . was this his plan for her? No matter what she did, was
deposition and imprisonment her ultimate destination, should Knox have
his way?
She was not aware that many moments had passed, until James said, "What
has offended you, Madam?"
She brought herself back to the matter at hand. "Well, then, I
perceive that my subjects shall obey you and not me, and shall do as
they please, and not what I command. And so must I be subject to them,
and not they to me." She appealed to Knox, standing before her:
"Answer this charge."
"God forbid," he said, "that ever I take it upon me to set subjects at
liberty to do what pleases them. But my desire is that both rulers and
subjects obey God. And your duty is to be a foster mother to His Kirk,
and a nurse to His people."
So she was to sponsor his Reformed Kirk?
"It is not the church I will nourish," she said. "I will defend the
Church of Rome, for it is, I think, the true Church of God."
"Your will, Madam, is no reason," he said, in a booming voice that
could be heard beyond the chambers by all the eavesdroppers and even
out in the forecourt, as the windows were open. "Neither does your
thought make that Roman harlot to be the true and immaculate spouse of
Jesus Christ. Why, the Jews at the time of the crucifixion of Christ
had not perverted the law of Moses as far as the Church of Rome has
that of the Apostles!"
He did not frighten or convince her. His booming voice, his narrowed
eyes were simply a device he used, as some men rode horses; she could
perceive that well enough. "My conscience holds it not so," she
replied quietly. She knew what she knew, and knew it from the heart.
"Conscience, Madam, requires knowledge. And I fear that right
knowledge you have not." He lifted his head like a great stag.
"But I have both heard and read, concerning the matter." And prayed,
she thought.
"So, Madam, did the people who crucified Jesus. They had read both the
law and the prophets, but they had interpreted it after their own
manner. Have you ever heard anyone teach besides the official
churchmen permitted by the Pope and his Cardinals?"
Without waiting for her reply for he knew it already he said, "The
ignorant Papist cannot patiently reason, and the crafty Papist will
never submit to a hearing to be judged. For they know they cannot
sustain any argument, except by the fire and sword of repression, and
by setting up their own laws."
She felt weary of him. He could not understand her at all: not her
feelings nor her position nor her calling. All he wanted was to have a
Scriptural-quote duel, and stun her with his memory, no doubt
prodigious. There was higher knowledge than that, mystical knowledge
and knowledge of the heart; but it was beyond words, by its very
nature.
He was blathering on with another long Scriptural analogy.
"You are over-knowledgeable for me," she said. "But were my teachers
here, they would be well able to dispute with you." We have pedantic
exhibitionists, too, she thought.
"Madam! Would to God the learned est Papist in Europe, he whom you
would believe absolutely, were here. When he was convinced of the
truth, then you would follow!"
This was nonsense. Imagine the Abbess Renee being converted by Master
Knox! Or her Uncle Cardinal!
Smiling at Knox, she stood up. The interview was over.
Next time you stir up my subjects to disobedience and disorder, I may
banish you, she thought. I am not afraid of you; you are just a man,
she kept repeating to herself. She felt a great wave of relief pass
through her. It was over.
Late that night, although his energy was low for such a confrontation
and opportunity to witness drained him mightily he felt it obligatory
to write his impression of the Queen of Scots:
If there be not in her a proud mind, a crafty wit, and an indurate
heart against God and His truth, my judgement faileth me. In
communication with her, I espied such craft as I have not found in such
age.
This report must be dispatched immediately to all his spiritual and
political colleagues, especially to his brethren in the English
court.
TEN
Mary watched as the light outside the windows of the Chapel Royal
deepened into the murky sapphire hue that marked the early winter
'dusk. Here in Scotland it began darkening by three o'clock in the
afternoon in December, and torches had to be lit in the courtyard at
Holyrood. They winked in the blue gloom as the fireflies had in
summer. The memorial requiem mass for Francois was to begin at four
o'clock. It was exactly a year since his death, an unbelievable year.
Would Francois be startled at the changes in her if he could see her
now? Were there any changes?
She was still wearing her mourning of black Florence serge, but she had
provided her Marys and her French household with black velvet for the
second mourning period. Glancing down the row of those around her, she
saw that they had already had their garments made and were wearing them
for the first time. Her gentlemen and domestic servants wore black
cloth and mourning grey.
She looked around the chapel to see others filing in for the mass. None
of the Lords would be there, of course, except the Earl of Huntly;
their tender consciences would not permit it. But the two newly posted
ambassadors from Savoy and France would attend, and her entire
household, and her one remaining Guise relative, the Marquis
d'Elboeuf.
Bishop Leslie of Ross, one of the few Catholic clergymen still in
Scotland, entered in his black vestments, preceded by two tall lads
bearing enormous candles in rimmed silver holders. He proceeded slowly
to the altar while the sound of the dirge rose, softly and delicately,
in the chapel.
Sound of agony! Sound that captured, somehow, her feelings of lost
yesterdays, empty to days lonely tomorrows, stretching out like a long
corridor, a candle sconce for each year, and she walking alone down
that corridor, leaving Francois farther and farther behind. Sound that
embodied her own words in her poem, the words yearning and regret.
Fragile, aching, the music touched her where no loud trumpets could
have reached her.
I am proof against that, she thought. Strident noise, public eulogies,
ceremonial clothes .. . they do not touch me. But this .. .
Just then a matchless voice, breathtaking in its purity, rose from the
whispered lightness of the rest, rose in deep, rich, dark splendour,
and both embodied all her grief and assuaged it.
He knows. He understands. He feels it, too.
The ecstasy of knowing that someone else had touched those depths was
like a wild gift to her.
Thank You, God! she cried within her soul. Thank You for sending him,
whoever he is. Perhaps he is not even real, but an angel.
She looked carefully around through her tears to see if others heard
him, too. She did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved to
see the rapture on everyone's face as they listened to the mysterious
voice.
Afterwards, Mary had planned a formal reception to mark the end of the
year's obsequies. Although her antechamber was hung with black, the
fire burned brightly and the tables were furnished with the most
elaborate "funeral meats" her French cooks could devise. There were
rolls of roast swan sprinkled with gold dust, fish swimming in aspic
seas, and in one concession to simplicity Francois's favourite, smoked
boar from Chambord.
The Ambassador of Savoy, Conte di Moretta, was talking to the Earl of
Huntly at one end of the room. The Conte's robes were that lovely blue
that seemed to be found only in warm lands. She was very pleased that
at last ambassadors were coming back to her realm. An English
ambassador,
Thomas Randolph, had also taken up residence although he, as a
Protestant, was of course not present today. But the French
ambassador, de Foix, was munching on some dainty and listening in on
Moretta and Huntly.
Standing in between them was a dwarf? Mary started as she saw an
exceptionally ugly man, as swarthy as an ape, cocking his head and
engaging in conversation with the two men. He barely came up to their
shoulders.
She made her way over to them, and she could hear a most strange sound:
two languages being spoken simultaneously, then repeated back
separately. The Italian was coming from Moretta, and the French from
de Foix; the little ape-man would shut his eyes and twist up his face,
then repeat back the words to each speaker. The effort was telling on
him; sweat was rolling off his face despite the chill in the chamber.
Moretta and de Foix would then redouble their efforts, speaking faster
and in longer sentences. The little man looked as if he would burst.
"Stop torturing him!" said Mary with a laugh. But of course it was a
command, and they had to stop immediately.
"Oh, he thrives on this," Moretta assured her. "This is my secretary,
David Riccio di Pancaliere. He speaks several languages, he claims all
perfectly. He says he can even separate them out if they come in by
different ears. So we were just testing him out. He's as good as his
word." Moretta took a long sip of his spiced wine.
"My sovereign lady!" Riccio fell to his knees and took her hand,
kissing it with reverence. His large eyes were shining.
Mary bade him rise. As he stood, she saw that he was not a dwarf, nor
was there anything amiss with his limbs, he was just very short. "Your
skills are impressive," she said. "Where did you learn?"
"I was secretary to Monsignor the Archbishop of Turin for a spell,
until he" he winked at Moretta "stole me."
"He was content to be stolen," said Moretta. "You enjoyed the posting
at Nice, did you not?"
"Ah, yes! The sea, the warmth "
At the word warmth, everyone laughed. Just the word evoked longings.
"You were from Pancalieri in Piedmont?" asked Mary. "How came you,
then, to the household of the Archbishop of Turin?"
"My father was a musician, and it was actually as a musician that I
entered his household; I was employed to play the lute and sing in his
choir. But because of my command of the idioms of French and Italian,
and my ability to write in elegant Tuscan "
"Plus your modesty!" Moretta broke in.
Mary could not help laughing, but Riccio blushed.
"He hasn't given up his music entirely, he still likes to slip off and
sing at masses, he's a bass, surprising, isn't it, in one so tiny you'd
think he'd be a soprano!"
Guffaw, guffaw.
It was him. He was the singer.
Mary felt her heart pounding. That beauty in sound, that deep
knowledge of life and pain that he must have otherwise his singing
would be only a voice, and it was so much more than that, it was aching
experience itself to be wedded to such an earthly body! Was God
absurd? Or merely being fair, saying, "These gifts and only these for
one person; no one shall have all?"