They all laughed.
"Why, what is this? Such mirth, and I ignorant of its cause? Or am I
the cause of it?" asked Mary.
"In a manner of speaking," said Riccio. "Or, rather, your situation is
the cause."
"What situation?" Mary was puzzled.
"Open them! Open them, and you will not need to ask!"
Mary took the first box, the one with the ruff and the comb, and began
unwrapping it. As she did so, Riccio strummed his
ebony-and-ivory-inlaid lute and began playing a Spanish melody. He got
down on his knees, singing, "Oh, most noble Queen, accept my suit! I,
lonely Don Carlos, only need you to set me free from the lowering brow
of my father, King Philip, and the snorts of the bulls!"
Mary took out a bar of fatted-oil soap with a tag that read, "When you
add me to your bath, let thoughts of me waft into your nostrils." Mary
lifted it and smelled it; the heavy scent of jasmine and gardenia leapt
out as if they had been contained too long.
"It truly is from Spain," said Flamina.
Riccio's music reached a crescendo.
"Spanish music is so ... insistent," said Mary. "Unlike the Spanish in
their courting. Alas, Don Carlos does not seem as eager as you portray
him." She laughed; she was not at all eager for Don Carlos either. She
undid the silk bundle from Madame Rallay; inside was a slender bottle
with a carved glass stopper. She removed it and sniffed, and felt
herself transported back to France. It was the blend of flowers from
Provence that Catherine de Me'dicis's perfumiers had made; Mary had
first been allowed to wear it when she was twelve.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could almost hear the
sound of the voices at Fontainebleau, little childish voices of
Charles, Claude, Elisabeth.. ..
Riccio was now playing a French chanson, the tune so sweet and finely
balanced. His fingers plucked the strings as lightly as a breeze.
"I have loved you always," said the attached note. "Charles IX."
"It is always good to return to happy memories," said Mary. "But I
fear that little Charles woos in vain."
Even as she was opening the crown-shaped box, Riccio had switched to a
mournful-sounding folk tune. The gift box was made so that the top
would flip off, and inside were imitation jewels, surrounding a round
bottle with its own little crown on top. The note read, "I shall make
you the Queen of ice and snow and nights of love that last twenty-four
hours. Yours eternally, Erik XIV, King of Sweden." Mary twisted off
the cap and sniffed it cautiously would it smell like wolves and
wilderness? But the unguent inside had a clean smell, like birches.
"King Erik is indeed persuasive," she said. Everyone in the circle was
laughing now.
"Another, another!" cried Lusty, handing her the brass-bound box. Now
Riccio raced over to the virginal and began playing a dancing, lively
tune. Mary opened this one and pulled out a gold-encrusted flagon that
winked even in the low light in her chamber. "Though my head is
oversize, my heart is even bigger, and my Catholic chapel is larger
yet," the card read. "Be my bride, and sample all three. Yours to
command, His Highness Archduke Charles of Austria."
Mary opened the flagon and was almost overcome with the powerful scent
of rose and carnation mixed. It filled the air and seemed to envelop
her.
"Oh! His suit is strong!"
Last was the basket; Mary untied the ribbons and found an ornamented
box inside. It was filled with powder that had the most delicate scent
of lavender. She had always loved lavender, but had only known the
French variety. This was different, smelling both sweeter and lighter.
The card read, "Do not overlook your humble English cousin, who is shy
like this flower of the field, but will endure for more than a season,
to perfume your bed or trample underfoot if it please you."
"Whoever is that?" asked Mary. "It is not signed."
Riccio was playing "Greensleeves" on his lute, and no one owned up to
the package.
"My humble English cousin?" asked Mary. "This lavender comes from the
area of Norfolk, I know, but the Duke of Norfolk is married, is he not?
And he is not my cousin, he is Queen Elizabeth's .. . although I
suppose that makes him a sort of cousin-in-law." She looked at all the
faces; would no one confess?
Humble English cousin .. . English cousin .. . the Earl of Lennox's
son, Henry Stuart? He was some three years younger than she, she knew.
Once that had made him a child, but now that she herself was twenty,
that was no longer true. At seventeen, men went to war as soldiers,
and ruled as kings without regents. She wondered if Henry Stuart was
that sort.
"Henry, Lord Darnley?" she asked.
"Yea!" Riccio leapt up and ran into the adjoining chamber, then
reentered, tottering on stilts. Everyone laughed. "I am so tall, I
make myself dizzy!" he cried.
"Is my cousin really so tall?" asked Mary. She really knew very
little about him. His father, Matthew Stuart, who was related to the
French Stuarts, had been banished from Scotland when she was only two
years old, and had lived in England ever since.
"Very tall, like Goliath!" Riccio assured her.
Just then Lord James and Maitland entered the chamber, also bearing
gifts. They both stared at Riccio as he hung there in the air, looking
down at them.
"You are now one of her ladies-in-waiting?" asked Lord James,
disbelief flooding his voice. "You live with the ladies?"
Maitland had a look on his face like someone who has just seen an
embarrassing object where it ought not to be an expensive gift in a
trash bucket, a dog turd on a clergyman's shoe sole.
"No, indeed not!" he said, hopping down.
"You are here so much," said Maitland.
That evening, Mary asked that a hot bath be prepared for her, so that
she could enjoy all the fragrances she had been given.
"I will soak in water scented with the Spanish soap, will rub my toes
with the birch unguent, dust myself with the lavender, put the roses on
my neck, and sprinkle my handkerchiefs with the flowers of Provence,"
Mary told Lusty.
"And make Holyrood reek like a harem," said Lusty.
As Mary lay in the scented water so laboriously hauled up to fill her
tub she let herself relax. The fragrance was delicate and soothing,
and she stretched out her legs and tilted back her head.
It had been very amusing today. Very clever of her loved ones to think
of those presents and play that game. But .. .
She splashed water on her face and felt the warm rivulets run down her
cheeks.
It was not really a game.
I realize now I must marry, she thought. Part of me wants to marry; I
am tired of being alone, I long to have a companion. And after the
Huntly rebellion, I lost my last ally against all the convinced
Protestants. I have no one to support me, should I wish to do anything
contrary to their wishes. Perhaps a foreign prince would not be
unwise. The might of Spain would serve as warning to any overzealous
lords here. But I would be just as lonely, for Don Carlos would remain
in Spain except for short visits.
Charles IX is hopeless. The Archduke is a distinct possibility. King
Erik of Sweden? The same problem as Don Carlos. If I have a husband,
I want him with me. One does not marry to escape loneliness and then
continue to live alone.
Henry, Lord Darnley? If he is already a man, then perhaps. He is not
an English subject, but he also has royal blood. He is the last male
in the Tudor line, Elizabeth's cousin as well as mine. Perhaps this
match would please her, and induce her to soften about the succession.
I would like to marry to please her as well as myself, if such a thing
is possible.
"Madam." Madame Rallay was standing beside her, holding a letter.
"This is for you."
Mary opened it, and found a poem in gushing, overexcited French,
praising her beauty, wisdom, and majesty.
"What is this?" she asked.
"The poet Chastelard," replied Madame Rallay. "He has unexpectedly
returned to your court, and wishes to pay homage."
Annoyance tugged at her. She had been glad to see the tiresome man
gone and now he was back?
"Another time," she said.
The sleek oil from the fatted bar of soap was coating her skin, making
her feel as slippery as a fish. Emerging from the tub, she allowed
Madame Rallay to blot her with a soft towel and dust her with the
lavender powder. A box was waiting on the stool just beside her
bath-screen. She opened it and found an embroidered silk stole, a gift
from Lord James. She put it on, draping it over her robe, enjoying the
luscious smoothness next to her neck.
She was surprised, as she entered her bedchamber, to find Riccio there.
He stared at the stole.
"It is beautiful!" he said. "Yellow silk of such a vibrant shade ...
I did not realize there were dyes that could duplicate the colour of
marigolds. And the embroidery pure gold thread?"
She nodded, and undid her hair, which fell down about her shoulders. "A
gift from Lord James," she said.
Riccio's bulging eyes bulged even wider. "Oh, my. Well, it is only
fitting that he pay tribute with such an expensive gift. After all,
you have made him very rich. The earldom of Moray .. . such extensive
lands!"
"Yes."
"Almost the most extensive in Scotland."
"For a newcomer, you seem to have learned quickly who owns what."
"A hobby, most gracious Majesty."
"I fail to see how concerning yourself with others' possessions can be
called a hobby."
"A study, then, if you will. A study of power. Power interests me. I
wish to put my knowledge, such as it is, at your service always."
"I thank you."
"I would not give Lord James any more lands or honours, Your Majesty.
Too much land can result in too much power."
"That is for me to decide."
Just as she was finishing the sentence, the door opened quietly and
Lord James stuck his head in, nodding it in respect.
"I am pleased you like my gift, dearest sister," he said. But he was
looking at Riccio.
The warm May sun hit the cages and crates, making the animals within
them whine and begin to stir. Half the court had come out to see the
opening of the Queen's imports, and now they only awaited the gardeners
and keepers to arrive with their pry-bars and saws. The Queen and her
ladies were standing about, laughing and letting their spirits enjoy
the fine day. Mary noticed John Sempill, one of those young courtiers
whose dancing had caused John Knox to lecture his father about its
evils, keeping close by Lusty's side. Ambassador Randolph likewise
hovered near Beaton. Ah, spring!
Although Mary still wore a lighter version of mourning, it was
difficult to feel sad on such a day, when all the world was rejoicing.
Overhead the trees had unmasked their leaves just a few days earlier,
and they seemed to expand before the Queen's eyes. If the leaves were
the size of a ducat in the morning, they would be the size of a bowl by
evening. Flowers were springing up, undeterred by having to push their
way through the remains of last year's. Flowers had no memory,
although they evoked it in others.