"Good evening," boomed another voice, belonging to a rotund merchant
making his way purposefully toward the Netherbow gate. They followed
him and passed through the great wall of Edinburgh and its city gate,
and emerged on the other side of the High Street. Almost immediately
to their right stood Knox's house. A light showed from its deepest
quarters, but the work room, over the sidewalk, was dark.
"Knox sleeps," said Darnley, pointing upward.
"Knox never sleeps," said Mary. "Except with his young wife."
"Think you he does what we do?"
Mary blushed. "Nay. I doubt it."
"So do I, wife." Darnley took her hand and kissed it. "Do you know,
even at this hour I am planning for the later one when I may come to
you in the dark?"
"Aye. I also." It was true.
Darnley reached down and began feeling the cobblestones in the gutter.
He found a loosened one and drew back his arm to throw it, aiming at
the window.
"Stop it!" Mary restrained his arm. "What are you about?"
"Knox is against our marriage." He twisted his hand to free it. "He
shall need to replace his windowpanes."
"No." Mary dashed the stone from his hand. "His windowpane is not his
mind. And he blames every obstruction and petty annoyance on me; pray
do not give him true cause."
Darnley sighed and turned away from the window. "I would love to knock
his pate."
"That seems to be a favourite phrase of yours," said Mary. "You have
said it to the old Duke of ChStelherault, to "
A crowd fresh from the tavern jounced past them, still singing:
"Drink up your liquor and turn your cup over
Over an' over an' over
The liquor's drink'd up 'n the cup is turned over. I've bin to Glasgow
and I've bin to Dover...."
"He needs it. His pate is addled to begin with."
They passed the town house of the Earl of Morton.
"It is not your place to knock pates. That is for apprentices on their
holiday." Would even Robert Dudley have threatened to knock pates on a
London street? "Not for princes."
Darnley made a disagreeable sound but kept walking up the street. "All
right, then," he muttered.
Now that they were in Edinburgh proper, the street became even broader,
became, in a way, the meeting place of the citizens. In the widened
area near St. Giles Cathedral squatted the immense Tolbooth, a
combination Council House and gaol. Right below it was the Tron the
public weighing beam and the old Mercat Cross. Here the citizens of
Edinburgh had their daylight needs met from worship of God to enacting
legislation to having their wool weighed and at night they tended to
gather there as well. The area was fairly well lit by torches and
provided the requisite milling area for large groups.
As they approached the Tron, Darnley ran toward it, jumping onto its
weighing bucket. It sank and hit the ground with a thud.
"How much does the young gentleman weigh?" called a strong, sure voice
from the steps of the Mercat Cross. "What is he worth?"
"A golden crown," replied Mary, forgetting that her voice was at
variance with her costume.
She pulled Darnley out of the bucket. "And I shall give you one," she
whispered, taking his hand. She drew him over to the Mercat Cross,
with its huge, waist-high circular base. People were sitting all
around on it, their legs dangling.
"From this place, where all royal proclamations are read, I shall have
you proclaimed King the day of our wedding," she promised him,
whispering in his ear.
"And what does this fine young gentleman do?" asked the voice, now
almost beside them.
Mary looked up to see him perched on the rim of the pedestal base. He
was dark and had a well-trimmed beard and longish hair. Suddenly
behind him she saw the pale faces of prisoners staring out of their
windows in the Tolbooth. She nudged Darnley to reply; she dared not
speak herself.
"I am cousin to the vakt de chambre of the Lord Darnley, visiting at
Holyrood Palace," he said. "My duties are light mostly looking and
listening, truth be told. And this" he indicated Mary "is my younger
brother."
"Height must run in your family, then. And at an early age, for you've
got your growth before your voice."
Observant man. They would have to be careful, but that was the higher
sport.
"Aye. I am but fifteen," Mary said boldly. "I am so weary of
waiting."
"All will come in time, lad," the man assured her.
"And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, is your trade?" asked
Darnley.
"I am a printer. I work yonder" he pointed at a doorway across the
street somewhere "at Bassandyne's. We printed five different books
last year, and sold nearly all." There was unmistakable pride in his
voice.
"There is little to do in the long dark winter here except read," said
Damley. "Little wonder your business flourishes."
No, no, Darnley, thought Mary. Do not say that. Say how well chosen
his books must be.
"What do you know of winters here?" said the man. "You haven't spent
one."
"We came in February."
"In the middle of February. And to a hunting palace. You've no notion
of what we do here in Scotland in the 'long dark tunnel' the short days
from November to January do you? And in England, where you come from,
there's frippery and concerts and such like, so I hear. But I don't
pretend to understand England, never having been there myself." He
drew himself up as a model to be emulated.
"How do you know exactly the time we came?" Mary asked.
"Everyone does. We follow everything concerning our Queen. We know
when she comes and when she goes, who visits her and when, whom she
eats with, what she wears, what songs she and the deformed little
Italian sing, and on which night."
This stranger knew all about her, and she did not even know his name!
"But how true is your information?" Mary could not help asking.
"That depends on the informant," the man replied. "Some are, of
course, more reliable than others."
Who are your informers1. Mary could see that Darnley was on the verge
of asking, and she stayed him with a look. Nothing would warn the man
quicker.
"This information you have just recited is, for example, false. The
Italian is not deformed. I know, for I have spent time with him," Mary
said.
"Not deformed? But I was told and from an absolutely reliable source
that he was hunchbacked and had protruding eyes like a bullfrog's!" The
man was obviously disappointed.
"No," said Mary, laughing. "He is of low stature but otherwise
normally shaped in all respects. But tell me what have you heard about
the Queen's marriage?"
The man now laughed. "Shall I tell you, and you of Lord Damley's
household?"
"Why not?" said Darnley. "I've no liking for my master's master; I'm
simply here for a change of scene. I think he's a ... oh, I know
not."
"A simpleton," said the man. "An ambitious simpleton. And the Queen
so taken with him. Still, she must wed, and there is no one else
available, Tis my opinion that whatever suitor had come in person, she
would have swooned over him. Only Lord Darnley came; the other fools
fiddled with ambassadors and letters hardly very enticing. If she had
seen the Lord Dudley pardon me, the Earl of Leicester in person, now
that might have been different. But the Earl, being another ambitious
man, sticks close to his own Queen. Ah, well. She's a good woman and
deserves a turn in the bed, and an heir." The man moved his legs and
swung them down. "I'm going to Ainslie's Tavern," he announced. "Come
with me."
Mary and Darnley scrambled after him, their hearts beating wildly. This
was fifty times better than eavesdropping.
As they were crossing the street, a horse and rider made their way down
past them. People uncovered their heads and called, "Blessings, Lord
Moray." The person acknowledged them freely and then moved
majestically on.
Lord James! How easily and naturally he accepts the homage of the
people in the street, thought Mary.
"The Earl of Moray," explained the man. "You have most likely not met
him, as he has not frequented court since your master's arrival. He's
the King's bastard and the foremost man in Scotland."
How simply the man said it: the foremost man in Scotland.
"How so?" Mary asked.
They were standing in front of the tavern now, but she clutched the
man's doublet and wanted an answer before they entered the noisy
room.
"He alone spans the time before the Protestant Kirk, going back to the
old Queen's time. He's the one man we have had to run things through
all the troubles during the war against the French, the time when we
had neither queen, but only John Knox, and during the first years of
the young Queen's return. He has held Scotland in the palm of his
hand, and treated her tenderly. Tis a pity and an ill omen that he has
withdrawn from the Queen's council and, indeed, from the entire
government."
"Where did you hear that?" Damley demanded.
"Everyone knows," said the man. " Tis no secret." He looked longingly
toward the tavern, where loud noises and the smell of beer and bread
puffed out each time the door opened.
"But what will happen to the Earl?" asked Mary, her hand still on his
doublet.
"He will either grow stronger and overthrow the Queen and her chosen,
or he will wane in strength and fade away. The people will decide."
Mary let go of him, her fingers releasing their hold. "And it is of no
matter to you which one?" she asked.
"Not really. As long as my printing press is undisturbed. Moray seems
a good man, the Queen is a good woman nay, let the people decide." He
shrugged. "Come." He gestured toward the tavern.
"Nay. I have little thirst," said Mary. The heat and noise from the
tavern were repulsive. Who would choose to go in there, when he might
remain outside and have clean air and see the stars?
"Suit yourself." The man turned in.
Mary walked rapidly away, up toward the dark bulk of the castle
ramparts. Once they were away from the Tron and the Mercat Cross,
there were few people abroad.
Lord James. He had a following, and common people saw him as her
equal. She had not fully understood this.
"The printer is only one man," said Darnley. "His opinions are his
own," he insisted. "He does not speak for everyone else."
But his words sounded hollow.
The Lord James had indeed withdrawn in protest against her forthcoming
marriage, and was gathering his forces. Everyone on her own island was
against it: Queen Elizabeth, Lord James, most of the Lords of the
Congregation. She had forced the Lords to sign a document in
Convention approving of the marriage, but the paper was worthless, and
she knew it. From France, Charles IX and Catherine de Medicis had
approved, as had Philip II and the Pope. But what weight did that
carry? In the arena of the outside world, a great deal. But this was
of most immediate concern in the Scottish and English world, and that
was the stage she now walked upon. The boards were shaking, and did
not feel at all steady under her feet.