Mary Sempill resumed her duties in mid-April, having been wedded at the end of March, and came to Wemyss but a few days in advance of two great men—my Lord of Moray, to wit, the Queen’s base-brother, and my Lord of Morton, Chancellor and cousin of the prince. Before she saw her mistress, she was put into the state of affairs by Mary Seton.
‘Ma mye,’ said that shrewd little beauty to her comrade, ‘in a good hour you come back, but a week syne had been a better. She is fond, fond, fond! She is all melted with love—just a phial of sweet liquor for his broth. I blame Fleming; I’ve been at her night and morning—but a fine work! The lass is as bad as the Queen, being handmaid to her withered Lethington, so much clay for that dry-fingered potter. But our mistress—oh, she goes too fast! She is eating love up: there’ll be satiety, you shall see. Our young princekin is so set up that he’ll lie back in his chair and whistle for her before long—you’ll see, you’ll see! If he were to whistle to-day she’d come running like a spaniel dog, holding out her hands to him, saying, “Dear my heart, pity me, not blame, that I am so slow!” Oh, Livingstone, I am sore to see it! So high a head, lowered to this flushing loon! Presumptuous, glorious boy! Now, do you hear this. He raised his hand against Ruthven the other Tuesday, a loose glove in it, to flack him on the mouth. And so he handles all alike. ’Twas at the butts they had words: there was our lady and Lindsay shot against Beaton and him. Lindsay scored the main—every man knew it; but the other makes an outcry, red in the face, puffed like a cock-sparrow. Ruthven stands by scowling, chattering to himself, “The Queen’s main, the Queen’s main.” “You lie, Ruthven,” says the Young Fool (so we all call him); and Ruthven, “That’s an ill word, my Lord Darnley.” “You make it a worse when you say it in my face,” cries he; “and I have a mind——” He has his glove in his hand, swinging. “Have you a mind indeed?” says black Ruthven; “’tis the first time I have heard it.” Lindsay was listening, but not caring to look. I was by Beaton—you never saw Lethington so scared: his eyebrows in his hair! But we were all affrighted, save one: ’twas the Queen stepped lightly between them. “Dear cousin,” she says, “we two will shoot a main, and win it.” And to Ruthven, “My Lord Ruthven,” says she, “you have done too much for me to call down a cloud on this my spring-time.” He melted, the bitten man, he melted, and bent over her hand. My young gentleman shot with her and lost her the match—in such a rage that he had not a word to say. Now I must tell you ...’; and then she gave the history of the love-signals at the window.
Mary Sempill listened with sombre cheer. ‘I see that it’s done. The bird’s in the net. Jesu Christ, why was I not here—or Thyself?’
She did what she could that very night: divorced the Master of Sempill and shared her mistress’s chamber. In the morning there was a great to-do—a love-sick lady coaxing her Livingstone, stroking her cheeks; but no flagwork could be allowed.
‘No, no, my bonny queen, that is no sport for thee. That is a wench’s trick.’
The truth was not to be denied; yet not Dido on her pyre anguished more sharply than this burning queen. And little good was done, more’s the pity: measures had been taken too late. For she made humble access to her prince afterwards and sued out a forgiveness, which to have got easily would have distressed her. You may compare wenches and queens as much as you will—it’s not a surface affair: but the fact is, the heavier a crown weighs upon a girl in love, the more thankfully will she cast it to ground. Are you to be reminded that Queen Mary was not the first generous lover in history? There was Queen Venus before her.
My Lord of Moray, most respectable of men, rode orderly from Edinburgh to Wemyss, with a train of some thirty persons, six of whom were ministers of the Word. He had not asked Mr. Knox to come along with him, for the reason that the uncompromising prophet had lately married a cousin of the Queen’s, a Stuart and very young girl—fifteen years old, they say. Whether this was done, as the light-minded averred, out of pique that her Majesty would not be kind to him, or on some motion even less agreeable to imagine—my Lord of Moray was hurt at the levity of the deed, and suspected that the Queen would be more than hurt. But I believe that she knew Mr. Knox better than her base-brother did. However, failing Mr. Knox, he had six divines behind him, men of great acceptance. The Earl of Morton was waiting for him at Burntisland: side by side the two weighty lords traversed the woods of Fife. It might have been astonishing how little they had to say to each other.
‘Likely we shall have wet before morn.’
‘Ay, belike,’ said the Earl of Moray.
‘These lands will be none the worse of it.’