I myself suspect that the good Lord James was gaining time to look round and consider what he should do. And although he had scouted the notion that he could have anything to say to the Italian, the fact is noteworthy that to seek him out privately was one of the first things he did with his time. Signior David told him frankly two things: first, that if the Queen did not marry her prince soon she would come to loathing the sight of him; secondly, he said that if she did marry him the lords would get him murdered. ‘These two considerations,’ said Davy in effect, ‘really hang together. The lords, your lordship’s colleagues, are not in love with the young man, and so are quite ready to be at him. But she at present is so, and in full cry. When she slackens, and has time to open her eyes and see him as he is——Hoo! let him then say his Confiteor!’
It is not to be supposed that such perilous topics were discussed with this brevity and point—certainly not where the Earl of Moray was one of the discutants; this, however, is the sum, confirmed to the Earl by what he observed of the Court. There was no doubt but that the two things did indeed hang together.
The Queen, his sister, as he saw very soon, did not go half-heartedly to work in this marriage project. And the louder grew the murmurs of Mr. Randolph, handing on English threats, the more loyally she clung—not to her prince, perhaps, but to what she had convinced herself her prince was. He studied that young man minutely upon every occasion, spent smiles and civilities upon him, received rebuffs in return, and (with an air of saying ‘I like your spirit’) came next day for more. He saw him hector Signior Davy, tempt Lord Ruthven to rabies, run after Mary Sempill, allow the Queen to run after him, get drunk. He saw him ride with his hounds, break in a colt, thrash a gentleman, kiss two women, lose money at a tennis match, and draw his dagger on the Master of Lindsay who had won it. A very little conversation with the Court circle, and two words with his sister of Argyll, sufficed him.
‘Ill blood,’ said that stern lady. ‘The little bloat frog will swell till he burst unless we prick him beforehand. Not all Scots lords have your fortitude, brother James.’
‘Hush, sister, hush! I think better of poor Scotland than you do. Who are we—unhappy pensioners—to judge her Majesty’s choice?’
He walked away, being a most respectable man, lest his fierce sister should lead him farther than it was convenient to go; and after a week’s reflection sent Mr. Secretary Lethington into England, with sealed letters for Mr. Cecil and open letters for the Queen. In these he echoed English sentiments, that the marriage was deplorable from every view, to be opposed by every lover of peace and true religion. He should do what could be done to serve her English Majesty, being convinced that no better way of serving his own Queen was open to him. The bearer was in possession of his full mind; the Lord of Lethington would convince his friends by lively testimonies, etc. etc. This done, even then (so slow-dealing was he) he took another week to deliberate before he selected his plan of action and his hour. He could afford so much time, but not much more.
It was an hour of a night when there was dancing and mumchance: torches, musicians in the gallery, a mask of satyrs, an ode of Mr. Buchanan’s declaimed, and some French singing, in which Des-Essars eclipsed his former self and won the spleen of Adam Gordon. For if her Majesty had sent Adam into the Lothians and rewarded him for it with a pat of the cheek, now she called the other up to the daïs, publicly kissed him, and gave him a little purse worked in roses by herself. There were broad pieces in it too.
‘I shall pay you for that, Baptist my man; see you to it,’ says Adam.
But Jean-Marie flourished his purse before he put it into his bosom and hooked his doublet upon it. ‘Draw upon me, Monsieur de Gordon, and let it be for blood if you choose. I can well afford it.’