For the first time since her entry into Scotland the Queen wore colours. She appeared in a broad-skirted, much-quilted, tagged and spangled gown of yellow satin; netted over with lace-work done in pearls. The bodice was long and pointed, low in the neck; but a ruff edged with pearls ran up from either shoulder, like two great petals, within which her neck and feathered head were as the stamen of the flower. It did not suit her to be so sumptuous, because that involved stiffness; and she was too slim to carry the gear, and too active, too supple and humoursome to be anything but miserable in it. But she chose to shine that night, so that she might honour her prince in her brother’s cold eyes.
After supper, when there was general dancing, the Earl of Moray surprised everybody by walking across the hall to where Lord Darnley stood. A dozen or more heard his exact words: ‘Come, my lord,’ he said, ‘I am spokesman for us all; and here is my humble suit, that you will lead the Queen in a measure. It would be her own choice, so you cannot deny me. Come, I will lead you to her Majesty.’
He spoke more loudly but no less deliberately than usual; there was quite a little commotion. Even the young prince himself knew that this was an extraordinary civility. One may add, perhaps, that even he received it graciously. Bowing, blushing a little, he said: ‘My lord, I shall always serve the Queen’s grace, and, I hope, content her. I take it thankfully from your lordship that in this yours is the common voice.’
The Earl took him by the hand up the hall. The Queen had starry eyes when she saw them coming.
‘Madam,’ said her half-brother, ‘here I bring a partner for your Majesty whom I am persuaded you will not refuse. If you think him more backward than he should be and myself more forward, you shall reflect, madam, that by these means my zeal is enabled to join hands with his modesty.’
‘We thank you, brother,’ replied the Queen, in a voice scarcely audible. She was certainly touched, as she looked up at her prince with quivering lips. But he laughed a brave answer back, and held out his hand to take hers. The musicians in the gallery, who had been primed beforehand, struck into a galliard.
This dance is really a formal comedy, what we call a ballet, with grave, high-handed turns to left and right, curtseyings, bowings, retreats and pursuits. It quickens or dies according to the air. You make your first stately steps, you bow and separate; you dance apart, upon signal you return. The theme of every galliard is Difference and Reconciliation. It is a Roman thing, and has five airs to it. The air chosen here was, ‘Baisons-nous, ma belle.’
The prince was a stilted dancer, Queen Mary the best of her day—the exercise was a passion of hers. As for him, he could never be any better, for, doubting his own dignity, he was extremely jealous of it. It seemed to him that to be limber would be to exhibit weakness. The result of this disparity between the partners was, to the spectators, that the Queen had the air of drawing him on, of enticing him, of inspiring all this parade of tiffs and sweet accord. It was she who, at the curtsey, showed herself saucy and maline—she who, like a rustic beauty, glanced and shook her head, hunched her white shoulder and tossed his presence away. So it was she who came tripping back, held off, invited pursuit, suffered capture, melted suddenly to kindness. He regained her hand, as it appeared, by right and without effort; she let it rest, they thought, in thankful duty. It was make-believe, of course; but she lived her part, and he did not. So blockish was he that, Mary Seton said, the Queen seemed like a girl hanging garlands round a garden god. All watched and all passed judgment, but were prejudiced by the knowledge that, as she danced, so she would choose to be. In the midst, and unperceived, the Earl of Moray went out of the hall, and sought the Italian in his writing cabinet.
Signior Davy was at work there by the light of a tallow candle. His hair was disordered, his bonnet awry; he had unfastened his doublet, and his shirt had overflowed his breeches. He wrote fast, but like an artist, with his head well away from his hand. It went now to one side, now to another, as he estimated the shapes of his thin lettering. ‘Eh! probiamo! Ma sì, ma sì—così va meglio.’ So he chattered to himself at his happy craft.