‘The King hates my master without understanding; the Queen leans on him to gain understanding; but she has not gained it yet. You may trust my lord for that. Did you hear of the mass on Candlemas Day, a week past to-day? How she thought this a fine occasion to restore the ancient use: her enemies beaten over the border, all her friends should carry tapers, so that the Queen of Heaven might be purified again of her spotless act? She required it personally of all the lords, one by one, herself beseeching them with soft eyes and motions of the hands hard to be denied. Moreover, she is to have need of purification herself if all goes well. For she is ... but you can judge for yourself. Many promised her on whom she had not counted; my master, on whom she did count, refused her point-blank. The strangest part of the business is, however, that his credit is higher now than it was before. So much so that she has made him a fine marriage. Monsieur de Huntly’s sister is the lady; I have seen her, but reserve my judgment. I think that she will not like me—I feel it in the ridges of my ears, a very sensitive part with me. She was in the Queen’s circle one day—the day on which I saw her—a statue of a woman, upon whom the Queen cast the eyes of that lover who goes to church to view his mistress afar off, and has no regard for any but her, and waits and hopes, and counts every little turn of her head—as patient as a watching dog. Curious! curious government of women! Hey—pardon! The Council is up. I must be forward. Sir, I thank you, and humbly salute you.’
French Paris pushes through the huddle of servants, the rosemary sprig in his mouth.
My Lord Admiral the Earl of Bothwell comes out one of the first, between the Lords Seton and Caithness. He talks fast, you notice, with a good deal of wrist and finger-work, acknowledges no salutations though he is offered many. My Lord Seton takes them all upon himself, misses not one. The Earl of Caithness is an oldish man, rather hard of hearing. Heeding nobody, speaking as he feels, laughing at his own jokes, capping one with another, the burly admiral stands barehead in the raw drizzle, swinging his feathered hat in his hand. There seems much to say, if he could only remember it, and no hurry. Horses are brought up, gentlemen mount by the post and spur away. Three ushers come running, waving their wands. ‘Sirs, the King!’ The crowd gathers; the Lord Admiral continues his conversation.
The King comes out, taller by a head than most, exceedingly magnificent, light-haired, hot in the face. Hats and bonnets are doffed, but in silence. The great grey stallion with red trappings is his; and he can hold it though two grooms cannot well. He stands for a while, pulling on his gauntlet, scowling and screwing his mouth as he tussles with it. But the scowls, you gather, are less for the glove than for a calm-eyed, fleshy, pink man with a light red beard, who has emerged but just now; whose furred cloak is over-fringed, whose bonnet sags too much over one eye, the jewel in it too broad. This is Signior Davy, too cool and too much master to please one who is hot and not master of himself. You can see the King’s mood grow furious to the point of unreason, while my Lord Bothwell continues his tales, and the Italian, secure in a crowd, seems to be daring an attack.
The King is mounted, the King is away. The crowd drives back to right and left. He goes swinging down the steep street, his gentlemen after him. The Earl of Bothwell calls out, ‘Paris, my cloak.’
Paris turns the rosemary sprig. ‘Le voici, monseigneur.’
He walks away to his lodging like any plain burgess of the town, and Paris trips jauntily after him, looking Scotchwomen in the face.