‘You speak of my mother, sir,’ he said, his lip quivering.
‘By the Mass, and so I do!’ said the Earl.
The Queen patted the lad’s shoulder before she sent him away. ‘You shall tell me all about your mother, Jean-Marie, when we are in Scotland.’
Jean-Marie-Baptiste Des-Essars quickly kissed her sleeve, and became her man. More of him in due time, and of what he saw out of his ‘smut-rimmed’ eyes.
When English Mr. Throckmorton was reported as within a day’s ride of Nancy, my Lord Bothwell thought it wise to take leave. His odour in England was not good, and he knew very well that the Lord James would not sprinkle him with anything which would make it better. So he presented himself betimes in the morning, said his adieux and kissed hands.
‘Farewell, my lord,’ says Queen Mary. ‘Lorraine will be the sadder for your going.’
‘And ever fare your Majesty well,’ he answered her gaily, ‘as in Scotland you shall, despite the weepers.’
‘Do you go to Scotland, my lord?’
‘Does your Majesty?’ says he, his little eyes all of a twinkle.
‘My question was first, my lord.’