So when he continued to urge that she should stay in Flanders while he went on alone to the French Court, she at length agreed.
Her farewell was tender, but it held a warning in it. James remembered that warning now. It was ominous. “Do not think I am a woman to be lightly taken up and then cast off. If you think that, James Hepburn, you do not know Anna Throndsen.”
This would be a lesson to him in future. But he had no great qualms. He was not one to brood on the future; he let that take care of itself. He had been in too many scrapes to worry about consequences; he had faced death so often that he was not to be alarmed by a persistent woman.
A page came to him and, bowing before him, asked if Lord Bothwell would be so good as to follow him.
He did so until the page threw open a door and announced: “My Lord, the Earl of Bothwell.”
He started forward expecting to see the young Queen of whom he had heard so much. Instead it was a red-clad figure, tall, dignified and imposing; and he recognized the Cardinal of Lorraine who, he had heard, with the help of his brother ruled France.
The two men took each other’s measure. The sensuality of each was his most outstanding characteristic, yet there could not have been two men more different. The Cardinal was the gourmet, Bothwell the gourmand. The Cardinal was subtle; Bothwell was direct. One was a man of physical inactivity, the other a man of action. The Cardinal pandered to his sensual appetites, using aphrodisiac means—mental and physical—to stimulate them; Bothwell needed no such stimulation. The Cardinal was a coward; Bothwell did not know the meaning of fear. They were two strong men, but their strength lay in different directions.
The Cardinal disliked the boldness of the coarse Borderer; Bothwell disdained the arrogance of the elegant gentleman. But they were each aware of the power possessed by the other. The Cardinal, by far the cleverer of the two, was able to hide his resentment the more easily.
“I had thought to see my Queen,” said Bothwell.
“Monsieur,” smiled the Cardinal, “you have come from Scotland where Court manners are slightly different. In France we await the pleasure of the Queen. We do not present ourselves unless commanded to do so.”
“I have letters from the Queens late mother. Doubtless she will be eager to receive them.”
“Doubtless. But as Queen of France she has much with which to occupy herself. I know you have come from Denmark where you did good work. I heard from my dear sister, before her unfortunate demise, that you were a worthy young man whom she delighted to honor with her trust. I therefore welcome you to the Court of France.”
“You are gracious, Monsieur le Cardinal, but it is my Queen I have come to see.”
“You have the letters from her mother?” The Cardinal extended his slim white hand.
“My instructions were to hand them to none but the Queen herself.”
“The Queen has no secrets from me.”
“So I have heard,” answered Bothwell. “But those were my instructions.”
The Cardinal sighed. “There is one matter I must discuss with you. The Queen does not know of her mothers death. I myself wish to break the news and break it gently. She has suffered from bad health lately and I fear the shock might prove too much for her.”
Bothwell’s lips were set in an obstinate line. He did not see why he should take orders from the Cardinal. He disliked taking orders. His policy with the late Queen had been a bold one. He was no Court intrigant and flatterer. Now that her mother was dead it was well for the Queen of Scots to know of the acute danger which such a situation threatened. He had come to warn her of just that; and now, this man, doubtless for reasons of his own, was forcing him to silence on a most important issue.
“I have had no instructions,” declared Bothwell, “to keep silent on this matter.”
“Until now… no,” agreed the Cardinal.
“My lord Cardinal, this is a matter which I must discuss with others of my countrymen. Lord Seton is here at Saint-Germain. I—”
“That gentleman has already received his instructions in the matter.”
“And the King of France?” said Bothwell with a trace of insolence. “These are his instructions?”
“The King, Monsieur, knows nothing of the tragedy. If he knew of it, he would be unable to prevent himself from imparting it to the Queen.”
“So then the King and Queen are kept in ignorance of certain facts which concern them!”
The Cardinal decided to smile at such insolence. He said: “The King and Queen are very young—little more than children. It is the express desire of her uncle, the Duke of Guise, and myself as well as the Queen-Mother of France, not to overtax them. We lighten their burdens as best we can. It is our considered opinion, in view of the Queen’s failing health, that she should not at present suffer the shock such news would give her. Therefore, my lord Bothwell, you will say nothing of her mother’s death. I myself will break the news to her when I consider she is fit to receive it.”
“You are not afraid that someone’s indiscretion may betray the news?”
“We know how to deal with indiscreet people, my lord. And all of us who love the Queen have no wish to do aught which would bring harm to her. Give me your assurance that you will say nothing of her mother’s death, and no obstacle shall be put in the way of your meeting the Queen.”
Bothwell hesitated, but only for a moment. He was sharp enough to see that this man could prevent his meeting with the Queen.
“I give my word,” he said.
The Cardinal was satisfied. There was that about the Scottish adventurer which implied that having given his word he would keep it.
JAMES HEPBURN, Earl of Bothwell, stood before the Queen of France and Scotland.
He had knelt and kissed her hand and had now been bidden to rise. He was acutely aware, among those about her, of the red-clad figure of the Cardinal.
So here was the Queen of Scotland! he pondered. This was the young woman of whom he had heard so much. This was the “skittering lass” the Hamiltons referred to. She was but a pale and delicate girl.
It was characteristic of James Hepburn that in those few seconds he had stripped her of her royalty and had seen her as a woman. He was aware of curling chestnut hair that gleamed red and gold in places, long—but not large—eyes, a gentle and smiling mouth, a skin that was pale and delicate, a carriage which suggested pride of race and great dignity. He thought her fair enough, but he had been expecting one more dazzling. He thought of Anna’s dark beauty; Mary Stuart’s was of a different kind.
That underlying, but as yet unawakened sensuality which was the secret cause—far more than her beauty—of Mary’s attractiveness, was beyond his perception. He was attracted by the obvious. He thought Mary unhealthy and the unhealthy did not please him. She was French, for all she called herself the Queen of Scots. Her dress and manners—everything about her—was French. She was a fragile and pretty creature—that was all as far as he could judge.
That she was his Queen was quite another matter.
“My Lord Bothwell,” she addressed him, “you have brought letters from my mother.”
He said this was so and that he was honored and delighted to have the opportunity of offering them to her.
He took them from the pocket of his doublet and gave them to her. Smiling, she took them. Then he saw her charm. A pretty wench, he thought, but, alas, not a bonny one.
The Cardinal was murmuring to the Queen: “I will relieve Your Majesty of these documents.” Mary handed them to him. “Later,” went on the Cardinal, “if it is Your Majesty’s pleasure, we will go through them together.”
“That is my pleasure,” said the Queen.