“IT WAS THE QUEEN’S FOOL”
“IT WAS THE QUEEN’S FOOL”
They had now come to two paths in the park leading different ways.
“This road leads to Kenilworth, this to your prison,” he said, with a slow gesture, his eyes fixed upon hers.
“I will go to my prison, then,” she said, stepping forward, “and alone, by your leave.”
Leicester was a good sportsman. Though he had been beaten all along the line, he hid his deep chagrin, choked down the rage that was in him. Smiling, he bowed low.
“I will do myself the honor to visit your prison to-morrow,” he said.
“My father will welcome you, my lord,” she answered, and, gathering up her skirt, ran down the pathway.
He stood, unmoving, and watched her disappear.
“But I shall have my way with them both,” he said, aloud.
The voice of a singer sounded in the greenwood.Half consciously Leicester listened. The words came shrilling through the trees:
“Oh, love, it is a lily flower,(Sing, my captain, sing, my lady!)The sword shall cleave it, Life shall leave it—Who shall know the hour?(Sing, my lady, still!).”
“Oh, love, it is a lily flower,(Sing, my captain, sing, my lady!)The sword shall cleave it, Life shall leave it—Who shall know the hour?(Sing, my lady, still!).”
“Oh, love, it is a lily flower,
(Sing, my captain, sing, my lady!)
The sword shall cleave it, Life shall leave it—
Who shall know the hour?
(Sing, my lady, still!).”
Presently the jingling of bells mingled with the song, then a figure in motley burst upon him. It was the Queen’s fool.
“Brother, well met—most happily met!” he cried.
“And why well met, fool?” asked Leicester.
“Prithee, my work grows heavy, brother. I seek another fool for the yoke. Here are my bells for you. I will keep my cap. And so we will work together, fool: you for the morning, I for the afternoon, and the devil take the night-time! So God be with you, Obligato!”
With a laugh he leaped into the undergrowth and left Leicester standing with the bells in his hand.
ANGÈLEhad come to know, as others in like case have ever done, how wretched indeed is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors. She had saved the Queen’s life upon May Day, and on the evening of that day the Queen had sent for her, had made such high and tender acknowledgment of her debt as would seem to justify for her perpetual honor. And what Elizabeth said she meant; but in a life set in forests of complications and opposing interests the political overlapped the personal in her nature. Thus it was that she had kept the princes of the world dangling, advancing towards marriage with them, retreating suddenly, setting off one house against the other, allying herself to oneEuropean power to-day, with another to-morrow, her own person and her crown the pawn with which she played. It was not a beautiful thing in a woman, but it was what a woman could do; and, denied other powers given to men—as to her father—she resorted to astute but doubtful devices to advance her diplomacy. Over all was self-infatuation, the bane of princes, the curse of greatness, the source of wide injustice. It was not to be expected, as Leicester had said, that Elizabeth, save for the whim of the moment, would turn aside to confer benefit upon Angèle or to keep her in mind, unless constrained to do so for some political reason.
The girl had charmed the Queen, had, by saving her life, made England her long debtor; but Leicester had judged rightly in believing that the Queen might find the debt irksome; that her gratitude would be corroded by other destructive emotions. It was true that Angèle had saved her life, but Michel had charmed her eye. He had proved himself a more gallant fighter thanany in her kingdom; and had done it, as he had said, in her honor. So, as her admiration for Michel grew, her debt to Angèle became burdensome; and, despite her will, there stole into her mind the old petulance and smothered anger against beauty and love and marriage. She could ill bear that one near her person should not be content to flourish in the light and warmth of her own favor, setting aside all other small affections. So it was that she had sent Angèle to her father and kept De la Forêt in the palace. Perplexed, troubled by new developments, the birth of a son to Mary Queen of Scots, the demand of her Parliament that she should marry, the pressure of foreign policy which compelled her to open up again negotiations for marriage with the Duke of Anjou—all these combined to detach her from the interest she had suddenly felt in Angèle. But, by instinct, she knew also that Leicester, through jealousy, had increased the complication; and, fretful under the long influence he had had upon her, she steadily lessened intercourse with him. Theduel he fought with Lemprière on May Day came to her ears through the Duke’s Daughter, and she seized upon it with sharp petulance. First she ostentatiously gave housing and care to Lemprière, and went to visit him; then, having refused Leicester audience, wrote to him.
“What is this I hear,” she scrawled upon the paper—“that you have forced a quarrel with the Lord of Rozel, and have well ny ta’en his life! Is swording, then, your dearest vice that you must urge it on a harmless gentleman, and my visitor? Do you think you hold a charter of freedom for your selfwill? Have a care, Leicester, or, by God! you shall know another sword surer than your own.”
The rage of Leicester on receiving this knew no bounds; for though he had received from Elizabeth stormy letters before, none had had in it the cold irony of this missive. The cause of it? Desperation seized him. With a mad disloyalty he read in every word of Elizabeth’s letter, Michel de la Forêt, refugee. With madder fury he determined tostrike for the immediate ruin of De la Forêt, and Angèle with him—for had she not thrice repulsed him as though he had been some village captain? After the meeting in the maze he had kept his promise of visiting her “prison.” By every art, and without avail, he had through patient days sought to gain an influence over her; for he saw that if he could but show the Queen that the girl was open to his advances, accepted his protection, her ruin would be certain—in anger Elizabeth would take revenge upon both refugees. But however much he succeeded with Monsieur Aubert, he failed wholly with Angèle. She repulsed him still with the most certain courtesy, with the greatest outward composure; but she had to make her fight alone, for the Queen forbade intercourse with Michel, and she must have despaired but for the messages sent now and then by the Duke’s Daughter.
Through M. Aubert, to whom Leicester was diligently courteous, and whom he sought daily, discussing piously the question of religion so dear to the old man’s heart, he stroveto foster in Angèle’s mind the suspicion he had ventured at their meeting in the maze, that the Queen, through personal interest in Michel, was saving his life to keep him in her household. So well did he work on the old man’s feelings that when he offered his own protection to M. Aubert and Angèle, whatever the issue with De la Forêt might be, he was met with an almost tearful response of gratitude. It was the moment to convey a deep distrust of De la Forêt into the mind of the old refugee, and it was subtly done.
Were it not better to leave the court, where only danger surrounded them, and find safety on Leicester’s own estate, where no man living could molest them? Were it not well to leave Michel de la Forêt to his fate, whatever it would be? Thrice within a week the Queen had sent for De la Forêt—what reason was there for that, unless the Queen had a secret personal interest in him? Did M. Aubert think it was only a rare touch of humor which had turned De la Forêt into a preacher, and set his fate upon a sermon to be preached before the court? He himselfhad long held high office, had been near to her Majesty, and he could speak with more knowledge than he might use—it grieved him that Mademoiselle Aubert should be placed in so painful a position.
Sometimes as the two talked Angèle would join them; and then there was a sudden silence, which made her flush with embarrassment, anxiety, or anger. In vain did she assume a cold composure, in vain school herself to treat Leicester with a precise courtesy; in vain her heart protested the goodness of De la Forêt and high uprightness of the Queen; the persistent suggestions of the dark earl worked upon her mind in spite of all. Why had the Queen forbidden her to meet Michel, or write to him, or to receive letters from him? Why had the Queen, who had spoken such gratitude, deserted her. And now even the Duke’s Daughter wrote to her no more, sent her no more messages. She felt herself a prisoner, and that the Queen had forgotten her debt.
She took to wandering to that part of the palace grounds where she could see thewindows of the tower her lover inhabited. Her old habit of cheerful talk deserted her, and she brooded. It was long before she heard of the duel between the seigneur and Lord Leicester—the Duke’s Daughter had kept this from her, lest she should be unduly troubled—and when, in anxiety, she went to the house where Lemprière had been quartered, he had gone, none could tell her whither. Buonespoir was now in close confinement, by secret orders of Leicester, and not allowed to walk abroad, and thus, with no friend save her father, now so much under the influence of the earl, she was bitterly solitary. Bravely she fought the growing care and suspicion in her heart; but she was being tried beyond her strength. Her father had urged her to make personal appeal to the Queen; and at times, despite her better judgment, she was on the verge of doing so. Yet what could she say? She could not go to the Queen of England and cry out, like a silly milkmaid, “You have taken my lover—give him back to me!” What proof had she that the Queen wanted her lover? And ifshe spoke, the impertinence of the suggestion might send back to the fierce Medici that same lover, to lose his head.
Leicester, who now was playing the game as though it were a hazard for states and kingdoms, read the increasing trouble in her face; and waited confidently for the moment when in desperation she would lose her self-control and go to the Queen.
But he did not reckon with the depth of the girl’s nature and her true sense of life. Her brain told her that what she was tempted to do she should not; that her only way was to wait; to trust that the Queen of England was as much true woman as queen, and as much queen as true woman; and that the one was held in high equipoise by the other. Besides, Trinity Day would bring the end of it all, and that was not far off. She steeled her will to wait till then, no matter how dark the sky might be.
As time went on, Leicester became impatient. He had not been able to induce M. Aubert to compel Angèle to accept a quiet refuge at Kenilworth; he saw that this planwould not work, and he deployed his mind upon another. If he could but get Angèle to seek De la Forêt in his apartment in the palace, and then bring the matter to Elizabeth’s knowledge, with sure proof, De la Forêt’s doom would be sealed. At great expense, however; for, in order to make the scheme effective, Angèle should visit De la Forêt at night. This would mean the ruin of the girl as well. Still that could be set right; because, once De la Forêt was sent to the Medici, the girl’s character could be cleared; and, if not, so much the surer would she come at last to his protection. What he had professed in cold deliberation had become in some sense a fact. She had roused in him an eager passion. He might even dare, when De la Forêt was gone, to confess his own action in the matter to the Queen, once she was again within his influence. She had forgiven him more than that in the past, when he had made his own mad devotion to herself excuse for his rashness or misconduct.
He waited opportunity, he arranged alldetails carefully, he secured the passive agents of his purpose; and when the right day came he acted.
About ten o’clock one night, a half-hour before the closing of the palace gates, when no one could go in or go out save by permit of the Lord Chamberlain, a footman from a surgeon of the palace came to Angèle, bearing a note which read:
“Your friend is very ill, and asks for you. Come hither alone; and now, if you would come at all.”
Her father was confined to bed with some ailment of the hour, and asleep—it were no good to awaken him. Her mind was at once made up. There was no time to ask permission of the Queen. She knew the surgeon’s messengers by sight; this one was in the usual livery, and his master’s name was duly signed. In haste she made herself ready, and went forth into the night with the messenger, her heart beating hard, a pitiful anxiety shaking her. Her steps werefleet between the lodge and the palace. They were challenged nowhere, and the surgeon’s servant, entering a side-door of the palace, led her hastily through gloomy halls and passages, where they met no one, though once in a dark corridor some one brushed against her. She wondered why there were no servants to show the way, why the footman carried no torch nor candle, but haste and urgency seemed due excuse, and she thought only of Michel, and that she would soon see him—dying, dead perhaps before she could touch his hand! At last they emerged into a lighter and larger hall-way, where her guide suddenly paused, and said to Angèle, motioning towards a door:
“Enter. He is there.”
For a moment she stood still, scarce able to breathe, her heart hurt her so. It seemed to her as if life itself was arrested. As the servant, without further words, turned and left her, she knocked, opened the door without awaiting a reply, and, stepping into semidarkness, said, softly:
“Michel! Michel!”
ATAngèle’s entrance a form slowly raised itself on a couch, and a voice, not Michel’s, said: “Mademoiselle—by our Lady, ’tis she!”
It was the voice of the Seigneur of Rozel, and Angèle started back, amazed.
“You, monsieur—you!” she gasped. “It was you that sent for me?”
“Send? Not I—I have not lost my manners yet. Rozel at court is no greater fool than Lemprière in Jersey.”
Angèle wrung her hands. “I thought it De la Forêt who was ill. The surgeon said to come quickly.”
Lemprière braced himself against the wall, for he was weak and his fever still high. “Ill?—not he! As sound in body and soulas any man in England. That is a friend, that De la Forêt lover of yours, or I’m no butler to the Queen. He gets leave and brings me here, and coaxes me back to life again—with not a wink of sleep for him these five days past till now.”
Angèle had drawn nearer, and now stood beside the couch, trembling and fearful, for it came to her mind that she had been made the victim of some foul device. The letter had read: “Your friend is ill.” True, the seigneur was her friend, but he had not sent for her.
“Where is De la Forêt?” she asked, quickly.
“Yonder, asleep,” said the seigneur, pointing to a curtain which divided the room from one adjoining.
Angèle ran quickly towards the door, then stopped short. No, she would not waken him. She would go back at once. She would leave the palace by the way she came. Without a word she turned and went towards the door opening into the hallway. With her hand upon the latch she stopped shortagain, for she realized that she did not know her way through the passages and corridors, and that she must make herself known to the servants of the palace to obtain guidance and exit. As she stood helpless and confused, the seigneur called, hoarsely, “De la Forêt! De la Forêt!”
Before Angèle could decide upon her course the curtain of the other room was thrust aside and De la Forêt entered. He was scarce awake, and he yawned contentedly. He did not see Angèle, but turned towards Lemprière. For once the seigneur had a burst of inspiration. He saw that Angèle was in the shadow, and that De la Forêt had not observed her. He determined that the lovers should meet alone.
“Your arm, De la Forêt,” he grunted. “I’ll get me to the bed in yonder room—’tis easier than this couch.”
“Two hours ago you could not bear the bed, and must get you to the couch—and now! Seigneur, do you know the weight you are?” he added, laughing, as he stooped, and, helping Lemprière gently to his feet,raised him slowly in his arms and went heavily with him to the bedroom. Angèle watched him with a strange thrill of timid admiration and delight. Surely it could not be that Michel—her Michel—could be bought from his allegiance by any influence on earth. There was the same old simple laugh on his lips as, with chaffing words, he carried the huge seigneur to the other room. Her heart acquitted him then and there of all blame, past or to come.
“Michel!” she said aloud, involuntarily—the call of her spirit which spoke on her lips against her will.
De la Forêt had helped Lemprière to the bed again as he heard his name called, and he stood suddenly still, looking straight before him into space. Angèle’s voice seemed ghostly and unreal.
“Michel!” he heard again, and he came forward into the room where she was. Yet once again she said the word scarcely above a whisper, for the look of rapt wonder and apprehension in his manner overcame her. Now he turned towards her, where she stoodin the shadow by the door. He saw her, but even yet he did not stir, for she seemed to him still an apparition.
With a little cry she came forward to him. “Michel—help me!” she murmured, and stretched out her hands.
With a cry of joy he took her in his arms, and pressed her to his heart. Then a realization of danger came to him.
“Why did you come?” he asked.
She told him hastily. He heard with astonishment, and then said: “There is some foul trick here. Have you the message?” She handed it to him. “It is the surgeon’s writing, verily,” he said; “but it is still a trick, for the sick man here is Rozel. I see it all. You and I forbidden to meet—it was a trick to bring you here!”
“Oh, let me go!” she cried. “Michel, Michel, take me hence!” She turned towards the door.
“The gates are closed,” he said, as a cannon boomed on the evening air.
Angèle trembled violently. “Oh, what will come of this?” she cried, in tearful despair.
“Be patient, sweet, and let me think,” he answered.
At that moment there came a knocking at the door, then it was thrown open, and there stepped inside the Earl of Leicester, preceded by a page bearing a torch.
“Is Michel de la Forêt within?” he called; then stopped short, as though astonished, seeing Angèle.
“So! so!” he said, with a contemptuous laugh.
Michel de la Forêt’s fingers twitched. He quickly stepped in front of Angèle, and answered: “What is your business here, my lord?”
Leicester languorously took off a glove, and seemed to stifle a yawn in it; then said: “I came to take you into my service, to urge upon you for your own sake to join my troops, going upon duty in the North; for I fear that if you stay here the Queen Mother of France will have her way. But I fear I am too late. A man who has sworn himself into service d’amour has no time for service de la guerre.”
“I will gladly give an hour from any service I may follow to teach the Earl of Leicester that he is less a swordsman than a trickster.”
Leicester flushed, but answered coolly: “I can understand your chagrin. You should have locked your door. It is the safer custom.” He bowed slightly towards Angèle. “You have not learned our English habits of discretion, Monsieur de la Forêt. I would only do you service. I appreciate your choler. I should be no less indignant. So, in the circumstances, I will see that the gates are opened—of course you did not realize the flight of time—and I will take mademoiselle to her lodgings. You may rely on my discretion. I am wholly at your service—tout à vous, as who should say in your charming language.”
The insolence was so veiled in perfect outward courtesy that it must have seemed impossible for De la Forêt to reply in terms equal to the moment. He had, however, no need to reply, for the door of the room suddenly opened, and two pages stepped insidewith torches. They were followed by a gentleman in scarlet and gold, who said, “The Queen!” and stepped aside.
An instant afterwards Elizabeth, with the Duke’s Daughter, entered.
The three dropped upon their knees, and Elizabeth waved without the pages and the gentleman-in-waiting.
When the doors closed, the Queen eyed the three kneeling figures, and as her glance fell on Leicester a strange glitter came into her eyes. She motioned all to rise, and, with a hand upon the arm of the Duke’s Daughter, said to Leicester:
“What brings the Earl of Leicester here?”
“I came to urge upon monsieur the wisdom of holding to the Sword, and leaving the Book to the butter-fingered religious. Your Majesty needs good soldiers.”
He bowed, but not low, and it was clear he was bent upon a struggle. He was confounded by the Queen’s presence—he could not guess why she should have come; and that she was prepared for what she saw was clear.
“And brought an eloquent pleader with you?” She made a scornful gesture towards Angèle.
“Nay, your Majesty; the lady’s zeal outran my own, and crossed the threshold first.”
The Queen’s face wore a look that Leicester had never seen on it before, and he had observed it in many moods.
“You found the lady here, then?”
“With monsieur, alone. Seeing she was placed unfortunately, I offered to escort her hence to her father. But your Majesty came upon the moment.”
There was a ring of triumph in Leicester’s voice. No doubt, by some chance, the Queen had become aware of Angèle’s presence, he thought. Fate had forestalled the letter he had already written on this matter, and meant to send her within the hour. Chance had played into his hands with perfect suavity. The Queen, less woman now than queen, enraged by the information got he knew not how, had come at once to punish the gross breach of her orders and a dark misconduct—so he thought.
The Queen’s look, as she turned it on Angèle, apparently had in it what must have struck terror to even a braver soul than that of the helpless Huguenot girl.
“And it is thus you spend the hours of night? God’s faith, but you are young to be so wanton!” she cried, in a sharp voice. “Get you from my sight, and out of my kingdom as fast as horse and ship may carry you, as feet may bear you.” Leicester’s face lighted to hear.
“Your high Majesty,” pleaded the girl, dropping on her knees, “I am innocent. As God lives, I am innocent.”
“The man, then, only is guilty?” the Queen rejoined, with scorn. “Is it innocent to be here at night, my palace gates shut, with your lover—alone?” Leicester laughed at the words.
“Your Majesty, oh, your gracious Majesty, hear me. We were not alone—not alone—”
There was a rustle of curtains, a heavy footstep, and Lemprière of Rozel staggered into the room. De la Forêt ran to help him,and, throwing an arm around him, almost carried him towards the couch. Lemprière, however, slipped from De la Forêt’s grasp to his knees on the floor before the Queen.
“Not alone, your high and sacred Majesty—I am here—I have been here through all. I was here when mademoiselle came, brought hither by trick of some knave not fit to be your immortal Majesty’s subject. I speak the truth, for I am butler to your Majesty, and no liar. I am Lemprière of Rozel.”
No man’s self-control could meet such a surprise without wavering. Leicester was confounded, for he had not known that Lemprière was housed with De la Forêt. For a moment he could do naught but gaze at Lemprière. Then, as the seigneur suddenly swayed, and would have fallen, the instinct of effective courtesy, strong in him, sent him with arms outstretched to lift him up. Together, without a word, he and De la Forêt carried him to the couch and laid him down.
That single act saved Leicester’s life. There was something so naturally (though, in truth, it was so hypocritically) kind inthe way he sprang to his enemy’s assistance that an old spirit of fondness stirred in the Queen’s breast, and she looked strangely at him. When, however, they had disposed of Lemprière, and Leicester had turned again towards her, she said:
“Did you think I had no loyal and true gentlemen at my court, my lord? Did you think my leech would not serve me as fair as he would serve the Earl of Leicester? Ye have not bought us all, Robert Dudley, who have bought and sold so long. The good leech did your bidding and sent your note to the lady; but there your bad play ended and Fate’s began. A rabbit’s brains, Leicester—and a rabbit’s end. Fate has the brains you need.”
Leicester’s anger burst forth now under the lash of ridicule. “I cannot hope to win when your Majesty plays Fate in caricature.”
With a little gasp of rage Elizabeth leaned over and slapped his face with her long glove. “Death of my life! but I who made you do unmake you,” she cried.
He dropped his hand on his sword. “If you were but a man—and not—” he said, then stopped short, for there was that in the Queen’s face which changed his purpose.
Anger was shaking her, but there were tears in her eyes. The woman in her was stronger than the queen. It was nothing to her at this moment that she might have his life as easily as she had struck his face with her glove; this man had once shown the better part of himself to her, and the memory of it shamed her for his own sake now. She made a step towards the door, then turned and spoke:
“My lord, I have no palace and no ground wherein your footstep will not be trespass. Pray you, remember.”
She turned towards Lemprière, who lay on his couch faint and panting. “For you, my Lord of Rozel, I wish you better health, though you have lost it somewhat in a good cause.”
Her glance fell on De la Forêt. Her look softened. “I will hear you preach next Sunday, sir.”
There was an instant’s pause, and then she said to Angèle, with gracious look and in a low voice: “You have heard from me that calumny which the innocent never escape. To try you, I neglected you these many days; to see your nature even more truly than I knew it, I accused you but now. You might have been challenged first by one who could do you more harm than Elizabeth of England, whose office is to do good, not evil. Nets are spread for those whose hearts are simple, and your feet have been caught. Be thankful that we understand; and know that Elizabeth is your loving friend. You have had trials—I have kept you in suspense—there has been trouble for us all; but we are better now; our minds are more content; so all may be well, please God! You will rest this night with our lady-dove here, and to-morrow early you shall return in peace to your father. You have a good friend in our cousin.” She made a gentle motion towards the Duke’s Daughter. “She has proved it so. In my leech she has a slave. To her you owe this help in time ofneed. She hath wisdom, too, and we must listen to her, even as I have done this day.”
She inclined her head towards the door. Leicester opened it, and as she passed out she gave him one look which told him that his game was lost, if not forever, yet for time uncertain and remote. “You must not blame the leech, my lord,” she said, suddenly turning back. “The Queen of England has first claim on the duty of her subjects. They serve me for love; you they help at need as time-servers.”
She stepped on, then paused again and looked back. “And I forbid fighting betwixt you,” she said, in a loud voice, looking at De la Forêt and Leicester.
Without further sign or look, she moved on. Close behind came Angèle and the Duke’s Daughter, and Leicester followed at some distance.
NOTfar from the palace, in a secluded place hidden by laburnum, roses, box, and rhododendrons, there was a quaint and beautiful retreat. High up on all sides of a circle of green the flowering trees and shrubs interlaced their branches, and the grass, as smooth as velvet, was of such a note as soothed the eye and quieted the senses. In one segment of the verdant circle was a sort of open bower made of poles, up which roses climbed and hung across in gay festoons; and in two other segments mossy banks made resting-places. Here, in days gone by, when Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, first drew the eyes of his Queen upon him, Elizabeth came to listen to his vows of allegiance which swam in floods ofpassionate devotion to her person. Christopher Hatton, Sir Henry Lee, the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Sussex, a race of gallants, had knelt upon this pleasant sward. Here they had declared a devotion that, historically platonic, had a personal passion which, if rewarded by no personal requital, must have been an expensive outlay of patience and emotion.
But those days had gone. Robert Dudley had advanced far past his fellows, had locked himself into the chamber of the Queen’s confidence, had for long proved himself necessary to her, had mingled deference and admiration with an air of monopoly, and had then advanced to an air of possession, of suggested control. Then had begun his decline. England and England’s Queen could have but one ruler, and upon an occasion in the past Elizabeth made it clear by the words she used: “God’s death, my lord! I have wished you well; but my favor is not so locked up for you that others shall not partake thereof; and, if you think to rule here, I will take a course to see you forthcoming.I will have here but one mistress and no master.”
In these words she but declared what was the practice of her life, the persistent passion of her rule. The world could have but one sun, and every man or woman who sought its warmth must be a sun-worshipper. There could be no divided faith, no luminaries in the sky save those which lived by borrowed radiance.
Here in this bright theatre of green and roses, poets had sung the praises of this Queen to her unblushing and approving face; here ladies thrice as beautiful as she had begged her to tell them the secret of her beauty, so much greater than that of any living woman; and she was pleased even when she knew they flattered but to gain her smile—it was the tribute that power exacts. The place was a cenotaph of past romance and pleasure. Every leaf of every tree and flower had impressions of glories, of love, ambition, and intrigue, of tears and laughter, of joyousness and ruin. Never a spot in England where so much had been said and done, so far-reaching in effect and influence. But its glory was departed, its day was done, it was a place of dreams and memories: the Queen came here no more. Many years had withered since she had entered this charmed spot; and that it remained so fine was but evidence of the care of those to whom she had given strict orders seven years past that in and out of season it must be ever kept as it had erstwhile been. She had never entered the place since the day the young Marquis of Wessex, whom she had imprisoned for marrying secretly and without her consent, on his release came here, and, with a concentrated bitterness and hate, had told her such truths as she never had heard from man or woman since she was born. He had impeached her in such cold and murderous terms as must have made wince even a woman with no pride. To Elizabeth it was gall and wormwood. When he at last demanded the life of the young wife who had died in enforced seclusion, because she had married the man she loved, Elizabeth was so confounded that she hastily left the place, sayingno word in response. This attack had been so violent, so deadly, that she had seemed unnerved, and forbore to command him to the Tower or to death.
“You, in whose breast love never stirred, deny the right to others whom God blessed with it,” he cried. “Envious of mortal happiness that dare exist outside your will or gift, you sunder and destroy. You, in whose hands was power to give joy, gave death. What you have sown you shall reap. Here, on this spot, I charge you with high treason, with treachery to the people over whom you have power as a trust, which trust you have made a scourge.”
With such words as these he had assailed her, and for the first time in her life she had been confounded. In safety he had left the place and taken his way to Italy, from which he had never returned, though she had sent for him in kindness. Since that day Elizabeth had never come hither; and by-and-by none of her court came save the Duke’s Daughter, and her fool, who both made it their resort. Here the fool came upon theFriday before Trinity Day, bringing with him Lemprière and Buonespoir, to whom he had much attached himself.
It was a day of light and warmth, and the place was like a basket of roses. Having seen the two serving-men dispose, in a convenient place, the refreshment which Lemprière’s appetite compelled, the fool took command of the occasion, and made the two sit upon a bank, while he prepared the repast.
It was a notable trio; the dwarfish fool, with his shaggy, black head, twisted mouth, and watchful, wandering eye, whose foolishness was but the flaunting cover of shrewd observation and trenchant vision. Going where he would, and saying what he listed, now in the Queen’s inner chamber, then in the midst of the council, unconsidered, and the butt of all, he paid for his bed and bounty by shooting shafts of foolery, which as often made his listeners shrink as caused their laughter. The Queen he called Delicio, and Leicester, Obligato—as one who piped to another’s dance. He had taken to Buonespoirat the first glance, and had frequented him, and Lemprière had presently been added to his favor. He had again and again been messenger between them, as also of late between Angèle and Michel, whose case he viewed from a stand-point of great cheerfulness, and treated as children playing on the sands—as, indeed, he did the Queen and all near to her. But Buonespoir, the pirate, was to him reality and the actual, and he called him Bono Publico. At first Lemprière, ever jealous of his importance, was inclined to treat him with elephantine condescension; but he could not long hold out against the boon archness of the jester, and had collapsed suddenly into as close a friendship as that between himself and Buonespoir.
A rollicking spirit was his own fullest stock-in-trade, and it won him like a brother.
So it was that here, in the very bosom of the forest, lured by the pipe the fool played, Lemprière burst forth into song, in one hand a bottle of canary, in the other a handful of comfits:
“Duke William was a Norman(Spread the sail to the breeze!)That did to England ride;At Hastings by the Channel(Drink the wine to the lees!)Our Harold the Saxon died.If there be no cakes from Normandy,There’ll be more ale in England!”
“Duke William was a Norman(Spread the sail to the breeze!)That did to England ride;At Hastings by the Channel(Drink the wine to the lees!)Our Harold the Saxon died.If there be no cakes from Normandy,There’ll be more ale in England!”
“Duke William was a Norman
(Spread the sail to the breeze!)
That did to England ride;
At Hastings by the Channel
(Drink the wine to the lees!)
Our Harold the Saxon died.
If there be no cakes from Normandy,
There’ll be more ale in England!”
“Well sung, nobility, and well said,” cried Buonespoir, with a rose by the stem in his mouth, one hand beating time to the music, the other clutching a flagon of muscadella; “for the Normans are kings in England, and there’s drink in plenty at the court of our Lady Duchess.”
“Delicio shall never want while I have a penny of hers to spend,” quoth the fool, feeling for another tune.
“Should conspirators prevail, and the damnedest be, she hath yet the Manor of Rozel and my larder,” urged Lemprière, with a splutter through the canary.
“That shall be only when the fifth wind comes—it is so ordained, Nuncio!” said the fool, blinking.
Buonespoir set down his flagon. “Andwhat wind is the fifth wind?” he asked, scratching his bullet-head, his childlike, wide-spread eyes smiling the question.
“There be now four winds—the north wind, and his sisters, the east, the west, and south. When God sends a fifth wind, then conspirators shall wear crowns. Till then Delicio shall sow and I shall reap, as is Heaven’s will.”
Lemprière lay back and roared with laughter. “Before Belial, there never was such another as thou, fool. Conspirators shall die and not prevail, for a man may not marry his sister, and the north wind shall have no progeny. So there shall be no fifth wind.”
“Proved, proved!” cried the fool. “The north wind shall go whistle for a mate—there shall be no fifth wind. So Delicio shall still sail by the compass, and shall still compass all, and yet be compassed by none; for it is written, Who compasseth Delicio existeth not.”
Buonespoir watched a lark soaring, as though its flight might lead him through thefool’s argument clearly. Lemprière closed his eye and struggled with it, his lips out-pursed, his head sunk on his breast. Suddenly his eyes opened; he brought the bottle of canary down with a thud on the turf. “‘Fore Michael and all angels, I have it, fool; I travel, I conceive. De Carteret of St. Ouen’s must have gone to the block ere conceiving so. I must conceive thus of the argument. He who compasseth the Queen existeth not, for, compassing, he dieth.”
“So it is by the hour-glass and the fortune told in the porringer. You have conceived like a man, Nuncio.”
“And conspirators, I conceive, must die, so long as there be honest men to slay them,” rejoined the seigneur.
“Must only honest men slay conspirators? Oh, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego!” wheezed Buonespoir, with a grin. He placed his hand upon his head in self-pity. “Buonespoir, art thou damned by muscadella?” he murmured.
“But thou art purged of the past, Bono Publico,” answered the fool. “Since Deliciohath looked upon thee she hath shredded the Tyburn lien upon thee—thou art flushed like a mountain spring; and conspirators shall fall down by thee if thou, passant, dost fall by conspirators in the way. Bono Publico, thou shalt live by good company. Henceforth contraband shall be spurned and the book of grace opened.”
Buonespoir’s eyes laughed like a summer sky, but he scratched his head and turned over the rose-stem in his mouth reflectively. “So be it, then, if it must be; but yesterday the Devon sea-sweeper, Francis Drake, overhauled me in my cottage, coming from the Queen, who had infused him of me. ‘I have heard of you from a high mast-head,’ said he. ‘If the Spanish main allure you, come with me. There be galleons yonder still; they shall cough up doubloons.’ ‘It hath a sound of piracy,’ said I. ‘I am expurgated. My name is written on clean paper now, blessed be the name of the Queen!’ ‘Tut, tut, Buonesperado,’ laughed he, ‘you shall forget that Tyburn is not a fable if you care to have doubloons reminted at the Queen’s mint.It is meet Spanish Philip’s head be molted to oblivion, and Elizabeth’s raised, so that good silver be purged of Popish alloy.’ But that I had sworn by the little finger of St. Peter, when the moon was full, never to leave the English seas, I also would have gone with Drake of Devon this day. It is a man and a master of men, that Drake of Devon.”
“’Tis said that when a man hath naught left but life, and hath treated his honor like a poor relation, he goes to the Spanish main with Drake and Grenville,” said Lemprière.
“Then must Obligato go, for he hath such credentials,” said the fool, blowing thistledown in the air. “Yesterday was no Palm Sunday to Leicester. Delicio’s head was high. ‘Imperial Majesty,’ quoth Obligato, his knees upon the rushes, ‘take my life, but send me not forth into darkness where I shall see my Queen no more. By the light of my Queen’s eyes have I walked, and pains of hell are my Queen’s displeasure.’ ‘Methinks thy humbleness is tardy,’ quoth Delicio. ‘No cock shall crow by my nest,’ said she. ‘And, by the mantle of Elijah, I amout with sour faces and men of phlegm and rheum. I will be gay once more. So get thee gone to Kenilworth, and stray not from it on thy peril. Take thy malaise with thee, and I shall laugh again.’ And he goeth. So that was the end of Obligato, and now cometh another tune.”
“She hath good cheer?” asked Lemprière, eagerly.
“I have never seen Delicio smile these seven years as she smiled to-day; and when she kissed Amicitia I sent for my confessor and made my will. Delicio hath come to spring-time, and the voice of the turtle is in her ear.”
“Amicitia—and who is Amicitia?” asked Lemprière, well flushed with wine.
“She who hath brought Obligato to the diminuendo and finale,” answered the fool; “even she who hath befriended the Huguenottine of the black eyes.”
“Ah, she, the Duke’s Daughter—ah, that is a flower of a lady! Did she not say that my jerkin fitted featly when I did act as butler to her adorable Majesty three monthssyne? She hath no mate in the world save Mademoiselle Aubert, whom I brought hither to honor and to fame.”
“To honor and fame, was it—but by the hill of desperandum, Nuncio,” said the fool, prodding him with his stick of bells.
“‘Desperandum!’ I know not Latin, it amazes me,” said Lemprière, waving a lofty hand.
“She—the Huguenottine—was a-mazed, also, and from the maze was played by Obligato.”
“How so! how so!” cried the seigneur, catching at his meaning. “Did Leicester waylay and siege? ’Sblood, had I known this I’d have broached him and swallowed him even on crutches!”
“She made him raise the siege, she turned his own guns upon him, and in the end hath driven him hence.”
By rough questioning Lemprière got from the fool, by snatches, the story of the meeting in the maze, which had left Leicester standing with the jester’s ribboned bells in his hand. Then the seigneur got to hisfeet and hugged the fool, bubbling with laughter.
“By all the blood of all the saints, I will give thee burial in my own grave when all’s done,” he spluttered; “for there never was such fooling, never such a wise fool come since Confucius and the Khan. Good be with you, fool, and thanks be for such a lady. Thanks be also for the Duke’s Daughter. Ah, how she laid Leicester out! She washed him up the shore like behemoth, and left him gaping.”
Buonespoir intervened. “And what shall come of it? What shall be the end? TheHoneyflowerlies at anchor—there be three good men in waiting, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, and—”
The seigneur interrupted. “There’s little longer waiting. All’s well! Her high, hereditary Majesty smiled on me, when she gave Leicester congé and fiery quittance. She hath me in favor, and all shall be well with Michel and Angèle. O fool, fool, fantastic and flavored fool, sing me a song of good content, for if this business ends notwith crescendo and bell-ringing, I am no butler to the Queen nor keep good company!”
Seating themselves upon the mossy bank, their backs to the westward sun, the fool peered into the green shadows and sang with a soft melancholy an ancient song that another fool had sung to the first Tudor: