Even a stranger in Stirling must have been impressed by the fact that something unusual was afoot, not to be explained by the mere preparation for ushering in the New Year. Inquiry soon solved the problem of the decorations and the rejoicings. James the Fifth, the most popular king Scotland had possessed since the days of Bruce, was about to be married, and most of his subjects thought it high time, for he had reached the mature age of twenty-six, and monarchs are expected to take a mate somewhat earlier than other folk. As the king, with a splendid retinue, was to depart shortly after the new year on a journey to France to claim his bride, the capital city flung its bunting to the breeze, and theinhabitants thereof pledged each other and the king in bumpers of exhilarating beverages; indeed all Scotland was following the example set to it by Stirling, for the marriage was extremely well liked throughout the land.
The king’s father had linked himself to an English princess, and the Scottish people thought little of her. The precipitate marriage of this queen, only a few months after her husband’s death, still further lowered her in public estimation. Scotland professed slight regard for Margaret of England, and was glad when her son refused the offer of his uncle, Henry the Eighth, to provide him with a wife. Indeed, James was at that moment the most sought-after young man in the world, so far as matrimony was concerned. The Pope, who now addressed him as Defender of the Faith, had a favourite candidate for his hand. Henry the Eighth was anxious that he should have all England to pick and choose from. The Emperor Charles the Fifth wished him to marry Princess Mary of Portugal; Francis the First of France was eager to supply him with a well-dowered bride. Never before had any youth such an embarrassment of choice, but James himself decided that he would go a-wooing to France, and his subjects universally applauded his preference. James’selderly relative, John, Duke of Albany, had married the heiress of De la Tour d’Auvergne, and the young king resolved to follow his example. Apart from this, James, in a manner, was pledged from the time he was three years of age, for Albany, when Regent of Scotland, had promised France that the young ruler should seek his consort in that country; so there had now been chosen for him Mary, daughter of the Duc de Vendôme, who was reported beautiful, and, what was more to the purpose in a thrifty nation, was known to be wealthy.
This courting by all Europe might have turned the head of a less sensible young man than James, but he well knew the reason that so many distinguished persons desired his alliance. Henry the Eighth was at loggerheads with France; the Emperor Charles and Francis the First were engaged in one of their customary aimless wars, the advantage as usual inclining rather to the emperor’s side. Scotland was at peace with itself and with all the world. The Scots were excellent fighters in whatever part of the world they encountered an enemy, and the strong fleet which James the Fourth had builded was augmented by his son and might prove a powerful factor in European politics. France and Scotland had long beentraditional friends, and so this new mating aroused enthusiasm in both countries.
Thus Stirling put on gay attire and her citizens went about with smiles on their faces, all except one, and that one was James himself, who became more and more gloomy as the time for his departure approached. He had no desire to take upon himself the trammels of the matrimonial estate, and although his uncle, the strenuous Henry, was ultimately to set an example before the world of the ease with which the restrictions of marriage were to be shuffled off, yet at this time Henry himself was merely an amateur at the business, engaged in getting rid of Catherine of Arragon, a task which he had not yet succeeded in accomplishing. James had postponed and re-postponed the fateful journey; but at last he saw it must be taken, or a friendly country, one of the proudest on earth, would be deliberately insulted in the face of the world. Not only this, but his own subjects were getting restive, and he knew as well as they that a disputed succession in the event of his early death might lead to civil war. So, making the best of the hard bargain which is imposed on princes, where what should be the most endearing ties of human affection are concerned, James set his face resolutely towardsthe south, and attended by a brilliant escort, sailed for France. After a stormy voyage, for the month was January, the royal party landed in France, and was met by a company of nobles, only less splendid than itself in that a king was one of the visitors; for Francis had remained at Loches, to welcome his brother sovereign at that great and sinister stronghold, where the Court of France for the moment held its seat. Both time and weather seemed unpropitious for joyous occasion. News arrived at Loches that the French army had suffered defeat in its invasion of the Duke of Savoy’s territory, and these tidings exercised a depressing influence on the welcoming delegation.
As the united escorts of France and Scotland set out on their journey to Loches a flurry of damp snow filled the air, raw from off the Channel, and the road proved wellnigh impassable through depth of mud. The discontented countenance of the king, who was wont to be the life of any party of which he was a member, lowered the spirits of his Scottish followers to the level of those saddened by military defeat and the horsemen made their way through the quagmires of Northern France more like a slow funeral procession than wedding guests.
At the castle where they halted at the end of thefirst day’s journey, the King speedily retired to the apartment assigned to him without a word of cheer even to the most intimate of his comrades.
The travellers had accomplished only about twelve leagues from the sea-coast on their first day’s journey, and darkness had set in before the horsemen clattered through the narrow streets of a little town and came to the frowning gates of a great castle, whose huge tower in the glare of numerous torches loomed out white against the wintry sky. The chief room of the suite reserved for the king was the only cheerful object his majesty had seen that day. A roaring bonfire of bulky logs shed a flickering radiance on the tapestry that hung along the wall, almost giving animation to the knights pictured thereon, sternly battling against foes in anger, or merrily joisting with friends for pleasure at some forgotten tournament.
The king, probably actuated by the military instincts of his race urging him to get his bearings, even though he was in the care of a friendly country, strode to one of the windows and looked out. Dark as was the night and cloudy the sky, the landscape was nevertheless etched into tolerable distinctness by the snow that had fallen, and he saw far beneath him the depths of a profoundvalley, and what appeared to be a town much lower than the one through which he had just ridden. The stronghold appeared to stand on a platform of rock which was at least impregnable from this side. James turned from the wintry scene outside to the more alluring prospect within the apartment. A stout oaken table in the centre of the room was weighted with a sumptuous repast; and the king, with the stalwart appetite of youth and health augmented by a tiresome journey in keen air, forthwith fell to, and did ample justice to the providing of his unknown host. The choicest vintages of France did something to dispel that depression which had settled down upon him, and the outside glow of the great fire supplemented the inward ardour of good wine.
The king drew up his cushioned chair to the blaze, and while his attendants speedily cleared the board, a delicious drowsiness stole over him. He was partially aroused from this by the entrance of his poetical friend and confidant, Sir David Lyndsay.
“Your majesty,” said the rhymster, “the constable of these towers craves permission to pay his respects to you, extending a welcome on behalf of his master, the King of France.”
“Bring him in, Davie,” cried James; “for intruth he has already extended the most cordial of welcomes, and I desire to thank him for my reception.”
Shortly after Sir David Lyndsay ushered into the room a young man of about the same age as the king, dressed in that superb and picturesque costume which denoted a high noble of France, and which added the lustre of fine raiment to the distinguished court of Francis the First. The king greeted his visitor with that affability, which invariably drew even the most surly toward him, without relaxing the dignity which is supposed to be the heritage of a monarch.
“I am delighted to think,” said the newcomer, “that the King of Scotland has honoured my house by making it his first halting-place in that realm which has ever been the friend of his country.”
“Sir,” replied James, “the obligation rests entirely upon me. After a stormy voyage and an inclement land journey, the hospitality of your board is one of the most grateful encounters I have ever met with. I plead an ignorance of geography which is deplorable; and cannot in the least guess where I am, beyond the fact that the boundaries of France encompass me.”
“I shall not pretend,” said the young man,“that my house is unworthy even of the distinguished guest which it now holds. Your majesty stands within historic walls, for in an adjoining apartment was born William, the founder of a great race of English kings. Scotchmen have defended this castle, and Scotchmen have assaulted it, so its very stones are linked with the fortunes of your country. Brave Henry the Fifth of England captured it, and France took it from his successor. My own family, like the Scotch, have both stood its guard and have been the foremost through a breach to sack it. I am but now employed in repairing the ravages of recent turmoil.”
Here the King interrupted him, as if to mend the reputation of ignorance he had bestowed upon himself.
“I take it, then, that I speak to one of the renowned name of Talbot, and that this fortress is no other than the Castle of Falaise?” and the king impetuously extended his hand to him. “We both come of a stormy line, Talbot. Indeed we are even more intimately associated than you have hinted, for one of your name had the temerity to invade Scotland itself in the interests of Edward Baliol—yes, by the Rood, and successfully too.”
“Ah, your majesty, it does not become thepride of our house to refer to Richard Talbot, for three years later the Scots took him prisoner, and he retired defeated from your country.”
“Indeed,” replied the king gaily, “if my memory serves me truly, we valued your valiant ancestor so highly that we made the King of England pay two thousand marks for him. We Scots are a frugal people; we weigh many of the blessings of life against good hard coin, and by Saint Andrew of Scotland, Talbot, I hold myself to-day no better than the rest, for, speaking as young man to young man, I think it unworthy of either king or peasant to take a woman to his bosom for aught save love of her.”
“In that I cordially agree with your majesty,” said Talbot, with a fervour that made the king glance at him with even more of sympathy than he had already exhibited. A wave of emotion seemed to overwhelm the sensitive James, and submerge for the moment all discretion; he appeared to forget that he spoke to a stranger and one foreign to him, yet James rarely mistook his man, and in this case his intuition was not at fault. To lay bare the secrets of his heart to one unknown to him shortly before, was an experiment of risk; but, as he had said, he spoke as young man to young man, and healthy youth is rarely cynical,no matter to what country it belongs. The heart knows nothing of nationality, and a true man is a true man wherever he hails from.
James sprang to his feet and paced the long room in an excess of excitement, a cloud on his brow; hands clenching and unclenching as he walked. Equally with the lowest in his realm he felt the need of a compassionate confidant. At last the words poured forth from him in an ecstasy of confession.
“Talbot,” he cried, “I am on a journey that shames my very manhood. I have lived my life as others of my age, and whatever of contrition I may feel, that rests between my Maker and myself. I am as He formed me, and if I was made imperfect I may be to blame that I strove so little to overcome my deficiency, but, by God, I say it here, I never bought another nor sold myself. Now, on the contrary, I go to the loud marketplace; now I approach a woman I have never seen, and who has never seen me, to pledge our lives together, the consideration for this union set down on parchment, and a stipulated sum paid over in lands and gold.”
The king stopped suddenly in his perambulation, raised his hands and said impressively,—
“I tell you, friend and host, I am no better thanmy fellows and worse than many of them, but when the priest mutters the words that bind, I say the man should have no thought in his mind, but of the woman who stands beside him; and she no thought in hers but of the man in whose hand she places her own.”
“Then why go on with this quest?” cried young Talbot with an impetuosity equal to that of his guest.
“Why go on; how can I stop? The fate of kingdoms depends on my action. My honour is at stake. My pledged word is given. How can I withdraw?”
“Your majesty need not withdraw. My master, Francis, is the very prince of lovers, and every word you have uttered will awake an echo in his own heart, although he is our senior by twenty years. If I may venture to offer humbly such advice as occurs to me, you should tell him that you have come to France not to be chosen for, but to choose. France is the flower garden of the human race; here bloom the fairest lilies of womanhood, fit to grace the proudest throne in Christendom. Choice is the prerogative of kings.”
“Indeed, Talbot, it is not,” said the king dolefully.
“It should be so, and can be so, where a monarch boldly demands the right exercised unquestioned by the meanest hind. Whom shall you offend by stoutly claiming your right? Not France, for you will wed one of her daughters; not the king, for he is anxious to bestow upon you the lady you may prefer. Whom then? Merely the Duke of Vendôme, whose vaulting ambition it is to place a crown upon the head of his daughter, though its weight may crush her.”
The king looked fixedly at the perturbed young man, and a faint smile chased away the sternness of his countenance.
“I have never known an instance,” he said slowly, “where the burden of a crown was urged as an objection even by the most romantic of women.”
“It would be so urged by Mary of Vendôme, were she allowed to give utterance to her wishes.”
“You know her then?”
“I am proud to claim her as a friend, and to assert she is the very pearl of France.”
“Ha, you interest me. You hint, then, that I come a bootless wooer? That is turning the tables indeed, and now you rouse an emulation which heretofore was absent in me. You think I cannot win and wear this jewel of the realm?”
“That you may wear it there is no doubt; that you may win it is another matter. Mary will place her listless hand in yours, knowing thus she pleases the king and her father, but it is rumoured her affections are fixed upon another.”
“Sir, you stir me up to competition. Now we enter the lists. You bring the keen incentive of rivalry into play.”
“Such, your majesty, was far from my intention. I spoke as a friend of the lady. She has no more choice in this bargain than you deplored the lack of a moment since.”
The former gloom again overspread the king’s face.
“There is the devil of it,” he cried impatiently. “If I could meet her on even terms, plain man and woman, then if I loved her I would win her, were all the nobles of France in the scales against me. But I come to her chained; a jingling captive, and she approaches me alike in thrall. It is a cursed fate, and I chafe at the clanking links, though they hold me nevertheless. And all my life I can never be sure of her; the chiming metal ever between us. I come in pomp and display, as public as the street I walk on, and the union is as brazen as a slave market, despite cathedral bells and archbishop’s blessing. Ah, well, there isnothing gained by ranting. Do you ride to Loches with me?”
“I follow your majesty a day behind, but hope to overtake you before you are well past Tours.”
“I am glad of it. Good-night. I see you stand my friend, and before this comes to a climax we may have need to consult together. Good-night; good-night!”
Next morning early the itinerants were on horseback again, facing southward. The day was wild and stormy, and so was the next that followed it; but after leaving Tours they seemed to have entered an enchanted land, for the clouds were dispersed and the warm sun came forth, endowing the travellers with a genial climate like late springtime in Scotland. As they approached Loches even the king was amazed by the striking sight of the castle, a place formidable in its strength, and in extent resembling a small city.
The gay and gallant Francis received his fellow monarch with a cordiality that left no doubt of its genuine character. The French king had the geniality to meet James in the courtyard itself; he embraced him at the very gates as soon as James had dismounted from his horse. Notwithstanding his twenty years of seniority Francis seemed as young as the Scottish king.
“By Saint Denis, James,” he cried, “you are a visitor of good omen, for you have brought fine weather with you and the breath of spring. All this winter we have endured the climate of Hades itself, without its warmth.”
The two rulers stood together in the courtyard, entirely alone, for no man dare frequent their immediate neighbourhood; but in a circle some distance removed from their centre, the Scotch and the French fraternised together, a preeminent assemblage numbering a thousand or more; and from the balconies beautiful ladies looked down on the inspiring scene.
The gates were still open and the drawbridge down, when a horseman came clattering over the causeway, and, heedless of the distinguished audience, which he scattered to right and left, amid curses on his clumsiness, drew up his foaming horse in the very presence of royalty itself.
Francis cried out angrily at this interruption.
“Unmannerly varlet, how dare you come dashing through this throng like a drunken ploughman!”
The rider flung himself off the panting horse and knelt before his enraged master.
“Sire,” he said, “my news may perhaps plead for me. The army of the Emperor Charles, inProvence, is broken and in flight. Spain has met a crushing defeat, and no foe insults the soil of France except by lying dead upon it.”
“Now, my good fellow,” cried the king with dancing eyes, “you are forgiven if you had ridden down half of my nobility.”
The joyous news spread like wildfire, and cheer upon cheer rose to heaven like vocal flame to mark its advance.
“Brother,” cried the great king to his newly arrived guest, placing an arm lovingly over his shoulder, his voice with suspicion of tremulousness about it, “you stalwart Scots have always brought luck to our fair land of France. This glad news is the more welcome to me that you are here when I receive it.”
And so the two, like affectionate kinsmen, walked together into the castle which, although James did not then know it, was to be his home for many months.
There was a dinner of state that evening, so gay and on a scale so grand that James had little time or opportunity for reflection on his mission. Here indeed, as Talbot had truly said, was the flower garden of the human race; and the Scottish king saw many a proud lady to whom probably he would have been delighted to bend the knee.But his bride was not among the number. The Duchesse de Vendôme explained to the king that her daughter was suffering from a slight illness, and apart from this was anxious to greet her future husband in a conference more private than the present occasion afforded. This was certainly reasonable enough, and the important meeting took place the following afternoon.
Mary of Vendôme might truly be called the Pearl of France, if whiteness of visage gave claim to that title. The king found himself confronted by a drooping young woman whose stern mother gave her a support which was certainly needed. Her face was of the pallor of wax; and never once during that fateful interview did she raise the heavy lids from her eyes. That she had once been beautiful was undoubted, but now her face was almost gaunt in its excessive thinness. The death-like hue of her delicate skin, the fact that she seemed scarce to breathe, and that she never ventured to speak, gave her suitor the impression that she more resembled one preparing for the tomb than a young girl anticipating her bridal. She courtesied like one in a trance; but the keen eyes of the king saw the tightening of her mother’s firm hand on her wrist while she made the obeisance which etiquette demanded. Shortas was their formal greeting, it was too long for this anæmic creature, who would have sunk to the floor were it not for the clutch in which the determined mother held her. Even the king, self-contained as he usually was, found little to say beyond empty expressions of concern regarding her recent illness, ending with a brief remark to the effect that he hoped she would soon recover from her indisposition. But once the ordeal was over, James was filled with a frenzy to be alone, tortured as he was by an agony of mind which made any encounter with his fellows intolerable. He strode through the seemingly interminable corridors of the great castle, paying slight heed to his direction. All doors opened before him, and sentinels saluted as he passed. At last, not knowing where he was, or how to get outside, he said to one of the human statues who held a pike,—
“Tell me, good fellow, the quickest way to the outer air; some spot where I can be entirely alone?”
The guard, saluting, called a page, whispered a word to him, and the boy led the king to a door which gave access to a secluded garden, enclosed on every side by high battlements, yet nevertheless filled with great trees, under whichran paths both straight and winding. Beside one wall lay the longest walk of this little park, and up and down this gravelled way, his hands clasped behind him, the young king strode in more disturbance of mind than had ever before afflicted him.
“Oh, God save me; God save me!” he cried; “am I to be wedded to a ghost? That woman is not even alive, to say whether she is willing or no. Have I come to France to act the ghoul and rob the grave of its due? Saints in heaven, help me! What am I to do? I cannot insult France, yet I cannot chain my living body to that dead woman. Why is not Talbot here? He said he would overtake me at Tours, and yet is he not come. The Pearl of France, said he, the jewel of a toad’s head, say I. My honour staked, and to that unbreathing image of tallow! Is this my punishment? Do the sins of our youth thus overtake us, and in such ghastly form? Bones of my ancestors, I will not wed the grave, though war and slaughter come of it. And yet—and yet, my faith is plighted; blindly, unknowingly plighted. Why does not Talbot come? He knew what my emotions would be on seeing that denizen of another world, and so warned me.”
These muttered meditations were suddenly interrupted by a clear sweet voice from above.
“Écossais! Scottish knight! Please rescue for me my handkerchief, which I have, alas, let fall. Wrap a stone in it and throw it hither, I beg of you.”
The startled king looked up and beheld, peering over at him from the battlements above, one of the most piquant and pretty, laughing faces he had ever seen. Innocent mischief sparkled in the luscious dark eyes, which regarded him from a seemingly inaccessible perch. A wealth of dark tousled hair made a midnight frame for a lovely countenance in the first flush of maidenly youth. Nothing could be more marked than the difference between the reality which thus came unexpectedly into view, and his sombre vision of another. There also sifted down to him from aloft, whisperings that were evidently protests, from persons unseen; but the minx who was the cause of them merrily bade her counsellors be quiet. She must get her handkerchief, she said, and the Scot was the only one to recover it. Fluttering white from one of the lower branches was a dainty bit of filmy lace, much too fragile a covering for the stone she had suggested. The despair which enveloped the king was dispelled as the mist vanishes before thebeaming sun. He whipped out his thin rapier and deftly disentangled the light burden from the detaining branch. It fluttered to his hand and was raised gallantly to his lips, at which the girl laughed most joyfully, as if this action were intensely humorous. Other faces peeped momentarily over the balustrade to be as quickly withdrawn when they saw the stranger looking up at them; but the hussy herself, whoever she was, seemed troubled by no such timorousness, resting her arms upon the stone balustrade, with her chin above them, her inviting eyes gazing mockingly on the man below. The king placed the handkerchief in the bosom of his doublet, thrust home the rapier in its scabbard, grasped the lower branch of the tree and swung himself up on it with the agility of an acrobat. Now the insolence of those eyes was chased away by a look of alarm.
“No, no,” she cried, “stay where you are. You are too bold, Scottish knight.”
But she had to reckon with one who was a nimble wall climber, either up or down, whose expertness in descent had often saved him from the consequences of too ambitious climbing. The young man answered not a word, but made his way speedily up along the branches until hestood at a level with the parapet. Across the chasm which divided him from the wall he saw a broad platform, railed round with a stone balustrade, this elevated floor forming an ample promenade that was nevertheless secluded because of the higher castle walls on every side, walls that were unpierced by any window. A door at the farther end of the platform gave access to the interior of the palace. A short distance back from the balustrade stood a group of some half-dozen very frightened women. But the first cause of all this commotion remained in the forefront of the assemblage, angry and defiant.
“How dare you, sir?” she cried. “Go back, I command you.” Then seeing he made no motion to obey her, but was measuring with his keen eye the distance between the bending limb on which he held his precarious position, and the parapet, something more of supplication came into her voice, and she continued,—
“My good fellow, place the handkerchief on the point of your sword and one of my women will reach for it. Be careful, I beg of you; that bough will break under your weight if you venture further. The outreached arm and the sword will span the space.”
“Madam,” said the king, “the sword’s point is for my enemy. On bended knee must I present a lady that which belongs to her.”
And with this, before further expostulation was possible, the young man made his perilous leap, clutched the parapet with his left arm, hung suspended for one breathless moment, then flung his right leg, a most shapely member, over the balustrade, and next instant was kneeling at her feet, offering the gosamer token. In the instant of crisis the young lady had given utterance to a little shriek which she instantly suppressed, glancing nervously over her shoulder. One of her women ran towards the door, but the girl peremptorily ordered her to return.
“The Scot will not eat you,” she cried impatiently, “even if heisa savage.”
“Madam, your handkerchief,” explained the savage, still offering it.
“I shall not accept it,” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing with resentment at his presumption.
The king sprang to his feet and swept off his plumed hat with the air of an Italian.
“Ten thousand thanks, madam, for your cherished gift.” Saying which he thrust the slight web back into his doublet again.
“’Tis not a gift; render it to me at once, sir,”she demanded with feminine inconsistency. She extended her hand, but the king, instead of returning the article in dispute, grasped her fingers unawares and raised them to his lips. She drew away her hand with an expression of the utmost contempt, but nevertheless stood her ground, in spite of the evident anxiety to be elsewhere of the bevy behind her.
“Sir, you are unmannerly. No one has ever ventured to treat me thus.”
“Then I am delighted to be the first to introduce to you so amiable a custom. Unmannerly? Not so. We savages learn our manners from the charming land of France; and I have been told that in one or two instances, this country has known not only the fingers, but the lips to be kissed.”
“I implore you, sir, to desist and take your departure the way you came; further, I warn you that danger threatens.”
“I need no such warning, my lady. The danger has already encompassed me, and my heart shall never free itself from its presence, while remembrance of the lightning of those eyes abides with me.”
The girl laughed with a trace of nervousness, and the rich colour mounted to her cheek.
“Sir, you are learning your lesson well in France.”
“My lady, the lowest hind in my country could not do otherwise under such tutelage.”
“You should turn your gifts to the service of your master. Go, woo for him poor Mary of Vendôme, and see if you can cure her who is dying of love for young Talbot of Falaise.”
For a moment the king stood as if struck by the lightning he had just referred to, then staggering back a step, rested his hand on the parapet and steadied himself.
“Good God!” he muttered in low tones, “is that true?”
All coquetry disappeared from the girl as she saw the dramatic effect her words had produced. She moved lightly forward, then held back again, anxiety on her brow.
“Sir, what is wrong with you? Are you ill? Are you a friend of Talbot’s?”
“Yes, I am a friend of his.”
“And did you not know this? I thought every one knew it. Does not the King of Scotland know? What will he do when he learns, think you, or will it make a difference?”
“The King of Scotland is a blind fool; a conceitedcoxcomb, who thinks every woman that sees him must fall in love with him.”
“Sir, you amaze me. Are you not a subject of his? You would not speak so in his hearing.”
“Indeed and that I would, without hesitation, and he knows it.”
“Is he so handsome as they say? Alas, I am thought too young to engage in court festivities, and in spite of my pleadings I was not allowed even to see his arrival.”
The king had now recovered his composure, and there was a return of his gallant bearing.
“Madam, tell me your name, and I shall intercede that so rigid a rule for one so fair may be relaxed.”
“Ah, now your impudence reasserts itself. My name is not for you. How can a humble Scottish knight hope to soften a rule promulgated by the King of France himself?”
“Madam, you forget that we are guests of France, and in this courteous country nothing is denied us. We meet with no refusals except from proud ladies like yourself. I shall ask my captain, he shall pass my request to the general, who will speak to the King of Scotland, and the king, when he knows how beautiful you are, will beg the favour from Francis himself.”
The girl clasped her hands with exuberant delight.
“I wonder if it is possible,” she said, leaning towards the gay cavalier, as if he were now her dearest friend—for indeed it was quite evident that she thought much of him in spite of his irregular approach. She was too young to feel the rules of etiquette otherwise than annoying bonds, and like an imprisoned wild bird, was willing to take any course that promised liberty.
“Your name, then, madam?”
“My name is Madeleine.”
“I need not ask if you are noble.”
“I am at least as noble as Mary of Vendôme, whom your king is to marry, if he is cruel enough.”
At this point one of the women, who had stationed herself near the door, came running towards the group and warned them that somebody was approaching. The attendants, who had hitherto remained passive, probably with some womanly curiosity regarding the strange interview, now became wild with excitement, and joined their mistress in begging the stranger to depart.
“Not until I have whispered in your ear,” he said stoutly.
“I cannot permit it; I cannot permit it. Go, go at once, I implore you.”
“Then I escort you within the hall to meet whoever comes.”
“Sir, you are importunate. Well, it doesn’t matter; whisper.”
He bent toward her and said:—
“Madeleine, you must meet me here alone at this time to-morrow.”
“Never, never,” she cried resolutely.
“Very well then; here I stay until you consent.”
“You are cruel,” she said, tears springing in her eyes. Then appealingly, as a knock sounded against the door, she added, “I promise. Go at once.”
The young man precipitated himself over the parapet into the tree. The fortune which attends lovers and drunkards favoured him, and the last bending branch lowered him as gently to the gravel of the walk as if he were a son of the forest. He glanced upward, and saw that the luminous face, in its diaphanous environment of dark hair was again bent over the parapet, the lips apart and still, saying nothing, but the eloquent eyes questioning; indeed he fancied he sawin them some slight solicitude for his safety. He doffed his hat, kissed the tips of his fingers and wafted the salutation toward her, while a glow of satisfaction filled his breast as he actually saw a similar movement on the part of her own fair fingers, which was quickly translated into a gesture pointing to the garden door, and then she placed a finger-tip to her lips, a silent injunction for silence. He knew when to obey, as well as when to disobey, and vanished quickly through the door. He retreated in no such despairing phase of mind as he had advanced, but now paid some attention to the geography of the place that he might return unquestioning to his tryst. Arriving at the more public corridors of the palace, his first encounter was with the Constable of Falaise. Talbot’s dress was travel-stained, and his youthful face wore almost the haggardness of age. He looked like a man who had ridden hard and slept little, finding now small comfort at the end of a toilsome journey. The king, with a cry of pleasure at the meeting, smote his two hands down on the shoulders of the other, who seemed unconsciously to shrink from the boisterous touch.
“Talbot,” he cried, “you promised to overtake me at Tours, but you did not.”
“It is not given to every man to overtake your majesty,” said Talbot hoarsely.
“Constable of Falaise, you were not honest with me that night in your castle. I spoke to you freely from the bottom of my heart; you answered me from your lips outward.”
“I do not understand your majesty,” replied the young man grimly.
“Yes, you do. You love Mary of Vendôme. Why did you not tell me so?”
“To what purpose should I have made such a confession, even if it were the fact?”
“To the purpose of truth, if for nothing else. God’s sake, man, is it thus you love in France! Cold Scotland can be in that your tutor. In your place, there had been a quick divorce between my sword and scabbard. Were my rival twenty times a king, I’d face him out and say, by Cupid’s bow, return or fight.”
“What! This in your castle to your guest?” exclaimed Talbot.
“No, perhaps not. You are in the right, constable, you are in the right. I had forgotten your situation for the moment. I should have beenpolite to him within my own walls, but I should have followed him across my marches and slit his gullet on the king’s highway.”
Notwithstanding his distraction of mind the newcomer smiled somewhat wanly at the impetuosity of the other.
“You must remember that while your foot presses French soil, you are still the guest of all true Frenchmen, nevertheless your majesty’s words have put new life into my veins. Did you see Mary of Vendôme?”
“Yes, and there is not three months’ life left to her unless she draws vitality from your presence. Man, man, why stand you here idling? Climb walls, force bolts, kidnap the girl and marry her in spite of all the world.”
“Alas, there is not a priest in all France would dare to marry us, knowing her pledged to your majesty.”
“Priests of France! I have priests in my own train who will, at a word from me, link you tighter than these stones are cemented together. God’s will, Talbot, these obstacles but lend interest to the chase.”
“Is it possible that you, having opportunity, care not to marry Mary of Vendôme?” cried the amazed young man, who could not comprehendthat where his preference fell another might be indifferent; for she was, as he had said, the Pearl of France to him, and it seemed absurd to imagine that she might not be so to all the world.
“United Europe, with Francis and the Emperor Charles for once combined could not force me to marry where I did not love. I failed to understand this when I left Scotland, but I have grown in wisdom since then.”
“Who is she?” asked the constable, with eager interest.
“Hark ye, Talbot,” said the king, lowering his voice and placing an arm affectionately over the shoulder of the other. “You shall be my guide. Who is the Lady Madeleine of this court?”
“The Lady Madeleine? There are several.”
“No, there is but one, the youngest, the most beautiful, the most witty, the most charming. Who is she?”
The constable wrinkled his brows in thought.
“That must be Madeleine de Montmorency. She is the youngest of her name, and is by many accounted beautiful. I never heard that she was esteemed witty until your majesty said so. Rather reserved and proud. Is that the lady?”
“Proud, yes. Reserved—um, yes, that is, perhapsnot when she meets a man who knows enough to appreciate her. However, I shall speedily solve the riddle, and must remember that you do not see the lady through a lover’s eyes. But I will not further keep you. A change of costume may prove to your advantage, and I doubt not an untroubled night’s sleep will further it.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with kindness,” murmured the young lover, warmly grasping the hand extended to him. “Have I your permission to tell Mary of Vendôme?”
“You have my permission to tell her anything, but you will bring her no news, for I am now on my way to see her.”
The king gaily marched on, his head held high, a man not to be denied, and as he passed along all bowed at his coming, for everyone in the court admired him. There was something unexpectedly French in the dash of this young Scotchman. He strode across the court and up the steps which led into the Palais Vendôme. The duchess herself met him with a hard smile on her thin lips.
“Madam,” he said bruskly, “I would see your daughter alone.”
The grim duchesse hesitated.
“Mary is so shy,” she said at last.
But the king interrupted her.
“I have a cure for that. Shyness flees in my presence. I would see your daughter alone, madam; send her to me.”
There being no remedy when a king commands, the lady made the best of a dubious proceeding.
James was pacing up and down the splendid drawing-room when, from the further door the drooping girl appeared, still with downcast eyes, nun-like in her meek obedience. She came forward perhaps a third the length of the room, faltered, and stood.
“Mary,” said the king, “they told me you were beautiful, but I come to announce to you that such is not my opinion. You are ambitious, it would seem, so I tell you frankly, you will never be Queen of Scotland.”
For the first time in his presence the girl uncovered her eyes and looked up at him.
“Yes,” said the king, “your eyes are fine. I am constrained to concede that much, and if I do not wed you myself it is but right I should nominate a candidate for your hand. There is a friend of mine for whom I shall use my influence with Francis and your father that they may persuade you to marry him. He is young Talbot, Constable of Falaise, a demented stripling who callsyou the Pearl of France. Ah, now the colour comes to your cheeks. I would not have believed it. All this demureness then——” But the girl had sunk at his feet, grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Tut, tut,” he cried hastily, “that is a reversal of the order of nature. Rise, and when I send young Talbot to you, see that you welcome him; and now, good-day to you.”
As he passed through the outer room the duchesse lay in wait for him and began murmuring apologies for her daughter’s diffidence.
“We have arranged all about the wedding, madam,” said the king reassuringly as he left the palace.
The next day at the hour when the king had met Madeleine for the first time, he threaded his way eagerly through the mazes of the old castle until he came to the door that led him out into the Elysian garden. The weather still befriended him, being of an almost summer mildness.
For several minutes he paced impatiently up and down the gravel walk, but no laughing face greeted him from the battlements above. At last, swearing a good round Scottish oath he said, “I’ll solve the mystery of the balcony,” andseizing the lower branch of the tree, he was about to climb as he had done before, when a tantalizing silvery laugh brought his arms down to his sides again. It seemed to come from an arbour at the further end of the grounds, but when he reached there the place proved empty. He pretended to search among the bushes, but nevertheless kept an eye on the arbour, when his sharp ear caught a rustling of silk from behind the summer-house. He made a dash towards it, then reversed his direction, speeding like the wind, and next instant this illusive specimen of Gallic womanhood ran plump into his arms, not seeing where she was going, her head averted to watch the danger that threatened from another quarter.
Before she could give utterance to more than one exclamatory “Oh,” he had kissed her thrice full on the lips. She struggled in his arms like a frightened bird, nobly indignant with shame-crimsoned cheeks, smiting him with her powerless little snowflake of a hand. Her royal lover laughed.
“Ha, my Madeleine, this is the second stage of the game. The hand was paradise on earth; the lips are the seventh heaven itself.”
“Release me, you Scottish clown!” cried Madeleine, her black eyes snapping fire. “I willhave you whipped from the court for your insolence.”
“My dear, you could not be so cruel. Remember that poor Cupid’s back is naked, and he would quiver under every stroke.”
“I’d never have condescended to meet you, did I dream of your acting so. ’Tis intolerable, the forwardness of you beggarly Scots!”
“Nay, never beggarly, my dear, except where a woman is concerned, and then we beg for favours.”
“You little suspect who I am or you would not venture to misuse me thus, and be so free with your ‘my dears.’”
“Indeed, lass, in that you are mistaken. I not only found you in the garden, but I found your name as well. You are Madeleine de Montmorency.”
She ceased to struggle, and actually laughed a little.
“How clever you are to have discovered so much in such a short time. Now let me go, and I will thank you; nay more, I promise that if you ask the Duke of Montmorency for his permission, and he grants it, I will see you as often as you please.”
“Now Madeleine, I hold you to that, and I will seek an introduction to the duke at once.”
She stepped back from him panting, and sank into a deep courtesy that seemed to be characterised more by ridicule than politeness.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said. “I should dearly love to be an eavesdropper at your conference.”
Before he could reply, the door opened by which he had entered the park.
“In the fiend’s name, the king!” muttered James, in no manner pleased by the unwelcome interruption.
All colour left the girl’s face, and she hastily endeavoured to arrange in brief measure the disordered masses of her hair, somewhat tangled in the struggle. As Francis advanced up the walk, the genial smile froze on his lips, and an expression of deep displeasure overshadowed his countenance, a look of stern resentment coming into his eyes that would have made any man in his realm quail before him. The girl was the first to break the embarrassing silence, saying breathlessly,—
“Your majesty must not blame this Scottish knight. It is all my fault, for I lured him hither.”
“Peace, child,” exclaimed Francis in a voiceof cold anger. “You know not what you say. What do you here alone with the King of Scotland?”
“The King of Scotland!” echoed Madeleine, in surprise, her eyes opening wide with renewed interest as she gazed upon him. Then she laughed. “They told me the King of Scotland was a handsome man!”
James smiled at this imputation on his appearance, and even the rigour of the lord of France relaxed a trifle, and a gleam of affection for the wayward girl that was not to be concealed, rose in his eyes.
“Sire,” said James slowly, “we are neither of us to blame. ’Tis the accident that brought us together must bear the brunt of consequence. I cannot marry Mary of Vendôme, and indeed I was about to beg your majesty to issue your command that she may wed your Constable of Falaise. If there is to be a union between France and Scotland other than now exists, this lady, and this lady alone, must say yes or no to it. Premising her free consent, I ask her hand in marriage.”
“She is but a child,” objected Francis, breathing a sigh, which had, however, something of relief in it.
“I am fully seventeen,” expostulated Madeleine, with a promptness that made both men laugh.
“Sire, Youth is a fault, which alas, travels continually with Time, its antidote,” said James. “If I have your good wishes in this project, on which, I confess, my heart is set, I shall at once approach the Duke of Montmorency and solicit his consent.”
The face of Francis had cleared as if a ray of sunshine had fallen upon it.
“The Duke of Montmorency!” he cried in astonishment; “what has he to do with the marriage of my daughter?”
James murmured something that may have been a prayer, but sounded otherwise, as he turned to the girl, whose delight at thus mystifying the great of earth was only too evident.
“I told him he little suspected who I was,” said Madeleine, with what might have been termed a giggle in one less highly placed; “but these confident Scots think they know everything. Indeed, it is all your own fault, father, in keeping me practically a prisoner, when the whole castle is throbbing with joy and festivity.” Then the irrepressible princess buried her flushed face in her hands, and laughed and laughed, as if thiswere the most irresistible comedy in the world, instead of a grave affair of state, until at last the two monarchs were forced to laugh in sympathy.
“I could not wish her a braver husband,” said Francis at last. “I see she has bewitched you as is her habit with all of us.”
And thus it came about that James the Fifth of Scotland married the fair Madeleine of France.