Part 7

As twilight was giving place to night Angèle was roused from the revery into which she had fallen, by the Duke’s Daughter, who whispered to her that if she would have a pleasure given to but few, she would come quickly. Taking her hand, the Duke’s Daughter--as bright and true and whimsical a spirit as ever lived in troubled days and under the ægis of the sword--led her swiftly to the Queen’s chamber. They did not enter, but waited in a quiet gallery.

“The Queen is playing upon the virginals, and she playeth best when alone; so stand you here by this tapestry, and you shall have reward beyond payment,” said the Duke’s Daughter.

Angèle had no thought that the Queen of her vanity had commanded that she be placed there as though secretly, and she listened dutifully at first; but presently her ears were ravished; and even the Duke’s Daughter showed some surprise, for never had she heard the Queen play with such grace and feeling. The countenance of the musician was towards them, and, at last, as if by accident, Elizabeth looked up and saw the face of her lady.

“Spy! spy!” she cried; “come hither--come hither, all of you!”

When they had descended and knelt to her, she made as if she would punish the Duke’s Daughter by striking her with a scarf that lay at her hand, but to Angèle she said:

“How think you, then, hath that other greater skill--Darnley’s wife, I mean?”

“Not she or any other hath so delighted me,” said Angèle, with worship in her eyes--so doth talent to majesty become lifted beyond its measure.

The Queen’s eyes lighted. “We shall have dancing, then,” she said. “The dance hath charms for me. We shall not deny our youth. The heart shall keep as young as the body.”

An instant later the room was full of dancers, and Elizabeth gave her hand to Leicester, who bent every faculty to pleasing her. His face had darkened as he had seen Angèle beside her, but the Queen’s graciousness, whether assumed or real, had returned, and her face carried a look of triumph and spirit and delight. Again and again she glanced towards Angèle, and what she saw evidently gave her pleasure, for she laughed and disported herself with grace and an agreeable temper, and Leicester lent himself to her spirit with adroit wit and humility. He had seen his mistake of the morning, and was now intent to restore himself to favor.

He succeeded well, for the emotions roused in Elizabeth during the day, now heightened by vanity and emulation, found in him a centre upon which they could converge; and, in her mind, Angèle, for the nonce, was disassociated from any thought of De la Forêt. Leicester’s undoubted gifts were well and cautiously directed, and his gift of assumed passion--his heart was facile, and his gallantry knew no bounds--was put to dexterous use, convincing for the moment. The Queen seemed all complaisance again. Presently she had Angèle brought to her.

“How doth her dance compare--she who hath wedded Darnley?”

“She danceth not so high nor disposedly, with no such joyous lightness as your high Majesty, but yet she moveth with circumspection.”

“Circumspection--circumspection--that is no gift in dancing, which should be wilful yet airily composed, thoughtless yet inducing. Circumspection!--in nothing else hath Mary shown it where she should. ’Tis like this Queen perversely to make a psalm of dancing, and then pirouette with sacred duty. But you have spoken the truth, and I am well content. So get you to your rest.”

She tapped Angèle’s cheek. “You shall remain here to-night, ’tis too late for you to be sent abroad.”

She was about to dismiss her, when there was a sudden stir. Cecil had entered and was making his way to the Queen, followed by two strangers. Elizabeth waited their approach.

“Your gracious Majesty,” said Cecil, in a voice none heard save Elizabeth, for all had fallen back at a wave of her hand, “the Queen of Scots is the mother of a fair son.”

Elizabeth’s face flushed, then became pale, and she struck her knee with her clinched hand. “Who bringeth the news?” she inquired, in a sharp voice.

“Sir Andrew Melvill here.”

“Who is with him yonder?”

“One who hath been attached to the Queen of Scots.”

“He hath the ill look of such an one,” she answered, and then said below her breath, bitterly: “She hath a son--and I am but a barren stock.”

Rising, she added, hurriedly, “We will speak to the people at the May Day sports to-morrow. Let there be great feasting.”

She motioned to Sir Andrew Melvill to come forward, and with a gesture of welcome and a promise of speech with him on the morrow she dismissed them.

Since the two strangers had entered, Angèle’s eyes had been fastened on the gentleman who accompanied Sir Andrew Melvill. Her first glance at him had sent a chill through her, and she remained confused and disturbed. In vain her memory strove to find where the man was set in her past. The time, the place, the event eluded her, but a sense of foreboding possessed her; and her eyes followed him with strained anxiety as he retired from the presence.

XIII

As had been arranged when Lemprière challenged Leicester, they met soon after dawn among the trees beside the Thames. A gentleman of the court, to whom the Duke’s Daughter had previously presented Lemprière, gayly agreed to act as second, and gallantly attended the Lord of Rozel in his adventurous enterprise. There were few at court who had not some grudge against Leicester, few who would not willingly have done duty at such a time; for Leicester’s friends were of fair-weather sort, ready to defend him, to support him, not for friendship, but for the crumbs that dropped from the table of his power. The favorite himself was attended by the Earl of Ealing, a youngster who had his spurs to win, who thought it policy to serve the great time-server. Two others also came.

It was a morning little made for deeds of rancor or of blood. As they passed, the early morning mists above the green fields of Kent and Essex were being melted by the summer sun. The smell of ripening fruit came on them with pungent sweetness, their feet crashed odorously through clumps of tigerlilies, and the dew on the ribbon-grass shook glistening drops upon their velvets. Overhead the carolling of the thrush came swimming recklessly through the trees, and far over in the fields the ploughmen started upon the heavy courses of their labor; while here and there a poacher with bow and arrow slid through the green undergrowth, like spies hovering on an army’s flank.

To Lemprière the morning carried no impression save that life was well worth living. No agitation passed across his nerves, no apprehension reached his mind. He had no imagination; he loved the things that his eyes saw because they filled him with enjoyment; but why they were, or whence they came, or what they meant or boded, never gave him meditation. A vast epicurean, a consummate egotist, ripe with feeling and rich with energy, he could not believe that when he spoke the heavens would not fall. The stinging sweetness of the morning was a tonic to all his energies, an elation to his mind; he swaggered through the lush grasses and boskage as though marching to a marriage.

Leicester, on his part, no more caught at the meaning of the morning, at the long whisper of enlivened nature, than did his foe. The day gave to him no more than was his right. If the day was not fine, then Leicester was injured; but if the day was fine, then Leicester had his due. Moral blindness made him blind for the million deep teachings trembling round him. He felt only the garish and the splendid. So it was that at Kenilworth, where his Queen had visited him, the fêtes that he had held would far outshine the fête which would take place in Greenwich Park on this May Day. The fête of this May Day would take place, but would he see it? The thought flashed through his mind that he might not; but he trod it underfoot; not through an inborn, primitive egotism like that of Lemprière, but through an innate arrogance, an unalterable belief that fate was ever on his side. He had played so many tricks with fate, had mocked while taking its gifts so often, that, like the son who has flouted his indulgent father through innumerable times, he conceived that he should never be disinherited. It irked him that he should be fighting with a farmer, as he termed the seigneur of the Jersey isle; but there was in the event, too, a sense of relief, for he had a will for murder. Yesterday’s events were still fresh in his mind; and he had a feeling that the letting of Lemprière’s blood would cool his own and be some cure for the choler which the presence of these strangers at the court had wrought in him.

There were better swordsmen in England than he, but his skill was various, and he knew tricks of the trade which this primitive Norman could never have learned. He had some touch of wit, some biting observation, and, as he neared the place of the encounter, he played upon the coming event with a mordant frivolity. Not by nature a brave man, he was so much a fatalist, such a worshipper of his star, that he had acquired an artificial courage which had served him well. The unschooled gentlemen with him roared with laughter at his sallies, and they came to the place of meeting as though to a summer feast.

“Good-morrow, nobility,” said Leicester, with courtesy overdone, and bowing much too low.

“Good-morrow, valentine,” answered Lemprière, flushing slightly at the disguised insult and rising to the moment.

“I hear the crop of fools is short this year in Jersey, and through no fault of yours--you’ve done your best most loyally,” jeered Leicester, as he doffed his doublet, his gentlemen laughing in derision.

“’Tis true enough, my lord, and I have come to find new seed in England, where are fools to spare; as I trust in Heaven one shall be spared on this very day for planting yonder.”

He was eaten with rage, but he was cool and steady. He was now in his linen and small-clothes, and looked like some untrained Hercules.

“Well said, nobility,” laughed Leicester, with an ugly look. “’Tis seed-time--let us measure out the seed. On guard!”

Never were two men such opposites, never two so seemingly ill-matched. Leicester’s dark face and its sardonic look, his lithe figure, the nervous strength of his bearing, were in strong contrast to the bulking breadth, the perspiring robustness of Lemprière of Rozel. It was not easy of belief that Lemprière should be set to fight this matadore of a fighting court. But there they stood, Lemprière’s face with a great-eyed gravity looming above his rotund figure like a moon above a purple cloud. But huge and loose though the seigneur’s motions seemed, he was as intent as though there were but two beings in the universe, Leicester and himself. A strange alertness seemed to be upon him, and, as Leicester found when the swords crossed, he was quicker than his bulk gave warrant. His perfect health made his vision sure; and, though not a fine swordsman, he had done much fighting in his time, had been ever ready for the touch of steel, and had served some warlike days in fighting France, where fate had well befriended him. That which Leicester meant should be by-play of a moment became a full half-hour’s desperate game. Leicester found that the thrust--the fatal thrust learned from an Italian master--he meant to give was met by a swift precision, responding to quick vision. Again and again he would have brought the end, but Lemprière heavily foiled him. The wound which the seigneur got at last, meant to be mortal, was saved from that by the facility of a quick apprehension.

Indeed, for a time the issue had seemed doubtful, for the endurance and persistence of the seigneur made for exasperation and recklessness in his antagonist, and once blood was drawn from the wrist of the great man; but at length Lemprière went upon the aggressive. Here he erred, for Leicester found the chance for which he had man[oe]uvred--to use the feint and thrust got out of Italy. He brought his enemy low, but only after a duel the like of which had never been seen at the court of England. The matadore had slain his bull at last, but had done no justice to his reputation. Never did man more gallantly sustain his honor with heaviest odds against him than did the Seigneur of Rozel that day.

As he was carried away by the merry gentlemen of the court, he called back to the favorite:

“Leicester is not so great a swordsman, after all. Hang fast to your honors by the skin of your teeth, my lord.”

XIV

It was Monday, and the eyes of London and the court were turned towards Greenwich Park, where the Queen was to give entertainment to the French envoy who had come once more to urge upon the Queen marriage with a son of the Medici, and to obtain an assurance that she would return to France the widow of the great Montgomery and his valiant lieutenant, Michel de la Forêt. The river was covered with boats and barges, festooned, canopied, and hung with banners and devices; and from sunrise music and singing conducted down the stream the gayly dressed populace--for those were the days when a man spent on his ruff and his hose and his russet coat as much as would feed and house a family for a year; when the fine-figured ruffler with sables about his neck, corked slipper, trimmed buskin, and cloak of silk or damask furred, carried his all upon his back.

Loud-voiced gallants came floating by; men of a hundred guilds bearing devices pompously held on their way to the great pageant; country bumpkins up from Surrey roistered and swore that there was but one land that God had blessed, and challenged the grinning watermen from Gravesend and Hampton Court to deny it; and the sun with ardor drove from the sky every invading cloud, leaving Essex and Kent, as far as eye could see, perfect green gardens of opulence.

Before Elizabeth had left her bed, London had emptied itself in Greenwich Park. Thither the London companies had come in their varied dazzling accoutrements--hundreds armed in fine corselets bearing the long Moorish pike; tall halberdiers in the unique armor called Almain-rivets, and gunners or muleteers equipped in shirts of mail, with morions or steel caps. Here, too, were to come the Gentlemen Pensioners, resplendent in scarlet, to “run with the spear”; and hundreds of men-at-arms were set at every point to give garish bravery to all. Thousands of citizens, open-mouthed, gazed down the long arenas of green festooned with every sort of decoration and picturesque invention. Cages of large birds from the Indies, fruits, corn, fishes, grapes hung in the trees, players perched in the branches discoursed sweet music, and poets recited their verses from rustic bridges or on platforms with weapons and armor hung trophywise on ragged staves. Upon a small lake a dolphin, four-and-twenty feet in length, came swimming, within its belly a lively orchestra; Italian tumblers swung from rope to bar; and crowds gathered at the places where bear and bull baiting were to excite the none too fastidious tastes of the time.

All morning the gay delights went on, and at high noon the cry was carried from mouth to mouth, “The Queen! The Queen!”

She appeared on a balcony, surrounded by her lords and ladies, and there received the diplomatists, speaking at length to the French envoy in a tone of lightness and elusive cheerfulness which he was at a loss to understand, and tried in vain to pierce by cogent remarks bearing on matters of moment involved in his embassage. Not far away stood Leicester, but the Queen had done no more than note his presence by a glance, and now and again with ostentatious emphasis she spoke to Angèle, whom she had had brought to her in the morning before chapel-going. Thus early, after a few questions and some scrutiny, she had sent her in charge of a gentleman-at-arms and a maid of the Duke’s Daughter to her father’s lodging, with orders to change her robe, to return to the palace in good time before noon, and to bring her father to a safe place where he could watch the pleasures of the people. When Angèle came to the presence again, she saw that the Queen was wearing a gown of pure white, with the sleeves shot with black, such as she herself had worn when admitted to audience yesterday. Vexed, agitated, imbittered as Elizabeth had been by the news brought to her the night before, she had kept her wardrobers and seamstresses at work the whole night to alter a white satin habit to the simplicity and style of that which Angèle had worn.

“What think you of my gown, my lady refugee?” she said to Angèle, at last, as the Gentlemen Pensioners paraded in the space below, followed by the Knights-Tilters--at their head the Queen’s champion, Sir Henry Lee: twenty-five of the most gallant and favored of the courtiers of Elizabeth, including the gravest of her counsellors and the youngest gallant who had won her smile, Master Christopher Hatton. Some of these brave suitors, taken from the noblest families, had appeared in the tilt-yard every anniversary of the year of her accession and had lifted their romantic office, which seemed but the service of enamoured knights, into an almost solemn dignity.

The vast crowd disposed itself around the great improvised yard where the Knights-Tilters were to engage, and the Queen, followed by her retinue, descended to the dais which had been set up near the palace. Her white satin gown, roped with pearls only at the neck and breast, glistened in the bright sun, and her fair hair took on a burnished radiance. As Angèle passed with her in the gorgeous procession, she could not but view the scene with admiring eye, albeit her own sweet, sober attire--a pearly gray--seemed little in keeping; for the ladies and lords were most richly attired, and the damask and satin cloaks, crimson velvet gowns, silk hoods, and jewelled swords and daggers made a brave show. She was like some moth in a whorl of butterflies.

Her face was pale, and her eyes had a curious, disturbed look, as though they had seen frightening things. The events of last evening had tried her simple spirit, and she shrank from this glittering show; but the knowledge that her lover’s life was in danger, and that her happiness was here and now at stake, held her bravely to her place, beset as it was with peril; for the Queen, with that eccentricity which had lifted her up yesterday, might cast her down to-day, and she had good reason to fear the power and influence of Leicester, who she knew with a sure instinct was intent on Michel’s ruin. Behind all her nervous shrinking and her heart’s doubt, the memory of the face of the stranger she had seen last night with Sir Andrew Melvill tortured her. She could not find the time and place where she had seen the eyes that, in the palace, had filled her with mislike and abhorrence as they looked upon the Queen. Again and again in her fitful sleep had she dreamed of him, and a sense of foreboding was heavy upon her--she seemed to hear the footfall of coming disaster. The anxiety of her soul lent an unnatural brightness to her eyes; so that more than one enamoured courtier made essay to engage her in conversation, and paid her deferential compliment when the Queen’s eyes were not turned her way. Come to the dais, she was placed not far from her Majesty, beside the Duke’s Daughter, whose whimsical nature found frequent expression in what the Queen was wont to call “a merry volt.” She seemed a privileged person, with whom none ventured to take liberties, and against whom none was entitled to bear offence, for her quips were free from malice, and her ingenuity in humor of mark. She it was who had put into the Queen’s head that morning an idea which was presently to startle Angèle and all others.

Leicester was riding with the Knights-Tilters, and as they cantered lightly past the dais, trailing their spears in obeisance, Elizabeth engaged herself in talk with Cecil, who was standing near, and appeared not to see the favorite. This was the first time since he had mounted to good fortune that she had not thrown him a favor to pick up with his spear and wear in her honor, and he could scarce believe that she had meant to neglect him. He half halted, but she only deigned an inclination of the head, and he spurred his horse angrily on with a muttered imprecation, yet, to all seeming, gallantly paying homage.

“There shall be doings ere this day is done. ‘Beware the Gypsy!’” said the Duke’s Daughter, in a low tone, to Angèle, and she laughed lightly.

“Who is the Gypsy?” asked Angèle, with good suspicion, however.

“Who but Leicester,” answered the other. “Is he not black enough?”

“Why was he so called? Who put the name upon him?”

“Who but the Earl of Sussex, as he died--as noble a chief, as true a counsellor as ever spoke truth to a queen. But truth is not all at court, and Sussex was no flatterer. Leicester bowed under the storm for a moment when Sussex showed him in his true colors; but Sussex had no gift of intrigue, the tide turned, and so he broke his heart and died. But he left a message which I sometimes remember with my collects. ‘I am now passing to another world,’ said he, ‘and must leave you to your fortunes and to the Queen’s grace and goodness; but beware the Gypsy, for he will be too hard for all of you; you know not the beast so well as I do.’ But my Lord Sussex was wrong. One there is who knows him through and through, and hath little joy in the knowing.”

The look in the eyes of the Duke’s Daughter became like steel and her voice hardened, and Angèle realized that Leicester had in this beautiful and delicate maid-of-honor as bitter an enemy as ever brought down the mighty from their seats; that a pride had been sometime wounded, suffered an unwarrantable affront, which only innocence could feel so acutely. Her heart went out to the Duke’s Daughter as it had never gone out to any of her sex since her mother’s death, and she showed her admiration in her glance. The other saw it and smiled, slipping a hand in hers for a moment; and then a look, half-debating, half-triumphant, came into her face as her eyes followed Leicester down the green stretches of the tilting-yard.

The trumpet sounded, the people broke out in shouts of delight, the tilting began. For an hour the handsome joust went on, the Earl of Oxford, Charles Howard, Sir Henry Lee, Sir Christopher Hatton, and Leicester challenging, and so even was the combat that victory seemed to settle in the plumes of neither, though Leicester of them all showed not the greatest skill, while in some regards greatest grace and deportment. Suddenly there rode into the lists, whence no one seemed to know, so intent had the public gaze been fixed, so quickly had he come, a mounted figure all in white, and at the moment when Sir Henry Lee had cried aloud his challenge for the last time. Silence fell as the bright figure cantered down the list, lifted the gauge, and sat still upon his black steed. Consternation fell. None among the people or the Knights-Tilters knew who the invader was, and Leicester called upon the masters of the ceremonies to demand his name and quality. The white horseman made no reply, but sat unmoved, while noise and turmoil suddenly sprang up around him.

Presently the voice of the Queen was heard clearly ringing through the lists. “His quality hath evidence. Set on.”

The Duke’s Daughter laughed, and whispered mischievously in Angèle’s ear.