old!
I don’t believe I would have listened if the Lord God himself had come down from heaven and declared Henry to be a great sinner. I did not want to hear anything but praise, though the truth was that the longer he stayed at my court, the less praise I heard of Henry, and the more he was vilified.
The long cold Scottish winter of that year of 1565 at last began to give way to spring, and I was growing restless. Henry was making himself at home in my palace, he visited me most afternoons. As the weather warmed we went riding together. He wrote verses and gave them to me—though, looking back, I have to admit that they were not verses celebrating my beauty, or declaring his love for me, but rather sonnets in praise of love itself, of its delights and raptures.
Yet surely, I told myself, Henry intended to ask me to marry him. Surely I had captured his heart. We were both of royal blood, I reminded myself again and again, and suitably matched in age and even in height (Henry was one of the few handsome men I had ever met who was taller than I was). The only hindrance to our marrying that I could think of was that because we were close relatives the pope would have to give us his special permission before we went through the wedding ceremony. But that could easily be obtained.
When doubts about Henry’s plans for our future arose in my mind I had only to remember what he had told me, in one of our afternoon conversations, which was that Queen Elizabeth herself had said that she would favor a match between us. He had told me this quite matter-of-factly, to be sure, and not romantically, yet he had said it. It was undoubtedly true. But why, oh why, was he taking so long to fulfill the queen’s wishes?
As the days warmed and lengthened, I paced fretfully, wishing I could talk to Jamie about all that was on my heart. But Jamie was far from the court, in Gordon country, staying with his future in-laws,and the only other person I could talk to freely, without veiling my deepest thoughts, was my tirewoman Margaret Carwood and hers was one of the voices I was doing my best not to hear. Margaret was a woman of few words, and never forgot the great gulf that separated us, but her curt replies to my remarks about Henry made it very clear that she did not like him, and that she thought I was foolish for being so smitten with him—something I could not possibly have hidden from her.
One afternoon Henry came to my apartments as he so often did, and he brought David Riccio with him. My heart sank. He was not likely to propose to me with David there.
“Are we going to have some music then?” I asked, trying to keep out of my tone the exasperation I felt.
“Your Highness,” Henry began after we had settled ourselves, “beyond the pleasure of your company, and perhaps to offer a serenade or two, I have come to ask a favor. I have heard that your French secretary Monsieur Bonnet has gone back to France. You will be needing someone to replace him. May I suggest Davie here?”
At this David Riccio smiled and inclined his head.
“For a generous wage, of course,” Henry added. “He has a large family to support, you know. Twenty-seven in all.”
I had known that David had a great many relatives, and that some of them hung around the court, running errands, holding horses for visitors, doing odd jobs in the stables and kitchen. But twenty-seven? He was not married; all these relatives had to be sisters and brothers and cousins and their children.
“I pay him well already, for singing.”
“But his needs have grown,” Henry responded, with one of his most angelic smiles. “And I have assured him that to please me, you would not refuse my request.”
There was a subtle undertone of coercion in Henry’s words, and I sensed it, and it troubled me. Instead of coming to me, cap in hand, with an offer of marriage Henry was requiring me, indeed almostcoercing me, to do his bidding, to benefit his friend. He was threatening to
I don’t believe I would have listened if the Lord God himself had come down from heaven and declared Henry to be a great sinner. I did not want to hear anything but praise, though the truth was that the longer he stayed at my court, the less praise I heard of Henry, and the more he was vilified.
The long cold Scottish winter of that year of 1565 at last began to give way to spring, and I was growing restless. Henry was making himself at home in my palace, he visited me most afternoons. As the weather warmed we went riding together. He wrote verses and gave them to me—though, looking back, I have to admit that they were not verses celebrating my beauty, or declaring his love for me, but rather sonnets in praise of love itself, of its delights and raptures.
Yet surely, I told myself, Henry intended to ask me to marry him. Surely I had captured his heart. We were both of royal blood, I reminded myself again and again, and suitably matched in age and even in height (Henry was one of the few handsome men I had ever met who was taller than I was). The only hindrance to our marrying that I could think of was that because we were close relatives the pope would have to give us his special permission before we went through the wedding ceremony. But that could easily be obtained.
When doubts about Henry’s plans for our future arose in my mind I had only to remember what he had told me, in one of our afternoon conversations, which was that Queen Elizabeth herself had said that she would favor a match between us. He had told me this quite matter-of-factly, to be sure, and not romantically, yet he had said it. It was undoubtedly true. But why, oh why, was he taking so long to fulfill the queen’s wishes?
As the days warmed and lengthened, I paced fretfully, wishing I could talk to Jamie about all that was on my heart. But Jamie was far from the court, in Gordon country, staying with his future in-laws,and the only other person I could talk to freely, without veiling my deepest thoughts, was my tirewoman Margaret Carwood and hers was one of the voices I was doing my best not to hear. Margaret was a woman of few words, and never forgot the great gulf that separated us, but her curt replies to my remarks about Henry made it very clear that she did not like him, and that she thought I was foolish for being so smitten with him—something I could not possibly have hidden from her.
One afternoon Henry came to my apartments as he so often did, and he brought David Riccio with him. My heart sank. He was not likely to propose to me with David there.
“Are we going to have some music then?” I asked, trying to keep out of my tone the exasperation I felt.
“Your Highness,” Henry began after we had settled ourselves, “beyond the pleasure of your company, and perhaps to offer a serenade or two, I have come to ask a favor. I have heard that your French secretary Monsieur Bonnet has gone back to France. You will be needing someone to replace him. May I suggest Davie here?”
At this David Riccio smiled and inclined his head.
“For a generous wage, of course,” Henry added. “He has a large family to support, you know. Twenty-seven in all.”
I had known that David had a great many relatives, and that some of them hung around the court, running errands, holding horses for visitors, doing odd jobs in the stables and kitchen. But twenty-seven? He was not married; all these relatives had to be sisters and brothers and cousins and their children.
“I pay him well already, for singing.”
“But his needs have grown,” Henry responded, with one of his most angelic smiles. “And I have assured him that to please me, you would not refuse my request.”
There was a subtle undertone of coercion in Henry’s words, and I sensed it, and it troubled me. Instead of coming to me, cap in hand, with an offer of marriage Henry was requiring me, indeed almostcoercing me, to do his bidding, to benefit his friend. He was threatening to
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