Queen's Own Fool (42 page)

George looked at us each in turn. “I can certainly have a boatman in my employ standing by this time. But you will still have to get out of the castle on your own.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “What we need is a great distraction to be certain no one notices us in our disguises. Once was luck, but we cannot count on luck a second time.”

“Did you have something in mind, Nicola?” the queen asked.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I think I do. It is almost the end of April. Do you know, George, if there are any May Day celebrations planned?”

“My brother is not much given to celebration,” George said, slowly. Then, as if he suddenly understood where I was going, added with gusto, “But I am inclined to festivity myself. I think the family might mount a May Day feast ... if they believe I am going off to Paris.”

“Ah—but I am to persuade you otherwise,” the queen said. “I have promised your mother to try.”

George made a face. “Then I will appear to be wavering. That way you will have to see me often, Majesty. But I will not make up my mind until the feast.”

“Fill the castle with minstrels, tumblers, clowns!” I practically shouted. Then added softly, “By the time the revels are done, it will be too late for anyone to notice that the Queen of May is missing!”

“And I to Paris!” George crowed.

The queen laughed. “I have not enjoyed a feast in so long, I am half-minded to stay for the whole of it.”

“Oh, we will have our fill of feasting before we go,” George promised her. “And I will claim a galliard of my lady.” There was little doubt that George Douglas was quite in love with his queen.

And I, for the first time since coming to this little island, was filled with real hope.

47

MAY DAY FEAST

G
eorge went immediately to the Old Lady and proposed a May Day celebration, telling her that he would postpone his departure for France until the end of the festivities. Given this incentive, the Old Lady agreed at once, but she did not want to spend much on it. In fact she was known throughout Scotland for her miserly hand.

“No wonder George wants to hie to France,” I said, “to dance without his mother's sour face and his brother's disapproval. ”

“I would go, too, given such a family,” agreed Mary.

The queen shook her head. “None of us is to blame for our kin. Surely, Nicola, you and I know that all too well!”

She meant Lord James and Uncle Armand, of course. I smiled ruefully at her.

“Perhaps George can get the Old Lady to turn over the planning of the festivities to wee Willie,” I said.

“Suggest it to him,” the queen ordered.

George was back within an hour with news.

“What a brilliant mind I seem to have,” he said. “Though I feel I have thrown poor Willie to my mother, like a lamb to a lion.”

“Which is which?” I asked innocently, which gave the queen another good laugh.

Word of the festival was sent out to all the performers in the area of Lochleven and Kinross. Within days their wagons and tents could be seen all around the village on the mainland.

Inside the castle everyone was hard at work making costumes and preparing special delicacies. I overheard more than one soldier praising the queen. A potboy said, “Knox's old honeypot has a sweet taste for our pleasure.” Even the laundresses spoke of how different the mood in Lochleven seemed.

“And all for a feast,” said one.

“The first May Day this poor island has seen,” added another.

I did a little jig when I heard them, and ran off to tell the queen.

The queen, too, was thrilled with the preparations. She grabbed up my hands and whirled me around.

“I shall dance again, Nicola! Dance!” she cried, for a moment forgetting the real reason for the feast.

In the corner, a book of prayers in her lap, Mary made a tsk sound with her tongue. “It is not just a party, Madam.”

We stopped spinning and the queen put her hands on her hips. “La, Mary—do not be so sour. Let us enjoy ourselves while we can. It may be the last time.”

I turned away so that the queen could not see the tears that had suddenly started in my eyes.

 

When May Day actually came, boats overfilled with merry-makers from the mainland kept ferrying across to the island. The boatmen were earning a pretty penny for all the trips, and were paid as well with drinks from the wineskins of the revelers, so that soon many of the boats went in circles instead of straight across.

So narrow was the space between castle wall and shore, more than one person had to be fished from the loch before day's end.

The sun shone down on us without a cloud to cover it. God's lidless eye, I thought, keeping watch on us
all.

Willie Douglas was the leader of the revels, playing the Abbot of Unreason. He wore a bishop's mitre festooned with ribbons of blue and green, while his gaily-colored cassock was decorated with shells and tiny bells. He tinkled so as he walked, he was like a choir of angels. Any reveler who did not obey him or refused to laugh at his jests received a knock on the head from his shepherd's crook.

He beamed so broadly, I said to him in passing, “If your grin were any broader, you would put the sun to shame.”

The musicians played merrily, old tunes and new, eagerly sweeping up any coins tossed their way. However the acrobats were not as daring as those I had known in France, and the jugglers could not keep more than five balls in the air at once.

Dear Pierre,
I thought, shaking my head.
How far apart we are.
I doubted he would know me now, nor I him.

 

All of a sudden, Queen Mary emerged from the gloom of the tower in a green satin gown trimmed in silver and gold. A crown of spring flowers sat upon her shining hair. She was so striking a pearl in this setting of grey stone that the performers—and even a few of the soldiers—fell to their knees at the sight of her.

Willie Douglas scampered over and bowed. “As Abbot of Unreason I name ye Queen of May and my partner for the day.”

Covering her face with her hands, the queen pretended to be abashed, but it was all according to our plan. Then she let the abbot lead her into a dance.

All day the queen and abbot reeled tirelessly around the courtyard and the keep's gardens, encouraging everyone else to join in the dance. The fiddlers and pipers got little rest—but much ale—which made them play faster and faster, though it added nothing to their precision.

By the time George arrived in the guise of Robin Hood, more than one soldier and most of the musicians were already heartily drunk. George passed out fresh wine and ale, mocking anyone who tried to abstain.

“Black Knox does not rule here today,” he cried. “The Abbot of Unreason is our preacher. Revel is our king!”

Whenever the minstrels and musicians fell silent, George would stir them afresh by suggesting a number of saucy ballads and merry jigs and off they would go again. He was in his element for certain!

Sometimes standing on a garden bench, hands on hips, I sang with the revelers, winking at the soldiers. Sometimes I sang alone to great drunken applause. I felt at those times like the queen's own fool again, charming and entertaining.

But often as I wandered through the revelers, I recalled the queen's words—that we might be enjoying ourselves for the very last time. And each time I thought of them, a wave of sadness crashed over me.

It made me sing all the louder.

 

By midafternoon a lull had finally come upon the party.

George—in his guise of Robin Hood—confronted the Abbot of Unreason in front of the Glassin Tower. He brandished a quarterstaff at his cousin.

“I am the King of Thieves,” George declared in a booming voice, “and I demand that you surrender the Queen of May to me.”

“Demand,
villain?” Willie retorted, sticking his chin out. “I make the rules on this day and I say thee nay.”

“Surrender her,” George demanded again, “or I'll knock the nonsense out of your head!” He raised his staff threateningly.

“I'll knock some nonsense into yours!” cried the abbot, waving his shepherd's crook.

The pair of them had at each other and a mighty roar went up from the crowd.

“On, Robin!” some cheered loudly.

“The abbot! The abbot!” cried others.

George and Willie carried on their mock combat with comic leaps and falls while we all whooped and laughed. Only Lord William was not amused, his fingers clenched tightly around his goblet as if half-afraid Robin would seize his royal prisoner and run off with her.

At last Robin was tripped by his opponent and he fell flat on his back. Many of the onlookers cheered loudly, throwing their tams up in the air. Then a piper blew a tremendous blast on his pipes, which the abbot acknowledged with a bow.

But others began to boo. “On, Robin! Up and at the old Roman!” Whereupon Willie charged them and they fled before his flailing crook.

At that, George clambered to his feet and approached the abbot humbly. “I admit defeat,” he conceded, his head held low, “but may I claim one dance wi' the Queen o' May?”

As if accepting the surrender of an army, the abbot nodded, stroked his false whiskers, and said, “Very well. But only one.”

George walked over to the queen and offered her his arm. She placed her hand lightly on it.

“A galliard!” George cried out. “A galliard for the queen.”

The band tried to play one properly, but was too drunk to manage. They hooted and tooted along and it was—just barely—a recognizable tune lively enough to dance to.

George did not mind. In fact, he looked so happy, I could well believe he had engineered the escape solely for the sake of this one dance with the queen.

For a few moments they danced alone, capering and jumping. Then other revelers joined in. Soon the two were lost among the whirling, leaping couples. I, too, joined the dance, led in by a handsome soldier with a pair of eyes the blue-green of the North Sea.

All the while, Lord William circled nervously around the courtyard, desperately trying to keep his brother and the queen in sight.

But I had my eye on the Old Lady, who was sitting next to the keep under a canopy to shade her from the sun. From the sour look on her face I guessed she was not pleased to see her son making merry with the queen. But she held back from chiding because she hoped his devotion might yet persuade him to remain in Scotland.

At the end of the dance, George gave a low bow. He was breathing in great gasps, and the underarms of his green suit had become stained a deeper green.

The queen was breathing hard as well, and she put a hand to her forehead. “I have led so quiet a life of late, I am quite worn out.” She turned to Willie. “My Lord Abbot, have I your leave to retire?”

Willie made a grave show of considering this request. “I grant my permission on this one condition,” he answered at last, “that you dream only the happiest and most foolish of dreams.”

“That I shall certainly do,” the queen smilingly assured him.

She walked back to the tower, and George Douglas's eyes followed her every step of the way.

Lord William seemed vastly relieved to see his brother separated at last from his royal prisoner. For the first time that day he actually smiled. I thought it did not improve his looks.

George turned back to his mother, and I happened to be close enough to hear his farewells.

“Mother, I must go now.”

“Back to the mainland, Geordie?” the Old Lady asked. “Or to ...” She could not bring herself to mention France.

I was careful to keep the smile from my face, for I knew what she did not, that we were all going to France-the queen and George and me.

“I am not certain yet that I would find a better reception in Edinburgh than in Paris,” George said. He bowed and left.

“Oh, Geordie, stay at home,” the Old Lady whispered.

Then Willie was suddenly beside me, his whiskers beginning to peel off on one side, which lent him a certain lopsided charm.

“The queen has departed for her bed,” he said, “so I need a new consort.”

“And why should I wish to dance with a doddering old cleric like you who can hardly keep his staff upright or his whiskers straight?” I teased.

“I am the Abbot of Unreason,” he proclaimed. “As a fool, ye of all people should be the first to obey me.”

“On the contrary,” I said, “as I am the only genuine fool here, I outrank you. You are merely a pretend fool for this one day.”

“Rebellion!” Willie cried. “I willna stand for it!”