Rory Clements: The Queen's man

‘They have to do this, monsieur.’

‘Of course, Mr Ord.’

The Scotsman turned to the guard. ‘This is the physician, Dr Seguin.’ He held out a paper. ‘There, you will see the earl’s mark. Monsieur Seguin is to be granted admittance to Her Majesty’s presence.’

The guard thrust his pistol into his broad, hide belt then examined the paper carefully and slowly, occasionally looking at the Frenchman with an impassive face. He clearly knew the elegant Mr Buchan Ord, resplendent in his expensive black doublet studded with beads of jet and coral, but not his companion.

What the guard saw was a one-armed man in his late forties, perhaps even fifty, with dark, greying hair, a large nose and a sharp beard. He had a tanned skin and his slanting eyes seemed amused and clever. His attire was dark and sober.

‘So this is the Frenchie is it, Mr Ord? Her Scottish Majesty not satisfied with her own physicians?’

‘Be pleased to show some respect, Sergeant. Our visitor is a renowned doctor of medicine, held in high esteem throughout France. I believe the earl’s steward has told you all you need to know. And you must recognise his lordship’s mark and seal.’

‘Yes, it’s Shrewsbury’s mark all right. I’ve seen it often enough.’ The guard grinned and handed back the pass. ‘That seems to be in order.’

‘Then be so good as to let us enter, Sergeant.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Ord, but first, as you must know, we are required to search you both. Don’t want no dags or knives going near the Queen of Scots, do we? Don’t want no nasty accidents.’

The Scotsman sighed and held out his arms, Christlike, to be patted down.

Still holding the silver ball of exotic perfumes in his hand, the Frenchman lifted his one arm with as little enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘ C’est vraiment nécessaire ?’

Ord looked at the newcomer apologetically. A body search was, indeed, a tiresome condition of their entry. ‘And we shall have to endure it all over again from her own men before entering the privy chamber. I am sorry.’

‘It is nothing.’ Leloup sighed and allowed a pair of guards to grope him intimately, all down his ribs and between his legs, their well-practised, insolent hands lingering at his balls. He found their attention quite pleasurable and wondered whether they understood the effect they were having. From their blank faces he guessed probably not; but this was a thing the English never did understand. At last the guards nodded to their sergeant, who stood back to allow Leloup to step forward and ascend the steps into the great hall of the keep.

The Frenchman laughed and leant towards Ord’s ear. ‘I am surprised they try so hard to keep her alive.’

‘It is not such a mystery. They do not acknowledge her yet, but she is Queen of England. One day she will take the crown from the usurper, God willing, and these men will be her subjects. There will be many days of reckoning for those who scorned and mocked her and deprived her of liberty.’

‘Vengeance. .’

‘. . is golden. Like the sun after rain.’ Ord looked sombre. There was a moment of silence, then he touched the French visitor on the shoulder. ‘Before we go to her, Monsieur Seguin, I must warn you that she is in exceeding poor health. The black choler assails her.’

‘Which is why she has summoned me, is it not?’

‘Indeed, but I fear she will not wish to be seen, even by you.’

He had heard as much.

‘Her hair is thin and patchy, her body is. . a little stout. Her gut ails her with much farting and defluxions, and she goes days without sleep. I think that no woman, certainly no queen, would wish to be seen in her present humour. If you have a wife of your own, you must understand this. And, please, I beg you, speak softly in her presence.’

‘I am a médecin of long standing, Mr Ord.’ The Frenchman laughed again. ‘I have faced many delicate situations over the years. You may place your faith in me.’

‘Good. Once again, I crave your forgiveness if I seem a little too protective. But those of us who love Mary spend our whole lives safeguarding her from the slights and barbs of this infernal regimen — this imprisonment — to which she has been subjected these fourteen years.’

Leloup studied Ord. From his accent, he seemed Scottish, like his royal mistress, yet he was a very young man. Why would such a person devote his life to caring for this woman in her incarceration? He could have been no more than a child in 1568 when she came to England seeking refuge, and found only imprisonment. Had Ord been inspired by tales of her great beauty and saintliness from his Catholic parents? Inwardly, he shrugged; it was hardly worth speculating.

The presence chamber was lit by dozens of beeswax candles, and yet it somehow contrived to be funereal. A dozen people, both men and women, stood or sat in groups of two or three, stiff like mannequins that might crumble to dust if touched. They played cards or talked in low voices, their movements exaggeratedly slow. The scene was horribly cold, thought Leloup, like a badly wrought tableau. The retainers looked up at the two men as they entered, saluting Buchan Ord in slow acknowledgement.

At one end of the hall, against a high wall, a tall-backed chair rested on a dais. It was burnished with gold leaf so that it looked like a throne of solid gold. Above it hung Mary’s cloth of state, in dazzling threads of scarlet and silver, with the words ‘ En ma fin est mon commencement ’. In my end is my beginning. Leloup glanced at it and smiled. So she had taken the motto of her mother, Mary of Guise. Perhaps it was an omen.

Set into the opposite wall was a small doorway. Two liveried sentries stood to attention on either side of it.

‘Those are Mary’s own guards, monsieur,’ Ord said. ‘They are unarmed but as strong as wild cats and would fight like tigers to preserve Her Royal Majesty from harm.’

‘Well, then I will not resist.’

The privy chamber where Mary, Queen of Scots, lived and slept was lit by the glowing embers of a fire in the hearth. Leloup followed Ord’s lead in going down on both knees by the large curtained bed, waiting for a word from the world enclosed within. He heard a snuffling noise, then the touch of something wet on his hand. A dog. No, three or four little dogs. They seemed to be everywhere, panting and sniffing and licking.

Gradually, as they waited in silence, Leloup’s eyes grew accustomed to the desperate gloom and his hearing picked up the soft sounds of her breathing. Was she asleep?

‘Mr Ord?’

The voice, when it came, was suprisingly firm and clear.

‘Your Majesty.’

‘Have you brought le docteur Leloup?’

‘I have, ma’am. He is here with me. He is going by the name Seguin.’

An arm snaked from the curtain and a hand was held out, palm down and loose at the wrist. Buchan Ord took the hand in his and kissed it. He did not take it as a signal to rise from his genuflection.

‘We bid you welcome to our humble prison, monsieur,’ she said in French, instinctively moving her hand towards her visitor. ‘Which name should I call you?’

‘My real name while we are alone, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘And may I say that it is to my eternal honour to be admitted to your presence.’ He kissed the plump hand, which hovered a few moments before retreating behind the curtain.

‘What news of our cousin Henri of Guise?’

‘Monseigneur le Duc sends you his felicitations, ma’am.’

‘I pray he has sent me more than that. Have you brought mithridate for my ailments? And horn of unicorn? Surely he has received my letter begging him for these precious elixirs.’ An edge of frustration in the voice; so many of her letters to the great men and women of Europe had gone unanswered. Even her former mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, ignored her missives and her pleas for succour.