Child Royal (Historical Novel). D. K. Broster

upon his shoulders, its bared fangs within a foot of his face, he thought he must go down before its onslaught. Then other hands, and many of them, seized and dragged the beast off him, yet not before its terrible claws, cutting through doublet and shirt, had torn their way like steel down his left arm.

      Even before the wolfhound, growling and resisting, had been hustled out of the cabin, every soul in it had realised that the royal child had been saved from what none liked to contemplate. She was breathlessly surveyed. Hurt she was not—but was she badly frightened? She was very pale, the little Queen, standing backed against the chest with the terrified quail still clutched to her breast, while its mate beat in alarm about the cage, and Mary Beaton, with her hands over her face, continued to scream.

      But Mary Stuart, at five years old, could remember in the face of danger that she was, as she had just announced, a crowned queen; and when the distracted Lady Fleming, even paler than she, rushed to her, flung herself on her knees and clasped her in her arms, the child said, with scarcely a quaver:

      “My poor bird is frightened; pray take her, Madam.” And then, looking round, “I hope Master Graham was not hurt.”

      Nobody answered that, of all who were crowding round her with anxious questions on their own lips, with protestations, with solicitude, like the French ambassador, with excuses and pleas for pardon like her brother the Prior, and those of her train who realised that they might have been quicker to avert disaster. Little Mary Beaton, weeping hysterically, had to be removed by Magdalen Lindsay; Lord Livingstone hastened to reassure his own little daughter. And as for the rescuer himself, he was all the time edging as best he could through the press in the direction of the cabin door. The blood from his lacerated forearm was now soaking his torn sleeve, but since his doublet was black it made not too much show upon it, and he hoped that the fact might escape notice. His intention was to leave the cabin unseen and get the hurt bound up.

      He was almost at the door when Lord Livingstone caught him.

      “Kinsman, kinsman! Indeed you must not leave us thus! The Queen desires to thank you in person—as you most fully merit! And I too. God’s troth, if that beast had sprung upon her! . . . What, did it harm you?”

      “It is but a scratch or two,” answered Ninian, nursing the injured arm. “I do indeed thank the saints that I was in time, for I verily believe the beast would have pulled her Majesty down.—Nay, my lord, best let me go now. The child is too young to see blood.”

      But other faces were turned towards him, and other voices were speaking his name. Ninian saw that the sooner he acceded to the Queen’s request the sooner he could get away. Winding his handkerchief hastily over his sleeve, and putting his arm behind his back, he made a sign that he assented, and was led back by the Lord Keeper to receive, not only his little sovereign’s thanks, sweet and oddly dignified, but Lady Fleming’s much more effusive ones, the apologies of the conscience-stricken Lord Robert Stuart, and M. de Brézé's congratulations on his good fortune in being of such service.

      And all the while he was conscious less of the pain of his hurt than of the fact that his clenched hand, concealed behind his back, was now sticky with blood, and that unless he were soon suffered to depart, the fact of his injury must proclaim itself, at least to anyone in his rear. But as long as the child-Queen did not see . . .

      And she, looking up at him with sparkling, red-brown eyes, was making what he knew to be an impossible proposal, flattering though it was.

      “I will have Master Graham to be captain of my guard when I am come to France,” she had just said to the assembly. “Are you willing, Master Graham?”

      “Your Grace does me far too much honour,” responded Ninian, bowing. “But I am in the service of the King of France.”

      “Then I shall ask his Majesty to set you free for mine,” responded the Queen of Scotland. “My Lords Erskine and Livingstone, may I not do so?”

      Lord Erskine took up the challenge. “If his Majesty gives your Grace a household of your own you might with propriety make the request,” he responded rather doubtfully. But from the rapid glance which passed between him and his brother Keeper it was plain that he did not think this condition would be fulfilled. And Ninian himself felt pretty sure that the future bride, of such tender years, would at first be brought up in the royal nursery with the Dauphin and the two little princesses.

      Here, to the damaged hero’s relief, the scene was cut short by the advent of M. de Villegaignon himself, who, entering the poop cabin at that moment, and being instantly apprised of what had happened, perceived, as he came forward, just what that hero was trying to hide.

      “Tête-Dieu!” he exclaimed bluntly, acknowledging the Queen’s presence only by removing his cap, “this gentleman needs care rather than thanks. With your Majesty’s leave I’ll take him at once to have his arm dressed.” And he laid upon Ninian’s shoulder a hand so compelling that the latter was obliged to withdraw, after a word of excuse and reassurance to the royal child, whose eyes were wide now with concern and, for the first time, with a measure of alarm.

      Just outside the cabin the two men all but ran into the tall maid of honour who had removed little Mary Beaton a few minutes ago. At the sight of Ninian’s arm, with the now soaked handkerchief crimson about it, she stopped short with a cry.

      “Yes,” said Villegaignon, “you have this gentleman to thank, it seems, Mademoiselle, that your little Queen was not savaged before everyone’s eyes by that accursed dog. And, as you see, he has paid for his courage and quickness. Could you procure us some clean linen?”

      “I . . . why, yes, Monsieur. But . . . for the moment, will you not take this?” And Magdalen Lindsay, hastily unpinning the short white veil which hung from the back of her head-dress, thrust it into the Frenchman’s hands and quickly disappeared.

      In the Sieur de Villegaignon’s own cabin, where the commander himself, despite Ninian’s protests, acted leech, Ninian asked the name of the donor of the veil which, after washing the injured arm, he was binding round it.

      “A Mademoiselle Lindsay, I believe,” replied the Frenchman, “some kinswoman of her Majesty’s gouvernante, the Lady Fleming” (he pronounced it Flamyn). “She is quickwitted, is she not? But this scrap of stuff will not suffice.—Here, however, if I mistake not, comes further provision for your hurt, Monsieur.”

      There was indeed the sharp, screeching sound of linen being rent, and in the doorway appeared Janet Sinclair, her hands still busy, strips of white hanging over her arm.

      “Eh sirs!” she exclaimed, in a tongue which it did Ninian’s ears good to hear in that French vessel, “whit a mairciful escape! I’ve torn up a shift o’ my Leddy Fleming’s for ye, my bonny brave gentleman, and had I torn up ane o’ the Queen’s hersel it wad be nae mair than is due to ye . . . forbye they’re but wee bit things, ye ken. God send ye be weel recompensit that saved the blessed bairn!” And here, to the Archer’s embarrassment, she reached up and gave him a hearty kiss.

      “You say well, Madame Nourrice,” observed the Sieur de Villegaignon gravely. “Had aught happened to her little Majesty, whom I am to bring safe to France——”

      “Ye’d likely hae lost your ain heid,” completed Janet Sinclair, who did not mince her words. “Best let me finish redding that airm, my Lord Captain; savin’ your presence, ye’re not ower handy at it. And what’s this ye hae happed it in a’ready?”

      Ninian explained, Villegaignon with a grin of amusement yielding his place. “Aweel,” commented the thrifty Janet, “since the bit veil isna torn, ye’ll be able tae gie it back tae Mistress Lindsay in the end.”

      During the Scotswoman’s ministration Ninian was aware that someone else had sought and obtained admission to the commander’s cabin. Hearing his own name he turned his head, and beheld a small, withering gentleman, breathing hard, as from hurry—Lord Keeper Erskine. He began at once:

      “Master Graham, I am glad to have found you at last. Sir, I cannot enough commend and thank you for your