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

“If there be any recompense in my power, sir . . . as for her Majesty’s desire to see you captain of her guard—a child’s whim as you’ll understand—there’ll be no such post for a while yet in France, if ever there is . . .”

      “That I well understand, my lord,” answered Ninian, still unable to free his arm from the hands of Janet Sinclair who, beyond glancing up once at Lord Erskine, took no notice of his presence, but went on bandaging. “Moreover, I am in the service of King Henry II, as I pointed out to her Majesty. Nor do I desire any recompense; to have saved her from possible harm is recompense enough.”

      “And lucky ye think sae,” muttered Janet Sinclair under her breath. “For I’m thinkin’ ye’ll likely get nae ither.—There, Maister Graham, ye’ll need but tae carry yon airm in your bosom for a while, or get ye a scairf. Guid day tae ye, sir, and tak an auld wife’s blessin’ for whit ye did!”

      She made a brief reverence to the Lord Keeper and went out with dignity.

      (6)

      A light haze hung over the treacherous, rock-strewn Breton coast, for the August morning was as fine and still as though it made a mock of the last seven days’ memories of hazard, and even of terror. As the boat from the Sainte Catherine drew over the gentle swell towards the little fishing port of Roscoff, which had already received the Queen of Scots and her train, the handful of Scots in its stern rehearsed to each other their thankfulness at approaching a shore which, during those eighteen days on shipboard, more than one of them had despaired of ever reaching at all.

      To Ninian Graham also, sitting among his compatriots with his arm in a sling, the sight of port was very welcome. He had had his moments of apprehension as well as another, not only for his own safe arrival, which was a matter of small importance, but for that of the little Queen herself. For, after the convoy had ventured forth from its refuge at Lamlash, the tempestuous weather had returned in full force. There had been one night in particular, not far from the implacable Cornish coast, when it had encountered such tremendous seas that the rudder of the Queen’s galley had actually been smashed, and only by the direct intervention of Heaven, as M. de Brézé averred afterwards, had the seamen succeeded in repairing it. Nor had that night of storm seen the end of peril. If ever a captain was glad to sight land, thought Ninian, it must have been M. de Villegaignon with his precious lading. Even then he had no easy coast for a landfall.

      The Queen and her immediate attendants had already disappeared an hour ago into the house set apart for her reception when Ninian clambered up the side of the rough seaweed-hung quay. But there were still plenty of his fellow-countrymen about the narrow streets of the little port to be stared at by the baggy-breeched, long-haired, wide-hatted natives, and to stare in their turn at the unfamiliar Breton costume and exclaim at the unintelligible language.

      It was Ninian’s duty to press on at once to rejoin the Archer Guard, and when he had sought out Lord Livingstone to take farewell, he would have to take steps to ascertain the present whereabouts of the King. In this remote corner of a remote land it seemed unlikely that he would find exact information on this point. These people, of a different race, tradition and speech, were not France as he knew it—nor, indeed, had they long formed part of France. Half fascinated, half repelled, he wandered away from the thronged quay and its fishing boats and walked beneath the overhanging little houses, nearly all bearing a sacred image or painting, until some steps leading down to a tiny church recalled to him his own intention of putting up a candle to the Virgin in thankfulness for the Queen’s safe landing and his own after this perilous August voyage.

      Inside, the place, redolent of stale incense and candle-grease, was appropriate enough for any voyager’s prayers. Rough little votive ships hung from the beams, and the uncouth wooden image of the Virgin and Child before which he said a prayer had a fish and an anchor carved at its feet—Stella Maris none the less, who had surely brought that other crowned Mary to safe harbour through the tempest.

      Ninian had hardly stepped out again into the little parvise outside when two hooded ladies came down the steps from the narrow street. Any doubt about the identity of the one was removed by a convenient gust of sea wind which blew aside the hood, and showed him the features of the giver of the veil on board the Queen’s galley. He stood still, removing the bonnet which he had just put on.

      Colouring a little, Magdalen Lindsay stopped also. “Master Graham, is it not? Mistress Ogilvy, this is the gentleman who saved her Grace from the Lord Robert’s great dog.”

      But Ninian scarcely heard the words of admiration which this speech drew from the comely young woman bearing that name. His eyes were all for Mistress Magdalen Lindsay, whom he had not seen before in untempered daylight. Now he could appreciate the pale, smooth oval of her face, from which the momentary colour had already faded, the intensity and very dark blue of her eyes, above all her expression, faintly remote and pure, as of some saint in a missal, but a saint full of compassion, even of tenderness. At all this he gazed in what he felt next moment must have been an unmannerly fashion, conscious at the time of a wish that he were alone with her—not that he had anything especial to say.

      In another instant the wish was all but fulfilled, for a smiling youth came pelting down the steps, and accosted Mistress Ogilvy as one who was in search of her. Amid the chatter that ensued between them, therefore, Mistress Lindsay and the Archer were to all purposes alone.

      Her eyes were already dwelling on his sling. “How does your arm, sir?” she asked gravely. “I hope that you consulted the Queen’s physician before you left the galley that day?”

      “What need was there, Mistress Lindsay, since the arm was bound up with your veil?” asked Ninian with gallantry. “From that moment its healing was assured, and is now near accomplished. And since in Roscoff such ladies’ gear is not, I think, easy to procure, I hope you will permit me, should we meet again, to offer you in place of what you sacrificed——”

      “Oh, never speak of that, I pray you, Master Graham!” she broke in, her face losing its gravity, her eyes very kind. “Do you not know how heavy a debt you have laid upon us all—upon all Scotland indeed! Her Grace is not unmindful of it; she still talks of her desire that you should be captain of her guard.”

      Ninian smiled too. “Bless the child’s sweet heart—if it be not treason so to speak of one’s sovereign! But I am sure she will have no household of her own yet awhile. Nevertheless, Mistress Lindsay, since King Henry will certainly soon pay her a visit——”

      “Magdalen,” broke in the voice of her companion, as she swung round and caught at her sleeve. “Magdalen, come say your prayers quickly, for Master Seton waits to escort us to St. Pol de Léon. There, if you be so minded, you can say them at more length in a cathedral. Perhaps,” added the maid of honour (if so she was), casting a look at Ninian, “perhaps Master Graham will also accompany us thither?”

      Ninian thanked her, but refused. “I have too long a journey in front of me, mistress, and must set out at once.” He kissed their hands, and, young Seton having intimated that he was not for entering the church, watched the hoods and farthingales of the two ladies disappear through the low grey doorway.

      “’Tis to be hoped their prayers will not be long ones,” laughed the young man, twirling his gaily-plumed hat round and round on his finger. “For my part, I put up enough Paters and Aves on the voyage to last me from here to Tartary. . . . I see you have suffered an injury, sir, at the hands of Neptune, no doubt. My faith, he nearly caused me to break my neck one night. But does it not make amends for all to set foot on the fair soil of France, where other gods have power—Venus, to wit, and Mars?” And before Ninian could make any reply he added, clapping his hat upon his head at a jaunty angle, “For myself, I own it intoxicates me!”

      That indeed was the impression he gave, and Ninian’s smile as he took leave of him was not unkind. He himself had once been a youth abrim with high spirits and expectations.

      (7)

      Habited once more in the white surcoat edged with gold, with the three crescent