CHAPTER IX.

THE GARDEN AT AMBOISE

It was the Dauphin who conducted us to Amboise--why, I did not at the time know. And such a way as it proved from Cour Cheverney, past telling of--all along the green river banks, the blossoms of the fruit trees blushing in the sunshine, a pink haze of blown petals, like a morning mist, pearling all across the orchards of Touraine--a sweet thing to see, that high day and holiday of the year.

This time we rode quietly and steadily; for Varlet had been exercised of late, and--I had no need to run away from three men who, each according to his possible, loved me, or at least told me that he did. With these about me, I cared little even for the shifty, baleful, yellowish eye of the Dauphin Louis. For (as I thought then) William was his equal in statecraft; James certainly could have cut him in twelve, like the Levite’s concubine, with as many strokes of his sword; and as for Larry, Louis de Valois was afraid that, in his quality of abbot, he would ban him with bell, book, and candle.

So I rode and held myself safe, not knowing of the depth of the creature’s guile, and the cruelties which even then were fermenting like yeast in his brain.

As usual, William Douglas and the Dauphin rode together--hard at it, now in fierce debate, now in hushed conference, the miles padding unheeded between their horses’ hoofs, and the fair landscape lying all unregarded.

A little behind, Laurence rode with one or two of his ambassador’s suite about him, on his white mule; and, save for the wistful eyes he turned upon me whenever I looked his way, one might have thought him happy enough. But, since I knew that by the turn of a finger I could bring him to my side, I stayed with James, who, as usual, was the gayest of all that company.

I think, too, that I was a little revengeful, because of what Laurence had taken it upon him to say in the wood the day we set the water-mills whirling. After all, though I liked Laurence M‘Kim, and he was of the pleasant of the earth, he had no right to dictate to me what I should say or with whom I should speak.

At any rate, he should learn his lesson, and then, when I had need--why, I could always call him back as one whistles to heel a well-trained dog. So, and because of these things, I rode with James. There were besides several good Scottish knights with us, but, their kindred ignorance of French shutting them in like a cage, they had little to say even to each other--nothing at all to me.

Now, in all that bright land of Touraine there is no castle (and there are many) so beautiful for situation as that of Amboise. I, who am now an old woman and have lived in these latter days to see vast changes, have seen no vaster change anywhere than in the architecture of the houses in which great folk live.

Now (they tell me) Amboise glistens with round tower and embayed window like a piece of jewellery new coft in St. Mark’s Square at Venice. Then, as I mind it, though the residence of the gayest court in the world, with the king and all his folk flaunting in gold and colours, the castle itself had little of splendour, being an ancient keep with courtyard and flanking towers--not near so fine, indeed, as Cour Cheverney, albeit very much larger. Thick walls, great towers, with low doors therein--no entrance gate half so splendid as that of Thrieve--mighty wastes of masonry, doubtless good against gun and archery, but with slotted windows which made the lower storeys like a vault, while to the upper the staircases were so narrow and difficult that scarce two could ascend at one time abreast, all of them after the old fashion, too, twisting and turning in the thickness of the wall.

But as to the setting of this wilderness of stone and lime, never had I seen such a place.

From the great terrace, lo! all fertile Touraine, the Garden of France--which is to say, of the world. Yonder was the green of the river banks, shining emerant through a lawny drift of peach blossom, the clearer hue of almond, the white wax of cherry and apple--on and on till the distance turned into a land of dream, or some Avalon lost among the clouds of sunset. Beneath, the Loire swung past in a great circle, almost bending back upon itself, and blue as only a river of France can be under the sky of May and Gaul.

In the outer courts and gardens were many courtiers, who saluted the Dauphin with deep reverences. But Louis, striding through the press of them in his apparel of dusty black, his buckleless belt tied with whip-cord, his spurs uncleaned, and narrow-brimmed steel cap which many a gay arquebusier would have scorned to wear, never so much as acknowledged one of their greetings. He passed through a gate which led out of a courtyard into a garden, never pausing till, at a certain iron port, a man in armour stood on guard.

“None must pass within!” the sentry grumbled, frowning and grounding his pike with an air of authority.

But it was fine to see how the Dauphin set him aside, as if he had been a wooden puppet.

“I go to my father,” he said; “let me pass this instant!”

And then, with an officiousness mightily impressive, there came one who, by his chain of office, was a sort of major-domo or chief steward, and he stood before Louis of Valois in all the bravery of gold-worked tabard and silver-hilted sword, the latter shaped like a toothpick, and of as much use. He had on his head a broad flat bonnet of purple velvet, which he doffed as he bowed low before his master’s son. James, amused and yet no little amazed, regarded him as if he had been a green frog swelling himself to croak.

“The king takes the air,” the major-domo said; “will it inconvenience His Highness the Dauphin to wait a moment while his servant announces him to the king?”

“It would inconvenience me exceedingly,” said the Dauphin, with a sneer, “only the Dauphin of France has no idea of being preceded into his father’s presence by--let us say with as little offence as possible--Sir Pandarus of Troy!”

And with that he opened the door with his own hand, and I could see within as through a crevice in a wall.

It was a fine enclosure, laid out with green paths and shady with noble trees, having little fountains that babbled all about. The place was full as it could hold of the lilies of the Virgin, orange and straw-colour and white, jetting up from the green and nodding graciously in the breeze.

James Douglas had stood aside for me to enter first, as my right was. But William Douglas came and caught me by the wrist when I had already set my foot on the threshold. He gripped me almost fiercely, and, indeed, even hurt my wrist.

He drew back with some rudeness, saying only, “Let the Dauphin go find his father first. It is ill coming between such a son and such a father!”

Then I sulked a little and pouted, holding out my hand, as a child does with a hurt. Of this William Douglas took no notice at all, but only stood with his back to the garden door. Then came James up, and, taking my wrist between his fingers, pretended to chafe it, murmuring many jesting bairnlinesses--yet with some of the accompaniments of real tenderness as well. Laurence, in deep dudgeon at something, gnawed at his under lip and gloomed at me from afar.

So I could not help laughing at him. I laughed indeed so that, leaving James, I went up to him and said, “If it pleases his reverency, the Abbot of Dulce Cor, to girn at me like to a sheep’s head in the tongs, perhaps he would like to swage the ill himself!”

And I held out the arm and wrist to him, knowing well that in his heart his desire was to kiss it, and that he dared not before so many. It is good to be able to tease a man thus in safety, and yet nobody know of it.

“What was the cause of the misfortune?” he said, suddenly rallying a little as I made to leave him again.

“Methinks,” said I, “it was only a certain bull, that hath taken it upon him to show his horns a little too soon!”

It seemed as if neither William nor Laurence took my meaning, for both remained fixed and with grave countenances. But with his head thrown back, my great outspoken James shouted a laugh to the skies, which the Dauphin must have heard in the garden.

“She is a very vixen-reynard, this one,” he said. “She nips shrewdly. Will, my lad, she means the pope’s Bull that you have gotten to marry her! And she twits you that you are not married yet, and have no authority over her impishness!”

“Ah!” said William calmly, without appearing to have heard the explanation of the sorry jest (all jests are sorry when explicated), “here is the Dauphin. Doubtless he comes to bring us to the king, his father.”

Now, when I thought of the King of France, Charles, seventh of that name, I took him for a sovereign of power and inches, making men obey him as did Will, my cousin, or able to drive a lance with any man, like James. So I was ill prepared for that which indeed I saw--a man of the middle height, fleshy and otiose, with red-rimmed smallish eyes, full of good humour and slow laughters, which, though most silent, shook him like a jelly. He was walking in a certain alley, the widest of all, under the sparse sprinkling shadow of high lilac bushes. He held by the hand the most beautiful lady and the sweetest to look upon that eyes ever beheld. And I, Margaret Douglas, that have been made mickle of all my life, in mine own country and elsewhere, may, in such a matter, be trusted to tell the truth.

And as the men all uncovered except Laurence (who, being a clerk, only bowed deeply), the king broke into a volley of thick guttural speech, very rapidly spoken--which, though my ears had been attuned to nothing but French for years, it was still difficult for me to make out.

Charles extended his right hand to be kissed, and one by one all bent and kissed the plump fingers--white, scented, and spanned with rings, like those of any court dame. But I, having nothing to ask of him and nothing to fear, with great gravity gave him my hand to kiss (an it liked him), whereat he laughed, and the lady by his side, whose hand he had held all the while, smiled, and nodded at me approvingly.

“Do it!” she bade the king. “If I mistake not, it is a privilege which more than one of these gentlemen present will envy you!”

“Indeed, nay!” I cried. “Why, no more than five minutes ago I offered it to two of them, and”--

But the king, with his hat off, was kissing my hand, while the Dauphin, in whose eyes I caught death and murder, stood glaring at the beautiful lady at his father’s side as if he would like to kill her upon the spot.

Then Charles VII. presented us all to her--myself, the Earl of Douglas, my Lord James, his brother, and that holy ecclesiast _in partibus_, Laurence, Abbot of Dulce Cor.

“The Lady Agnes Sorel!” said the King of France, with manifest pride, “sometime Demoiselle de Fromentau, now Comtesse de Penthièvre, and, above all” (here he smiled), “Dame de Beauté.”

I took my eyes just long enough off that radiant face, full of gentleness and pity, as well as extraordinary beauty, to observe the effect she produced upon my companions. As for me, I had the grace to feel but a schoolgirl beside her. Indeed, I have never been jealous of a woman in my life. It is not my way--nor, indeed, my need. So I said to myself, “I am but a girl, it is true--but I will grow older. This Dame de Beauté is a woman, and will grow old.”

The which, alas! she never did, dying to the roar of the wind through the northern woods she had helped the king to reconquer--the Seine running below brimful, past the ancient abbey of Jumièges, where dwelt the Dauphin of France--this same Louis de Valois, who is sore belied if he knew not in what manner she died.

Well, be that as it may, William stood stock-still, silent, stern, gloomy as a fir wood in November. He made her the reverence which he never refused to any woman, old or young, sinner or saint. And I said to myself, “Here, surely, is the man that will never be touched by the power of woman. Even now he is thinking of his plans and plottings!” The which, doubtless, should have been a great comfort to me!

But, as usual, James made up for all. He knelt on one knee and kissed the hand of the Dame de Beauté with such lingering courtesy and lover-like fervour that he well-nigh made me laugh.

Then the king, taking Will suddenly by the arm, perhaps in dudgeon at James’s forwardness, marched him off, the Dauphin accompanying them--probably more to listen to their conversation than to attend upon his father from any idea of filial obedience.

We were, therefore, left a party of three. For Laurence and his monks had withdrawn themselves to another part of the garden. It was a festal day, indeed, for our gallant James--with two women, both young and one of them beautiful, to squire here and there among the hawthorn and daffodillies.

He found time, however, while the lady turned to give some directions to her maids, to communicate to me the name by which Agnes Sorel will be known to the end of time.

“La Belle des Belles!” he whispered, with his finger on his lip. Yet, knowing James as I did, I think he meant the lady to hear. For James could only be James to the world’s end.