When the party reached home, there was an anxious consultation of the inner circle of confidantes over Cicely’s story.  Neither she nor the Queen had the least doubt that the stranger was Cuthbert Langston, who had been employed as an agent of hers for many years past; his insignificant stature and colourless features eminently fitting him for it.  No concealment was made now that he was the messenger with the beads and bracelets, which were explained to refer to some ivory beads which had been once placed among some spare purchased by the Queen, and which Jean had recognised as part of a rosary belonging to poor Alison Hepburn, the nurse who had carried the babe from Lochleven.  This had opened the way to the recovery of her daughter.  Mary and Sir Andrew Melville had always held him to be devotedly faithful, but there had certainly been something of greed, and something of menace in his language which excited anxiety.  Cicely was sure that his expressions conveyed that he really knew her royal birth, and meant to threaten her with the consequences, but the few who had known it were absolutely persuaded that this was impossible, and believed that he could only surmise that she was of more importance than an archer’s daughter.

He had told the Queen in French that he was in great need, and expected a reward for his discretion respecting what he had brought her.  And when he perceived the danger of being overheard, he had changed it into a pleading, “I did but tell the fair young lady that I could cast a spell that would bring her some good fortune.  Would her Grace hear it?”

“So,” said Mary, “I could but answer him as I did, Sadler and Somer being both nigh.  I gave him my purse, with all there was therein.  How much was it, Andrew?”

“Five golden pieces, besides groats and testers, madam,” replied Sir Andrew.

“If he come again, he must have more, if it can be contrived without suspicion,” said the Queen.  “I fear me he may become troublesome if he guess somewhat, and have to be paid to hold his tongue.”

“I dread worse than that,” said Melville, apart to Jean Kennedy; “there was a scunner in his een that I mislikit, as though her Grace had offended him.  And if the lust of the penny-fee hath possessed him, ’tis but who can bid the highest, to have him fast body and soul.  Those lads! those lads!  I’ve seen a mony of them.  They’ll begin for pure love of the Queen and of Holy Church, but ye see, ’tis lying and falsehood and disguise that is needed, and one way or other they get so in love with it, that they come at last to lie to us as well as to the other side, and then none kens where to have them!  Cuthbert has been over to that weary Paris, and once a man goes there, he leaves his truth and honour behind him, and ye kenna whether he be serving you, or Queen Elizabeth, or the deil himsel’.  I wish I could stop that loon’s thrapple, or else wot how much he kens anent our Lady Bride.”