ACT TWO
SCENE ONE — SEIGNEUR RICCIO, A FORTUNE, A BABY, AND A BIG BABY
(DANCER completes bravura jig, then becomes RICCIO, with his old typewriter, typing away efficiently. MARY is there and LA CORBIE. We create a picture of fast, secretive, well-established and intimate hard work. RICCIO has a slight hunchback and an elaborate embroidered brocade waistcoat — fine clothes his wee vanity … LA CORBIE snaps fingers)
MARY: Twa copies, seigneur Davy, yin tae the Papal Nuncio, yin tae the Cardinal o’ Lorraine — ssh! Carefu’, carefu’, no’ a word tae naebody, no’ tae the King, no’ even tae Bothwell.
(RICCIO, fingers to his lips, a wee gesture of a smile. He turns letters into paper aeroplanes, sends one flying to each of the wings, goes back to typing. MARY sits down and looks at her belly. She isn’t very obviously pregnant yet)
Please mak’ it be true, mak’ it a’ richt enough. And mak’ it a boy — for your ain sake.
(RICCIO looks at her, shakes his head and wags his finger, then goes on typing)
LA CORBIE: And is that what we’d expect to see, no’ three month efter yir weddin’. Whaur’s yir bonny young groom? Eh? Eh?
(RICCIO rips out the sheets of paper, takes them over to MARY. She plucks a feather out of LA CORBIE’S coat sleeve and signs flamboyantly)
MARY: And you ha’e the stamp we ha’e made up o’ the King’s signature?
(RICCIO produces it flamboyantly and rubber-stamps each paper with a thump, blows on them and puts them in his pocket)
Aye … oan the richt-hand side, o’ coorse. Mine must aye hae the pride o’ place, because it is the name you read first! On the left. (Pause) O, Riccio, Riccio, you dinnae think it was … petty o’ me to withdraw the silver ryal?
(RICCIO’S familiar hushing gesture; he comes and starts mas saging her temples. We realise RICCIO is to MARY: guru, confidant, secretary and PA, ‘alternative’ healer, fortune-teller, adviser, and silent as a psychiatrist to boot. As well as musi cian and occasional mimer and jester — these are demonstrated during this scene, variously)
I don’t think so, there was nae choice. I couldna allow it as a coin o’ the realm.
(LA CORBIE does a coin trick, conjures up one)
LA CORBIE: The silver ryal, a commemorative coin worth thirty shillings, Scots, to celebrate the love of King Henry for Queen Mary —
(LA CORBIE bites the coin) Is it genuine?
MARY: The damnable cheek of it — Henricus et Maria, Deo Gratia Rex et Regina Scotorum! Wrang order.
LA CORBIE: Whom God hath jined together let nae man cast assunder.
(The silver ryal turns magically into two)
MARY: Sometimes I think he doesn’t realise we proclaim him King without even ratifyin’ it wi’ the council … I wish Henry widna harp and carp aboot the crown matrimonial a’ the time, for it widna be politick to grant him it.
LA CORBIE: Even if you wanted tae …
MARY: So, Henry Darnley, you ha’e nae richt to ma throne eftir ma death — even if it werena for you, ma son. (Pause) If you are a son. Och I widna wish for ye to be a lassie.
Whit think ye, Davy Riccio, boy or girl?
(RICCIO shuts MARY’S eyes, leans her back, takes a ring on a ribbon from his pocket and swings it like a pendulum above her belly)
LA CORBIE: Whit is’t then? Widdershins an’ it’s a boy! —
(RICCIO pauses, then makes a cheeky wee wiggling baby’s penis of his crooked little finger at his crotch)
RICCIO: Ragazzo!
MARY: Thank God, a son.
LA CORBIE: Funny! Yesterday it went the other wey and still ye said, oh aye it wis a laddie! Dowsers an’ diviners an’ fortunetellers, ever noticed how they aye tell ye whit they think ye want to hear?
MARY: Make him strang! (Pause) Davy Riccio — tell ma fortune!
LA CORBIE: (producing them as if by magic) Ta-rocco!
(They are Tarot, of course, outsize. RICCIO takes them, spreads them in a circle, spins)
MARY: Only you, Davy, only you said I wis richt to marry Henry Darnley. You cast ma cairts for me — an’ you chartit ma birth staurs — time an’ again we turnt up the same cairt.
RICCIO: (turning it up again) Gli Amanti!
MARY: The lovers. ‘Numero six.’ ‘A choice.’ Except there wis nae choice at a’, you kennt that! (Fierce and smiling to remember it) Though even ye couldna hae fortellt the anger o’ ma nobles! Damn them a’! Damn England for harbouring the bloody rebels, Ah’ll depend on France and Spain afore England, Ah’ll show them a’ I was richt tae follow ma destiny an’ marry the man I loved.
LA CORBIE: Love-ed. Note the past tense.
MARY: Noo, we hae tae cast three, is that no’ richt?
(First card)
MARY and RICCIO: (together) Il diavolo!
(Second card)
RICCIO: Numero tredici —
MARY: (shivering) The unnamed card …
(MARY tries to laugh)
MARY: Ah ken that’s supposed to be a lucky caird, dinna cairds aye mean the opposite! But it frichts me a’ the same!
LA CORBIE: A skeleton wi’ a grin as wide his ain scythe. Airms and legs in the broken earth. A crowned head, cut aff, in the boattom corner. Only a picture! Colourt in ower crudely by some Admon Kadmon trickster at a tally fair! La morte!
MARY and RICCIO: (as the third card goes down) Justizia!
MARY: (Relieved) Justice, well yon’s a lucky caird, eh Davy?
LA CORBIE: Oh aye, an’ — lik’ chance — it’d be a fine thing.
(RICCIO smiles, massages her feet and ankles, a reflexologist incarnate. LA CORBIE has picked up the rest of the pack when MARY has put it down. She fans them)
An’ whit else is in here? There’s … the world, il mondo, la ruota, the wheel o’ fortune; the ruined tower; the wummin pope; the hangin’ man; il pazzo, the fool, zero.
(On the word ‘fool’ DARNLEY, bottle in hand, appears)
The King — nay, the knave, the knave o’ cups!
(And she shows that card. HENRY DARNLEY is there, sup ported by BOTHWELL and BESSIE. DARNLEY sees RICCIO with a bare royal foot in his hands, on his lap)
DARNLEY: What in hell’s name is going on? Leave my wife alone — I’ll bloody well —
(DARNLEY makes a drunken lunge)
LA CORBIE: He will!
BOTHWELL: C’moan, man, wheest …!
(BOTHWELL bows low at MARY and RICCIO after struggling with his drunken burden, settling him on stool)
Madam, at your service. Seigneur Davy …
MARY: Bothwell, hoo daur you let him get intae sicc a state?
BOTHWELL: Madam … Ah nivir encouraged him. Ah … did advise him that mibbe he should caw canny. But he is the King. (Shrugs)
MARY: He’s only a laddie.
(BOTHWELL shrugs again, ruffles DARNLEY’S drunken head)
BOTHWELL: Ah ken, Ah ken … he hasna yet the heid for it yet.
DARNLEY: I’ll tell you where I have been. I have been making friends among your nobles. On your behalf. You make no attempt to understand them or make them your allies. I’ll tell you where I have been. On Tuesday, after the hunt, a great day’s sport, we came upon a deserted little cove … near Aberdour. Very rocky … Bothwell and I swam a race across it. All the other nobles cheered. And I won. Didn’t I, Hepburn …? I won!
MARY: (sharply) Bothwell, I thocht I had askit ye for your help?
BOTHWELL: Madam, I hae missed ma ain dinner and ridden fifteen miles tae bring him safely hame, he isna ma responsibeelity …
MARY: Maister Hepburn, I am sorry. Bessie, tak’ the Earl o’ Bothwell doon tae the kitchens directly and wake someone, middle o’ the nicht or no’! Somethin’ hot for the Earl o’ Bothwell.
(BESSIE curtsies, BOTHWELL bows and both go. DARNLEY lurches up to MARY, breathes in her face)
DARNLEY: Ah Mary, Mary. I’m sorry … Give me a kiss.
(She recoils)
Leave us alone, Seigneur Riccio!
MARY: Davy, stay exactly where you are!
(RICCIO stays. Begins typing fast as if to say I’m not here or listening. DARNLEY crumples in humiliation. Pause. Begins causing what impotent bother he can. Slurring a lot)
DARNLEY: Clack, clack, clack, like the tongues of foreigners … Italians. French … Only thing I can stand about the bloody French is the wine. (Sings drunkenly) ‘Oh — oh — Give me twelve and twelve o’ the good claret wine/ An’ twelve — and twel’ o’ the muskadine …’
Mind you the Scotch are as bloody bad, God made the Highlander out of a lump of dung … Then for the bloody Lowlander, He decided to economise on even that basic raw material … What are you writing? (Pulls sheet out of typewriter, crumples it up) Because it’s too late at night. Go away, Seigneur Davy, I want to kiss my wife.
(RICCIO frozen)
My lovely wife. My beautiful wife. D’you know she is the Queen? Therefore she must be beautiful. (Pause. Touches MARY’S hair) She is though.
MARY: Davy, leave us.
(RICCIO bows, goes quickly with relief. DARNLEY is sobbing, like a child)
DARNLEY: Oh, Mary, Mary, I am sorry.
MARY: (not bitterly) Aye, Henry, aye. You aye-weys are.
DARNLEY: Mary, Mary, I love you, hold me!
(She is rocking him and cradling him like a child. Lips to his hair)
MARY: Wheesht, wheesht, Henry! Ssh. (Rocks him)
LA CORBIE: Yin big bairn, and yin on the wey!