For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  He offered me the possibility of escape, back to my former home and away from my uncle, the Cardinal.

  I had not yet learned that we cannot always run from our memories.

  “Well,” I admitted, “you are not the first to ask me to return.”

  “No?”

  A few weeks earlier the Catholics had urged me to return to the north of Scotland in a military capacity, and help them to overthrow the Protestants. They had assured me that Catholic nobles in the north-east would support me with their troops.

  “You refused?” Lord James asked.

  “Of course. It is not my desire to bring discord.”

  He looked surprised. But there was something else in his eyes, admiration. Respect.

  I was impressed by my half-brother back then; I trusted him. I liked his single-mindedness, his determination. I quickly grew fond of him.

  Did he see me as just another pawn in the game of power and diplomacy? I was ready to trust him and turn to him as a key adviser.

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

  Lord James was a strict Protestant and a clever statesman.

  “Are you surprised that I am not prepared to throw in my lot with the Catholics?” I asked him, point-blank.

  He hesitated before answering. “A little. But I am very glad to hear it from your own lips, Mary. I confess that I was not sure how easy it would be to reach an agreement. It is true that Scotland is insecure without a monarch,” he went on. “Indeed, the Scottish people have almost forgotten they have a queen.”

  I stared at him, and blinked my eyes once or twice. Careful, I thought.

  “They must have awfully short memories.”

  “An absent queen is not a real queen in their eyes.”

  “Then we must remedy that fact,” I snapped back, quick as a flash.

  “It has been twelve long years since you set foot on Scottish soil, Mary. In addition to this fact, they see you as an absent French queen…”

  I was taken aback.

  “Lord James,” I said calmly, “I am a Scotswoman born and bred, and my mother – God rest her soul – never allowed me to forget that. The people of Scotland will be waiting to receive me. Besides, I am no longer a French queen – as you can see,” I reminded him bitterly, indicating my black gown.

  “With respect, you were but lately.”

  “Oh, I am well aware of my position. I am still a Queen Dowager of France, but I was crowned Queen of Scotland at six days old. In all that time my mother kept the throne secure for me, battling against all the troubles that the lords brought her with their endless rebellion and factionalism. It is perhaps worth reminding you, brother, that I am as Scottish as yourself. I am one of those who can claim a dual nationality as part of my good fortune. It is rather limiting to belong to one country alone, don’t you find?”

  He smiled thinly, then lifted his long white fingers to his lips, prayer-fashion.

  “It’s all a question of priorities and perspectives.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is.”

  “And they are?”

  “Well, and I speak on behalf of my fellow countrymen, of course, we would need to know your intentions. You have spoken of a policy of religious toleration, but what does that in fact mean? How could we trust that you would continue to respect our Protestant Kirk in the future?”

  I looked him squarely in the face. “You have my word upon it. The word of a monarch ought to be sacrosanct.”

  Again, I had the impression he was a little nonplussed. He had hoped to find in me a biddable half-sister he could manipulate, but I was proving to be more fiery and single-minded than he had bargained for.

  “What I am proposing Mary is this. I do not know how easy you would find it – as a Catholic, I mean – to rule a Protestant country.”

  “Oh, I would find it perfectly well,” I assured him.

  “It might be expedient for you to consider a change of religion.”

  “You mean Scotland change?”

  “I mean you to change, Mary.”

  I knew of course that this was what he meant.

  “Lord James, I am a very tolerant and broad-minded woman, as you have rightly pointed out. But I change my religion for no one. If I come to Scotland, I come as a Catholic queen.”

  “Then perhaps it may not be possible…”

  “Possible? You speak strangely seditious words, my brother. Treasonable, in fact.”

  “That was not my intention.”

  “Religion is not a matter of expediency, Lord James. It is a matter of faith.”

  He persisted with his point, notwithstanding. He was a very determined man. “As a Catholic queen you may feel tempted to introduce Popish ways and laws into the land – perhaps not at first, but after a period of time. We want no change of that sort in Scotland. The people would brook no interference with their Kirk. They would rebel. You must understand that Scotland has only just lifted the yoke of Catholicism.”

  I regarded him coolly and lifted a hand to stop him. “You have my word that I will recognize the Reformed Church, but I expect to be able to attend Catholic services on my return. I shall respect your Kirk, but in return I must be free to worship as I please.”

  He held my gaze for a long moment. “Excellent. But let us not argue about religion.”

  “No, let us not.”

  He smiled grimly. “We have so much else to discuss.”

  “Do I have your word, then, that I will be able to practise as a Catholic?”

  “In private…yes, you do indeed. I shall make it my business to ensure that you be allowed to worship in freedom. I shall keep my side of the bargain…for as long as you can keep yours,” he muttered.

  I did not like the sound of those final words, but I let it pass.

  I decided that my actions would have to speak louder than my words.

  Scotland

  August 1561

  Waves smacked against the creaking bows of the ship. It was a journey in reverse – reminding me of my absent mother. A mist came down and wrapped itself around the rigging and masts. A bell clanked eerily, indicating the approach of a port. It sounded oddly funereal, melancholic.

  I peered through the fog, trying to make out the coastline.

  My half-brother, watching me, cleared his throat.

  “We get these sea-mists from time to time.”

  He appeared to be apologizing, but I assured him there was no need. I did not hold him responsible for the climate of his native country, or the behaviour of the elements.

  “I remember the mist,” I said.

  “Do you?” he sounded surprised. “You were so young when you left…I thought perhaps you remembered very little.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  But I chose not to share with him exactly what it was I remembered, whether those memories were good or bad. In truth, they were tinged by sadness. I remembered principally hiding from an unseen, amorphous enemy which lurked always beyond my ken; being borne in haste away from castles in the dead of night, just as dawn was lightening the edges of the sky. I remembered flaring torches, the hush of muted voices, whispers of urgency from the adults hovering just above my head. And I remembered my mother’s face, tear-stained but brave, smiling with courage, promising me we would see each other again soon. And I had believed the adventure was only just beginning, that all would end well. I looked at her sorrowing countenance, and then turned in the hull of the boat to face the direction of my future with the heartlessness of the very young. That’s what I could remember.

  None of this I shared with Lord James.

  The port of Leith came into view, appearing gradually through the haar like a haunting apparition. I gazed in fascination.

  “My goodness, how quaint!” one of my French servants said.


  “I didn’t expect…”

  “It’s a sea-mist, is all.”

  “Well…”

  Everyone seemed at a loss for words, but I secretly smiled to myself.

  “Where is everyone?” I heard another say as we disembarked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well – where are all the people?”

  “Yes, where all the crowds to greet Her Majesty?” Lord James was demanding of one of his party.

  A few boatmen and fishwives were standing on the quay, staring at the spectacle before them, their eyes wide as saucers as if they could not quite believe what they were seeing.

  “My sister came here expecting at least a welcome of some kind.”

  “We couldn’t rustle up any of the crowds, I’m afraid. It’s the weather.”

  “Damn it, aren’t they used to the accursed weather by now?”

  “Well, no one knew what to expect.”

  “What can you mean, man? I sent word we were arriving. Surely they knew to expect the return of Her Majesty.”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that.”

  I gazed about me, the grey cobbles greasy with fog, the heaped barrels and coils of sticky rope on the quay, the downright poverty of Leith in comparison with the Paris streets I had come from. Gulls wheeled and gave out a desolate ghostly cry in the silence.

  “Transport?” I heard my brother say, in a weary tone of disbelief. “What! You don’t expect Her Majesty to walk into Edinburgh, I take it?”

  “It’s all we’ve got I’m afraid.”

  I was quite sure I heard my half-brother mutter under his breath “Someone will pay for this.”

  Then I heard a familiar sound – hooves clopping slowly, heavily on the damp cobbles. A tired-looking horse hung its head in front of me; I laughed.

  Heads swivelled around and they turned to stare at me.

  “She’s laughing,” a voice murmured in the mist, as if they considered me to be either mad or about to launch into an attack of French proportions on their lack of deference.

  What they failed to see was that I was amused and charmed. There was no lavish pomp and ceremony, no fanfare, no pageantry, no Guise uncles to chastise and control me.

  I was my own mistress.

  I could see clearly through the mist, and I could see my way to the future.

  So it was a humble return to the kingdom of my birth, on the back of a tired-looking nag. I stroked its neck and spoke to it encouragingly as it bore me over the rough cobbles.

  We made a steady, slow progress into Edinburgh. I was five years of age when I left these shores and I was not entirely unfamiliar with the sights. My memories were blurred. I did not, for instance, remember the tall grey tenements, crowded with people, the outside stair-heads where the odd square of laundry fluttered – in the vain hope that it would dry in this mist. Nor did I remember the closes and wynds that divided the tall buildings, winding out of sight. It was daylight, summer time in late August and yet the town was painted with darkness and shadows.

  It was certainly different from what I had known in France. It was bleaker, colder, and there looked to be more poverty. We children of the royal nursery were cosseted from all of that. The House of Valois liked to rear its children in a soft fantasy land, far from the ravages of reality. I see that now.

  In Scotland, a ruler is more closely acquainted with the ordinary lives of the people, aware of their sympathies and loyalties. The Scottish spirit is hard to subdue and I had no intention of subduing it. I wanted to rule with compassion, which has always been my way. I never wanted to repeat the tyranny I had seen under Catherine de Medici.

  Edinburgh appeared much quieter than Paris. The streets here were muddied where they were not cobbled, and the people looked poor, but ruddy of complexion, used to the cold winds and the sea-mists.

  At the top of the hill we turned left, away from the city boundaries. A rough mountain known as Arthur’s Seat reared up through the mist, its black crags darkening against the sky. In its shadow lay Holyrood Palace, smaller than I remembered.

  Rows of windows regarded me blankly.

  The sun came out for a moment, and the shapes of clouds moved in the thick distorted windowpanes. We clopped into the courtyard, and my half-brother began sending out orders while I gazed all about me.

  I dismounted and stood in the courtyard while the horses were led away.

  Lord James glanced at me and there was a look of vague unease and disquiet in his eyes.

  “It will all seem very different from what you are used to, Mary,” he said gently.

  I met his gaze. “Yes, that is true. But it is not as unfamiliar to me as you might imagine.”

  In truth, memories I did not know I possessed rose to the surface of my mind. I did not share them with anyone. I simply observed all around me with growing interest.

  “The palace will have been made comfortable for your arrival,” he added.

  Then he made a deft but brief movement of obeisance as he showed the way to the entrance of the Palace.

  The gesture touched me.

  We entered the great echoing hall – less of a palace, more a castle, with its rough walls and dark turrets.

  There was a commotion, footsteps resounding down corridors as my half-brother took command of the details of my welcome. I had switched to speaking in my native Scots, but my French servants who had accompanied me were of course not able to oblige.

  The air was chill inside the palace, and when one of my ladies made a move to take my cloak, I stopped her.

  “There are no fires lit,” I observed, looking about me.

  Lord James caught my eye. “It is August.”

  “But it is freezing,” I murmured.

  My half-brother turned and shouted an order along the corridor.

  “Get the fires lit, can’t you? It’s too cold for Her Majesty.”

  There was a flurry of movement, and then I was escorted up the main staircase and shown to my private apartments, a vast bedchamber with table, chairs and sturdy four-poster.

  One or two servants set about creating a blaze in the fireplace. The panelled walls were bare, but the furniture was good solid oak. I had brought tapestries with me to hang on the walls.

  “What’s this?” I said, noticing a doorway in the corner. I stepped through it into a tiny turret chamber, the windows of which overlooked Arthur’s Seat. There was a table

  in the centre and tapestries already covered the walls.

  In the winter months, I was told, I would benefit from retreating into this turret room for warmth. With a fire roaring in its hearth, I could imagine it would be warmer than my larger audience chambers.

  “You will be tired after your long journey, Ma’am,” one of my French servants said.

  I agreed that I was.

  It was a journey across time. I had travelled backwards into my own past. When I stood on the rocky shore of the Forth twelve years ago, bidding farewell to my mother, France had been my future. Now everything was in reverse order.

  But I had escaped Catherine de Medici, and I had escaped my Guise uncles. This was the alternative left to me, and I was determined to rise to the challenge.

  Holyrood Palace

  August 1561

  It was early evening, and I lay down to sleep, exhausted. What did my future hold? Anxiety knotted in my stomach, and sorrow, for what I had left behind in France. I would need to adapt to Scotland. Its people were a mystery to me still. In France I had been paraded as a little Scottish maiden, a figure of curiosity, a novelty. But here I could not boast that claim. I could already see that those Scots I had come across since we landed at Leith regarded me as a foreigner. I would need to remedy this and prove a point.

  It was still light outside when I heard a strange dirge drifting up to my windows. I recogniz
ed that sound – the wail of the bagpipes. Usually an instrument which moves me profoundly, it can resonate through my bones when I hear its lament. But this was not the case that night.

  I rose from my bed. In the courtyard beneath were gathered a group of people, mainly men, singing along to the dirge.

  Others had joined me and peered down. Lord James had appeared at my shoulder and gave a sigh. “You see, they are welcoming you, Mary.”

  One of my French servants began to laugh.

  “What is it they are singing?”

  Lord James coughed. “It is a psalm, Madam.”

  “A psalm?”

  “That’s right, Your Majesty.”

  He nodded.

  “And why cannot they sing something a little more…appropriate?” I trailed off, not knowing how to finish my sentence politely.

  Lord James met my eye, and I was certain I saw a twinkle of mirth there. “They are only allowed to sing hymns or psalms. Profane music has been forbidden.”

  “Forbidden?” I stared at him. “By whom?”

  He coughed again. “John Knox.”

  “John Knox?”

  I had heard that man’s name mentioned before.

  “That’s right, Ma’am.”

  My half-brother paused for a moment.

  I stared down at the drab crowd gathered in the courtyard below. “And do they take all their orders from John Knox?”

  “Well, it appears so.” He corrected himself slightly. “They listen to their Calvinist ministers at any rate.”

  I gazed down. White faces were turned up to me in the gloaming twilight below, and they sang on, trying to sound as cheerful as they could under the circumstances.

  “But it’s ridiculous. They sound awful.”

  Lord James shrugged.

  I said nothing, but I was interested to meet this man who regarded his influence as superior to his appointed sovereign.

  When they had done, I opened the casement window and one of their number shouted up to me.

  “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.