The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  ***

  Eight days after I arrived in Glasgow, I received a letter stamped with Mary’s seal. It was not the thistle and rose seal that she usually used when she marked letters to me, but her official seal, bearing a shield with the initials M.R. etched on either side. Marie Regina—Queen Mary in Latin, was Mary’s preferred signature for official business. I turned the letter over in my hand several times, scrutinizing the hand that had addressed the letter to me. It was not Mary’s, therefore I assumed it had been penned by Rizzio.

  I tore open the letter and upon seeing the contents confirmed that the correspondence had not been penned by Mary’s hand. However, it addressed me most familiarly, and I flinched at the thought of her most intimate thoughts that she would share with me being channeled through another’s hand. But I need not fear, for although the letter was most cordial in its address, the content was formal and matter of fact.

  Dearest Thomas,

  A matter of grave consequence has occurred. Not two days after our arrival at Rossend Castle, the irreparable and misguided actions of Pierre de Bocosel de Chastelard have brought a darkness into my otherwise happy abode. I shall spare you the details of the horrific ordeal, but only write to inform you that he was discovered once again in my bedchamber, in his hiding place of choice, under my bed. I immediately called for his execution, but upon the wise council of my sagacious brother James, he was instead taken into custody and beheaded at the mercat cross.

  I am shaken to the core and do not know when I shall recover from this most humiliating and damnable action against me. I long for the safety of Holyroodhouse yet cannot bear the thought of facing my subjects as of yet. We shall remain at Rossend until my strength has been restored. If you can find it in your heart, most kind brother, please come to me immediately upon the receipt of this letter. I cannot tell you how much I yearn to discuss this matter further with you and feel the warmth of your protective arms about me in reassurance that all will be well once more.

  Your loving sister,

  MR

  ***

  I concluded my business in Glasgow, having secured the Widow Shaw satisfactory compensation. I wanted to discuss my decision to leave the queen’s service one more time with Archbishop Porterfield. I desired that reminder of faith over flesh. I also wanted to get more particulars on a position he had told me about at the University of St. Andrews. Instead, I left immediately for Fife, Mary being my primary concern.

  When I arrived at Rossend an eerie solitude permeated the atmosphere as if a ghost had taken up residence in the ancient halls and chased everyone into hiding. I searched for Mary, or anyone for that matter, to convince myself that the place had not been abandoned entirely.

  I encountered Mary Fleming and Maitland in the drawing room; she quietly engaged in a piece of needlework, and he reading a book. Upon seeing me she dropped her work and let out a slight sigh.

  I crossed the room and gathered her small hands into my own in a comforting gesture.

  “Mary, what on earth happened here?” I exclaimed.

  “Oh Thomas, it was that prurient swine, Chastelard. The imbecile had convinced himself that he was in love with Mary—and she with him. He wouldn’t leave her alone. She informed him that he was mistaken about her true feelings and warned him to keep his distance.” She stopped to blow her nose with a piece of cloth she kept tucked into her sleeve.

  Maitland picked up where she left off. “He had not even accompanied us here, but rather, arrived two days after we did, claiming that he couldn’t bear to be parted from his truest love and begged her to allow him to stay until we returned to Holyroodhouse. He was given permission and an edict to remove himself from her household upon our return to Edinburgh.”

  “So, Mary told him she had no feelings for him?”

  “Indeed!” Mary cried. “Any half-wit who would ever allow himself to believe such an unscrupulous lie is an absolute fool.”

  “You sound as if you had no good opinion of him at all.”

  “Aye. In living he had been the source of much grief to my dear friend and in his death has proven even more so.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In her privy chamber. She sees no one, speaks to no one. Perhaps she will speak to you. Her heart is laden with much grief and she has expressed a desire to bear her soul to one who can give her spiritual and moral council.”

  “Am I to be her Confessor then?”

  “As you see fit, Thomas. She is tortured and sick to death with guilt and regret over Chastelard’s end. She needs someone to convince her that she did nothing wrong.”

  To pardon her from guilt was a power that I did not possess. I did see Mary’s part in the whole misunderstanding, but the decision to act foolishly had been Chastelard’s entirely. The unfortunate deed was done, and the consequences must be paid.

  I departed to go speak to Mary, but Maitland overtook me in the corridor. Grabbing my arm to stop me he said, “I fear that you will find the queen much altered in constitution. Mary Fleming is correct, she has seen no one since the incident happened.”

  “You don’t think she will see me?”

  “Oh, aye, she’ll see you,” he chuckled. “I’m just warning you to brace yourself. I have never seen her in such low spirits.”

  I nodded in understanding then continued on my way. At the door of her privy chamber I rapped lightly and waited for a reply. When none came, I knocked again. This time a young maid of about fifteen years old opened the door slightly and peeked out.

  “I’m sorry sir, but Her Majesty is not taking any visitors. She sends her deepest apologies and asks that if you would leave your name with her messenger she will be sure to see you when she is feeling well again.” It sounded rehearsed, as if she had been repeating this monologue all her life.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion, miss. However, Her Grace has requested to speak with me. My name is Thomas Broune.”

  “Oh, aye, sir. She has been awaiting your return.”

  I was permitted entrance and the maid quietly closed the door behind her as she left. At first glance I squinted my eyes in order to adjust to the darkness. The heavy green and gold tapestries had been pulled to block out any light that might invade the solitary confinement. Even though the mid-morning sun shone brightly outside the window, no shaft of light of any consequence could be detected. On the table, burned one lone taper, flickering wildly as it reached the end of its life. Mary sat beside the table, motionless and silent, holding Petrarch’s Rime in Morte di Laura in her hand.

  I did not speak, and I did not sit. Instead I stood waiting, contemplating the mood of the room and weighing it against the stark reality of the present situation. In one quick motion the book was closed, and she threw herself into my arms and buried her head in my chest. We did not speak, for her unchecked sobs voiced what her heart could not say.

  Finally, when her strength was spent she collapsed, and I caught her before she crumpled to the floor. Although my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the room was still unfamiliar to me and I searched for the door that connected the privy chamber to her bedchamber.

  “In here, my lord.” The maid had heard the commotion and entered just in time to direct me to the bedchamber. She rushed to the door and opened it.

  I laid Mary on the bed. It was a massive piece of wood carved with motifs of fruits and vines twisting and wrapping themselves up the posts that connected the bed to the blue and maize canopy that shielded it from above. It sat high off the ground with a matching blue and maize curtain about the bottom concealing anything, or anyone in this case, which may choose to hide beneath it.

  “I can see why that rake had convinced himself that he would not be discovered hiding under this indomitable fortress,” I observed.

  “Aye, my lord. He was not discovered until Her Majesty had already retired for the evening,” she whispered. “It was very hard to tell there was anyone in here.”

  “Is there any wine about?” I squinted in the dar
kened room until the maid motioned to a table by the door.

  “Allow me, sir.” She hurried to the table and picked up the decanter of wine and a cup. I stopped her when she started to pour.

  “Nay, I am not in need of a drink. Just set it there by the bed. When Her Grace comes to she will need refreshment.

  Mary fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Her maid, proving to be quite adept, dabbed at Mary’s forehead consistently with a cool cloth, trying to keep her comfortable.

  “What is your name?” I asked in between her ministrations.

  “Tess, my lord.” She stood and curtsied.

  “Please,” I said, holding up my hands. “There is no need for such formality at the present.” She took her seat next to Mary’s bed and resumed stitching a piece of cloth that she held in her hand.

  I paced the floor for quite some time, pausing only occasionally when I would hear Mary stir. Finally, she opened her eyes, a look of momentary confusion on her face.

  “Tess, please fetch some broth for Her Majesty’s sustenance.” I took the cloth from her hand and dipped it into the cool water once more.

  “Yes, my lord.” She curtsied once more and promptly quit the room. I helped Mary into a sitting position and plumped a pillow behind her back.

  “How are you feeling?” I poured a glass of wine for her, and then placed it gingerly in her lap, wrapping her hands about the cup tightly so she wouldn’t spill it. She nodded her thanks to me but did not speak. Lost in her tormenting thoughts, she sat holding the cup, never lifting it to her mouth.

  Tess returned momentarily, a bowl of hot broth in tow.

  “Thank you, Tess,” I said, removing the bowl from her hands. “I need to speak to Her Grace privately. I will see that the queen gets her broth. Why don’t you take a break and get yourself something to eat. You have been a great help.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Then bowing once more, she left Mary to my care. I fluffed the pillows behind Mary’s head again, then fed the broth to her with a spoon.

  “Have you turned into a nursemaid, Thomas?” she whispered, indicating that her sense of humor was returning despite her weakness. “Tess can fuss over me. She has proven to be invaluable to me since arriving at Rossend.”

  “No,” was my simple reply. When she looked at me suspiciously, I amended. “Tess never left your side. She has worked tirelessly to assure your comfort. But she needed a break. I gave her leave to get something to eat.”

  What I didn’t tell her was that it was because I wanted to be alone with her, and I wanted to care for her myself.

  When she finally broke the silence, her words revealed that her thoughts were not of Chastelard entirely, but rather, another problem had arisen since she had come to Rossend.

  “Do you remember the ordeal last December involving my beloved half-brother, John and that scoundrel, Bothwell?”

  I nodded my head in reply. “You are referring to them attempting to proposition Arran’s woman, Alison Craig?”

  “Yes. John was engaged to Bothwell’s sister, Jane. They had ridden into Edinburgh looking for a last-minute tryst before John’s wedding. Their unscrupulous behavior brought them to the rooms of Alison Craig. But she would not permit them entrance and they became belligerent. They tore tapestries from the walls of the inn, and plates, cups, forks and knives ended up on the floor, with various other pieces of crockery broken.”

  She stopped speaking when I spooned more broth into her mouth.

  “If I recall, a jealous Arran confronted the men about their behavior toward Alison, and a fight broke out. Wasn’t Bothwell told to leave Edinburgh?”

  “Yes,” she replied, sounding weary.

  “So, what has the rakehell done now?” I inquired.

  Mary shifted in her spot taking great care not to spill the contents of her cup.

  “Well, first I can tell you that he did not leave Edinburgh as he was instructed. He is still there stirring up conflict with Arran, and now Arran is accusing him of treason.”

  “Arran is a mad man,” I interjected.

  “I know, I know,” she assured me. “Evidently he is another one who plans to marry me,” she scoffed. “Their quibbling has gotten out of hand and now Arran claims that Bothwell tried to convince him to abduct me and force me to marry him. Although we all know Arran to be mentally unstable, an inquisition must be made. I only learned of this after I wrote you. It seems that I am to return to Holyroodhouse immediately after all.”

  She set the cup on the table then swung her feet over the side of the bed. With forced strength and reluctant resignation, she moved to the writing table and sat down as if she were going to write.

  “Mary, surely this issue can wait one more day. It has held this long. Wait until you are better suited to make judgments. You are weary and unbalanced. You have not been well, and I fear for your health.”

  She turned to look at me. “Nay, Thomas. I just received this correspondence today. Besides, rest is not a luxury that my kingdom has afforded me. I must pick up the pieces, plow ahead, and show my subjects a strong and resilient queen. I have moped about long enough. Tomorrow we will return to Edinburgh so I can deal with Bothwell.” She removed a piece of paper slowly from her desk and picked up a pen to write something.

  “Shall I call for Rizzio to assist you?” I asked hesitantly. I still felt she was pushing herself too soon and wished she would rest a little more before charging ahead.

  “Nay, this is a letter I wish to write myself, for I have somewhat to say to the Earl of Bothwell.”

  ~12~

  April 1562

  “The queen desires a picnic.” Mary Fleming found me in the great library, as I sought for ways to help Isobel.

  “Does she?” I asked, closing a thick book of herbal remedies. Since the last time we spoke, I continued to spot Isobel in various places. In our conversations, she admitted that her headaches still came on her suddenly and were so intense that she would often not finish her tasks.

  “I don’t want the queen to get wind of this,” she had lamented. “I can’t have my superiors see me as idle.”

  There must be some medicinal herb that could ease her suffering. If I could not find an answer in these books, then I would contact the physicker, regardless of her requests.

  Mary Fleming’s word brought my mind back to the present. “The snow has finally melted, and the sunshine warms the earth. Come, she requests you join our party.”

  During my earlier walk from the abbey, I did observe the icy waters bubbling over smooth rocks in the stream near Holyroodhouse flowing happily along the Water of Leith. “I shall be there.”

  After the party assembled, we rode deep into the meadow as the Marys searched for a desirable spot to cast our blankets.

  “Look!” Mary Fleming exclaimed. “Colt’s foot!”

  “Aye, it seems that spring might actually be here to stay,” Maitland encouraged.

  In the meadows, the first to make its appearance were the stubborn colt’s foot, their bright yellow heads popping up as if they were baby birds awaiting a morsel of food from their mother’s mouth. Lowly in birth and a tell-tale sign of neglect, they lie beneath the more regal and useful buds that tower above them, the golden cowslip. Two shades of yellow clashed in the open fields with a victorious spot of crimson splashed here and there for dramatic effect—an after-thought of the Great Creator, no doubt.

  “Here!” Mary Beaton exclaimed. The grassy knoll amongst the scattering of trees would suit a picnic perfectly, and everyone quickly agreed.

  While the men secured the horses, the Marys began unpacking the basket that had been stuffed with food items. “First, we eat,” one of them said, while the others laughed.

  Even the queen chimed in, “Anything else will have to wait until our stomachs are satisfied.”

  Meat pies and oat cakes, rolls stuffed with honey, cheeses of different varieties, figs, raisins, and mulled wine were all swiftly unpacked and eaten before the horsefly could even catch a
scent. Although we ate as if our bellies had been denied food for a fortnight, nothing thereafter was done in haste. The party laid about, drinking in the warm scents of scurvy grass and lilac as the April breeze brushed softly across our faces.

  After lunch Mary Fleming and Maitland wandered off in pursuit of wild garlic. Maitland dabbled in botany and had enlisted Mary’s assistance in locating a few herbs that were beginning to bud in the fresh, new grass of the meadow. Rizzio sat, leaning against a tree, strumming his lute and softly singing songs of courtly love. Thomas Randolph, the English ambassador, entertained Mary Beaton with a story from the courts of Queen Elizabeth. Randolph, who had been invited out of courtesy, fancied himself in love with the buxom Mary Beaton.

  The sunshine was delightful and the warm breeze brought a comfort that was much needed. Mary had not spoken much since returning to Holyroodhouse. Knox’s sermons since the Chastelard incident had been relentless against Mary, attacking her for her lustful actions, accusing her of luring Chastelard into her bedchamber and damning her court for lascivious and wonton behavior. The mass was mocked and condemned, and everyday new reports surfaced of another lord who had renounced the queen and her devilish religion.

  For this reason, there were many topics of conversation that were off limits. However, Randolph, who was the outsider in our little party, tried to pick the least controversial to make conversation.

  “Did I hear correctly that the Earl of Bothwell has been imprisoned?” he asked innocently.

  “Aye, you heard right,” I said, not expounding on the topic. The less said about that man, the better.

  He turned from me and placed his attention on Mary. “Remind me again why he was imprisoned. Wasn’t he a faithful supporter of your mother, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. Bothwell is voraciously loyal to Scotland, but he is dangerous. He’s a troublemaker and the proverbial fly in the ointment. If we are not careful, he will interfere with our plans.” Mary wouldn’t say any more to Randolph about what plans she was referring to, but I knew her to be speaking of her plans to unite Scotland and England under one throne one day.