“For all purposes, yes,” she answered.
“You’re wrong.” His voice turned rough and hectoring. “They’ve taught you that, but they lied, for their own purposes. Listen to the speaker, and always ask yourself, ‘What has he to gain by convincing me of the thing he champions?’ It suited the Guises to convince you of your Frenchness. But you’re only half French; the rest is Scots, and royal Scots at that—the Stewarts, who have guided Scotland for almost two hundred years. Look at your reddish hair, your sportsmanship, your love of the wild country … and you’ll see Scots written bold upon you.”
“How do you know of my love of wild country, or of aught else? I also love courtly pageants and refinements of manners. Now what have you to gain from convincing me, Lord Bothwell?”
“I gain a queen in her rightful country. Truth to tell, I think Scotland deserves its own monarch on its own throne. With all due respect, your mother was not our own queen; and a bastard son does not a king make. In the past six generations we’ve had precious few full-grown monarchs. Minorities and regencies … poor substitutes.”
“And your titles confirmed, of course.”
“Aye. As Lord Admiral, I shall naturally provide the fleet to see you safely home.”
“What is wrong with your left eye?” she suddenly asked, hoping to put him on the defensive. There was a large scar right above it.
“It was injured in a skirmish with Cockburn o’ Ormiston.” He paused, then decided not to tease her into asking who this man was. “A Scots traitor, who was coming north with four thousand pounds in bribe money from the English. You’ll find English gold all over Scotland, trying to buy the nobles. Of course, it is not English gold, but carefully converted into French money to disguise its origins. Anyway, I trounced Ormiston.”
“Is everyone for sale?” she cried.
“No, but they all accept money. The English cannot tell who is for sale and who is not, so they are forced to pay everyone.” He laughed. “I can tell you this, my lady, my Queen: I am loyal to the crown and do not take the English bribes. I am the only one who does not. My life upon it.”
“Why are you then so loyal?” She had forgotten, and was back speaking French again.
“It is a family tradition which my father betrayed and which I have restored. I must tell you now, directly, that I am Protestant. George Wishart preached in my area, although my father arrested him and turned him over to Cardinal Beaton to be burnt. But his words and doctrine convinced me. Yes, I am Protestant, but I am your vassal, and my loyalty is firm unto the crown. A man may believe many things and keep loyalty to them all, just as a person may be many things and still be consistent. What is the English Queen’s motto: Semper eadem, ‘be always one’? Yet she is a mosaic, a thousand parts.”
“Thank God for you, James Hepburn,” she said slowly.
“When may I fetch you, my Queen?” he asked.
“In the summer,” she said.
“The fleet will be at the ready.” He smiled and bowed. “I will take my leave, if you please,” he said. “The country will rejoice.”
“You came all the way for this interview? Have you no other business here in France?” she asked.
“Transacted long since,” he said. “I am, as I said, a gambler. And a queen is well worth a sea journey.”
“How old are you?” she suddenly asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“That is young to pronounce yourself incorruptible. Have a care, James Hepburn, lest you tarnish betimes.”
He sighed and made a gesture of resignation. “Only extraordinary events prove our composition. And what man would willingly seek that? Our Lord even allows us to ask to be spared it: ‘And bring us not to the test.’”
“If I return to Scotland, must I be drowned in a sea of Scripture quotes?” That even this young adventurer should spout it!
“They only float on the surface, my Queen. Like a lot of flotsam and jetsam. You’ll find the waters underneath clean and cold.”
* * *
Long after he took his leave, she sat and read through her mother’s papers. Strange how little she had understood her through their formal correspondence, which had been guarded and managed by her privy secretary, William Maitland.
Maitland. Did I not meet him when he was here in France? But that was so long ago, Mary thought. But my uncles told me … what? That he was the cleverest man in Scotland—“a sort of Scottish Cecil,” they said. And that is clever indeed.
She looked tenderly at the pile of her mother’s papers. Here were notes and jottings and all the letters she had kept, which were somehow much more revealing of her person.
At length, when she had finished with them, feeling drained and sad and yet oddly comforted, she remembered: she, Mary, had just promised someone to go to Scotland! And yet it was only a verbal promise to this James Hepburn; it carried no weight. She could still change her mind.
* * *
The forty days of formal mourning came to a close on January 15, 1561, with a memorial service at the Church of the Greyfriars. The day was ugly and sleety, the church cold and comfortless as the monks chanted, “Exsultabunt Domino ossa humiliata…” Mary pulled the hood of her black mourning gown more closely about her head to muffle the cruel sound.
François was embalmed now, she knew. His heart had been removed and would be interred in Paris at St.-Denis, to be with his ancestors. Artists had sculpted a magnificent tomb, so she had been told, near Henri II’s, and his heart would lie in a reliquary surrounded by sculpted flames. His heart … she hated to think of its being taken from his body, even though she knew it was customary.
Then she was free to leave Orleans, that prison of unhappiness, to which she vowed never to return.
* * *
Paris, which she had always loved, was scant comfort now. She was forced to inventory all her jewels and belongings and part with many of them, returning them as property of the crown. Nicholas Throckmorton, the English ambassador, called with the official condolences of Queen Elizabeth, but as soon as he decently could, he changed the subject to the Treaty of Edinburgh and hinted at his mistress’s extreme displeasure that Mary had not yet ratified it. The Scottish government had done so, and only her signature was lacking. She demurred, saying that the death of François had changed everything.
How so? persisted the ambassador.
“The treaty was formulated on the basis of my husband and my being King and Queen of both Scotland and France. Now there is only a Queen of Scotland,” she said. She was weary of it all and tempted to sign just to rid herself of his pestering. But François—it would be betraying his wishes. She must not sign things out of weakness or laziness.
“It changes nothing, as well you know,” he said quickly. “The question is of your claim to the English throne—or the succession.” He was a friendly enough man, young, genial—quite attractive, in spite of his flaming red hair and Protestantism. Mary actually liked him. “King François had nothing to do with the matter.”
She smiled artlessly. “The matter is too deep for me. I must consult with my Scottish council, since I have no husband to advise me.”
Throckmorton almost laughed. As if François had ever been capable of political advice! But did this mean that she did not wish to consult her French uncles? Was she freeing herself from them?
“Your Majesty, the question is a weighty one, and until it is resolved, it hinders your relationship with your most noble cousin, Queen Elizabeth.”
“It grieves me that it is so. But I know the Queen would not want anyone to stand by while her hereditary rights were set aside. The Queen did not do so herself in a similar situation.”
Throckmorton nodded. But the matter must be resolved. There was Mary’s claim, supported by the Pope, that she was actually the true Queen of England at that very moment. Then there was her legal claim to the right of being included in the succession. They were not the same. The first claim must be abjured; the second, however, might b
e allowed to stand—if the first were renounced. The longer the first was insisted upon, the less inclined Elizabeth was to grant the second in compensation.
Queen Elizabeth’s patience was wearing thin, Throckmorton knew. Mary’s behaviour was confirming her worst suspicions, and she was increasingly agitated about her cousin’s motives.
“This cannot go on,” said Throckmorton grimly, and was irritated at Mary’s lighthearted laughter in response.
But the laughter was false. Her spirit was still mourning, and she took long walks on the terraces of the palaces, wrapped in voluminous white cloaks, pacing alone. The wind would tear through her garments and leave her shivering. In vain, Brantôme and the other court poets tried to walk with her or persuade her to come inside. Her lonely pacing figure appealed to their poetic fancy, and Ronsard recounted the sight of Mary
swathing your body from head to waist, your long fine mourning veil billows fold upon fold like a sail in the breeze as the wind drives the boat forward. Dressed in these same sad robes, you prepare to leave the fair country of which you have held the crown. The whole gardens are filled with whiteness of your veils like the sails which billow from the mast over the ocean wave.…
That Mary was thinking of leaving France was now widely speculated upon. But she awaited some sign, some portent that would direct her.
XXI
Why did it have to be so nasty, tonight of all nights? William Maitland of Lethington kept peering anxiously out his window, watching the sheets of rain pelting the paving stones on the High Street of Edinburgh outside. Not that rain would keep Scotsmen from anything, but it lent such a grim aspect to the proceedings.
Well, where would you hold it? In a pavilion in a flowery mead in southern France? he asked himself. The business at hand would be just as demanding and draining, no matter where it was held.
He sighed, and forced himself to leave the window. Was he nervous? Was that possible? He, who prided himself on his ability to think calmly—an unusual trait in Scotland!—to allow no sentiment to intrude upon hard decisions … could he be nervous?
He looked about the room in his spacious town house, readied now for the expected guests. All was in order, and he permitted himself quiet pride in looking over his library, which included a fine collection of poetry from his father’s own pen. There were leather chairs made with softest Spanish leather, and his most prized possession: a marble bust of a Roman youth he had hand-carried all the way from Italy. He had been educated in France and had been able to travel in Europe, especially enjoying the art and the politics of Italy.
Ah, Italy! As always, the marble bust recalled for him his time in Florence—too brief!—when he had found himself surrounded entirely by the ferment of art in the making, and the final polishing of the political creed of Machiavelli. He had felt so at home there. But then, those who jokingly called him “Michael Wily” here had no idea of what the real thing was.
There I would be regarded as so inept as to be transparent, he thought with amusement. So it is best that I employ my talents here in Scotland, where subtlety is as yet undiscovered.
The one thing a politician must always do is to be sure in his own mind what his goal is. He must never confuse himself. So—what is my goal here, and why is it making me so uneasy? he asked himself.
He sat on one of his chairs, settling into its comforting contours, watching the rain dash against the window panes.
To make the changes here in Scotland go smoothly, he thought. Was that it? Yes, the changes had been dizzying, and the past year the erstwhile Secretary of State had felt that he—and the country as well—was being sucked down into a whirlpool. The religious revolt, completed almost before it was begun; the death of the Regent; the repudiation of the Auld Alliance …
But he had been delighted by the collapse of the ancient French-Scottish alliance. Once Scotland had become Protestant, its future was inevitably tied to England, its near neighbour. Anyone who thought clearly—and not merely with emotion!—could see that. It was so plain! So obvious!
That was it. I am afraid others will not see it, will not understand, will want to obstruct the inevitable. And I—it will be my sad lot to have to try to persuade them.
And Mary, the young Queen, the widow of France … she will have to be persuaded too. But persuaded to what?
Should she come here?
He jumped up out of the chair, so nervous he felt he could not sit still. He hated waiting. Waiting, waiting, for everyone to arrive …
Yes, she should come here. She should come home. We need a ruler of mature years on our own soil and she needs useful work to do. She is too young to moulder in dowagerhood when her own country is in turmoil. We’ll persuade her—
There was that word again: persuade. Persuading was so difficult! Hadn’t everyone had the experience of trying to persuade a balky mule to budge? And people were so much more—
He heard a knock. Someone had at last arrived! He rushed to the door, and as he did so, he felt himself slowing down, feeling that he was in command of himself now that he had clarified his thoughts. The mud had settled out of them, and he could see to the bottom.
It was John Erskine, a thin man with an even thinner face, who, strangely enough, enjoyed the pleasures of the table immensely, although they did not show on him.
“Ah! The Commendator!” said Maitland with just barely perceptible sarcasm. Erskine’s family had possession of the monastery on Inchmahome, but they hardly cared about religious treasures from the past. James V had given this plum into their hands, as he had likewise many other such monasteries to his favourites and bastards.
“Ah, now!” Erskine pulled back his hood; it spilled rain out all over the floor. “There goes my cowl!”
Behind him there was another arrival. Maitland saw the dark bulk of James Douglas, the Earl of Morton, standing dripping in the doorway.
“Come in, come in!” he told him.
Morton shook his cloak outside and then handed it to a waiting servant. He carefully fluffed up his wild red hair, so that it stood out around his head like a halo. Then he shuffled into the room.
The three men stood waiting, a trifle awkwardly. It would not do to begin this meeting until all were present—no, it would not. Maitland still felt calm. All would go well, he knew it.
Another loud, precise knock. Maitland opened the door to see Lord James Stewart standing there.
“Sorry to be delayed,” he muttered, handing his dripping cloak to a servant. He then stepped into the room as if it were his own.
“Erskine has accused you of attending the witches’ and warlocks’ Sabbat tonight,” said William Maitland, greeting him. When Stewart looked stony-faced, Maitland said, “You know, it is May Eve, when they hold their revels.”
“He should know all about them,” Stewart grunted. “They accuse his own sister of being one.”
“My sister is also your mother. It’s in our blood, then,” said John Erskine. “All true Scotsmen are half witch.” He laughed easily, and motioned Stewart to take his place at the table, which had been placed precisely in the middle of the room.
“We are all here now?” said William Maitland, a smile on his face. “Good Lords of the Congregation?” It was a very small group, these four who took it upon themselves to direct the Scottish government.
“Aye.” Morton, with his great bush of red hair on his head and face, lifted a pudgy hand in affirmation. In his mid-forties, he was the oldest man present.
Maitland nodded to his servant and then took his place at the table. In a moment the servant reappeared with oatcakes and sugarbread, arranged on a silver platter, and set them down. Morton reached out immediately and took two. He fed on them like a hungry bear, leaving crumbs in his beard.
“We must draft the letter,” said Maitland. “We can wait no longer. We have no choice. We must decide upon what terms the Queen of Scots should return here, and what enticements and concessions we are prepared to offer her.”
&nb
sp; To his annoyance, Erskine spoke up, his thin voice emanating from his thin beard. “Pity about Elizabeth.” He was examining one of the oatcakes critically.
“She had no interest in Arran, nor in our throne,” said James Stewart. “Still, it was wise to ask her.”
Maitland allowed himself a rare “if only.” He had never expected that the English Queen would accept their offer of marriage with the Earl of Arran, and its implied dislodging of Mary Stuart from the throne, but it would have solved many problems for Scotland. If only …
“She has no interest in marriage, so I am told,” said Maitland at length.
“No interest in respectable marriage,” said Morton, eating another cake. He rolled his eyes to indicate need of ale to wash it down.
All the men laughed except James Stewart, who did not find lechery amusing. “So we must make our terms with my sister the Queen,” he said, cutting off the guffawing.
“Your half sister the Queen,” corrected Maitland.
“Aye. My half sister.” Lord James nodded. “We must needs set forth our position: she will not interfere in our religion and will be guided by us, the Lords of the Congregation, in all things.”
“Do you expect her to become Protestant?” said Morton. “Or to have no opinions of her own?” Morton had a polished English diction, acquired from many years spent there in political exile, totally at variance with his wild looks.
“Or perhaps we plan to substitute ourselves for her Guise uncles as advisers? And what about John Knox? Why is he not here?” Erskine sounded distressed, as though he had been abandoned. He nibbled the oatcake daintily.
“Ah, yes, Master Knox,” sighed Maitland. “You and I know, gentlemen, that he is here. In fact, he is everywhere. He would be king here. And that is why we need a queen.”
“A Catholic one?” asked Erskine. His father had once been Mary’s guardian, and he had been her childhood playmate, but that did not keep him from coldbloodedly discussing her now.
“Yes, a pretty Catholic one who will not permit the land to be as dull and grey as the Forth on a November day. She’ll dance and wear satins and have music and banquets—”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 17