“Knox will explode!”
“Oh, I think not,” replied Maitland. “For at heart he’s a hardheaded Scotsman, and he will know that a sparkling court will raise Scotland’s prestige abroad. A government of sober men, working in committees, does not appeal to the imagination, or even seem like a real country. Even if they actually do the running of it.”
“If we could do the running of it—” began Lord James.
“While she dances and sings,” Maitland finished. “Do you see?”
“No wonder they call you ‘Michael Wily,’” said Morton in admiration. “Machiavelli could learn from you. The pupil surpasses the master. But what if she … er…?”
“Refuses to submit? But she cannot. She will have no one to support her. She is completely alone here. No relatives, no—”
Lord James laughed. “We’re all her relatives,” he said. “I’m her brother, you’re her first cousin, Morton—”
“Through illegitimate ties, though. All the Stewart kings left passels of bastards,” Morton reminded Lord James.
“What about Bothwell?” Erskine asked suddenly. “Even though he’s Protestant, he isn’t one of us. And he supported the Queen Mother against us.”
“If young Mary Stuart puts herself in our hands, he’ll be no opposition,” said Morton. “We can make sure he is always in the saddle chasing brigands in the Borders or on the sea fighting pirates. He’s not a court creature, anyway.”
“The truth is, she has no legitimate relatives in Scotland,” Maitland said, steering the subject back to its original course. “Her nearest legitimate relatives are the Guises in France and Queen Elizabeth in England and Lady Margaret Douglas and her boy, Darnley, also in England. She has no one here.” He was still smiling inwardly at the remark about Machiavelli.
“I see you have already thought this out,” Lord James said quietly. He was still angry at being included in the “passels of bastards.”
“But of course. And I have even composed the first paragraph of our letter to her. May I show it to you?” He opened a folder, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to Lord James.
While James was reading it, Erskine shook his head. “I have known her since childhood, and my family is supposedly her protector.”
“Why, so you shall continue to be,” said Maitland. “After all, it is your hereditary office, is it not? Keeper of the royal children?” Even though Mary was no longer a child, she would need a protector. She must not be brought here and then left to fend for herself.
“I cannot protect her from Knox,” he said. “He seems like a ravening wolf, ready to set upon her.”
“I will allow her the mass, if she insists,” said Lord James suddenly.
“Then we will need to protect you from Knox,” said Maitland. “Remember, the mass is now illegal and punishable by death.” Parliament had just passed these laws, in the exuberance of the Protestant revolution.
“Queens and kings have never been troubled by laws and never shall be,” said Morton. “Adultery was never legal, yet James V was open about it.”
“The mass is worse than adultery to Master Knox.”
“Then Master Knox is an idiot.” Erskine said the shocking words. No one laughed. “I think ultimately he does not want there to be either kings or queens in the land.”
“A country without a king cannot exist,” said Lord James. “There is no such thing.”
“Except in the case of a baby being king. Then someone must rule in his name.”
“Regent, king—’tis all the same thing.”
“There hasn’t been an adult monarch to come directly to the throne of Scotland in six generations. We Scotsmen have much practice in ruling ourselves by now. It’s a queen that’ll be a novelty for us today.”
“One that may be difficult to get used to. Freedom is a habit that’s hard to break,” said Maitland. He cleared his throat. “Then let us be agreed: the Queen of Scots should return and take up her sceptre. But she must submit herself to our counsel, and honour our religion. She must have no ideas of reintroducing Catholicism, as her cousin Mary Tudor did in England.”
“Perhaps she’ll go the other way,” said Erskine suddenly. “She’s young, and has never seen anything but Catholicism. If she comes here, and her eyes are opened to the truth—”
“Perhaps Knox can convert her!” Morton gave a great blast of a laugh.
This was in danger of turning into a joke, Maitland saw with alarm. The men seemed playful and offhanded. “Gentlemen!” he said, rising, and slapping the flat of his hand on the table. “You are talking about your Queen! Remember we need her—we have needed her since the King died and left us leaderless so long ago. We should be thankful that one has been provided us by fate.”
“Fate?” Morton rolled his eyes again; it made him look like a mastiff. “It was God.”
Oh, yes. All these Lords of the Congregation laid everything at the feet of the Lord. “Of course,” said Maitland smoothly.
“We’ll send the letter,” said Lord James. “And I’ll follow it in person, if we don’t hear from her immediately. Time grows short.”
XXII
May came like a pagan spirit to France, flowers springing up in her footsteps in the meadows and along the riverbanks. She opened her purse and let floral perfumes escape on the warm breezes. Her white, swirling robes were the foam on the surging spring streams and the clean, hurrying clouds in the bright blue sky.
Through this countryside, alive with Flora’s touch, Mary rode, also in white robes. In leaving Paris behind, she felt the full impact of how life had rushed on past the dead François. In the palaces, in closed rooms, time could be made to stand still. But out of doors, it was a different matter. There had been ice on the ground when François died; now there were fresh new grass and violets and lilies-of-the-valley.
She felt completely removed from all these sights of spring, as if her white mourning gown and veil had encased her in a barrier through which nothing could penetrate—no longings, no quickening of spirit. Yet she did what needed to be done, and she was en route to attend the coronation of François’s younger brother, Charles, at Reims, in the beautiful cathedral where François had been crowned less than two years earlier.
Twenty-one months between coronations, she thought. Only twenty-one months that he was King, and I Queen of France. Two summers, one winter.
A pain that trailed off into familiar dullness made itself felt in her heart.
Why, I was happy then! she thought. So happy I did not even think about it, did not treasure it, did not reach out and try to make the moment linger. It passed me by like a mist.
Why did I not pay more attention? she thought. Why was I so careless of my joy? Even my memories are only of things: marble pillars and gold salters and banners of fleur-de-lys; silver trumpets and attar of roses; sleek white-toothed hounds and flaming torches and silk-hung litters; ambassadors in velvet breeches and vellum proclamations with orange-red wax seals.…
* * *
She sat, watching Charles being crowned Charles IX in the deep, cool beauty of Reims Cathedral, heard the echoing words of the ceremony. When François had been crowned, the court was in mourning for Henri IPs death; Catherine could not stop crying throughout the ceremony. Now it is I who cannot see through my tears, she thought, and she …
She glanced over at Catherine de Médicis and observed how alive with excitement she was. She strained to see every detail of the coronation, and her eyes were glittering.
That is because she will rule in France, thought Mary. She is come into her own at last. Henri is gone, Diane is gone, François is gone, I am gone, and my Guise relatives along with me. She need share her power with no one, until Charles marries.
My uncles tried to persuade me to marry Charles. Catherine would never have permitted that; it was the last thing she would ever have wanted, to continue sharing her power. But what no one realized was that it was the last thing I would ever want. I don’t like Char
les; there is something wrong with him. He alternates between melancholy and fits of temper; he kicks his dogs and his servants. He sucks on a bottle of eau sucre and stares at me in a demented manner. No, I’ll none of him! Pity the woman he does marry.
The trumpets sounded forth to announce that France had a new king, Christianissimus, His Most Christian Majesty, Charles IX.
* * *
Not very far away, also in Reims, lay the Abbey of St.-Pierre, and it was there that Mary took her lodging that night. Her aunt Renée was abbess there; and her mother’s body was going to be interred there within the week. The Protestant lords had finally let Marie de Guise go, to seek her rest at last on her own soil.
The entrance to the abbey lay at the top of a hill, with a road leading to it that was straight and bordered with a row of plane trees on either side. Their leaves were just starting to come out, making a fine green mist on the dark branches overhead.
The great door seemed to draw Mary, beckoning her as forbidden things sometimes did in dreams; yet when she reached it she felt relief and comfort, not danger.
“Welcome, Your Majesty,” said a sister, opening the door and bowing low. Then, right behind her was the round figure of Renée de Guise.
“Come, my child,” she said, embracing Mary. “Come, and rest.”
It was the first time anyone had offered her anything since François had died, without wishing something in return.
Renée led her to the cloister, where yet more things proclaimed spring. Together they sat on a stone bench, facing the well, which was surrounded by blooming quince trees. At their feet, just beside the brick path, was a bed of herbs just coming up: wolfsbane and absinthe and coriander.
“It is over, then?” asked Renée.
Mary nodded.
“And?”
“The rest of the court has gone on to the coronation banquet at the bishop’s palace. And I—I am here.” She shrugged. She hoped Charles and his mother had not been offended, but no matter. She could not have endured it—the glittering merriment, the noise, the golden platters and cloying food. And the dancing. “I shall never dance again!” she cried.
“Nonsense!”
Had she actually spoken the thought out loud? She had not meant to.
“You are young, and too spirited never to dance again,” Renée persisted. “God will restore you to yourself in time.” Uninvited, she took Mary’s hand and squeezed it.
Oddly, Mary did not find her touch offensive. Ordinarily, no one is allowed to touch me, she thought with surprise. And I am allowed to touch no one. My dogs, yes, but not people. How odd it all is.… She felt overwhelmingly weary.
Time passed; she did not know how long they sat in silence, only that the light began to fail and the blooms of the quince took on a luminescence. A bell tolled.
“Vespers,” Renée said softly, taking her hand and helping her to her feet.
As she rose, she felt light and more rested than she had in months. She followed the Abbess into the chapel, and, like a sleepwalker, let the words of the service caress her.
Deus in adjutorium intende …
Domine ad adjuvandum me festina.…
And:
Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine
Eyes lofty.…
The words felt like milk to her, soothing and full of sustenance.
I am weaned, because my mother is gone, she thought. And all this—she looked around at the bare chapel, with its echoing walls—feels warmer to me than the court. At the altar, here, is where my mother will lie. She will hear these voices forever, will be surrounded by all this love. And I am cast out into the world, to take her place.
The notes of the chanted Psalm quavered upward.
It was so familiar. She had stood here before, had heard voices just like these, had shivered with the beauty of it.…
At Inchmahome. The monks …
Around her, the sisters were starting to leave, going to supper in the refectory.
At long tables they sat, backs straight on the low benches, a single candle at each end, eating in silence. There were loaves of brown bread and two dishes of cooked vegetables—stewed apples and baked parsnips.
A young nun—perhaps even younger than I, thought Mary—read the day’s portion of Saint Benedict’s Rule to the company in a clear, precise voice. “What Kind of Man the Abbot Ought to Be” was the reading for May fifteenth.
“The Abbot should always remember what he is and what he is called, and should know that to whom more is committed, from him more is required.”
Like a ruler, thought Mary. But if God has called me to be a queen, why does the abbey feel so much more like home?
* * *
After supper, the nuns returned to the chapel for the final service of Compline before making their way with lighted tapers to the upstairs dormitory. There they would sleep in a common room until they were awakened in the deep of the night to return to the chapel for the Night Office.
Renée touched Mary’s arm and guided her to the private room where she was to sleep. It was on the ground floor and looked out on the garden where they had sat earlier in the day.
The room was quite well furnished: an ample bed, writing table, chairs, chest, and vases of flowers. On the wall was an ivory crucifix and beneath it, a prie-dieu covered in velvet. A room for a queen.
“For our guests,” said Renée, as if reading her thoughts. “All guests are honoured, all pilgrims are equal.” She lighted the three candles in their silver candelabra. “I received word yesterday regarding the … arrival of your dear mother’s remains. Travel is slow … the interment will not be possible for another few weeks.”
The unspoken question.
“Alas, I cannot be present.” Though I want to be, though I long to stay here, become one of you … “I must go—out in the world. Perhaps to my dower estates in Touraine. Perhaps even to … Scotland.” There, she had embraced it.
“The Lords enclosed a letter to you,” said Renée. She handed it to her. She would not stay while it was read. “Rest well, my dear child.” She started to leave the room, then nodded toward the crucifix. “I wish you to have this,” she said. “It is an ancient one that seems to have a soul of its own. I sense it wants to go with you.”
Mary started to demur, but something in her aunt’s face silenced her. Renée came back to Mary’s side. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Mary’s head, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Mary sat down on a chair before the table and slowly broke open the seals on the letter. She resented their intruding on her even here, these haughty traitors. My heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty, did not apply to them, she thought angrily.
The letter was a lengthy one, filled with carefully balanced phrases and equivocations. They were anxious to justify themselves. A great deal of Scripture was quoted. But the message was this: they wanted her back. They invited her to return, and their tone was not only respectful but warmly cordial. If she would come to Scotland and reside there with her people, they, the Lords of the Congregation, would welcome her and support her and recognize her as their own sovereign, and give her all their loyalty.
Nothing was said about her religion or who would actually do the ruling. Was it to be the Lords of the Congregation, or she?
It was signed by her brother, Lord James Stewart, in his own name as Commendator of St. Andrews, and on behalf of the other Lords.
How surprising, she thought, their change of tone. Perhaps the people cry out for their queen, and the Lords are beginning to feel themselves on shaky ground. For whatever reason, they find themselves in need of me.
She felt her heart beating faster, in spite of herself. They needed her. Scotland was calling her home.
She looked out the window, through its stone frame to the little garden, glowing faintly in moonlight outside. But this is where I belong.… The convent had felt like a homecoming, and she had realized how deeply she cherished her faith, how sweet it was t
o be surrounded by others who were further advanced in spirituality and could teach her.
Out in the world, she thought, it is easy to believe yourself spiritual if you have the merest touch of it. But here—here the truth is revealed. I am a novice indeed in the life of the soul.
Rising up inside her was a surge of energy, of worldly challenge to be met. Scotland sounded a call, and the letter lying on the table was like a gauntlet thrown down, flung at her feet. Take me up, if you be no coward. If you are able.
The yellow of the paper, shining in the candlelight, was stronger than the delicate light in the garden outside, and it drew her back toward it. She left the window and picked up the letter to read it once again. And then again.
At length she knelt before the crucifix and held up the letter like a child-offering.
“I know not what to do,” she whispered. “Direct me.”
The room was utterly silent. She fancied she could even hear the sound of the candles burning, the wax dripping. If only God spoke out loud.
But He does not, she thought. All I hear are my own thoughts.
Is it my duty to go to Scotland, the task for which I was created? For what other reason was I born who I was, if not to shoulder this office?
Is it possible—just possible—that I am to be an instrument to save this land, so muddled now in error? For what other reason can it be that I am the last remaining Catholic in both the Tudor and Stewart families? But I have the horrible example of my cousin Mary Tudor in what can go wrong. I cannot fall into her error.
But if I am gentle, merciful, acting always under the guidance of love, might not they be led back to the truth?
There was no answer from God, nothing but the increasing numbness in her knees as she pressed down on them on the cold stone. The silence surrounded her like a held breath.
At length she rose, stumbling from the lack of feeling in her legs. She made her way over to her narrow bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down stiffly. As sleep crept up on her, she had one drifting certainty of thought: If I do not go, then all my mother’s sacrifices were in vain.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 18