Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Aye. I promised. And I stand by my promise. Regardless.”

  “Regardless of what?”

  “Regardless of Master Knox.” A wonder that he had not been here yet.

  “Master Knox!” she said, letting her anger escape her control. “That man who has stolen my brother from his ancestral faith, and who drove my mother to her grave! I give you Master Knox, for I’ll none of him!”

  It is not you who will have none of him, James started to say, but it is Knox who will determine who will have you. Instead he said, “Master Knox has wrought much good in Scotland. You will find he is a good citizen, dedicated to advancing his country.”

  “He is an insurrectionist who preaches rebellion and destruction!”

  “You will find, Your Majesty, that many of the nobles here have become corrupt. Years of disorder have taken their toll. They are venal and to be bought. Master Knox is not for sale, and his only purpose is to better his people, both materially and spiritually.”

  Voices behind them intruded, and Mary turned to her party and began showing them her rooms.

  * * *

  That night, as she lay in bed, it was eerily quiet.

  What a strange place this is, Mary thought. I do not seem to remember anything; nothing feels familiar. My father is entombed here, in the abbey church, and my other ancestors lie near him. Just out this window, just below me …

  The whiteness of the fog faded gradually into blackness and Mary fell asleep without being aware of it, sliding off into slumber like a child sliding down a grassy bank into cool waters.

  She heard a strange noise; at first it played about in her dream as if it belonged there, but then it grew too intrusive and demanded her attention. She blinked awake and shook her head, trying to place herself. Music was wafting into the chamber, rising louder and louder.

  She went to one of the windows and looked out. Standing below in the courtyard was a crowd of townspeople, playing wild melodies on instruments she had never heard before—primitive fiddles and hollowed reeds and little drums. When they glimpsed her, they let out a great shout and flourished their torches.

  “Welcome, sweet Queen! Welcome!” they cried, and struck up a new tune. She managed to open the window and wave to them.

  “Thank you!” she cried. She saw little flickers of colour here and there in the fog; they had made more bonfires to welcome her.

  The musicians kept playing, and the people thronging in the courtyard cheered and cried with joy. “Dear Queen—sweet Queen—welcome to Scotland!”

  “Your music is lovely!” she called to them. “Please play on, and return to play again for me tomorrow night as well!”

  When at last they stopped playing, and the crowd slowly drifted away, the flaming torches winking smaller and smaller like fireflies as they dispersed in the fog, Mary lay back down and closed her eyes. How quiet it suddenly was … the chamber seemed to be waiting, listening in the dark.

  It is only my imagination, she thought. But I don’t like those curtained rooms, they remind me of the places where Nurse Sinclair used to tell me bogeys were hiding.…

  The half-forgotten stories came back to her, chillingly: the stories of the creatures under the bridges in Scotland, hiding in the wells, taking other shapes; of the monsters in the deep, cold lochs; of the witches walking about, passing as ordinary people. They said that Lord Ruthven, a member of the Lords’ Council, was a warlock.…

  It’s nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, she kept repeating to herself. But she kept her face turned away from the little adjoining room.

  * * *

  The next morning, instead of dancing sunshine to make a mockery of her night fears, there was still nothing to be seen but a grey smudge at the windows. The fog had not lifted. An immense disappointment gripped her. She was eager to see Edinburgh, to behold Scotland. Why was it hiding its face from her?

  Without waiting to call one of her attendants, she dressed herself as warmly as possible. No fire burned in the fireplace; evidently the Scots did not consider heating a necessity at this time of year.

  No French nightgowns here, she thought. Not if I wish to sleep in comfort.

  There was a smart rap on the door, and she said, “Enter.”

  Before they even stepped in, she knew it would be Lord James and Maitland. And she was right.

  “I see you have risen early,” said Lord James, with faint approval in his voice. “That’s good. We heard that at the French court, no one rose before noon. That’ll not do here.”

  His shirt was open at the neck, and he seemed to be wearing no underlinen. Was he not cold? Evidently not. “Good morning, brother,” she said. “Good morning, Maitland. I cannot imagine who told you such a blatant falsehood, but I can assure you that people in France rise as any other people.” She smiled at him. “I slept well.”

  “Not so well that the musicians failed to wake you last night,” said Maitland. “For that, I apologize.”

  “I found their music pretty and their welcome touching,” said Mary.

  “I will be pleased to show you about the grounds,” said James, “after you have finished breakfast. I have ordered the food to be sent up.” He bowed smartly, and was about to take his leave.

  “I would like my Marys to join me,” said Mary. “Where are they? In the future, they must sleep near me.”

  “Of course,” said Maitland. “Anything you desire, we will attempt to fulfil.”

  * * *

  Flamina, Lusty, Beaton, and Seton were with her in a quarter-hour, and were chattering like monkeys. “The fog…” “Strange quarters, to be put so far from you.” “It’s so cold here, how do they stand it?” “What shall we do today?”

  When the breakfast was brought in, they examined it critically. A mound of whitish, granular material lay in a covered dish, emitting gentle puffs of steam. It had a rough, nutty odour to it. Another covered platter had rows of russet-coloured smoked fish. Yet another had hard, textured buns, arranged in a tier. Luckily in a moment a servitor appeared with more plates, spoons, and sugar.

  “This is oatmeal,” he said, spooning it into dishes for them. “’Tis to be eaten with milk and sugar.”

  The five women looked at it dubiously. It looked most unappetizing, but it smelled good. Mary took the first bowl and the first bite, and dutifully pronounced it good.

  Giggling, the others followed suit.

  The servant went on to explain that the smoked fish came from the nearby area and were considered a great delicacy, and the buns should be smeared with butter.

  All of them had trouble understanding him. Mary vowed to become proficient in Scots as fast as possible. Her vocabulary was still that of a child. She realized that Lord James, Maitland, and even Bothwell had been speaking French to her, and it had seemed so entirely natural that she had not even been aware of it at the time.

  “The Scots people hate the sound of it,” Bothwell had said.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Lord James and Maitland reappeared to escort the women around the grounds of Holyrood. As they stepped outside, Mary saw that the fog was still as dense as ever; so dense, in fact, she could not even detect where the sun was.

  “Is it—usual to have fog like this?” she asked in Scots, very slowly.

  James looked pleased at her attempt. “No,” he said. “No, not at all.”

  “Knox will, of course, say it was caused by your arrival,” Maitland said suddenly. “He will use it after his purpose.”

  “Knox!” said Flamina. “Tell us about this creature!” She tossed her head.

  Maitland laughed, and drew her aside. “John Knox,” he said, “is the leader of our Kirk.…”

  Mary did not hear the rest of the conversation. Lusty, Seton, and Beaton had fallen in with Maitland and Flamina, leaving her with James.

  The mist was curling and uncurling around their feet as they walked. Mary tried kicking at it, to clear away a yard or two, but it refused to flee. She laughed. “I am anxious to
see Scotland, and yet it veils itself from me! All I have seen so far is that it must be very green, for green glows through this mist.”

  “Yes. That it is. If you could see, now, you would see the fair front of the palace, and off to the left, the Abbey church, where our royal father lies in his tomb.”

  Our royal father. How he loved the phrase, she thought.

  They stood quietly for a moment. Then James continued, “Stretching out farther to the left—if only you could see!—are the ornamental gardens and the orchard. There are also ornamental gardens on the other side, and a large hunting park behind the palace, not to mention a graveyard as well. The Abbey was an ancient one.”

  But the way in which he said the last sentence betrayed no sadness or lingering fondness for the old ways.

  “I pray no one else saw your priest yesterday,” he said quietly.

  “I realize that my situation is unique,” she said. “There has never before been a ruler whose personal faith was at variance with his subjects’.”

  “Ah!” Before replying, he turned to see where the others were. “This is a difficult matter. It is best you not antagonize people. There is already enough suspicion that you do not hold your native land in high esteem. It is said you consider yourself French, that you wept upon leaving, that you clung to the rail lamenting the parting.”

  “You were not there!” How dare he steal her private moments and make them into something silly and pitiable? “And I do care for my people, and my land.”

  “Not as Master Knox—”

  “Master Knox! Master Knox! What does he know of ruling? And what does he know that fits him for this office to which he feels called? He loves Scotland, yes, but there needs to be more than that! I am called by blood to my throne.”

  “He feels called by God.”

  “To a throne?” Her voice was sharp. “I am called by God, too. So how can we both be called to the same station by the same God?”

  “He does not aspire to your throne,” James said gently.

  “No, he merely takes it upon himself to prescribe how I sit upon it! ‘Pray you, look this way!’ ‘Move your head so!’”

  To her surprise, Lord James burst out laughing. “You have a searching wit,” he said.

  Just then a large number of Mary’s French relatives and guests came bounding up. The young Guises looked eager to go riding, or hunting, or hawking. Mary suddenly remembered, with a sinking feeling, how poorly they tolerated inactivity. But she did not know what could be offered them at this moment.

  “How does one amuse oneself here?” asked René, the Marquis d’Elboeuf, his quick dark eyes dancing.

  “Yes, indeed, unless one plays blind man’s buff, what can one do in this fog?” cried his brother Claud, the Duc d’Aumale.

  Joining them, the young Mareschal d’Amville and his secretary, the poet Chastelard, looked perturbed that no sports were in the offing. “What about our horses?” asked d’Amville. “When will the English return them?”

  “I have sent a messenger to Cecil,” said Lord James, “and soon he will respond.”

  Brantôme, the courtly historian, came strolling up. “What of the Abbey? Is there anything of interest there?”

  “Not to us!” cried the young would-be warriors. “Perhaps we can learn to play the—what is it? The golf. Yes. Can we play it here, in the fog?”

  “No,” said James, smiling tightly at their breezy ignorance. “Not here. Golf is a game that must be played near the sea, on the links where the grass grows sweet and wild. ’Tis at St. Andrews, near the sandy sea cliffs.”

  “Ah!” said Mary. “Golf! I do long to learn it! And I will journey to St. Andrews soon, when I set out to see the rest of my kingdom. I’ll take a … what does Elizabeth call them? A progress.” She laughed at the happy thought of it.

  “Oh, so you’re minded to do that?” Lord James asked. “So soon?”

  “Yes, as soon as possible!”

  “But there are other things to be attended to first, and you must have your ceremonial entry into Edinburgh, and select your Privy Council—”

  “Yes, I know! I know! But soon! I’m longing to see it all!”

  “I see we cannot even shoot on a day like this,” d’Aumale said morosely. “So we might as well go get drunk!” They turned on their heels and went back inside.

  Mary felt embarrassed, but did not want to apologize for them in front of James. He was looking at her quizzically. She straightened her back and said to Brantôme and Chastelard, “Maitland and the Marys have gone up ahead to look at the gardens. We can look at the Abbey along the way. Pray, let us join them.”

  The gardens were a sorry sight. They were not well laid out, nor had they been maintained. Two broad walks, sparsely gravelled, intersected, and where they met, there was a fountain. But it was dry and it looked as if there had been no water in it all season. There were struggling beds of flowers, but they looked unhealthy to begin with and then had been further neglected. The entire design, borrowed from a monastery garden plan, had been outmoded in France for a good eighty years.

  “O! Has the garden of love withered, then?” Chastelard asked mockingly. Everyone tittered—everyone but Lord James.

  “We have been most unsettled for a dozen years,” said Maitland. “Nonetheless, our gardeners have attempted to preserve the plant stocks so that, when our Queen returned and our country was restored to peace and prosperity, they could also be restored. Look!” He stepped over the border and plucked a stunted flower. “It is not dead, merely waiting. As all of us are. For our Queen, as I have said, to restore us to peace and prosperity.” He presented Mary with the flower; it was a crimson carnation.

  She took it solemnly, as if it were a pledge. She longed to nurture this poor, broken country and bring it back to life. “Thank you,” she said.

  They continued their walk around the palace, finding a greensward there that could be used for archery.

  “We can, perhaps, lay out a course of pall-mall here as well,” Mary told her Marys, who were dutifully trotting along behind her. Like their mistress, they were finding their native land to be exotic and almost forgotten.

  “I wager there is no jousting in the whole of Scotland,” said Flamina.

  “Probably not,” said Mary. “But I shall not miss it.” When she thought of jousting, all she would ever see was Henri II clutching at his helmet, tumbling from his horse in spasms. “There will be other things here to amuse us.”

  * * *

  After the midday meal—consisting of unidentifiable bits of meat in a barley stew—the people sat around the room forlornly. Mary decided to consult with Mary Seton’s brother, whom she was minded to appoint master of her household, about selecting court musicians and poets.

  Lord George Seton, whose family had remained staunchly Catholic, could not hide his delight at having both his sister and his Queen back in Scotland. He was several years older than they, but still boyish-looking, with gold hair and searching grey eyes. His family lands lay near Edinburgh, and it was easy for him to travel there on short notice. Mary knew him well, for he had come to France several times over the years.

  “Ah, it is so wonderful to see you back here!” he said as he entered the room. “I used to imagine how you would look here, and I must confess, my imagination failed me.”

  Mary laughed and turned round once, holding her arms out. “So, do I look natural here?”

  George Seton nodded gravely. “As natural as heather and hawks.”

  “I must needs set up my household,” she said. “I brought my own physician, my confessor—”

  “Thank God!” he said loudly.

  “—some French servants especially skilled in embroidery and ceremonies, and my personal attendants. But I would fain bring the Scottish poets and musicians to court.”

  George Seton looked bewildered. “But there are none.”

  “None?”

  “None of any note, Your Majesty.”

  “But that
is … that is impossible! No poets?”

  “Some few, perhaps, could be rounded up.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “At St. Andrews University, perhaps. The truth is that our only poetry these days comes from the songs in the Borders, all about killing and lamenting and so on.” He paused, thinking hard. “There’s Alexander Scott,” he finally remembered.

  “But he’s so old!” He had been at court with James V.

  “And there are other so-called poets who dare not publish their names, for their verse is lewd, calculated to appeal to the bestial wits of men deep in their cups.”

  Mary could not help realizing how she had always taken the refined poets thronging the court for granted in France. “And what of painters and sculptors?” she continued gamely.

  “None, Your Majesty.” When she kept looking at him, he said, “You must remember, we have been at war. These niceties had to go by the board. And what little remained, the Reformers have done away with. Music and dancing are now frowned upon by the Kirk.”

  Chastelard was looking even more forlorn. “What do you do in the evenings, then?” he asked plaintively.

  “Why, we go to sleep,” George replied.

  The Marys all burst into laughter. Then Mary Seton explained, “We are not laughing at you, just at the answer.”

  “This must all be remedied,” said Mary. “I am sure there must be young people who would welcome the opportunity to write verse and compose music, to paint and draw. We must gather them here!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said George. “Perhaps you should speak to James Melville about it. He is a courtier of the old school—although he is not very old.”

  “Then I shall. And if none are to be found here, then I shall have to bring some from France after all,” said Mary.

  * * *

  All afternoon, Mary busied herself setting her rooms in order. She ordered all her miniatures to be unwrapped and set out on a shelf, and she had her embroidered bedcovers and valance put on her bed. She set her chiming clock on her mantelpiece, and last of all, she took the ivory cross from the convent out of its protective wrappings and hung it in a small, shrine-like box on the wall near her bed. The morning sun would illuminate it, caressing its smooth planes.