Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  But James achieved his purpose, thought Mary, as the mass ended. The crowd has left. My brother is very clever.

  V

  Mary looked down the long table at the faces turned toward her. They all wore smiles, as if they were the most affable of men, ready to pass a morning of pleasant conversation about trivialities.

  But it will not be trivial, Mary vowed, however much they may try to keep it so.

  “Good lords and gentlemen, I welcome you to court.” Let them know who was doing the welcoming now! “I am pleased to call this first meeting of my Privy Council and officers, whom I have selected according to what I believe each man can bring to his appointment. Among you there are both Catholics and Protestants, as you can see.”

  They were still smiling, waiting for her to venture further into the matters at hand.

  “I wish to appoint George Gordon, the Earl of Huntly, my chancellor for the realm.”

  The rooster stirred his rather substantial body in his seat and tried not to grin. “I thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “For my chief minister, I choose Lord James Stewart.” She nodded toward him curtly. She was still angry at him for his behaviour at the riot over the mass.

  “As secretary of state, I wish William Maitland of Lethington to continue in that office, which he has discharged so well in the past.” Mary saw his genuine pleasure at being named. “For the Privy Seal, Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange, a man I hear is a most distinguished young soldier.” He was a handsome, thin man with muscles that bulged through the arms of his fine velvet doublet.

  “And for the rest of you, you are all invested with the responsibility of helping me. I have chosen you because I know you have talent and strength. I wish you to use it in my service, rather than against me.”

  The men now began to look more alert.

  “I thank you for the ceremonial entrance to Edinburgh,” she said. “It was carefully and lovingly arranged. But”—she looked carefully from face to face—“the attack on my household for holding the mass is not to be tolerated.”

  “Your Majesty, I prevented it!” Lord James protested.

  “Not until the mob had been allowed to enter the palace. The guards were either disarmed or never attempted to stop the intruders. Why?”

  “Perhaps they sided with the mob,” said Morton. “They are most likely good Protestants all!”

  “‘Good’ is not a word that can be applied to mobs,” said Mary. “You have promised me the use of my religion in private. And in my proclamation—”

  “Issued without our knowledge!” said Lord James indignantly.

  “Why, did its contents displease you?” Mary asked.

  “No. But it is not right—”

  “That I issue a proclamation without informing you? Surely that cannot be so.” She glared at them. “But I only did so knowing I was confirming what had already been decided by Parliament.” She smiled and her voice grew gentle. “We must not work at cross purposes. You see, I respected your decision to become a Protestant country. Can you not trust me?”

  “Is that why you did it, then?” Erskine asked. “So that we would trust you?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why, you have known me all your life. Do you not trust me, John Erskine?”

  “I meant in matters of state,” he said hastily.

  “He raises an important point,” said Mary. “We must all trust one another. For we have an important task before us: to restore Scotland to its lost glory. It will take all our effort, working together.”

  “And how do you plan to do this? Scotland lost her glory on the battlefield of Flodden over fifty years ago,” said Maitland.

  “First, to have an end to wars—”

  “The Treaty of Edinburgh took care of foreign wars,” said Morton, “and embracing of the Reformed Kirk took care of fighting amongst ourselves.”

  “Will you refrain from interrupting me?” asked Mary pointedly. “With peace in our land, we can once again look beyond our shores. Foreign ambassadors will be posted here, we will be included in councils abroad, artists will come, Scots will travel…” Her voice trailed off. The men were stony-faced.

  “Do you mean that you see greatness only in terms of diplomatic postings and artistic entertainments?” Bothwell asked quietly.

  “Scotland has rejected such fripperies!” said Lord James.

  “Yes, it smacks of something Henry VIII would have wanted—banquets, singing minstrels, lovelorn poets!” said Morton. “Or the French.”

  “I did not mean that,” said Mary. “Clearly we must set our house in order first. That is why I wish you, Lord Bothwell, to take up your duties as Lieutenant of the Borders and depart immediately. There must be peace throughout Scotland; there cannot be one area where thieving and robbery are rampant.”

  Bothwell looked surprised, but pleased. “Yes, Your Majesty. Straightway.”

  “And I am sending Maitland to London to confer with Queen Elizabeth,” she said. “It is time that our differences were settled.”

  Lord James looked surprised and confused.

  “Then I wish to depart for a small journey around my realm,” she said. “It is time I saw more than just Edinburgh and heard more than John Knox. I am anxious to see the countryside. Not all of you need accompany me—just you, Lord James, and you, Huntly. And Morton, you may inform John Knox that I command his presence at Holyrood when I return.”

  Morton’s beard flapped down as his mouth opened.

  “My dearest sovereign and sister,” said Lord James, “it is now our pleasure to invite you to a special banquet. You may tell us if it is what you have in mind for restoring Scotland’s lost glories and customs.”

  Now it was Mary who was taken unawares. Her brother was full of surprises.

  * * *

  The banquet was to be held in the other wing of Holyrood, where high-ranking courtiers were assigned quarters. Lord James, as acting regent, had appropriated a suite, and now he saw fit to have the banquet served in the large, double-aisled chamber directly beneath his rooms.

  Mary remarked as she changed her clothing, “I have never been a guest in my own palace before!”

  But Lord George Seton assured her it was quite in order. “It’s a custom here,” he said.

  The Queen and her ladies took their places at the high table, along with Lord James, Maitland, and Huntly, and Mary looked around the room curiously. There was nothing particularly unusual about it, and the goblets and platters seemed very similar to those in France.

  Lord James rose and lifted his hands. “Let us give thanks to the Lord for having brought our Sovereign Queen safe to her own shores,” he said. All present—except Mary’s party—instantly bowed their heads. James rumbled on, “And vouchsafe, O Lord Almighty, that she might rule in wisdom, having a tender care for her people—”

  “Amen,” everyone mumbled. But no one crossed himself.

  So this was what they said instead of a welcoming speech! Mary felt her cheeks flush. Everyone was looking at her. Was she supposed to lead a prayer?

  “I thank you,” she merely said.

  Lord James nodded, and the servitors began to bring in the food. At the same time, a small group of musicians appeared at one end of the hall.

  By Mary’s side, a lad stood with a silver flagon, ready to pour the wine into her goblet. She nodded, and noticed what a pinkish colour the wine was. It glowed like a flower petal through the glass.

  The first course, a steaming pot of soup with a peculiar odour, was presented, and ladled into her personal bowl. There were green filaments in it, and white knotty lumps. When she tried to bite one of the lumps, it was spongy and impossible to cut through. The green threads were slimy. What was this? She attempted to swallow the mouthful of round objects whole, and they almost got stuck in her throat.

  Lord James, seated next to her, was looking. “Is it not refreshing?” he asked. “It is cockle stew, with seaweed.” Another servitor was approaching. “Ah,
here’s the Dunfermline dumplings!”

  A pale, bloated, spherical lump lay with its fellows on a platter, arranged in a pinwheel. Resolutely Mary allowed one to be speared for her and placed on her platter.

  “It needs this sauce,” said James, and a boy stepped over with a bowl of clotted something.

  Mary attempted to cut it, and it slithered around her plate, leaving a watery trail oozing from its innards. She smiled weakly. Just then a dish of baked lampreys was presented, followed by a gritty, grey mound. Both were heaped on her platter, covering up the dumpling. Mary poked at the granular bastion.

  “What is this?” she asked James.

  “’Tis made from pig’s liver and caul,” he said, smiling. “And here comes the powsowdie—it has a sheep’s head in it.”

  Mary half expected to see an eyeless head peering out over the rim of the bowl. She suppressed a shudder.

  Just then a blast of screeching music jolted her out of her chair. It rose to a crescendo and then wailed off in a whimper. It sounded like a supernatural scream.

  “The bagpipes,” said James. “They are played by squeezing a bag and sending the air out through the pipes. It has a different sound than your delicate French cornemuse, which looks similar but has no strength at all!”

  Then some of the other musicians joined in, playing instruments she was more familiar with, like the shawm, the lute, and the pipe and whistle. But the bagpipe blasted forth again, drowning them out.

  Mary took a sip of her wine and was horrified to find it tasted musty. She held up the glass and looked at it.

  “Beetroot wine, Your Majesty,” said Lord James. “As you know, grapes do not grow here. We must make do.”

  Suddenly the bagpiper began screeching frantically. A cohort of men had appeared at the entrance to the hall, and they carried a large silver platter reverently. Everyone rose from the table. Mary followed suit. The mysterious object was borne around the room, steam rising from it.

  “The haggis,” said Lord James. “Something only true Scotsmen can appreciate.” He paused, before explaining, “It contains the heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep, boiled in intestine. With suet and oatmeal, of course.”

  Of course.

  Everyone was looking at the haggis in profound admiration, before being reseated and taking a helping. A steaming spoonful was put on Mary’s plate, and she took a substantial bite. It was not worse than the cockles. In fact, it was better, for at least it yielded to teeth.

  “Ah, now I know you’re a true Scot!” said James.

  Only then did Mary look around and notice that all the men were eating with their own daggers. Evidently they carried them at all times and used them as they pleased, even at formal banquets. She also noticed how few of the men seemed to have wives present. Was this a nation of bachelors? Lord James himself, of course, was not married. But neither, evidently, was Maitland, or the Earl of Argyll, or Bothwell. Or young Hamilton, the Earl of Arran. How curious. And these were all men in their late twenties or early thirties, certainly well old enough.

  After the blood pudding had been passed, it was time for the final course, of sweets. Mary expected that here, at least, she would be on familiar ground. But no: along came something that James assured her was a lard cake—charming name—and a whisky cake.

  Then, as the crumbs were being scraped up, the bagpipe screamed again and this time flagons and bottles were borne in and several were placed on each table.

  “’Tis courtesy of the Earl of Atholl, from his estates in the Highlands, and from the Earl of Huntly, who also has lands in the north, that we are privileged to taste this heavenly brew tonight. Whisky!” Lord James held aloft a bottle of deep brown liquid.

  Mary had heard of this strong drink. “Is it what they brew out of heather?” she asked.

  “No,” said Huntly. “’Tis brewed from the running streams of our Highland water, and good grain, and has the flavour of peat in it. ’Tis unlike anything of this earth.”

  “What he means is, he plans to drink barrels of it in heaven!” cried Morton.

  “His stuff is fit for hell!” said Argyll. “It is my whisky they drink in heaven!”

  “Compare, then, compare!”

  Tiny glasses were filled with a sample of each type. Mary was surprised how small the glasses were—they held so much less than a wine goblet. She raised one to her lips and sipped. It filled her mouth with a burning sweetness, deep and compelling, yet searing. It burned all the way down into her stomach. But the taste it left in the mouth was comforting, calling for another sip. Its flavour was like nothing she had ever tasted, and it was so much stronger than wine it seemed another creature altogether.

  She tried the glass of the Earl of Argyll’s brew, and immediately discerned that, beneath the fiery taste, the flavour was slightly different, deeper, smokier.

  After only the two small samples, her head began to feel different inside. Resolutely she refused any more, partly out of fear. But she saw the men refilling their glasses without hesitation.

  The drinking continued for what seemed a very long time, with the noise of conversation rising, until a thin woman with reddish braids took her place at the end of the room. She was holding a harp, but of an unusual size and shape: it was smoothly curved and could be held easily. She plucked the strings like a mother caressing her child’s head, and began singing in the clear perfect tones one imagined came only from angels. Immediately the room hushed.

  “‘I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,

  Mother lady, mother lady:

  I’ll set my foot in a bottomless ship,

  And ye’ll never see mair o’ me.’

  “‘What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife,

  Son Davie, son Davie?’

  ‘Grief and sorrow all her life,

  And she’ll never see mair o’ me.’”

  Some of the Lords were weeping! Was it the whisky had done it? Or the plaintive song? It was disconcerting to see these warriors, still clutching their daggers, moved to tears over a song.

  In the meantime, the French were looking embarrassed. The Duc d’Aumale had a smirk on his face, and she was strangely disappointed in him.

  “Thank you, Mistress Jean,” said Lord James. He turned to the company. “Although the Kirk frowns on frivolous music, on dancing and masquing, good honest songs from our people are to be treasured.”

  “Aye! Aye!” they all cried resoundingly.

  Mary looked around at this company of fierce men—fierce in their joy and their eating and their drinking. She was sober herself, but despite the lack of whisky in her veins, she felt something within her very self that answered them.

  VI

  The day was fair and green when Mary rode out, with a party of some fifty persons, to visit the scenes of her childhood in Scotland. They left Edinburgh, riding west along the Firth of Forth as it narrowed. The weather was the September tease of sparkling clear skies chased by quickly moving grey clouds; before they had reached Linlithgow, only eighteen miles from Edinburgh, they had been rained on three times, and dried out in between each shower.

  The sun was out as they passed through the old market town near the palace, and then, suddenly, they came upon the arched outer gateway with medallions depicting the four orders of knighthood. They rode farther up a slight incline, and then the entire palace revealed itself to them, golden and tall and elegant against the jewel-blue sky.

  “Oh!” Mary said, halting her horse. It was beautiful—as beautiful as anything in France.

  The palace was five storeys high, and built around an open courtyard. They dismounted and entered, finding themselves in a large open space surrounded by graceful crenellated walls and six-storey towers at each corner. At the very centre of the courtyard stood an ornate, massive fountain of many levels.

  “Our royal father brought French workmen to construct it,” said Lord James, standing beside her, pointing to the fountain.

  “I was born here,” she said. “Where is t
he room?”

  “Why, in the Queen’s apartments, of course,” he said. “They overlook the loch. Come.”

  He led her up the great staircase in one of the towers, then through the empty and quiet apartments until finally they stood in the very room, a corner one.

  She looked about, in the small room with the high windows. There was an oratory, and its windows looked out onto the bright blue loch.

  “So … this is the place where I was born,” she finally said.

  “Indeed. And baptized at St. Michael’s Church, just inside the grounds,” he said.

  She wished to see the church, to look at the font where she had been baptized, but not in front of this heretic. She would return later.

  “This is a luxurious palace,” he said. “Tiles imported from Flanders … a great hall that Parliament met in, oak-panelled rooms … it is the most fashionable palace Scotland has to offer you.”

  “I can see that.” She hoped the French would be satisfied.

  * * *

  The next day they set out for Stirling, thirty-seven miles west of Edinburgh, still following the Firth of Forth as it narrowed and finally turned from a bay into a river. They were treading on historic ground, where Robert the Bruce, her ancestor nine generations back, had trounced the English at the Battle of Bannockburn and saved Scottish sovereignty at the very base of Stirling. Here was located the only bridge crossing the Forth. Lower than Stirling there were only ferries; higher than Stirling the fords were in the mountainous and dangerous country. Stirling controlled the bridge and hence the entire valley and the glens leading into the Highlands. The key to Scotland, Stirling was called.

  From many miles away they could see the great rock that held Stirling Castle two hundred and fifty feet above the plain. Although Mary did not recognize it from a distance, as they began the long, steep climb up its path, and finally reached its courtyard, separate memories began to coalesce and come back to her.

  She walked wonderingly across the upper courtyard square and looked at the palace, built with stone as grey as the crags it sat on, and studied all the statues standing in their ornamental niches along the walls.