“Praise be to the Lord it is not raining, or snowing!” he cried.
Maitland was touched by the way he found something to praise even in the weather. And he was right, it was not raining or snowing, even if it was blowing up a gale.
“It was here, at this very spot, where the blessed George Wishart took his stand against the forces of evil!” said Knox. “It was here that our faith received its blessing.”
“Tell us about it,” said Lord James, like a child. “We did not see it.”
“Ah! That was a day!”
Knox became so excited that his cloak encumbered his movements, and so he threw it off jubilantly.
Maitland thought he saw movement in one of the castle windows. Was the Archbishop even now calling for harquebusiers to attack them? Knox had his back to the castle, defiantly.
“And let us never forget the difference between the English martyrs and the Scottish. The English go to the stake whispering prayers. But when our own Patrick Hamilton, who was martyred almost twenty years before Wishart, was suffering for hours in the flames, and the Prior approached him and asked him if he repented, he turned and, through the very smoke and flames, called the Prior an emissary of Satan, and warned that he, Hamilton, would indict him before God. And when in England Bishop Gardiner burned the faithful, he was safe in his bed. But Cardinal Beaton—we Scots didn’t let him rest so!”
Now would come the injunction to attack Mary in the same way, Maitland thought wearily, and braced himself for it. But to his surprise, Knox’s voice faltered with tears, and he simply said, “Let us remember our brother Wishart.”
He gave the signal for the fire to be lighted. Morton stepped forward with a torch and touched it to the waiting logs. They were cold and wet, and so at first nothing came forth but clouds of smoke. Maitland choked on it, as the wind blew it straight in his face, and shuddered to think what it would be to be tied up there, blanketed with smoke.…
He lifted his eyes out to the sea, dark and dull now, reflecting the season. Few ships were out this time of year, but soon the commerce would pick up again, messages would be flying back and forth, and his official duties would increase.
The fire had caught now, and it crackled and struggled to break free from its wood prison. It glowed through the sticks as if they were bars of a cell. Then at once the fire burst out and roared upward, shooting off showers of sparks in its escape.
“Everyone pray, according to his own conscience,” said Knox, barely audible above the blast of the fire and the shout of the waves. “See how He accepts our offerings?”
My offering, thought Maitland. What is it? A questioning mind that tries to keep itself unclouded, like a glass of pure water? That is all I have to offer in service to Scotland.
* * *
As the fire died down, the men were still standing, heads bowed. The heat from the fire had bathed the sides of them facing the flames, and for a little while the cold had been beaten back. But then Maitland felt it taking hold of his toes once more, just as Lord James was saying, “You are welcome to come back to my quarters here.”
All of them gladly trooped the short distance between the castle and the Abbey of St. Andrews, thankful to leave the salty wind, and the watching eyes of Archbishop Hamilton, behind.
Lord James’s possession of the Abbey of St. Andrews was an anomaly; he had been granted it under the old system, the system of abuses so criticized by the Reformers. He should have surrendered it, thought Maitland, but of course he has no intention of rectifying that particular excess of the old Church. Now, of the Seven Deadly Sins, I do believe that Brother James is most beset with avarice.…
Lord James’s home, the Prior’s lodging, was spacious and well appointed, although the truly luxurious furnishings of the Prior had doubtless been discreetly removed. Lord James welcomed them all, offered them food and drink, and then waited for most of them to leave, so that the remaining four could get down to business: the Queen’s business.
* * *
They were seated now around the fireplace, which burned brightly in its grate: Lord James, Maitland, Erskine, and Morton.
“We called her home, and she came,” said Lord James. “You were all there, you all signed the paper inviting her. And I daresay we are—satisfied with the outcome?”
“Well enough,” said Erskine, his thin voice enthusiastic. “She has been better than we had dared to hope.”
“Do you mean religiously?” asked Lord James.
“Yes, certainly. Although she herself has not converted—and shows no likelihood of it—she has been content to allow our faith to stand unmolested.”
“And she and Knox have reached a standoff,” said Morton slowly. He licked his lips; they were badly chapped.
“Bothwell is gone,” said Lord James. “He’ll not trouble us any longer. He’s always trouble, because he’s unpredictable. And the Hamiltons are discredited now; the poor old man had to surrender Dumbarton Castle to the Queen.”
“That takes care of nearly everyone who might cross us,” said Maitland. “The next in line to the throne—rendered impotent. The loyal-to-the-crown Borderer with the strong sword arm—locked up.”
“But there’s still one,” said Morton. “One big one, who is not of our persuasion.”
“George Gordon, fourth Earl of Huntly,” said Lord James. “The Chancellor of the Realm. And a Catholic.”
“A militant one, too,” said Erskine. “He’s always urging the Queen to set up the mass again.”
“If we are fortunate, then the Cock o’ the North, as he likes to call himself, will crow once too often and offend the Queen. You saw how he stamped out of the Privy Council at the Bothwell verdict?”
“Please! There was no trial, so there could be no verdict!” Maitland objected.
“Oh. Yes, of course. But if he refuses to attend Council meetings, then who knows where it may lead?”
“If he could be crushed, then all opposition to the Congregation would vanish.”
“First he would have to rebel,” said Maitland.
“Perhaps he will,” said Lord James. “Perhaps he will.”
XIII
The spring came, but only after a seemingly interminable winter that dragged out its footsteps in a trail of snow, ice, dankness and darkness, of winds that dashed the North Sea against the rocks of the coast. When the first eerily clear, light days came, people burst outdoors. The light seemed to expand to fill the entire twenty-four hours, and an otherworldly energy flowed into everyone.
Mary had welcomed the spring, feeling that she was being rewarded for her difficult first few months in Scotland. She had not questioned her decision to return, but only her ability to do what she felt called to do. Things had not gone as she had hoped and planned.
Before she had actually arrived, she would have found it difficult to understand how the Kirk pervaded even the most personal actions; now she understood only too well, having felt its grip all around her.
Religion! It was supposed to provide comfort and order in life. Now the news was that even in France it had turned destructive. Her own uncle the Duc de Guise had opened fire on a gathering of Huguenots at Vassy, and twelve hundred had been massacred. Both Catholics and Protestants then armed themselves, and the war was on.
The last of her high-ranking French entourage had returned to France, leaving only the household staff she needed for embroidery, cooking, and her wardrobe. She missed Brantôme, but for the rest, it had been a relief to see them go.
The removal of Bothwell had greatly disturbed her; she had relied on him more than she had realized. The fall of the House of Hamilton, although it had enriched her by one magnificent fortress, was not a thing to be welcomed.
It was now the turn of the Earl of Huntly to be out of sorts. She understood how he felt, being so outnumbered by the Protestants, but that was all the more reason to stand at his post. Instead, he seemed to be absenting himself more and more. And now one of his sons had been involved in an u
nseemly brawl and was locked up.
These brawls! Why were there so many of them? The forces of Bothwell and Hamilton that had almost come to blows over that fracas with the Craig woman … the roistering of Lord John … and now this John Gordon business, with a street fight between Gordon and Lord Ogilvie in which Ogilvie had been severely wounded.
Thus the three men whom Mary had counted on to help balance the obvious power of the Lords of the Congregation had failed her or, worse, turned against her. And after she had tried so hard to be conciliatory!
No one treated Queen Elizabeth thus! She kept all the men in line, and no one dared to take liberties or presume. How did she manage to control her large, masculine court?
Mary felt tired. She did not know the answer, only that she was obviously doing something wrong. Perhaps she would have to marry; perhaps there would be no other way to assert her dominance over male courtiers.
Mary was anxious to meet the fabled Queen Elizabeth and see if she could discern the reasons for her mastery of those who served her.
The only one I control is Riccio! she thought sadly.
The meeting between the two Queens would take place at Nottingham in only six weeks. Already the passport and safe conduct for Mary’s journey into England had been received, and Bastian Pages, the revels-master, had written and produced the masque to be performed: the punishment of False Report and Discord by Jupiter at the request of Prudence and Temperance. Mary had duly dispatched a new portrait of herself to Elizabeth and received one in exchange.
Now she twisted the “friendship ring” and watched the sun splinter into different colours inside the diamond as she stood on the links at St. Andrews, playing golf with Flamina, Beaton, Maitland, Randolph, and Riccio. Normally she enjoyed it; she loved being near the sea cliffs, where the grass grew tufted and sweet. The sea was piercingly blue and the air bracing, and her senses appreciated that in itself.
“Take aim! Take aim!” cried Riccio, as Mary Fleming prepared to strike her ball with the special crooked stick used in golf.
“Silence, you foreigner!” said Maitland. He pretended to be joking, but his contempt for the alien who could not seem to understand the rules of golf was obvious. One must maintain silence during a swing, but this inane monkey chattered on regardless.
Thack! Flamina’s horn-edged club knocked the leather ball but a little way; it wobbled toward the hole but stopped far short.
Riccio then stepped forward to his own ball and hit it, playing out of turn. The fact that he managed to get it into the hole made the affront worse.
“Can you not control him, Your Majesty?” Randolph asked in a silky tone.
“Riccio, I pray you, mind your courtesy,” she said sharply.
The Italian spun on his heel, his satin doublet making a shiny blue blur. He bowed deeply.
Mary took her turn, swinging her club quickly. The ball flew over a hillock and disappeared. Riccio rushed off to sight it. Fleming and Beaton began to giggle, but Randolph and Maitland were not amused.
She looked over at Maitland, who was stroking his neat brown beard. Lately he and James had been most insistent in discussing the advantages of a marriage to Don Carlos of Spain for her. Perhaps she would have to consider it, if—
Just then she caught sight of a rider galloping across the sandy hills and then slowing as he saw them at play. He dismounted and led his horse over, then allowed him to nibble on the thick, moist grass.
“Melville!” She was delighted; undoubtedly Melville, one of her most sophisticated courtiers and the one in charge of the meeting with Elizabeth, brought news of just that.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said. “But—”
He held out a letter, and suddenly Mary saw that his usually jovial face was solemn. She opened the letter and quickly knew why.
“It is—she—cancels the meeting,” Mary finally said. She felt as though a large bull had squared off and kicked her straight in the stomach; she actually lost her breath.
“It is, then, as the special messenger indicated,” said Melville, shaking his head.
Maitland and Randolph dropped their clubs and came running, alarm written all over their faces.
“She says she … cannot meet with me while the Huguenots are being killed in France by an army led by the Guises,” Mary said slowly.
“Yes, I see. As the champion of the Protestants, she cannot be seen to meet with a Catholic sovereign at this point,” said Randolph.
“But Elizabeth is not religious!” Mary burst out.
“No, she is making the appearance of religion the reason,” Maitland explained patiently.
“Appearance is the important thing, not the reality,” Melville chimed in, as if he were tutoring a backward child.
“No! It is not!” cried Mary. “It should not be!”
The three courtiers and diplomats shrugged, embarrassed.
“It is politics,” said Maitland.
With a cry, Mary ran from the links.
Melville sighed. “It is a pity,” he finally said. “Inconvenient timing. Very bad luck for us. And, oh, yes—Huntly’s son has escaped from jail in Edinburgh and fled north. Tell her as soon as you can,” he asked Maitland. “I will ride on and inform Lord James at St. Andrews. The Congregation will have to assemble its forces to meet the Cock o’ the North.” He stared after Mary’s retreating form. “The Queen has a war on her hands.”
* * *
Refusing to call it a war, and trying to put a good face on the cancelled meeting with Queen Elizabeth, Mary merely announced to her people that she had long wished to travel to the northern regions of her realm, and only the projected meeting in England had stood in her way. Since it was only August, there was ample time to convert the southern progress into a northern one, and therefore she would set out for Aberdeen and Inverness straightway. She insisted on giving it every appearance of a true hunting and hawking progress to the wilds, bringing her Marys with her, as well as ambassador Randolph. If Lord James saw fit to have a few extra soldiers along, well, it was only to help clear roads and assist with the transport wagons. She even announced that she intended to visit the Earl of Huntly in his castle at Strathbogie, giving him the opportunity to stop his aberrant behavior before it was too late. As for his son, Sir John Gordon, he should give himself up to authorities in Aberdeen forthwith.
The journey had started well enough, and they made their way up to Perth and then, to avoid the mountains, stayed on the more rolling countryside on the way to Aberdeen, where the Gordons held their power. There was indeed good hawking near Glamis in the golden autumn afternoons, and Mary could not help relaxing and even taking pleasure in the flirtations between Randolph and Beaton, and the more restrained courting of Maitland and Flamina. Flamina had not lost interest in him, for all that he seemed to Mary to be staid and too controlled for the likes of her.
Mary was gratified to see a large number of Catholic wayside shrines still standing; the farther away from Edinburgh they went, the looser was the grip of the Kirk. The little hand-painted shrines, draped with garlands of wildflowers and heather, seemed to be at the crossroads to reassure her.
Upon reaching Aberdeen, a fair-sized town on the eastern seacoast, Mary made a point of visiting Scotland’s newest university, founded only about sixty years before. “England has only two universities, whereas we have three,” said the Chancellor proudly. Mary inspected the library and made a resolution to bequeath some of her own books to increase the collection of this young university.
Having established her presence in the area, and given the Huntlys time to come to her, Mary at last issued her order that Sir John Gordon give himself up to the authorities, if not in Aberdeen, then at Stirling. Still no one appeared, except Lady Huntly with a large retinue of attendants, who begged her to be merciful to both her husband and son.
But the wife could not substitute; where was Huntly?
“Dear Queen,” said Lady Huntly, “he feels punished for his zeal for the
Catholic faith. For you have ignored his suggestions—”
“Yes, his suggestions were rash and went against common sense,” said Mary. “Just as his failure to come and present himself to me does now. He thus appears a petulant, unstable rebel.”
“He looks for you to come to our castle at Strathbogie,” she said.
“He looks in vain unless he comes to me first,” said Mary. “And you may tell him—” She hesitated. Should she do it now? Yes, why not? She looked over at Lord James, standing beside her, attired in his forest-green velvet, looking, she thought, most noble.
“Lord James,” she stated, “you have been administering the rights and revenues of the earlship of Mar.”
He nodded, his hooded eyes—so like those of James V in portraits—looking guarded.
“These belong, by tradition and ancient right, to the Erskine family. And of course you already have the abbotship of St. Andrews. It is not needful that you hold the title to Earl of Mar as well.”
His face betrayed no emotion; it was as unmoving as one of the carved wooden heads at Stirling—the ones which had so frightened her as a child.
“But as you are a man of great authority as well as integrity, and Scotland seeks to reward her loyal sons, I hereby proclaim you Earl of Moray, the stewardship of which the Earl of Huntly has forfeited by his treason.”
A smile broke over James’s broad face. “Thank you,” he said.
Lady Huntly looked as though she had been slapped. “Madam,” she said quietly, “we have administered those lands faithfully for many years.”
“Yes, you helped yourself to the revenues without holding the title,” said Mary. “Did you think to continue this forever? Or did you delude yourself into thinking that I was not aware of it?”
“Madam, please—”
“’Tis done,” said Mary. “And lest you lose more, tell your husband to change his ways.”
* * *
It began raining that night, and the weather turned foul. Maitland told her that this corner of Scotland, protruding out into the North Sea, could be one of the coldest spots in the realm when the winds blew from Russia, and now she found that out for herself. They plodded on, through desolate tracks of moor and moss, the hawking and hunting forgotten. Word reached Mary that Sir John Gordon had decided against surrendering at Aberdeen, and was now tracking them, following their movements with a thousand horsemen, watching them from the cover of the forests that dripped with the perpetual rain.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 29