Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “There may not be as many foreign dignitaries as I had hoped,” she admitted. “They seem to be avoiding Scotland.”

  Bothwell exploded. “Then they’re fools! And I am weary of Scotland being slighted! They know not what they do! Why, this country—”

  His outburst gave her the first happy feeling she had had in days. “Your loyalty is touching,” she said. “And that is why I selected blue as the colour you and your men should wear for the baptism and afterwards. You are to serve at the banquet, presenting the ceremonial dishes to me.”

  “I am to act as a servant?”

  “Not as a servant, it is an honour—”

  “To present dishes, flourishing trays about?”

  “You know it is ceremonial only! The Lord James is to act as cupbearer, and he actually has to kneel to present it.”

  “That should be a new experience for him. He’s out of practice at kneeling and humility.”

  “And Huntly is to act as carver.”

  “My brother-in-law is a passable butcher, true. Not good with his head or anything too complicated, but he wields a dagger well enough, like a true Highlander.”

  “Will you do it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Do what?”

  “Wear the blue and act as server.”

  He laughed. “Of course. Did you think I would refuse?”

  “I didn’t know. I know that stubborn conscience of yours.”

  “But I must tell you that I will remain outside the chapel for the actual ceremony.”

  “Keeping the Earl of Bedford company?”

  “Yes. After all, good manners require us to be solicitous of our guests, does it not?”

  “I thought it also required a guest to be polite to his host.”

  “Unless it interferes with his conscience,” said Bothwell solemnly.

  * * *

  At length Darnley arrived at Stirling, and took immediately to his quarters, speaking to no one. His father, the Earl of Lennox, did not come at all. Mary was forced to seek her husband out, as she did not want to disturb him by the gesture of asking him to come to her—although, in any normal circumstances, nothing would be meant by it.

  She found Darnley sitting in a window seat, gazing out over the green far below the castle, a pout on his pretty face. He looked up to see her.

  “So. You’ve come. What a surprise,” he said. He turned away and pointed below. “What’s all that down there?”

  She came and stood beside him. “It’s the fireworks display.” Would that please or excite him? “It is taking almost six weeks to set up, it’s so elaborate. There are going to be ground displays and explosions in the air, turning the winter sky white like midsummer.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “Too much.” She smiled. “But is it not a privilege to have our son’s baptism so memorable?”

  “Memorable for whom? The Prince will not remember it. And the French ambassadors will have seen others, and better, in France. And I shan’t see it!”

  “Why?” She felt anger taking her over, even though she fought against it. “It will be impossible to avoid seeing the sky lit up, unless you are dead drunk. Do you plan to be drunk, disgracing yourself?”

  “If I please, I will!” he yelled. He jumped up off the window seat, went over to his table, where a large—and already half empty—bottle of wine stood opened, and poured himself out a huge goblet of it. Then he bolted it down. “I told you not to ask Queen Elizabeth to be godmother! But no, you disobeyed me! You always disobey me, for all your marriage vows!” He poured out another goblet.

  “Henry, please, I beg you.” She never used “Henry” except in their calmest, closest moments. She hoped it would appeal to him. “Let us try to make this a happy occasion.”

  He made a face at her. Suddenly she noticed, as he was standing in the direct morning light streaming in the window, that his face had little red streaks all over it. “We’ll see,” he said grandly. “It depends on how you treat me. Treat me with honour, then perhaps. But if you ignore me for all those others, well…” He hunched his shoulders and turned his back.

  * * *

  The ambassadors and their suites began to arrive. The English contingent alone had eighty persons, and the two French ambassadors brought nearly as many. All the lords gathered, none stayed away: Lord James, Maitland, Kirkcaldy of Grange, the Earls of Argyll, Huntly, Atholl, Mar, Eglinton; the Lords Sempill, Seton, and Fleming, Sir James Melville. Darnley stayed secluded in his quarters, although reports reached Mary’s ears that from time to time he wandered down into the town of Stirling to drink at a tavern. In any case, he declined to attend any of the receptions for the arriving dignitaries.

  From the moment the festivities began, she entered into such a nervous frame of mind that she felt almost inebriated herself. She was in a heightened state of sensitivity; she talked and listened to what was going on immediately around her, but at the same time her ears seemed to hear other sounds from other rooms. There was another stirring, another whole set of activities taking place simultaneously, and she strained to overhear them.

  Bothwell she was unable to speak with privately, and Lord James and Maitland seemed to be observing her very closely.

  * * *

  The baptism was to take place in the early winter dusk of December seventeenth. At precisely four o’clock, in the fading daylight, the Prince was borne from his royal chambers by his godparents, and taken in slow procession between a double row of courtiers holding flaming torches, across the courtyard to the Chapel Royal. The Catholic nobles followed, bearing the accoutrements for the ceremony: the Earl of Atholl carried a long, slender christening-taper of virgin wax, the Earl of Eglinton carried the salt, and Lord Sempill bore the chrism. The Bishop of Ross held the laver and basin. Behind them came the English contingent, the Earl of Bedford holding the great gold font, followed by the French and then the three nobles with retinues—Bothwell, Huntly, and Lord James.

  The procession was met at the door of the chapel by Archbishop Hamilton and the bishops of Dunkeld and Dunblane, and then it proceeded slowly to the altar, where the great font was placed with all solemnity upon its waiting stand and filled with holy water. The baby was totally immersed in it and given the baptismal names of James and Charles. At the naming, the heralds proclaimed his name three times to the sound of trumpets, both inside the chapel and outside, where Bothwell, Argyll, Lord James, and the Earl of Bedford waited, along with a great crowd of onlookers. The silver trumpet tones rang out, cutting the air with their clear, perfect edge.

  At the conclusion of the ceremony, the organ rang out and a choir burst into song, and the newly christened baby was conveyed back to his chambers.

  Mary felt only relief. It was over. It had happened, in accordance with Catholic ritual, as she had hoped it would. No horrible event had occurred to prevent it.

  The rest of the company then paraded back across the courtyard through the row of flaming torches to the great hall, where a banquet awaited.

  * * *

  Long ceremonial tables were set, with the Queen to be sitting at the middle of the highest one, the French ambassador on her right hand, the English on her left. Monsieur du Croc, representing the Duke of Savoy, took his place at the farthest end. Darnley’s place remained empty.

  The heralds, macers, and trumpeters preceded the three Masters of the Household, then came Lord Seton and the Earl of Argyll, each bearing a white wand of ceremony; they were followed by the entire company of guests, all holding white torches, so that the whole hall was lighted and glowing. As the lords and ladies took their places, servants stepped forward to take the torches, and remained standing all through the banquet, holding the flambeaux aloft.

  * * *

  The sounds of the banquet rose as the hall grew warmer and wine goblets were refilled. The musicians had to play louder, and still were difficult to hear over the din. From up and down the candlelit tables people were laughing and there seemed to be
no constraints, no bitterness.

  Mary’s servers came forward to do their duty: the Earl of Huntly, her carver, cut thin slices of boar meat and venison with his exquisitely sharp-honed knife; Lord James, the cupbearer, knelt beside her when offering her a jewelled goblet filled with sweet dark wine. And Bothwell, her server, presented her with each dish after it had been paraded around the hall in its ceremonial trappings. His wide chest, gleaming in the blue costume she had required him to wear, was a bright background for the silver platters he carried.

  As she helped herself to various dishes, he made remarks in a low voice that only she could hear—“This looks a trifle dried out”; “This smells like dog meat”—and she could hardly keep from laughing out loud.

  Down near du Croc was seated Lady Bothwell, wearing a beautiful headdress with a circlet of pearls.

  Lady Bothwell, his wife. After the banquet was over, they would retire together. Then, sometime later, the candles would be quenched, and they would be alone together in a bed, in the wing of the palace where all the guests were staying. They would have to be quiet, else their neighbours would hear. But Bothwell would know how to keep silent, and—

  “I am told this trout comes from Lochleven, where it abounds.” Bothwell was standing beside her, with the decorated platter of poached trout. “It has a most delicate white flesh. Like a boiled nun’s wimple,” he whispered.

  * * *

  During the rest of the banquet, she tried to ignore Darnley’s thunderously empty place. She thought the ambassadors would comment on it and interpret it, but no one alluded to it. Perhaps the fact that he actually was in the castle sufficed to endorse the baptism. She was stunned that his presence counted for so little, but heartened, too. He now had no hold over her; there was nothing he could withhold or threaten her with.

  * * *

  The second course was brought in, the dainty sweet dishes, wheeled in on a moving stage attended by a band of musicians. Ahead of them ran a group of actors costumed as satyrs, clearing a way for the wagon, twirling their tails. The Earl of Bedford and his assistant, a young courtier named Sir Christopher Hatton, purported to be shocked. “Is this what happens to us if we partake of your banquet?” asked Hatton. “Shall we grow tails?”

  As she laughed and answered Sir Christopher, she noticed Lord James and Bothwell talking earnestly in the back of the hall, next to one of the fireplaces. It surprised her; what would be of such mutual concern to them?

  After the banquet, and the elaborate masque designed by Bastian Pages, her French master of the household, it was very late. The Lords and their ladies, the entire company, left the hall and went yawning to bed.

  Mary walked slowly over to the ramparts of the castle, and stood looking down over the river below, as the guests reeled one by one to their quarters. It was cold, standing there, but she felt a bit lightheaded from the heat of the fires, the wine, the music, the continual need to attend to conversation and make a suitable reply. The black sky with its hard, bright stars was silent and restorative. A brisk wind was blowing from the hills, and there was a smell of snow in the air. Tomorrow, perhaps, it would come, blanketing the countryside in snow. But the ceremony was over. It was over. Now it could snow all it liked.

  She breathed slowly, letting the cold air soothe her lungs. Gradually the sound of footsteps on the paving stones ceased around her and she stood alone.

  She was loath to return to her apartments and relive the entire ceremony with Seton and Flamina, her only remaining Marys. They had looked radiant, and would relish discussing each detail. But she was tired of it; she wanted to put it away and not think of it again for a long, long time. It was over. Excitement, which had flooded and sustained her, was now draining away, and all she felt was overwhelming relief, and exhaustion.

  Barely visible against the dark, moonless sky she saw the ancient private chapel of the castle. It sat there, isolated and self-contained, looking almost like a child’s playhouse. She had never been inside.

  I was always too busy, she thought, or not alone. And when I was small, my mother would not let me go there.

  She made her way over to it.

  I must ask for the key, so that I may explore it in the light, she thought.

  She touched the heavy entry door and took hold of the iron ring, and pushed. To her surprise the door groaned and then opened. It had not been locked.

  She looked in. It was completely dark inside, and yet it was a friendly, sheltering darkness. But she returned to the Great Hall, only a short distance away, and snatched a candlestick from one of the tables, then returned to the chapel. Cautiously pushing her way inside, she held the candle aloft.

  The chapel was even smaller inside than it appeared from the outside, as it was divided into two parts, with an arch separating the two sections. An altar stood in the inmost section, near a small window. In the outer section, chairs and tables were stored, candle stands, blankets, boxes.

  They were using this ancient chapel, sacred to Scotland’s history, as a storage bin! The Reformers … Lord Erskine, the earnest Protestant, who commanded Stirling, had done this. Or given permission for it to be done.

  For an instant despair flooded her.

  This is what your country has come to, she thought. The ancient chapel, turned into a musty place to hold furniture. What sort of men do this? They recognize nothing as holy; they either destroy or desecrate everything in their paths.

  Forgive us, our noble ancestors, she prayed silently. Forgive us, your unworthy descendants, that we do not hold things dear. We have turned into savages.

  So engrossed was she in trying to communicate with the long-dead Scots that she did not hear the door creak until it was already halfway open. Her heart stopped, half in fear, half in anger that someone should intrude now, of all times.

  She swung around and held the candle aloft. The door continued opening, and Bothwell stepped in.

  Her first wild, disordered thought was, He does not belong here! Not here, with my Catholic history! Then her heart leapt up and silenced her mind.

  XL

  As he actually stepped inside the chapel, he had wondered if he should proceed. Obviously the Queen wanted to be alone. And God knew she had earned it, after the interminable strain of that ceremony and the suspense about Darnley and what he might do to ruin it.

  The entire day had gone surprisingly well, Bothwell thought. And the Queen had not shown herself to be anything but perfectly in command of everything about her, regardless of how she felt inside. For that, Bothwell truly admired her. Yes, she had earned the right to be alone for a few moments—something rare and precious for royalty.

  But after what Lord James had told him, it was imperative that she know. Royalty could never afford to be ignorant, and remain in control. She must be told.

  And so he had followed her, watching as she stood for long moments at the ramparts, reluctant to intrude. But when she entered the chapel, then he knew he must.

  Now she whirled around, glaring at him.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I saw you enter. I was seeking an opportunity to speak with you alone.” He closed the door softly.

  He could not tell from her expression whether she was angry or not. But he must proceed. “Lord James told me this evening that there was another, uninvited guest at Stirling,” he said.

  “Yes, I noticed that you were deep in conversation. Whom has he seen?”

  “Archibald Douglas.”

  “O God!” She gave a cry of distress and jerked her hand. The candle in it went out. “That cutthroat cousin of Morton’s! Is the whole band of them like that? Why is he here?”

  “It seems that he has in mind—or expectation—that you will recall his noble cousin from his banishment.”

  “Never!”

  “He wishes to plead for him. It seems he has already spoken with the Earl of Bedford, and also with Lord James.”

  “And?”

  “They both believe you should recall him, but for di
fferent reasons.” He moved closer to her in the dark, to speak more quietly. “Queen Elizabeth wishes the rebels to return home. She has told Bedford as much already. Perhaps she is tired of feeding all seventy-odd of them. Bedford had instructions to discuss all this with you before departing. Lord James wishes him back because he thinks he may be of some … help in dealing with Darnley.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Darnley is afraid of him. If Morton returned to Scotland, with your permission, it would signal better than anything else what low esteem Darnley is held in here; it would frighten him into behaving himself. Such a man as … your husband can only be controlled by greed or fear.”

  “And you think until now greed has prevailed? That perhaps all his actions have been motivated by greed—including marrying the Queen?”

  “Madam, I did not say that.” He moved closer; it was odd to stand in the darkness and converse with a presence that was only a voice.

  “But you meant it! Yes, you think he only married me out of greed! That he cared not for me, and has shown it ever since the ring went on my finger and his titles were proclaimed at Market Cross when he was in the bridal bed!”

  “Madam, I do not judge such things.” Bothwell felt her presence so close to him that he dared not move.

  “You think that! I know you do!”

  “If he did, then he was a fool! But we know he is a fool!” Bothwell reached out and put his arms around her. “To have all this, and spurn it!” he said. “Oh, he’s a fool!” With no thought at all for what he was doing, he suddenly kissed her. Her lips were as soft as a white lily petal.

  He kept kissing her; he felt her stir in his arms. He held her tightly against him, pressed her entire body against his. Then all at once he became one ignited candle of desire, ignited and glowing along his entire length. He felt his body pulsating. There was magic in her, compelling mastery of desire. He kissed her yet again, and felt their bodies press together, longing to merge.