Kindred Spirits: Royal Mile

by Jennifer Wilson

  Seeing young Robert loitering nervously near the door, she strode over to him and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming, Robert, you shall be attending Lady Glamis and I, in our spot at the front of the Museum on the Mound.”

  Led out by Mary, the group began to make their way out of the Castle, and spread out across the wider area of the Mound, Princes Street and the upper levels of the Gardens. At the heart of the Gardens, the open-air music stage had been tidied up, with large speakers everywhere so that the music could travel. The orchestra were beginning to take their places. From her chosen vantage point at the Museum, Mary was unable to see the arena, but she knew from Marie and Madeleine that her father had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to join them at the back of the seating area. There had apparently been the promise of soothing music and a calming atmosphere. To ensure he was unable to back out of the agreement, Rizzio had been charged with physically getting him to the place, accompanied by a handful of carefully-selected soldiers from the Castle. All had been chosen for their agreement with King James’ political and religious viewpoints, so that there could be no disputes on their way. Sir Thomas had reported all to the Queen, and certainly at the start of the evening, all had seemed to be going well.

  As she looked around her at the gathering tourists, one of the chosen group of men rushed up to her.

  “Your Grace, forgive my rudeness and my appearance, but I am sent to tell you that your father has arrived safely at the concert, and is seated between the two ladies, Their Graces Queen Marie and Queen Madeleine. Is all to your satisfaction?”

  “Very good indeed, thank you. And what of Rizzio?”

  “He stands to the side, Your Grace, with Randolph, in order that your father does not feel hemmed in. But they have been speaking, Madame, of the spectacle we hope to witness, and of the various celebrations your father has witnessed here himself, over the years.”

  “Well, well, that is a pleasant surprise, and not the news that I was expecting. Well met, my dear man. Thank you for your time, and you may return to your post. Should anything untoward occur, please alert me directly; if not, I shall await your personal report on the evening tomorrow morning, in the great hall at ten o’clock.”

  The soldier blushed; he was nowhere near a high enough rank to be reporting directly to royalty, about the activities of other royalty. Forcing himself back to the moment in hand, he stood to attention, nodded, and saluted the Queen in agreement.

  “Very good, Your Grace, I shall be there and report back accordingly.”

  As the clock struck eight, the music began.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Down in Princes Street Gardens, the crowds were equally large, but somehow quieter, having either taken their seats in the arena section, or laid claim to one of the best areas of grass, now a patchwork of picnic blankets, coats, and other means of making the rough ground more comfortable. Glasses clinked, packets of food rustled and crackled open, and the air was alive with the sound of families getting ready to enjoy the last of the Festival’s celebrations. Thankfully, the weather forecast they had watched in the garrison earlier that day had been right, and the evening sun still cast a warm glow over proceedings.

  At the back of the arena, perched on a low wall under a tree, where they would not be disturbed by the living, Queens Marie and Madeleine had indeed placed themselves on either side of King James V. But instead of forcing conversation on him, they had merely sat in relative silence, passing only the very occasional remark about the groups of people sitting around them. The soldiers sent by Mary kept a respectful distance, stepping forward only when one of the royal ladies or Rizzio commanded it; the King had yet to ask anything of them. Rizzio, as described by the messenger, sat to the side, keenly watching the orchestra as they settled into their positions, waiting for the first instruction from their conductor, and passing idle conversation with the King.

  As the music started, Rizzio felt himself relax. This was where he belonged, after all. Yes, he had been Queen Mary’s ‘Italian secretary’, but he was a musician first and foremost, and he was ashamed to admit that recently, he had not made the effort to attend quite as many concerts as he could have done. Since his death, some of the finest musicians in Britain and beyond had played in Edinburgh; as the first bars of music played out, he promised himself this would be an end to his recent reclusion. After all, he was meant to be helping King James come out of his shell; perhaps it was time he also started to come out of his own. Darnley couldn’t be everywhere in the city at once, nor could he know for certain where Rizzio was at any time; there were plenty of ways to hear great concerts without the risk of running into his tormentor.

  Rizzio smiled to himself. He was already mentally planning out his next couple of months, thanks to the various programmes he had found and studied over the last few weeks. So many marvellous acts for him to go and see, so many beautiful pieces of music for him to listen to. Perhaps, one day, as he had always promised himself, he would even make it down to London, and see the Proms themselves.

  Suddenly, waking from his reverie, he was aware of a hand tugging on his sleeve.

  “Mr Rizzio, I am sorry to bother you, but I know you are a musician,” said Queen Madeleine timidly, as she let go of the cloth. “Would you be so kind as to tell us what is being played, and perhaps anything else you know about the music or composer?”

  Rizzio beamed at the teenage Queen. “Of course, Your Grace, it would be my absolute pleasure. If I may take my seat in front of you?” He moved to the ground in front of them, sitting cross-legged on a stone set into the grass, and began to talk.

  For the hour-long performance, Rizzio kept interjecting with the titles and composers of each piece, snippets of trivia where he could, and other interesting facts about music in general where they fitted the bill. Throughout, he kept one eye on King James, but soon realised there was nothing to worry about. After a few minutes, the King was as interested in hearing Rizzio’s mini-lectures as the two Queens who sat by his side, and once or twice he even asked questions, much to the Italian’s delight.

  Behind them all, the soldier who had been commanded to report all to Queen Mary the next morning relaxed; his job would be easy at this rate, if the King stayed in such a good mood. The next moment, the first half of the concert finished, and the second suite of music began, those pieces selected to accompany the fireworks display. Keeping his fingers crossed behind his back, the soldier prayed that the loud bangs would not disturb the royal party.

  He need not have worried. A smile brightening up his face, King James turned his head skyward, alongside his two wives, as the display lit up the night. From the Castle’s battlements, reds, greens, blues, and every other colour of the rainbow burst forth, in star-shapes, single slivers of silver, and showers of light falling from the black night.

  The crowd cheered each new explosion of light, with the living and the dead enjoying the views side by side.

  Up on the Mound, Queen Mary and Lady Glamis stood on another low wall, the one which lined the pathway to the Museum, Lady Glamis taking the opportunity to lean on Sir William’s shoulders whenever possible. Mary laughed, and encouraged young Robert to clamber up beside her, to get a better view over the heads of the gathered adults.

  “See, young sir, a lovely evening, and no hassle whatsoever from anybody. You are perfectly safe when you are with us.”

  “Your Grace, do you think you would need a page at other times? I do not like always haunting things, and the Museum can be frightening at night – toys can be spooky.”

  She smiled at him. “Do you know, Robert, I am sure that I would need a page for many things. Perhaps, if you would prefer, you could bring yourself up into the Castle, if you don’t like the Museum anymore?”

  Robert’s face brightened. “I could? I mean, I will, Your Grace. I will be your page. I can run errands for you, take messages – you must have plenty of need for such things?”

  Surprised at his words, Mary realised how much
she had relied on her young pages when she had been Queen, and how rapidly she had become used to not having them around, once she had died. These days, the soldiers of the Castle carried her messages, or took orders where necessary; she had not had a page for the whole of her death. Babington served her loyally, but he was a grown man, and would surely be insulted at the notion of being called nothing more than a mere page-boy.

  “Robert, a page is exactly what I have a need for, and I would be honoured if you would take on the role. However,” she said, pulling gently at the collar of his shabby jacket, “we will need to do something about your attire. Come to the Castle, and we will see what some of the other children have which they can lend you. Oh, how I wish we could just help ourselves to new things when they are needed.” It was always a frustration to the ghosts that their possessions in the afterlife were limited to what they had been wearing, or had managed to reach and acquire in the first few days following their deaths. Mary had been lucky, reaching her still relatively extensive wardrobe at Fotheringhay before it could be disposed of, and collecting a number of gowns and jewels which were still able to materialise and vanish along with the rest of her when she chose. But others had not been so fortunate. For most of the common soldiers, all they had were the clothes on their backs. Few ghosts had more than one outfit to turn to, whereas Mary had the luxury of several gowns in Edinburgh, and even a couple in London.

  “Janet, would you help me sort out Robert here, on the morrow? Lady Glamis?” Mary said, loudly, in her companion’s ear, when her first question went unheeded.

  The lady in question jumped, and spun to face the Queen.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, I, um, yes?” Janet spluttered the answer, clearly having completely missed the question, and evidently hoping she was giving the right answer.

  “Janet, you are incorrigible. Originally, I suspected a soft spot for Boots, but I see now it is Sir William who carries your favour?” Mary spoke quietly, so as not to draw the attention of Sir William who had continued to watch the fireworks.

  Janet blushed. “He is a kind gentleman, Your Grace, and we have grown closer these last few years. Is it so wrong that he should be pleasant company for a lady?”

  “Not wrong at all. Go on, enjoy yourself. His wife never has shown up, has she?”

  “Not that I am aware of, thank goodness.” Janet’s hand flew to cover her mouth as she realised what she had said.

  “Oh, Janet. Who am I to warn you off another woman’s husband, after all?” said Mary, thinking of Bothwell and his conveniently quick divorce from his previous wife ahead of their own wedding. Shaking her head, she continued to watch the rest of the show, keenly aware of Janet’s careful placement of herself so that it was no longer quite so obvious whose attention she was craving. Looking out across the crowd, she scanned the faces of the ghosts interspersed with the living. A number of the ladies of the Mile were enjoying the attention of Castle and Palace soldiers, and even one or two of the noblemen had escorted some of the gentlewomen out for the evening. How pleasant it must be, Mary mused, to enjoy a romance with none of society’s rules and standards to be followed. True, she had married for love, or what she had believed was love, twice in her life, and she had been happy enough with the Dauphin, having been childhood companions – but even so, the eyes of the country, and of other countries, had been constantly upon her. At least now, if she were to find a man to make her happy, there would be no rules to follow, no international diplomacy to be considered.

  And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to be that vulnerable. Friendship, yes, that was a given, and she was glad that she had made many friends from every class and every walk of life. But a companion of that nature would have to wait a little while longer. For now, she would enjoy teasing Janet about Sir William. That was easier, and far more entertaining.

  She didn’t think it would be long before some sort of formality was assigned to their relationship.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As the fireworks display drew to a close, the crowds began to disperse back to their homes and hotels. The ghosts made their way back to the Mile, disappearing into the various building along the way. Queen Mary watched a few start towards Mary King’s Close, the infamous street leading from the Mile, surrounded by tales of ghosts and murders, and the urban myth of having been walled up, keeping plague victims contained inside.

  “Hold! Samuel, Jessie,” she called after the group, recognising the two at the front, leading the way down the Close. “I didn’t think we haunted in there these days? What makes you choose that path?”

  “Your Grace, you’re right, we don’t haunt it, but, well, oddly, it is actually nice and quiet down there, especially now, at night,” Samuel explained to her. “During the day, when the tourists are there, the actors and tour guides keep them occupied, and we generally go to the upper rooms, where nobody visits. But during the nights, well, it is a bit of a sanctuary – there are only a few of us, and we each keep ourselves to ourselves, using the various rooms in the Close.”

  “You don’t mind, Your Grace?” asked Jessie, her arm around a small boy who had joined their group, and who currently had his head buried in her skirts.

  “Mind? No, of course I do not mind, I just didn’t realise that anyone was using the place these days; I thought we had all abandoned it.” Mary looked down the alley-way; all the lights were extinguished, there was nobody present in the lower parts of the buildings. “I will ensure that this is added to the watches, and ensure that you are not troubled by any of our more boisterous ghosts, who may not have realised you are here.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, it is much appreciated.” Jessie dipped into a perfect curtsy, gesturing for the others to follow her lead.

  “I’m sorry, one moment more – what of our haunting of a week or so back? We didn’t see you?”

  “No, Madame, we watch for the tours coming, and keep out of the way. They don’t see us; we don’t bother them. Truth be told, it was quieter after your haunting. I think you put them off for a few days.”

  “Very good. Well, let me know if the situation changes, and whether you would prefer us to put a complete halt on hauntings in the Close,” said Mary, indicating for them to rise as she continued on her way back to the Castle. Wistfully, she turned to look down the hill, the direction she had always preferred to take in life, and in her first few decades of death, once she had realised her ability to move around the country. Holyrood had always been her favourite Palace during life, with the luxury of warm, comfortable rooms, rather than the draughty halls of the Castle, but Darnley had put paid to that.

  Darnley, again. The man caused nothing but trouble.

  Immediately after her death, Mary had enjoyed the use of her rooms in Holyrood, until he had realised she was there, and started harassing her. He was constantly trying to be a husband to her, and to have an equal footing in the control of the spirits of Edinburgh. Her father had been quiet even then, giving Mary uncontested control over the city and its ghostly residents. No other monarchs had really bothered spending time there. Or if they were present, like James V, they kept themselves to themselves.

  As the various groups of Castle ghosts caught up with her, Mary forced herself back to the present; it didn’t do to be maudlin, after all. Lady Glamis and Sir William came into view, arm in arm, as they tended to be these days, and laughing at a joke they had clearly chosen not to share with the rest of their friends. Robert was with them, a few steps behind, watching for the slightest indication that he would be either called into service, or sent on his way back to the Museum of Childhood.

  “Robert!” Mary called out to him. At once, his attention was on her, and he raced ahead of the rest to reach her. “I am expecting a report from one of the soldiers who accompanied my father this evening. He is coming to the Castle’s great hall at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Will you watch for him, and come to fetch me when he has arrived?”

  Robert’s face shone at his first ins
truction from the Queen. “Yes, Your Grace, I shall be in the hall waiting for him tomorrow, and will come to you for-width.”

  “Forthwith, Robert, my pet, it is ‘forthwith’,” said Mary, ruffling his hair with affection. “Now, shall we retire for the evening. I am sure you will find the rooms at the Castle comfortable enough, and as long as you are about when you are needed, I will not insist you stay in the Royal Palace; you may go and find wherever you are most happy to sleep.”

  The next morning, as promised, Robert gingerly approached the room in the Royal Palace where he had been advised that Queen Mary chose to spend her nights. Uncertain of the correct force to use, he gently tapped on the door; before his hand had finished the final knock, the Queen startled him by appeared through the door, the heavy wood remaining firmly in place.

  “Oh, Robert, I’m sorry, but you must not be afraid to knock properly. If I have asked you to call on me, then I shall be expecting you.”

  “Y-Yes, Your Grace. I will remember for next time. The man is in the great hall, as you said, he is waiting to deliver his report.”

  “And how does he seem?”

  “Happy, I think, if a little nervous. Like me, I think.” Robert fell into step beside Mary, as she made her way downstairs and across the courtyard, through the doors into the great hall.

  Seeing her make her entrance, the soldier instantly stood to attention. His uniform may have been showing signs of wear here and there, but he still ensured his buttons shone perfectly, and his bayonet looked as deadly as it had ever been.

  “Good morning, um…?”

  “MacTavish, Your Grace, Andrew MacTavish.”

  “Good morning, MacTavish. I understand from Robert that all went according to plan yesterday evening, but I would hear a first-hand account, if you will.”