The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  Our families, parents and grandparents, determine our fate. Or was my father right when he made power the force that drives the world? I try to put my trust in a higher destiny than human contriving. And so did she. Her portrait is beside me – Queen of Scots. Tapering fingers; auburn hair curving behind her white veil; the crucifix on her breast. She was shaping my existence when I was still in the womb. By the time I was fully aware, she was dead. Her life too was moulded from birth by family and power.

  Once again after Flodden, Scotland had a child king, and all the factions sprang into life, like dogs gnawing at one single juicy bone. The fifth James, still a fledgling boy, had a mother to protect him, but she married the Earl of Douglas, leaving her infant son to the mercy of his guardians and their violent squabbles. This marriage was to have its own consequences much later, twining anew the thistle and the rose in Queen Margaret’s grandson, Henry Darnley. He too was a child of Flodden.

  But who can form or even guide a king? Many have tried. Lindsay the Lyon Herald was the nearest James came to a father. The wise old courtier tried to shelter his Prince’s innocence, but our natures are curiously fashioned and so it was with James. He became wary and secretive, possessing all the craft and pride of the Stewarts without their open-handedness or winning charm. James assessed those around him with constraint and calculation. They in turn bargained for control, and enticed the bairn with adult favours.

  Like all the Stewarts, James followed the chase from an early age, bringing down deer, wild cattle, wolves, boar and badger. It had been his father’s passion and so it became his. James IV had also been a courtly lover, wooing the most beautiful of noble ladies to sire royal bastards. The son was corrupted too early by amorous pleasure. As soon as he won his freedom from rival factions, James turned vagabond to go out among the people disguised as some guidman yokel or licensed beggar. In this way he threw off the boredom of court manners to pursue sexual adventure wherever it could be found.

  This was not the example expected by churchmen from their monarch. As he grew to manhood the new King James observed forms and habits of religion without conviction. He toyed with the beliefs of reformers, while steadily plundering the Church for his own ends. ‘If you don’t behave yourselves,’ he would jeer at the bishops, ‘then I’ll give you some of Uncle Henry’s English medicine’.

  In one way, James was wholly his father’s son. He sought recognition as a Prince of Christendom, not merely King of Scots. Such pride drew him steadily towards France and the Pope, for what lustre rested in taking second place to Henry the heretic? So James sought a French marriage and continental power. When his first frail flower, the Princess Madeleine, withered in our northern climes, he sent his rising statesman Cardinal Beaton to woo a second French dowry.

  Marie de Guise proved tougher stock than poor Madeleine. She settled into her new homeland, holding Stirling Castle as her personal fiefdom, and gradually she won the respect, if not the love, of her moody husband.

  But conflict with England again crept closer. Unable to back down, James led an unpopular and disorderly campaign into the Borders, where he was humiliated on Solway Moss. At Flodden the Scots fought a disciplined battle and stubbornly stayed to die on the front line around a king resolved on hand-to-hand combat. Solway Moss brought little loss of life, except for James. Catching an infection in the baggage train, the bedraggled king retreated north. Arriving in his beloved Fife he had to stop frequently at friendly houses, until at last he reached the royal hunting lodge of Falkland where he took to his bed.

  Within days news came that his second Queen had given birth to a healthy baby girl at Linlithgow. Taking this in the Scots way as a final omen, James turned his face to the wall and died. Mary’s reign as Queen of Scots had begun, even as her first cries subsided at the nipple of her wet nurse.

  Sister Beth

  I’VE NO MIND of my own to write this but sister, and I will call her sister, Francesca Clare keeps on at me, licking her lips like a pet cat about to swallow a robin.

  ‘Think what you’ve lived through.’

  ‘Aye indeed. Once is enough, thank you kindly.’

  I pull the shawl, woven from good Lammermuir wool, more tightly round my sagging shoulders. Another log onto the blazing hearth.

  ‘Be a dear now, Francesca, and fetch us a warming glass of claret.’

  Masses cease, except the priests are hidden in holes, but the nuns of Haddington will have their winter fuel, and their rights to French wine. Thank God for his comfort. Did not the French lay our poor town waste, and the English as well? But custom and law endure. For my lifetime at least.

  It was the nuns learned me my letters when I came here barely more than a lass. I can read a breviary with the best but writing comes hard now my fingers are clawed by age. So Francesca bustles round with quill and ink, and stares at me like a dog waiting its bone.

  ‘I can write down what you remember.’

  Plump lips moisten as if she were about to nuzzle some young fellow. All that can be had now for the asking. Only she’s fat and I’m an old hag. But I wasn’t born to ugliness, not at all, which was the trouble that brought me here in the first.

  Alright, I’ll try, from the beginning if it can ever be found, for there’s always something that starts what began before it started.

  A good sup warms the gums, whatever you chew.

  My mother was a skinner’s daughter from Haddington who married well to a cousin of the Hepburns, the Lords of Hailes and then Earls of Bothwell. You see she had my bosom and a silken face to go with her swelling paps. And we grew up neighbours to the Sinclairs of Morham, cousins anyway, which was important after, as Marion their daughter, who often watched me when I was little, married William Knox who was a follower of Bothwell’s in Haddington, which caused me later to meet her son John, but God knows I will have the whole tale a bourach. Smudge that bit out for it comes later.

  It’s the Hepburns that matter the most here – and still matter if truth be told – and Earl Adam died on Flodden field fighting for the King. So young Earl Patrick came into his own even as a child, just like the new King. And he was in the hands of the churchmen, his Uncle the bastard who became Bishop of Moray, but there was little religion to show for the whole clanjamfrie, only money and lands and court office when it could be had.

  The young Earl was born to trouble for like all his kin he was always raiding on the Border in Berwick and down to Liddesdale, one time pretending the King’s justice, then another allying with England if there was more to be gleaned from that airt. The first Earl Bothwell gained lands and title by helping James IV have his father killed. The old king called for a priest in the cottage where he fled to shrive him, but instead got a blade in his vitals. Peace be on him.

  Anyway, Earl Patrick is the one to be dealt with, by me onyroads. He was a long lanky fellow, pasty white in the flesh but very proud with it. He slid his eye past you and then back up from behind. He was a boy with the freedoms of a man and he soon picked on me, coming to my father’s farm offering release from rent or service. And the eyes slid round.

  Fool of a girl, more flattered than afraid, I thought me something special running to the woods to meet the young earl. And he took me in hand till by one shift or another we were lovers before I was ever virgin.

  So then my belly began to swell and we seemed happy, till glowers began at home. And I was still full of health, asking him when I would be wed and carried off to live in Castle Hails where it towers above the river – not rogered in the woods around.

  Aye let a tear drop slow, for never was trusting innocence so abused. Hepburn I was by flesh but of low degree. Lanky Pat was pleased to see his manhood proven but not to marry the mother. Everything was arranged without my knowing. Wealth and degree governs all, Francesca, and so it will be till the end of time, whatever John Knox had to say on the matter.

  They took my bairn girl from me. Even where I lay in bloody sheets holding my own scrap of life to a sore stiffe
ned nipple. And carried her off to Hailes where I never saw her again, even when I went there later. What happened to the lass? She comes later as well, God preserve us. Did even Mother Mary see such sorrow, before the end that is, but there was no end for me not even a beginning. Put that down, sister, for in this man’s world it is woman’s lot to suffer, till she shifts for herself, and then she’s pilloried for a daughter of Eve, if she cannot be secret. That has been my bane throughout, the having to be secret, to my own cost, as you shall hear. Fill the glass for this next is hard to tell.

  They came by night with a cart, and muffled my howling in a sack, like I was for jail or the stocks. But then I was brought to convent – not here, goose, but to the proper buildings we had then, other side of Tyne. The richest convent in all Scotland, though little I cared as the metal grilles clanged shut on young flesh. How I grat and ached, but that was a beginning too. Beth Hepburn cellarer and guest mistress – she was what came of it all. The Prioress was Hepburn, too, but highborn. They had it all in hand, the earls, though she was kindly and let me settle down in my own way.

  Little did she know. Ten paternosters before another word is spilt. We’re holy sisters yet, not blaspheming Protestants. One glass for comfort, two for joy. Three for digestion.

  Do I think much of Pat? Not at all, and very little then. A slimy fish that could wrap his tail round you if he had a mind. So bit by bit I settled down and forgot my troubles. Word comes that the young Earl is to wed Agnes Sinclair, Lady of Morham. Good luck to her thinks I, she’ll be needing some, and so it turned out. But I was less bothered than interested since Agnes was a high up cousin of Marion, who was already married in the town to one of the Earl’s men – did I tell that before? William Knox. And she had two fine healthy boys.

  Sometimes Marion came to visit, for she was like a young auntie to me, and saddened by what I had suffered. Folk came and went freely then in the convent, which is hard to think on now when it is all destroyed. There was a gate and court, a great square yard round which each sister had her apartments. Aye, Francesca, rooms, not squeezed into this small house, since most were well-born, and even I was a Hepburn despite all.

  There was a chamber for receiving visitors that opened into a great dining hall for feast days, though sisters would eat in their own rooms at ordinary times. Behind the hall were kitchens, stores and other offices, administering the farms and rents. There was money and lands aplenty then. Where did all that go, Francesca? To filthy Protestants like Maitland of Lethington, and even, God forgive him, Earl James. Never mind that for now. I was happy enough, and Prioress trained me up to manage the stores and kitchens. So I always fed well which was a comfort.

  The chapel was at another corner of the square, set back from the public road, and they kept the Hours there, those who were able, and a priest came each day to say Mass. Beyond the main buildings, near to the town as you know, the Church of St Martin was ours as well. Crimson robes, gilded carvings, silver cups, incense and music. All roofless now. What a wreck came on mother Church. Protestant English and French cannon by turn. Honest townsfolk put to wrack and ruin whether they loved the old ways or the new, though most preferred the old.

  Trim your quill now, Francesca, for this is what you need to hear. Someone will make use of this beyond our town, aye and poor Scotland. Yet I would be loath to abuse him were he not dead. For the dead can’t be hurt, no more than they already suffer in Purgatory for their sins. And surely he resides there, though if Protestants don’t hold with it maybe they go straight to hell. But not Master John, for he was religious in his soul, though driven by fleshly desires, as all young men are and should be, else how would humankind survive? Don’t leer so, lassie, it’s not becoming for a Sister of Christ.

  Thank you, Francesca, I shall. It’s a comfort in such times, not to be denied.

  My dear Marion, and her husband William, died of the plague. May she rest in Paradise for there was not a single bad thought in her soul, whatever buboes pustuled her body. The love she lavished on her children, especially gentle earnest little John, for he was her favourite, wins merit in Heaven. Maybe she felt she had married beneath her so she would nurture such a special child that all would come right for Sinclair and Knox. I can’t remember what year, but the convent was sealed up from the town for six months till the pest cleared. The two boys though were fine enough for their loss, and went to their Aunt Elizabeth at Samuelston, where she was married on the Laird.

  With the bit of money left them, those lads, John and William, received the best of education. But it was John who stood out, as Marion always said he should. From grammar school he went to university and was ordained the youngest ever priest in Scotland.

  Haddington was proud, but then came a reverse. There was no preferment for Father John. By rights he should have gone to Europe, which he later did in other sort than ever Pope intended, but money seemed lacking. Besides, some said Samuelston was overfond of Luther’s teaching, which was treason. So John came home to attend as priest at St Nicholas Chapel, which was in the Laird’s gift, but a down coming for the brilliant boy.

  From there the young priest came in turn to serve Mass. I thought to go and see his mother’s son. What a small pretty man, with big shining eyes, long nose, fresh-face beard to fill out his backward chin, and dainty hands. And his voice rich and deep beyond this slight, neat frame, with something feeling for Christ’s pain and Holy Mother Mary. Had he himself not suffered loss? From that time convent chapel always filled for Father John, and he was made favourite for Mass priest.

  I spoke to him about his mother and told him to come after Mass for sustenance. And so he did by habit, coming to my quarters by the kitchens to enjoy a hearty feed before riding back to Samuelston.

  I own my fault, Francesca, in letting such a habit grow into friendship. It was not his thought or my intention. Yet he was young and sometimes melancholy as if there was a loss in his affection and a need for comfort. I was fuller now in body but well-formed and my flesh was apt for love. Aye, you may stare, but nature speaks beyond these robes and vows, and I was not meant for chaste denial. I had not sworn to such an oath, and my desire was thwarted.

  Don’t gape – just write down the story now you have me bothered into telling it. You know the power of wanting as much as I do. God knows I’ve heard you moaning in your bed so you may give over preening and simpering like a holy idiot.

  He knew little but learned fast my John, attentive to a woman’s body as if it were his holy mother. Out of tunic he was fine boned, lean, and muscled, a pretty man. He loved the naked, pressing on my skin, touching, stroking like a pet lamb. From youthful fumblings we came to play in earnest, not once or twice but every week and sometimes more if it might be contrived. His hair was brown but auburn at the breast creeping down to red tangled roots around the member. Don’t write that, goose.

  For more than a year we were bound, sated. Yet in our coupling was little joy. I felt my womb scarred and barren. The more I knew it hopeless love, the more I demanded. He seemed brooding, even in despair. Why was he discarded, unknown, left prey to secret sin? Aye, I’m sure he thought it sin, which is only nature’s way with all her children. This was not enough: he wanted more, to have his specialness made known. But he knew not which way to turn.

  Each day he came to serve the Mass his slender hands touched God; I felt it on my flesh – this is my body. But he was careless, unseeing what he handled. I was unable to confess, or be shriven. What could I have told? They would have run witless to expel me.

  I am not sorry stealing that pleasure to myself; I am glad, for my love was already stolen, broken. Listen to me now, Francesca, there may be one love then years of solitude. See, lass, let’s cry together. Feel these old arms round you for Mary Mother holds us safe. Let the devil do his worst elsewhere. There, there, that’s enough blubbering.

  I went to stay three nights at Nunraw Grange. There was farm business for sorting, and he came to see me there. He could lie in my cha
mber without let or hindrance. That was the best, out of sight or hearing, I fed him dainties, tended every need, and made my body serve his passions. But on the third day he rose and began to shut himself away from me. I saw his countenance close, even as desire sank. He was strangely quiet, was Father John, as if expecting some inner visitation. Did he have a foreknowing gift, even then?

  That evening he took horse for home and I knew he would not come again. Something else was stirring; his time of waiting was nearly over. The days of destruction were upon us. His time for me had ended.

  Was that love or a devilish passion, I know not? He went on to the Devil’s work, but it was my time, Francesca Clare, not his. For all it was or could ever be, there was no other. Strange fruit. I never had another man that moved me like him. Sometimes, I think everything else has been a dream. Or was I dreaming then?

  Dear God, for Christ your Son and all the Saints, let’s have a cheerful supper and forget such sorrows. Old sins are long since paid, while we are still alive and breathing. What enters in by the mouth cannot defile, thanks be to Him.

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  RIDING INTO ST ANDREWS behind my old master, the horse’s breath froze on grey air, hooves on North Street cobbles. Lindsay’s back swayed with the horse, straight as a staff, the way he teaches all young knights to hold themselves at ring and ball and joust.

  Was this my becoming Protestant? Or was it before? Father had Gospels in the English tongue, and was always reading, quoting how the Church of Rome was Antichrist, but especially the cardinals and archbishops who prise the King’s ear from his loyal servants.

  And then the King, defeated on the Solway Moss, was dead. Horses clattering into the yard, I came out knowing my father was away on the campaign. War brings trouble even at home. I faced this on my own, no longer a boy. Mounted valets on each side – they’re holding him up, tied to the girths, and leaning on the horse’s neck. White, ghastly white, streaked with vomit.