The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  We have spoken together for three days without pause, brother and sister. We walk and talk and walk again, inside and out. The cloisters are worn by our steps; it is a private place, and we are safe here within the Abbey’s sanctuary. As you are safe here, now, forever.

  Lord James has grown even more serious than he was when a boy. He looks at me through grey unblinking eyes, with something in them of the cold sea. They seem to judge me as one on whom everything has been freely lavished, while he has had to make his own way, establishing himself by unstinting effort. Is that his idea of justice? We have both lost a father, but I am bereft also of my mother. He does not understand the struggles of this Court, or how I have had to please everyone since my childhood. I never knew my father who took him hunting. Always the son is favoured, even when bastard-born.

  Still he is my own half-brother, flesh of my flesh. I am familiar with him since my youngest days in France. There is comfort in his presence. He sits close by me, strong and compact in his body. He has an arm of steel which has already proved its worth in battle. But is his soul also adamant, his heart unfeeling? He does not touch me or embrace when we meet.

  He says he did not betray you, Maman, but that as the kingdom had turned Protestant new policy was needed. If I return to Scotland he will support and advise me as rightful ruler of the nation, and as his own good sister, near in blood and kindness. He pays you his dutiful respect, in death.

  Is that of any comfort?

  Of course, in the absence of a king, he already has a ruling Council established by the nobles without my authority, in which he wields most influence. He offers me his protection, but in return he would be Earl of Moray and confirmed Regent till I return. Does he really want me to marry elsewhere and leave him to reign in Scotland? Are my Scottish nobles also searching Europe for a match that will keep me away? I wonder about Scotland and would like to see it for myself.

  Yet he sits by me as a brother. He shares my thoughts and feelings. We are both without parents, and raised amongst strangers.

  Lord James has a scent on his beard, like rose water. I think this an odd choice for his closely cropped chin, strong nose, full mouth with narrow lips. He has no woman to advise and guide him. What kind of Court will I find in Scotland? What kind of men will seek to govern me? I can, I think, depend on him, but shall not confirm him Earl or Regent yet.

  Today we speak of religion. He says Scotland must align with England so that we may achieve unity between the realms, and peace on the island of Britain. He is testing me to see if I shall make faith a stumbling block, but I do not oblige.

  Instead I ask why the Scottish lords have given up my claim to the crown of England. Is my right not the surest way by which the realms may be united?

  But not as Catholic nations he counters, trying again, to flush me out.

  I keep my counsel on that matter, but press my right to the succession if Elizabeth bears no children. We are both grandchildren of Henry VII, she by the son and I by the daughter. She is unmarried. He concedes my argument, without referring to their wretched treaty. If Elizabeth grants my rightful place in the succession, then the spirit of their treaty will be fulfilled, and my claim is satisfied without offence.

  Because of things Lord James does not say, I feel he knows more of my refusal to approve their English terms than he is revealing. His informant is surely William Cecil in London or the English ambassador here. Nonetheless we are agreed on how we should proceed.

  Of course I cannot give up my faith, since it is the true religion of Christ. Yet I would not impose on any, if they will in turn respect my freedom. He draws breath before commenting. I watch his mind turning and his eyes assess my sincerity. The face is as blank and unexpressive as his solid frame. Is he sincere?

  Why turn Protestant. Is it money and lands? They say our father might have plundered the Church by reform, but he already had its wealth at his disposal. This brother James claims to be Prior of St Andrews, yet our great Cathedral was looted by the mob at John Knox’s urging and he did nothing to stop it. My brother craves the security of power. I sense it from his every pore, stronger than desire or mental delight. Yet there is something earnest in his convictions. His mind is Calvinist, if not his morals. Is that the Protestant way – to believe the worst of every human will, to expect betrayal, violence and low cunning? If so I have no part in such philosophy, which can only fulfill the bleakness it foreshadows.

  It might be, he insinuates, that a queen could practice private devotion in her royal chapel while the religion of the realm is unaffected. What a Protestant idea, but I will not demur. You and I, Maman, are politique in public, while wedded to the faith of our mothers. I would reign over a united kingdom, or kingdoms, by right of blood, not presumption of religion. But can such tolerance satisfy the zealots, or even Cecil’s hatred of the Catholic pretender?

  Lord James and I understand each other, not just as Stewarts, but as civilised creatures. His French is excellent for one who was not brought up here as I have been. We are both political. On that at least we can agree.

  On this last day we rose early. Uncle Claude provided an escort to the forest where the royal hunt was waiting for us. James assures me I will never lack for sport in Scotland. Why did you not learn to hunt? I know that Grannie Bourbon disapproves, yet you were a Queen of Scots.

  This is the call of life, to feel the rush of wind on your face, the whip of branches, the crack of twigs and cones beneath the hooves. The hounds lope ahead like supple, never tiring wolves, until with a blast of horns, the quarry sighted, chase begins in earnest.

  This sport unites us, and I match his pace mile for mile. I do not fear the boar at bay or the royal stag who lowers his many-pointed crown to charge. At the finish I can wield a knife as well as any man. French courtiers look in askance but James knows our family passion, and for once seems carefree, exultant in the hunt and at the kill. This brings us close as kin, who rule a country rich in game. I long to see those wild lands and forests. James promises that when I return we will make a progress and hunt together at Glen Finglas. Did I hear that name when I was small? Strange on the tongue yet somehow familiar.

  Back at the Abbey we eat rich food and talk long and deep over wine in my chamber. We name each of Scotland’s great and weigh their worth, their place in our new situation. Without the earls and lords, he swears, Scotland cannot be governed, yet many of them are so proud themselves in nature as to be ungovernable.

  The Douglas following is like the Guise in France, led now by Morton. He has written to me defending his part in this Reformation and asserting his alliance with Lord James. But he is greedy, whatever James avers in his support, and pleads his right to the estates of young Earl Douglas, whom he has in ward. Morton is not to be trusted but cannot be ignored. I will refuse his request since the young Earl is connected to me through the marriage of my grandmother Margaret Tudor to the Douglas. I shall not have my will presumed or forced. I am not some callow girl but a sovereign queen. James falls silent on Morton’s merits and his religion.

  The Hamiltons are next to us in blood, so the old Duke has most claim to the title of Regent. His son, Earl Arran, was proposed as Elizabeth’s suitor. This spurned, the Hamilton interest offers me Arran’s hand so he may climb next the throne. But once there Hamiltons would presume to rule. James tells me he is strange and may be mad. I recall he slavers in his food. We did not know what to make of Arran in France so he must be fended off in Scotland, though without offence. Hamiltons hold more of Scotland in their grasp than even Morton.

  William Maitland Lord James commends as my most able statesmen. It was not his fault he had to leave my mother’s service in her hour of need. Maitland too has written me a letter, offering his devoted service. Like mother, so daughter? I need his skills as Secretary and emissary to Elizabeth. The catch is that he favours English friendship and is allied most closely to Lord James. The Maitlands are true courtiers, and I will write in cordial terms since his loyalty wi
ll be crucial to my government. But might young Maitland prove false to me as he did to you?

  Athol, Crawford, Caithness, and Huntly, above all Huntly, are the Catholic faction with great following in the north. I did not tell Lord James that their messenger is already here in France asking me to support a rising against his Council. He may or may not know, but is vehement the Catholic lords are unable to unite or to defend the realm, particularly against a Protestant England determined to subdue a hostile neighbour. We both have suffered the consequences of that power.

  Then Bothwell too is of their party. James looks closely at me to trace my feelings about this rash young nobleman who was so recently in France. I defend him as a promising soldier, if no statesman. My brother grunts and says he would do anything for gain since Patrick the father left his cupboard bare. I am not willing to condemn Earl Bothwell who is loyal and will be useful. He is the man to hold our borders. I can see jealousy, or is it hate, in these normally blank grey eyes. How will my realm be ordered without strife and violence? It is not easy to rule such men, yet I have studied this art here in France.

  That leaves Argyll, Lindsay, Glencairn, Erskine, Kirkcaldy, Ruthven and other Protestants who must be appeased by equal favour. Many though are gentleman and may be civil. Except John Knox for he will not suffer any cause for silence. We have the measure of such zealots here in France. I look forward to bearding Master Knox and hearing his theology, poor as it is. He may be more pleasing in the flesh than on the page. James seems torn between commending Knox and warning me against him, so refrains from speech. My brother is well practiced in the cult of silence.

  By the end of this conversation it is clear that I am coming home, and that his Council remains in force till I return to order government with James Stewart as guide and mainstay. He will not be called Governor or Regent as I shall reign in my own right. I will write later to let him know my decision. I do not want anything to spoil this time together, or my dear mother’s sacred obsequies. He is returning home before the requiem mass, to avoid contamination.

  The Marys arrive. We hold apart for an instant, but then burst into one uncontrollable flood like rivers in spate. We cannot restrain ourselves because we are united once again. They stood together in hesitation, heads lowered, but then Beaton broke ranks, next Seton and Livingston till finally Fleming abandoned decorum. We hug and weep and crush our mourning silks, and almost dance for tearful joy.

  Since my marriage to Francis the Marys have been on the edge of the household, a Scottish island in the French ocean. But we shall return home together united as we came. I cannot express how I feel, so full of grief, yet happy. We are a family, equally divided from our own flesh.

  They look well, except perhaps for Seton whose pallor has become perpetual, a veil of self-denial. Pious sacrifice will become her way of life. Livingston is fuller in the body, a Diana made for love and admiration. Beaton is sharp and bright as ever, vigorous in mind and body – Venus and Minerva all in one. She should be a queen as well as I – a duchess at least. I may make her one after we go to Scotland.

  Fleming is the surprise. Always the elder sister, now she seems stronger and more composed than ever, Juno incarnate. She reassumes her place as chief lady without apology or fuss. She steers and chides the others, and will be my mainstay, my touchstone, the measure of conduct and of my conscience. She will manage the personal household; this is her natural part and she will perform it to the full. She fills the place left empty by mother, husband, uncles, aunt.

  How did I ever cope without Fleming? Her return is like the coming of the seasons, expected yet doubly welcome. She seems more serious but her laugh is warm, and her smile always ready for the dutiful soul or the repentant prodigal alike. Dear Fleming, how could I ever survive without your companionship?

  Now I can depart from you, Maman, just as we said goodbye so long ago, yet we never left each other’s hearts. You are here at home in peace, for it is I who must go away to Scotland. But I have my family with me, as I had before. We sisters of Mary shall not be parted while breath remains in our bodies.

  Pray for me now, and at the hour of my death. I keep you ever in remembrance till we meet again- here in earthly form and in heaven. I keep the thorn of Christ King Henri gave me in your honour, swathed in pearls and glass. You will be beside me always.

  Goodbye, dear Maman. Goodbye, Aunt Renée. She has you in her kindly guarding. This lovely Abbey of St Pierre holds part of me as well. Let me return here at the end.

  I am excited to be going back to Scotland. There I can reign without Medici or the Uncles always at my elbow. I shall be truly Queen at last, Queen of myself. Let fair winds fill the sails.

  Le voyage commence.

  Mary

  OUR FINAL SCENE with Ambassador Throckmorton, is played on the quay.

  ‘Madam, my mistress Queen Elizabeth earnestly desires that you might ratify the treaty.’

  Poor Throckmorton bows repeatedly due to his discomfort. But I have my answer prepared.

  ‘I cannot, sir, undertake such a step without the advice of my Lords in Council, since at present I am without counsel.’

  ‘But, Majesty, it was those same lords who drafted and approved the Treaty.’

  ‘Indeed, but I was not present in my Kingdom of Scotland at that time. Circumstances, Sir Nicholas, may change.’

  ‘But not solemn assurances.’

  This is abrupt for an ambassador.

  ‘Pray your mistress, my royal cousin, be patient, as I am about to embark for Scotland. Have you brought your sovereign’s safe-conduct for my passage?’

  I know the reply to this question already.

  ‘I regret, Majesty, it has not yet arrived.’

  ‘So many delays. How vexing the slow conduct of affairs can be for us all.’ I hear Beaton coughing back her giggles. ‘Nonetheless, we shall embark come what may, as loyal subjects await my arrival.’

  ‘Your Highness.’

  We replay the whole scene aboard, with Beaton as Ambassador trying to keep her voice subdued, but getting redder in the face with every second. Fleming makes a staider me, but very proper – graceful, if a little plumper.

  But we are away. Adieu, dear France, we may never see you more. We are Scotland bound.

  The cargo ships are left to plough their heavy furrow. A whole household is packed in ten ships. I hope the horses will be calm. Our two fast galleys break away, cutting through the waves. We must speed past England without Elizabeth’s safe conduct. I love to stand on deck and feel the wind on my face. I am without fear or sickness, facing north into the future. Everything is possible if I believe in myself, if I keep strong.

  Livingston comes up with me on deck. She has the sea legs and does not take cold. Beaton has begun to retch, she says. Groans and basins below.

  It was like this when we came to France as little girls, according to Fleming, and I teased them all the way without mercy. What a wild child I must have been before the Court took me in hand. A wild proud mountain Scot, I could take off this bonnet and shake my hair free, streaming in the breeze, like some storm maiden or an avenging fury. How Fleming would scold me for my dignity. There’s no one here to see me apart from sailors. I could stay on deck all night and sleep tomorrow.

  Is this what ancient writers call freedom?

  The Admiral assures me we are entering my kingdom from the northern sea. Firth of Forth, I remember from my schoolroom maps. But all is blanketed in thick mist. The Scots call it haar like Hollanders or Germans. There are islands here, he says, and rocks, but everything is cold and shrouded. Yet this is summer. The Marys shiver below, but I am wrapped in my cloak and hood staring upriver. Is that a hill or harbour? Berwick Law, they say. What strange names everything has here. I must become more familiar with their style of speech.

  The sails hang empty so the oars are lowered and we beat slowly through sluggish waters, casting lines and calling every looming shadow another sail. My escort straggles up on deck as we discern
the shores, and eventually the Marys are all around me, arms linked, gazing into the mirk. What future does this place of home hold for us? We cling together in fear and in hope. Scotland is strange to us, and yet our own.

  ‘Port of Leith to shore. Ship oars. Drop anchor.’

  Cries echo between the ships, hollowed by the eerie fog. There is no sign from land, no sound. ‘Fire’. A salute of guns from our galleys roars out and rolls against the sands with a dull thud. The Queen of Scots has come home, to a world asleep. Else everyone has died of plague. We descend below to await events.

  Later, we go ashore in a few small boats. Some onlookers line the quay, but they are like sleepwalkers in the mist. These are my people, of the common sort, who seem ragged but friendly. They understand my Scots speech I believe, though stare at me open-mouthed when I talk to them. We are ushered into a house near the harbour front where a fire attempts to cheer bare boards. Messengers have been sent to my Council and to the Provost, but we seem to have arrived ahead of time and expectation.

  As my horses have not come, we are brought Scots ponies on which to ride. The mist has begun to break up and I am very curious to see Edinburgh and my Palace of Holyrood. The horses are small beasts but spirited and we trot up the path with an escort from the Provost, who is not properly dressed to receive a queen. They do not stand on much ceremony here it would appear. He seems disconcerted, as if I was some marvel washed up from a realm beneath the waves.

  Great dark shapes rear suddenly from the clouds. This is the mountain of Arthur’s Seat; that the Hill of Calton. I had thought Arthur was a prince of England but it seems he reigned here as well. Over the rise is the Abbey and Palace. My mother made a beautiful garden there which I long to see. We are tired and want to come home, yet we are excited. Even though we are trying to be strict, as we top the rise we break into a gallop. I admit I broke away first, but then the others followed after with cries and shouts. And finally at the tail our escort thinking the horses had bolted. With a hurrah we clatter under the palace gatehouse. The Queen has come home like an ensign with her troop. Servants come running and my feet touch this sacred ground of Holyrood for the first time.