The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  I must walk here on my own, though they follow behind at a distance. This is your place. The tower rooms are still furnished, barely, but the audience chambers beyond are empty, boarded and echoing. I long for rugs and hangings. Grey light washes in tall windows lending small illumination. Here you paced, leaving no footprints, but I am your familiar, your ghost.

  The garden court is more welcoming, though weeds force their way through the paths, and variegate once strictly ordered beds. These are in the French fashion, and open beyond into wider gardens stretching into shrubberies and orchards as far as we can see on every side. What harmony of beauty and design, spreads out below Arthur’s Hill, while partaking of this sanctuary the Abbey bounds are bathed in peaceful quiet. I like this place, our place.

  We turn at last into the Abbey Church. Everything seems stark and gloomy. Where are its altars, its candles, its banners? Chapels abandoned; prayers and masses silenced; light of the sacred host extinguished. Is this what Master Knox calls holiness?

  Yet the dead are here also, my Stewart ancestors. King James my royal father, secluded in his ornate tomb. Does he countenance such Protestant emptiness? And my mother’s absence, his beloved Guise. Fragile Madeleine lies here, but not his true consort. She is at rest in France, while these walls whisper her name. Marie, Mary. Come back. I have come. So cold without a living flame.

  Our quarters are in my father’s Tower. Son château fort et agréable. Deserted now, but who resides in the Courts beyond, one after the other receding into the spacious gardens? Monks dwelled here once, but now there is endless accommodation for servants, nobles, royal officers. A palace as royal and commodious as any in France. Do not malign the Scots for parsimony, my Marys, salute their pride and honour. We shall earn their just esteem.

  When will my ships berth so that these chambers and yards may again be our living, breathing place, the beating heart of our kingdom? Let poetry, dance and pageant reign. Let masses be said and wise decrees scribed. This is my beginning, my inheritance, and we shall make it proud and joyful. Though I must wear black mourning, and not give way to gaudy show.

  ‘Where will the King’s apartments be?’ asks Beaton.

  ‘What King? I have lost my husband,’ I reply in reserved dignity.

  ‘He will have space to choose from,’ quips Livingston.

  How they babble. Must the Queen have a consort who should be King? Perhaps Elizabeth will never wed. And why should I? Is once widowed not enough? Bearing no fruit.

  The kingdom wants an heir, young and full of promise. I shall give birth to a manling. And you, my companions, will be wed each one to a nobleman and loyal counsellor of his Queen. We shall generate new followings and kin.

  ‘I will never leave you, not by my choice, in life or death,’ says Seton.

  ‘No more melancholy, dear ones, no diffident looks. Turn out those trunks till we furnish ourselves with some comfort. Bring wine and cake to refresh our bodies, and may this weather lighten to tune our souls. In such echoing emptiness we will make a court together.’

  I do not feel strange here. We have come home and will bring life and warmth to deserted places, a hearth for the kingdom and hope for my people. At Holyrood the Queen of Scots has come to dwell with her own. But the Queen’s belly is toom; let the poor lass and her ladies be fed, lest like her father she might go begging in disguise and learn the secrets of her subjects.

  Please rest and be calm. There are long days ahead of us. So Fleming.

  What prudent foresight for one so young and blithe. Has Scotland made her grave before her time? We have only just landed. Our Court will mend all heaviness, and make this Kingdom light once more.

  Truckle beds are spread out in the Tower apartments. I shall make my private rooms here, as my father did, because it can be sealed off from the palace chambers and offices, secure within its bounds. We are safe here, eating from our laps, sipping wine from wooden beakers. Girls again, playing at picnics.

  But the mist swirls round and grey shapes mass around the palace grounds. Will they roll and break over us in drowning waves? No, the people, my people, serenade their queen with holy psalms. The Marys block their ears as pipes screech and viols scrape, out of key with untutored voices. No, dear Marys, sincerity brings harmony. Wave at the open window. Protestants should not be blamed; they mean well. Come again tomorrow, good friends, but for now let us retire to sleep. We have travelled far on unfriendly seas.

  Late abed; restless night. Between wakeful moments I see an island. And on it a garden where we wander free. Hollyhocks and roses, beds of waving lavender, golden daisies with white ruffs. We put out to sea on foaming oceans and all the mothers are in our boat waving silver handkerchiefs, but I cannot hear what they are saying, mouths opening and closing as they are swallowed up by fog. I am being left behind; stone walls rear up to close me in. The dark tower stifles, smothers, and I am awake fighting for breath, panic rising.

  Fleming has her arm round my shoulders and wine at my lips. I am alright; I am back at Holyrood in Scotland. My mother and my father were so near. Our Marys have become the mothers and all is well. All shall be well. God is merciful now and at the hour of our death. The sign of Holy Cross protects against our deepest fears. I thank God for my religion, when all else fails. This has been left to me for hope and courage. The morning will bring better comfort.

  Fleming’s breast is warm and soft like goose down in a cotton bolster. I can sleep again in safety sleep, like a daughter.

  Mary

  THE SHIPS HAVE arrived. Everything is here except the horses, which were diverted to England, before Elizabeth’s safe-conduct was announced. My beautiful mounts will come soon, in time for our ceremonial entry to Edinburgh. Carts and mules ferry everything up with endless unpacking, decorating and storing.

  These yards are a maze of chambers and cellars with room for all the household. What will it be like when Court gathers? My tapestries hang well in these fine audience rooms, and the great gallery will be magnificent for music and dancing. The Lady and Unicorn weaves will go there. There is a finely carved stone unicorn at the palace gate beside his Lion mate. I must have those marvellous creatures regilded.

  My chapel is dressed, the altar gleaming with Grannie Bourbon’s silks. The lamp of the Blessed Sacrament is lit, a comfort to set against the desecrated Abbey Church. It was dedicate to Holy Cross, St Mary Virgin and All Saints, in memory of my blessed ancestor St Margaret of Scotland. We pray for better times.

  Beaton says Holyrood is Chambord en Écosse, and I see what she means in our ornate façade. But the gardens are larger here, and the setting much grander. My master gardener wastes no time as the men come back to work and everything is quickly restored to order. They are fine gardeners in Scotland, I can see, but we must have more flowers and fragrant herbs to complete Amman’s design. The summer is shorter so we must work harder for the beauty and the art. Yet sun has chased away the fogs and everything is so green and bright, not blanched or faded as in Loire heat.

  At last the entry. On the eve we ride by Holyrood, with Arthur’s Seat rising on our left, to dine at Cardinal Beaton’s mansion. This seems a strange choice to my Beaton, but it is convenient for so large a party and is a fine house in the French style. Many gentlemen of old families are there to greet me and pay homage. There is food in plenty with fine music and all are glad and merry. A few, I am told, have stayed away at Master Knox’s bidding since he disapproves of courtly life. Let him repent at his own leisure but not disturb my people’s happiness at their Queen’s return.

  Our procession began at the Castle. We rode up from the north side and in the great Port or Gate. This is a fortress, ringed by walls of rock and surmounted by towers. It stares down at the houses far below but also looks out over land, hill, island, sea. It has the nature of my kingdom in its gaze.

  After stirrup cups in the yard, we assemble on open ground before the gate. Fifty Moors go before. ‘Their costumes have seen better days,’ says Beaton in m
y ear. No matter, this day is joyous. My party forms beneath a waving canopy, while behind knights and burgesses provide my escort, brightly attired and armed, flags and banners held from their saddles.

  Then down into the town, hooves on cobbles, horns and trumpets sound and cheers from the gathered folk. The Castle guns roar a noisy salute and the horses start. No psalms today. In the wide Lawnmarket we pause before a wooden arch, gaily painted. This is my point of entry since there is no gate on the castle side. A choir of children sings sweetly from its battlements and, as I pass beneath, a golden globe descends and opens to reveal a bonny angel who presents me with the keys and a velvet Bible. I cannot hear his words of welcome, as I pass the books to Erskine, Captain of my Guard, but I remain passive and unmoved. Erskine is most stern and handsome.

  Waving to the crowd, I move on towards St Giles where the way narrows. Here the Virtues are on dumb display as costumed virgins. Many of the nobility wait beyond the Kirk, finely arrayed and mounted to show their estate. I acknowledge all graciously and go on towards the Cross.

  The common sort have massed here to see the fountains run with wine, but many were already drunk, raising unruly bottles and fondling women of the town. My guards closed up to steer me past. Livingston and Beaton were in stitches at the antics but I was composed for the present. At the Salt Tron three effigies were burning; Huntly told me later they had been priests till he arrived and turned them into disobedient Israelites. At Netherbow Gate there were more fires as a dragon was set ablaze to sacred music. Do they anticipate an apocalypse? So much paint and timber put to waste. The Council of Edinburgh seems over fond of burnings.

  Beyond the gate, the nobility gathers round to accompany me to the Palace. We can relax there as the pageant is complete. People line the Canongate to wave and cheer. They are warm people in this country, who do not stand on needless ceremony or restrain their feelings. I am glad of it. But at Holyrood one last Protestant anthem is recited, as a cartload of children have been rehearsed to chant against the Mass. I thank them for their voices and retire.

  I will hear no more for now about feastings. Does my Council not convene tomorrow for its first day of formal meeting? So tonight we supper in my rooms, alone with wine and dainties, and tease out every moment of this never-ending day, to reenact and criticise and praise. It has been my day for, despite all their efforts at defiance, the Calvinists could not sour it. Laugh or sing or play, since politics will have its say. But today the advantage is mine. I have been seen by my people, in royal state. They like what they see.

  The palace has a different mood this morning. Many of the lords have rooms by ancestral right in this warren of chambers and dark passages. Many also have houses in the Canongate but come and go in company with those lodging here, from first light until curfew. I hear comings and goings, challenges and greetings as I drift from sleep to wakefulness. We are a Court now, not just a palace. When the nobles are in residence only this Tower is our sanctuary. The rambling ranges hum like some hive of never resting bees.

  They occupy two sides of a long table, bearded and bonneted. My Lords in Council. As they arrive each comes to greet me in person. I feel Bothwell’s eyes looking into mine as if to sense my inmost thoughts. Argyll, Glencairn: this is the first time I have met the western lords since they were in France. Morton – what small pig eyes he has. Hamilton and his strange son, Arran, are in attendance but silent, as if to say they reserve their position on my government. I can see there is no love lost between them and James Stewart. Bothwell seems able to antagonise all parties equally, but he discomforts my brother most of all. Why should that be?

  Good Huntly is Chancellor, yet for all his bulk he directs little, since James and Maitland have everything in hand. Formal business is dispatched without discussion and they disband within an hour. As he goes Bothwell mutters that I must not let them send him to the Borders as he is my only true friend in Scotland. What a hungry young man he is, never satisfied. His face is swarthy and mottled these days, as well as broken at the nose, but his black eyes gleam with pride and desire. I like James Hepburn, and their jealousy will not deny me his loyal service or strong arm.

  They retire to drink and talk in twos and threes. It seems everything important happens outside the meetings. I keep genial Athol and Lord John Stewart, my other charming half-brother, near me to make friends. Thank God I have some genial relations and my Marys. Otherwise this Court would be heavy weather.

  Yet in Scotland even Calvinists can dance. When the day advances all are pleased to drink the best French wine and eat royal game. My table will be generous and my musicians naturally excel. Some nobles have their wives at Court, and they come out to view the fashions and display their native finery. Others cluster round my ladies – Livingston, Beaton, Fleming and the rest. I catch Morton leering at my wardrobe mistress with his narrow eyes. I would have all pleasance but I shall not permit immorality or license in my household. Let the godly take note and for once be satisfied.

  Two days go by in conversation and recreation. This kingdom has been without a Court and now its life is being reborn. Everyone except the preachers cannot but be agreeable. Yet on Sunday, passing into Mass, I hear oaths and curses. I turn back towards the door as three or four armed men come running, abusing the priests and denouncing idolatry. Lord Lindsay is one, Arran another. Would they do violence in my own chapel? I want to confront them but Erskine draws me back behind the altar. Suddenly Lord James is there blocking the way, denying them entrance, I see the black cloth of his broad shoulders and a drawn blade.

  ‘Stand away, you have no business here.’

  His tone is calm and even.

  ‘Cleansing papist stews is our business.’

  ‘This service has been allowed. You have no right and if you do not give way then you will suffer for it.’

  The threat is clear and they edge back under protest.

  ‘You’re treating with the Devil.’

  ‘Nonetheless I gave my word and stand by it. So give way.’

  Violence rises in his tone, straining like a hunting dog at scent. I had not seen him like this before. They went off grumbling, still with weapons in their hands, while my brother stood outside the door until Mass was done. Behind his gravity there is blunt strength.

  Naked blades drawn in anger. I have never known such a thing before. My presence, it seems, is no protection.

  Maitland and Lord James are in conference about the embassy to London. And again they are discussing my marriage. As if yesterday’s events had not taken place, or were situated in some foreign country, not my private quarters in the palace. I approve the embassy, for my dearest wish is to be friends with Elizabeth. I shall write to her in my own terms. As for another husband, I am indifferent to such an outcome. I shall remain in mourning, as befits a widowed Queen.

  Mary

  I WANT TO Meet John Knox. James and Maitland look askance but I must hear the dog bark from his own mouth. What is this thing I have to reckon with? Will they kill the priests and confessors before my eyes? So Maitland sends for the Minister of St Giles, who comes promptly, under my brother’s watchful eye. I take Master Knox into my garden, which is filling up with new blooms by the day.

  ‘What shall we talk about, Maister Knox?’ I am careful to use the Scots address, as more friendly and familiar.

  ‘Whatever your Majesty pleases.’

  He is surprising in the flesh, smaller and somehow delicate, fine boned. The eyes are liquid, brown and melting, intense. Knox appears a man of emotion as well as reason.

  ‘I think I shall scold you.’

  ‘That is the prerogative of your sex, madam.’

  Was that a twinkle?

  ‘I have been told that you have raised some of my subjects against me.’

  ‘Whoever said that has done you no service.’

  ‘In a book, Maister Knox, written by you against the “unnatural” rule of women. You are the author of this work?’

  ‘Indeed,
madam.’

  ‘It is not a good book, and I have set some learned men to answering it.’

  ‘I shall abide their questions.’

  He seems unwilling to take offence, yet is wholly unmoved by his Sovereign’s disapproval. Has he no experience of Court manners?

  ‘Do you hate women, Maister Knox?’

  ‘Indeed no, your Majesty, I do not. My faults are all on the fond side.’

  There is a smile in those luminous eyes. The face is slender, musing and melancholy.

  ‘Yet you stand accused of disobedience and sedition. I can hardly believe it of such a douce and modest man. But where there is smoke, Maister, there is usually fire.’

  I think there was a sigh and a drawing up of his shoulders as he stepped away from my side and drew himself up to address me at some length. His only aim is to teach simple truth according to God’s Word – how we should worship and live godly lives. If that offends the vanity of papistical religion and the false authority of the Roman Anti-Christ, so be it. But it is always right to obey the commands of just and godly Princes.

  ‘Yet you deny my authority.’ I bring him to a halt.

  ‘All through the ages, madam, learned men have had liberty to express their opinions, while living peaceably and doing nothing to disturb the peace. I have communicated my views but if the realm finds no inconvenience in a woman’s rule then I shall not oppose it, except in my private conscience, unless you yourself oppress the saints of God.’ He has the decency to blush and look away at this sophistry. ‘The truth is, Madam, I wrote that book against the Jezebel, Mary Tudor of England. You were never in my thoughts.’