The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

I do not remember much of royal Scone, fertile Strathtay, or of bonny Dundee, though I saw its steeple rising above the glittering estuary as we were ferried across to Fife. Beaton’s family came to Scone to welcome her and urge her to return home with them to Angus, where the cardinal’s widow and all his kin were waiting to receive her. But Beaton would not leave me in my time of need. Besides we were set for famed St Andrews, which Beaton had never seen.

  What a strange light hovers on Tay waters where they ripple to the sea, eerie yet bright and hard, so different from the soft moist colours of Stirling and Perthshire. Mine is a rainbow kingdom, and not the grey mountain realm I imagined in France, or that the Calvinists conceive.

  When we touched Fife shore, I regained my strength and remounted. Now we were like pilgrims approaching the great shrine of Andrew. We wound along the shore where the monks of Balmerino came out to offer refreshment and a blessing. They at least are undisturbed. Then by Leuchars and the Guardbridge, we traced the pilgrim way looking towards the Town before us wreathed in evening light.

  The official welcomes over, we rode past the Colleges and into the Cathedral precinct. The massive building loomed above us in the gathering dark as we took up our apartments in the Prior’s residence, Lord James’ home. It was strange to be in my brother’s household for the first time, when he had been a guest in mine so often. We were hospitably but soberly entertained. After supper I sat with him a while beside a comfortable fire, though he has no small talk. He reminded me bluntly of his request to be made Earl of Moray, as this would allow him to make a suitable marriage. I promised to consider this fully when Court resumes at Holyrood. Marriages are something I can devise for others.

  Beaton was up first and urging us into outdoor clothes. A keen wind was chasing clouds and sun over the sky. What a wild sea-girt place this is. We went first to view the rugged castle on its cliffs. Unspoken in our minds was the cardinal’s brutal death, when his bloodied corpse hung over these walls. And at this spot George Wishart burned before the gates. Beaton is more excited than distressed, but I cross myself and pray that henceforth not one more soul will die for their religion in my kingdom. Dear Seton says a rosary.

  Then we walk along the cliff, churning waves to one side and the towering cathedral walls on the other. The chapel of St Mary by this path marks where the first seafaring monks came to a lonely promontory to seek a place of prayer. We turn into the monastery by the sea gate and, passing St Rule’s Tower, we enter the Cathedral from the east end. And come to sudden halt.

  What harmonious majesty and beauty soars above us, reaching to the heavens with waves of northern light flowing through its wide proportions. Yet what wreckage strewn on every side, as if a ferocious gale had seized this stately ocean-going ship and shaken it almost to destruction. Broken glass lies underfoot in many colours, statues shattered, cloths and fabrics torn. As we step gingerly down, we pass altars smashed at every pillar, aisle chapels wrecked. Doors hang open and the birds of the air fly through as if it were an empty barn.

  How my brother keeps his cathedral. Is this what they mean by pure religion, idolatry cleansed, swept away? But by St Andrew’s sacred relics, unless we can see the saints, how will people know holiness? The Mass according to the image breakers is idolatry, but at the altar we touch and see and taste the sacrifice of Christ. What does this destruction leave our souls? Bare stone; hollow tombs echoing death. This takes heaven from us, and penitential hope, leaving hell to fill empty unhallowed minds. I am trembling with anger, not with fear.

  Can they not see where this will end? A religion of fear and despair, worldly pride which acknowledges no restraints. When the house is swept bare the devil enters in to make a hell in heaven’s despite. They honour nothing and no one beyond themselves. All else must be dragged down and trampled beneath their senseless feet.

  I was half-carried, half-hurried, shaking and sobbing back to the house to lie down. But I cannot rest here any longer. We will go on to Falkland. I command it now and without delay. No, I will not see the University with Maister Buchanan. Let James follow if and when he will.

  So our small party canters out with the personal guard. Let winds blow and rain lash till we purge St Andrews from our souls and senses. Till I saw that place, I did not truly realise what has happened here and all that it means. I must be strong and cunning if Scotland is to be restored. But for now we must gallop. I shall find refuge and collect myself away from spying eyes and gossip tongues.

  We go over the hill, resting our horses on the ascent, then down into the Howe of Fife. The land is kindly here with woods and fields and farms. We thread our way deeper into the country, starting game and wild birds at every turn. Soon we come into my father’s hunting parks and Falkland is in our sights, surrounded by its wooded hills and streams. The château rises through the trees in all its towered strength. The household runs to greet us with hugs and kisses, all ceremony set aside. The horses are led away and we are drawn into the palace where every room is furnished, warm, unchanged since former times.

  Amidst friends and loyal servants I can rest. I will ride, hunt, eat and pray as I please. The Marys are themselves again. This place is peaceful, secure and hidden, the loveliest of all our houses. I feel you close here, Maman. Now I can sleep deep and long nights without dreams or terrors. Good night, dear ones.

  Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless the bed that I lie on.

  Day Book of the Marys

  Beaton

  I have unpacked this dusty book and opened its pages again. Now we are together, I would like everyone to write what is dearest to them so that it shall not be lost to each other. Mary need not read this unless she wishes, and even then she can pick and choose. But we should speak from our hearts, for nothing else truly serves us in this age of mirrors.

  Seton

  We are in our precious days, and we must mark them as if with God’s hourglass. I believe we shall all look back on these times as our happiest.

  Livingston

  Dear Seton, you are a sober guide when I am still a giddy girl. What a time we have had since arriving back in Scotland. But is it really the golden time returned? Everything is new for us and bright with unaccustomed colours. I have not felt so full of life since I know not when. Every day I go riding for at least two, or even three, hours. Sometimes we are hunting with the courtiers, sometimes hawking by ourselves, and other times galloping off on our own. She is a reckless rider when the mood comes on her, commanding me to follow. And we let fly through the royal park, or along the sands of Leith, or out onto the Lammermuirs in all weathers. We were never so free in France. At Falkland we escape all watching eyes, and roam through woods and fields, hair flowing like Diana’s maidens. Or is it maenads – Beaton knows better than I. I am so happy to be at home in Scotland. Am I too licentious, Seton? Surely not for this release is the most important thing. We have left sadness behind for a new beginning in our own country. So I pray every night for each and all.

  Beaton

  The Court at Holyrood is the best place I have ever danced. Every night with feasting done the carpets are rolled back and Mary leads us out to viol, lute and pipe. The royal gallery is perfect for display. How the Scottish nobles gawp, but in no time they too are on the floor at their Queen’s command, stepping out with the best. There is something fine and open in these men when they cast sour politics aside and join the dance. They are Scots in their fervour. Even Maister Buchanan is persuaded to shake his stiffened limbs. See the garments too. Even a black stocking can fit close and show the shapely leg to advantage. The Scottish ladies parade their finery, but every eye is on our lovely Mary. White veil thrown back, her red golden hair stands out against her mourning. And above black velvet, a circlet of silver pearls heightens her tall slender neck. As for her coiffure – there Seton has no match.

  But we too are stars in the constellation. I cannot stop myself dancing on till after midnight. I cannot leave the floor as one set of partners yields in their turn, while
the musicians play on, and Mary beats and claps and spins like a fire whose flames will not be doused. You will say I am extravagant. Maister Knox says we dance the Devil’s hornpipe. My blood denies his calumny and claims its birthright – for this I was made. Why should we be deprived? After all Mary is our queen.

  Livingston

  I would like to write which men at Court I admire and which I dislike – or is it detest? Beaton is the detester, not I. Yet that is what we all did as children and I know Fleming expects us to be discreet, even here in our own book. We will have to guess each other’s favourites or just drop hints. I love a guessing game, when concealment is expected. Court manners are stricter here than in France, but beneath the surface things may be different. We have never had such times before.

  Beaton

  What we miss here is theatre, compared with France. They seem averse to drama, as if it were an art accursed. But I have broached this matter with Buchanan who is Master of revels as well as poetry. Of course Mary cannot perform any longer in a play since she is queen, but we can while she presides. We shall become a court of interludes and masques with music, dance and elegant speeches in the classic modes. We shall appear as nymphs or muses in tribute to our queen, while the players provide farce and satire. This will please our Mary, and banish dullness from the court. Whatever else we suffer let us not be dismal, dreich as they say.

  Yet be warned, we are not defended against chaos or folly in this town. In France we were confined within the Court, but here walls have crumbling gaps. I write for our instruction, as I have heard different tales. Even Her Majesty may be protected from the truth, in error. This is Beaton’s skill, to listen and enquire; use it whoever wills.

  Bothwell and Arran quarrelled about some woman of the town. John Knox played peacemaker – his family has some old connection with the Hepburns. So off they go to the old Duke to feast together and seal this newfound amity. But the next day Arran comes pell-mell back, whipping his horse into a lather. To Knox he goes again, this time to accuse Bothwell of plotting the Queen’s abduction. So they may rule in her place, slaughtering Lord James, Maitland and any others who have misguided Her Majesty. It is like Odysseus’ return to massacre the suitors. Would we maids escape execution?

  Even Knox, who sees hellish sin in every peccadillo, finds this farfetched and advises him to say no more. But Arran writes immediately to Mary and Lord James repeating his tale. No sooner is this wild missive read, than a messenger arrives from the Duke to warn them that Arran is deranged and not to be believed.

  The father confines his errant son under lock and key, but he leaps half-naked from his chamber to throw himself on the mercy of William Kirkcaldy in Fife. We miss that gentleman, and I speak for all the Marys without exception. Brave Kirkcaldy is barely recovered from his wounds in the late wars. We look forward to his return, since he is a courtier of merit. What a pity he married before our return. They say that his wife is a true gentlewoman and devout Protestant much occupied in giving birth to young Kirkcaldys.

  Livingston

  I agree, we need Kirkcaldy to bring a flavor of French gallantry. But please, Beaton, can we have the whole tale straight?

  Beaton

  Now poor Arran raves, dreaming himself in the Queen’s bed, and hated by all. He is drowning in fantasies that feed his madness to the danger of himself and of others. He and Bothwell are examined before the Council, where Arran charges his erstwhile friend with high treason. He is wild yet vivid, naming Dumbarton as the fortress to which a kidnapped Mary would be taken. The young Earl is given up as a lunatic into James Stewart’s keeping, where he remains in Edinburgh Castle caged like an animal. I have heard him shriek and howl in the tower.

  Would anyone mourn his passing, apart from the Duke, his father? When someone near the throne is removed, his place will be filled by someone else. Is this not how they think in every court in Europe?

  Yet Bothwell too is tainted. Was this actually a plan to destroy the Hamiltons? Or did he hint to Arran at secret ambitions of his own. He demands to clear his name in single combat – with feeble Arran – or at court of law. But Arran is royal by blood and will not be put to open trial. So Bothwell also is left in the castle to repent at private leisure. This is the man on whom Her Majesty believed she could rely. Is he traduced, though loyal at heart? Or is he as uncontrollable as he seems?

  Others are pleased to see Hepburn fall away from Mary’s side. Who might they be? I do not hazard. In France the Court is ringed about with royal power. Here we are exposed to faction and dispute. Only the loyalty of Scottish Lords stands between us and their own violent inclinations. I write long but to the point. Mark well and inwardly digest; a Beaton knows what flows in these Scottish veins.

  Fleming

  I also write seriously. Forgive me if this is too grave, or unfamiliar from my lips. My concern is above all for Her Majesty, though her wellbeing affects us all. I feel my responsibility as chief lady to her and to us all together. More than ever before I am in earnest. The joys of these first months must soon subside.

  The marriage question must be settled. Mary will say she is not ready while she mourns for Francis. But her strength and welfare depend on a husband who can share her throne and protect her interests.

  I have talked about this with Maitland, whose mind is set on Her Majesty’s welfare and the kingdom’s. He is definite there will be no harmony until the succession is resolved. That means of course the English succession, since our Mary must not wed without Elizabeth’s approval. Then her heirs will bring England and Scotland together. If Mary recognises Elizabeth as rightful Queen, then Elizabeth will name Mary her successor. In this way disputes are avoided and we can live in peace.

  Beaton

  Fleming has become political, and now she is an ambassador as well. Under whose influence I shall not say, but I hear Maitland’s persuasive tones. Yet I dispute his line of wisdom. Elizabeth is queen in her own right. She toys with suitors while exercising her government without authority of man. Why does our Mary need a consort to rule as queen? I believe she will take control and marry whom and when she wishes. That is her nature and I am glad it should be so. Elizabeth may never name her successor for fear of setting up a rival in the people’s love or in religion. Does Maitland argue that England will welcome a Catholic queen again?

  Forgive me, Fleming, if I am acerbic, but Beatons are raised in a hard school. I do not believe that women, once educated, are weaker governors than men. Who has read more in history than our Mary, excepting Buchanan himself? Secretary Maitland is a counsellor, as Fleming knows, yet one steeped in worldly philosophies. Meikle Wily is our Machiavelli. I say no more in case the chief lady slaps me for being insolent again. It is very difficult to make a full confession here, even in our book, without attracting insults. So I must not be tiresome and magnify human weakness. I am ending.

  Livingston

  Beaton will soon pick up her pen to write more pages. Livingston will wager on that if anyone dares. All this talk of marrying unsettles me. It is too soon to marry when the fun has only just started.

  Seton

  We should be careful in our thoughts and in our writing, as we shall answer to God as well as to one another. I do not understand why no one has written of the ruined abbeys, friaries destroyed, and holy altars laid bare. What kind of fury has broken out in Scotland? And it is still at work as men with drawn swords try to prevent Her Majesty’s own attendance at Mass.

  Our Holy Father has written to the Queen. Now that she is going north to the Earl of Huntly’s lands we may see a restoration of true religion in this realm. This country is larger than anyone in France conceived. I shall remain at Holyrood to look after the personal household in Fleming’s absence. I am retiring and not fitted for such responsibility, but I am obedient to my duty, and my faith.

  Beaton

  The outcome of our travels, dear Seton, was contrary to your hopes. I am sorry for that, as piety always does you credit; however the
expedition was not to restore religion but to curb Earl Huntly’s power.

  In the face of wild Scotland even my pen fell into arrears. We were at war for the first time, and we must hope the last. However what I write proves our Mary’s womanly strength. She was always in the saddle even under threat of ambush or violent abduction. The Queen appeared in a new light, and we should remember that in days to come.

  But there is a further question. Who profits by the great Earl’s fall? Having been made Earl of Mar, a title belonging to his Erskine cousins, James Stewart still preferred the Moray earldom, which Huntly had appropriated to his own vast acres. Follow the acres.

  After the battle, they disembowelled Huntly’s giant corpse, and embalmed him to stand trial before the Council, where he received the doom of ‘traitor’ in person. Presumably his concern was already with a higher tribunal. We had to watch his son John Gordon hanged, beheaded and bloodily quartered, in case anyone imagine the new Earl of Moray acted without his sister’s consent. Mary abhors executions but this was the result for all to see of Huntly’s downfall. It was horrible, but restored royal authority in a way these lawless regions comprehend.

  So from this petty war the erstwhile Mar, once Lord James, claims a new earldom, and the Earl Marischal’s daughter with her ample dowry. I know we are not allowed to call him ‘the Bastard’, but everyone here does. He is making up fast for any disadvantages.

  Fleming

  Beaton, you are not discreet, and it is improper for the Queen’s ladies to speak, or imply, ill of her esteemed brother. He is the mainstay of her government and principal support. I will not permit such license, even in these pages. It is unseemly.

  Beaton

  And could be dangerous? I am of course obedient to Fleming, as is my duty.

  Seton

  I am sorry to express my opinion, Fleming, but I hope you will allow me to speak of my disappointment and sadness at the loss of such a defender of the faith as Lord Huntly. Since our return from France we have seen nothing but desecrated altars and ruined churches. This cannot be for Scotland’s good or Her Majesty’s pleasure, since the Queen herself wrote she would rather die than be disobedient to her Faith and to the Holy Father. I know she cannot yet command religion in this realm as she might wish, but I also know that she has seen His Holiness’ emissary in private when the rest of the Court had gone to sermon.