The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  Livingston

  I am bored with politics. Why does no one write now about fun or pleasure? We have become old maids overnight.

  Fleming

  Seton, Her Majesty cannot address matters of religion until she has come to a single mind with her cousin Elizabeth on the government of these realms, and her place in the English succession. Her devotion is constant, and heard in Heaven, but she is a queen above all else. And you are her servant.

  Seton

  I try to be a faithful servant, Fleming, to Her Majesty and to the Queen of Heaven. These are my God-given duties. What am I to think when the English ambassador comes to announce Elizabeth of England’s crusade against the Catholics of France – her own people and kin?

  Fleming

  Her Majesty was restrained and dignified, Seton, refusing to quarrel, and sending her cousin good wishes on her recovery from smallpox.

  Beaton

  You are correct, Fleming, but when Elizabeth lay like to die did her Council approve our Mary as successor? Even the Catholic lords put Lady Lennox before her. What does Maitland say to that?

  Fleming

  What should he say? Elizabeth is not dead. Or married.

  Livingston

  Mary is a queen but also woman with flesh and blood like our own. I want to know when she will marry. And shall we be permitted to marry, Fleming? All in good time I hear you say. But I love weddings and so does our Mary.

  Beaton

  If Maister Knox had his way there would be no weddings only solemn vows. Did you hear him railing in the Queen’s presence against profane dancing. Such merriment stinks in God’s nostrils, in his way of it. Knox is an earthy man with blunt speech. I think there is fire beneath that gounie as weill as in his mou. He has his ain way with the ladies. I hae the Scots leid an aa, lassie.

  Mary replied that a scholar, far less a minister, could not be always at his books, and that he would be welcome to a private audience whenever convenient. That took the wind out of his sails, and she turned her back on him before he could hoist new canvas. But even John Knox could not spoil James Stewart’s wedding with Agnes Keith. Such splendour has not been seen in Scotland since the thistle wed the rose. The bride was beautiful and richly arrayed, but our Mary was resplendent with cloaks of gold and silver falling from her shoulders. Above her black velvet, three strings of pearls were at her neck from which a golden crucifix lay between her breasts. The goddesses of love and learning presided, while Her Majesty’s fools ran riot amidst the groaning feast. Pheasants baked and refeathered, roasted swans with spreading wings, boar, deer, salmon, and abundant flowing wine. Mary glowed as Queen of the banquet, her nation restored to ceremony and plenty. This is how Court life should be conducted.

  Livingston

  Lord James’ was not the best wedding, Beaton. That took place at Crichton when Lord John Stewart married Janet Hepburn. Bothwell was in favour then and transformed his castle into a palace of honour and delight for his sister. Hunting, feasting, dancing, games followed one upon another. The musicians were never silent from French choristers to Border balladeers. James Hepburn can be gallant: he has bold extravagance in his blood and will not stint if he has the chance to shine, especially in Mary’s orbit.

  Beaton

  Bothwell is not all he seems, Livingston, or is more than he seems. In those days at Crichton when courtiers and servants crowded into pavilions, corridors and galleries gossip was rife. They say he has a Danish woman, very beautiful, secluded in a house near Morham but she was denied the castle for fear of offending the Queen. And at Hermitage Castle, too, he has a well-bred serving wench, young and comely, imprisoned to satisfy his every pleasure. He is a man who likes to command womanly submission.

  Some say that Bothwell’s mother was a mistress of King James, and that Hepburn is another half-brother for Mary – and Moray. Is that why those two hate each other so much? It is because of Moray that Bothwell has slipped prison and fled to England?

  I know which woman Bothwell would like most to command. James Hepburn is like the rest – Arran, Gordon, Lennox maybe. They desire to rule Scotland by possessing the Queen’s body.

  Fleming

  That is scandalous and irreverent, Beaton. Her Majesty is in command of her own person at all times. You cannot credit a groat of all the rumours about Bothwell. According to some he is bewitched and the Devil incarnate.

  God preserve the Queen in happiness and good fortune.

  Seton

  Amen, and God bless this realm of Scotland. I fear the golden age may pass before we mark its fading.

  Mary

  SHE HAS RED hair like me. We are sisters. Her hair though is straighter then mine, which would curl more were it not tied back like Elizabeth’s. I wonder who dresses her hair. The face is thinner, more austere than mine – a ruler’s face – but her eyes are withdrawn and reserved.

  This portrait means that she has given me her trust and friendship, in return for mine. Maitland has done well.

  ‘Who then should your cousin of Scotland marry, Majesty?’

  ‘Robert Dudley is the handsomest and finest of my nobles.’

  She jokes, but Maitland has quick wits.

  ‘Truly, a proper man, should you not scoop him up yourself?’

  I am widowed and she unmarried, so our counsellors would have us both wed. No mere woman can govern without a consort, or give birth to an heir, which is nearer the mark. Elizabeth is strong and will not bend her will to their importuning. She and I should be allies, sister queens.

  But I cannot wait on England forever. Despite all Moray and Maitland’s efforts, neither the English Council nor Parliament will recognise my right. They hate Scotland, fear a Catholic alliance, and will do anything to blacken my name. It is Cecil’s doing, Cecil and his henchman Walsingham, who are always in correspondence with Knox and the godly.

  I have spoken privately with Maitland to engage him as my chief adviser in all matters, not least the marriage. He is close to me now, and has eyes only for Fleming. She loves him in turn but knows her duty and is discreet.

  Lord James, Moray as we must learn to call him, will no longer provide sole direction of my Council. I am appointing Morton as Chancellor in Huntly’s stead, and Athol will have his place. None more faithful, as a loyal Stewart and son of the Church. Athol has given good service in the recent troubles in the north.

  Maitland has my instructions to negotiate an English alliance, while formally protesting if Parliament in London denies my place in their succession. At the same time we will approach the Spanish ambassador about a match with Don Carlos. It is time to cast our net wider. Uncle Charles will consult the Holy Father about my marriage and that private meeting will be reported to every court in Europe. If Elizabeth will not befriend my right, then I must press claim on England by other means. I shall be politic in all things, as I was taught, and learn the craft of government.

  Above all I will not be dependent on the Scottish lords alone, or captive to their favour. I remember how they dealt with my mother. Though I love Scotland as my own country, it will not become my prison. Let Huntly’s fall be a lesson to the rest.

  Why should I require a husband when I have my Marys? This Court revolves around our pleasures. Together we lead the dance and when we tire of music, poetry, and plays, we take to hills and woods in pursuit of other game. Diana and her huntress band; this is our prime. I can shoot a barb a straight as any man, and ride as fast, and fly a hawk as true, or better, for the falcon knows my intent even as it quivers blindfolded on my glove.

  If our mood constrains we can withdraw to private chambers and eat by ourselves, reading and writing, warming our bodies with fond embraces. Or, in a giddy turn, we slip out disguised as gallants in pursuit of harmless mischief. Another time like merchants’ wives we keep house and bake or sew. I roll up my sleeves and stir preserves.

  It is this joyous life my people love. Their lives are hard and they are oppressed sometimes by those who should be the
ir succour. They want their Queen to exhibit prosperity and display the plenty of the land for all to see, dispensing justice and good cheer to weak and strong alike.

  I am learning how to be Queen of Scots, and we shall ride out again in progress soon, visiting the west this time, so they may see for themselves that Scotland is not ruled by Knox and the preachers. I give them back their monarch and one day perhaps I can give them their religion.

  If I marry who will I wed? They say that Don Carlos is weak-minded like Arran, and confined to a palace lest his foolishness is betrayed. Yet he is heir to Spain and to its Empire, which is strength sufficient for any cause. To encourage the Spanish, Maitland dangles the prospect of a new French marriage before them. The Medici will not have me Queen of France again, but she fears a Spanish match. So France proposes that young Charles marry Elizabeth, while I wed his even younger brother Claude, children both. I was married to a boy once before.

  Some favour the Archduke Charles of Austria, Catholic yet not fanatic, to be a husband for me or Elizabeth. But he does not have the power to strengthen my claim to England. Had Elizabeth been born a man I could have married her, which would satisfy all sides of the question.

  Am I melancholy? Then let us seek diversion. No more reading, we will ride out to the Forth and feel the sea on our faces.

  My Uncle Francis is dead in France. He was assassinated more than three weeks ago but word came today. Strong, comely Uncle Francis shot, fatally wounded, in hate. After King Henri he was my image of a gentleman, my touchstone of what nobility in bearing, governance and kindness means. The Guise have lost their head. What family does this leave me?

  I am alone in Scotland and none can reach out to help me. Uncle Charles advises, directs from afar, but has no strong arm to save. I cannot continue with this life, these duties, my charade. I weep and am crying and weep again, withdrawn in my chambers, taken to my bed. Like a distraught child. The old pain flares up in my side.

  My flesh is burning. Too much to bear.

  Please, take it away.

  Feverish dreams. Cup to my lips. Broken sleep.

  Fleming is mother now. Seton kneels by me. Infusions soothe and give some relief.

  I will not see anyone. It is impossible to go on.

  Calmer this morning. Beginning to recollect myself. Side easier, head light and fuzzed but not aching. I can begin in my own mind to consider what has happened. I am coming to myself.

  Violence and hatred will be the undoing between countrymen and Christians. John Gordon’s young body broken and bleeding. They pulled out his inner parts like some pudding. Uncle Francis shot and stabbed. I fear such violence as it tears, destroys without distinction. Once loosed it cannot be restrained except by more violence. And so it feeds, redoubles on itself, till all is wasted – everything good and precious is lost.

  I feel it simmering here below the surface, unacknowledged, unaddressed, as if those recent outbursts of destruction were a passing storm, some freak of nature. These lords of mine are so hardened they barely notice cruelty lurking, and scarcely bother to repress brutality’s sudden outbursts.

  But in France the hatred has become outright war, fought not just on battlefields but in homes and streets and churches. Men, women, children, massacred in bitter unheeding. God preserve my beautiful country. The finest of its flowers are cut down without pity or remorse.

  And cousin Elizabeth stirs this strife, sending money and troops, just as she would disrupt Scotland’s peace by sending Lennox home to re-ignite old divisions. But she will not get her way. France will unite to drive the English out. Cecil’s plotting and devising will backfire. I know. She does not understand France, seeing everything through English eyes.

  Yet she has sent me a beautiful letter, consoling me on my Uncle’s death. Elizabeth knows how much the Duc de Guise meant to me and she is tender-hearted in my loss. She too has lived midst loss and violence. If only she could feel my heart going out towards her. We could reach towards each other’s loneliness like lovers do when separated. We were both orphaned and keep our hearts our own. What comfort we could share.

  The storm is receding, leaving me drained, mournful in its wake.

  I cannot escape Knox and his like, though I must learn better how to contain their influence. I thought that he had gone so far beyond obedience that the nobility might disown him, but I had miscalculated. Maitland was right and I should heed his warnings. There are some lords for whom Protestant beliefs are a principle higher than the law; some who do not want confrontation with the preachers, and even more whose advantage lies in piecemeal Reformation, holding the lands they have while aiming to annex more.

  Do not stir a hornets’ nest. I must heed this advice. They that thole shall overcome. That is another proverb I might live by, since it seems I maun thole Maister Knox. Was ever a monarch so deaved by a disobedient priest? But he is no Thomas Becket, this St John, and I should not make a martyr of him, even if I could. He is a more crafty man than divine Saint. There is flesh beneath his gown.

  Though it appears I cannot suppress Knox, I have not given way to his defiant boastings. Their Reformation Parliament, as they call it, lacked my royal approval. It was illegal and could be reversed. This year’s Parliament made no new settlement of religion. Between trying Huntly’s waxen corpse and confirming Moray in his earldom, there was no time to debate religion. My promise not to upset the realm is kept to the letter.

  The preachers rant because they want their faith established beyond dispute before any marriage, especially a Catholic one. But there they overreach themselves, pretending their godly assemblies can overrule Parliament. Knox turns his fire on the Protestant lords and is routed, since most are more lord than Protestant. Even Moray has fallen out with his favoured prophet, and their secret communings are at an end. Knox is, as they say, in the huff, but my dear brother will outdo him by far in resentful pride and disdain.

  Why should I abide such contumely from a mere subject? The preacher’s seditious writings are openly handed round and make a mockery of my rule. ‘Such stinking pride of women as was seen at that Parliament was never seen before in Scotland. Three days the Queen rode to the Tolbooth.’ His style is unmistakable, as is his contempt for my queenly authority. Of the loyal crowds cheering and waving he makes no mention.

  In his preaching Knox upbraids the nobility for their desertion of his pure cause. He is John the Baptist cast into Herod’s power. ‘If the Queen will not agree with you in the Word of God,’ he taunts, ‘you are not bound to agree with her in the Devil.’ A cunning trope, but devious falsehood. Yet Moray, Lindsay, and fanatic Ruthven argue that he meddles only in religion, which is his divinely appointed province. But Knox has overstepped the mark, and I will have his retraction.

  ‘To put an end to all, I hear of the Queen’s marriage.’ This is his satiric vein. ‘Dukes, brothers to Emperors, and Kings all strive for the best game. But whenever the Nobility of Scotland consent that an infidel, for all Papists are infidels, shall be head to your sovereign, you banish Christ Jesus from this realm. You bring God’s vengeance on the country, a plague on yourselves, and maybe small comfort to your Sovereign.’

  What has that man to do with my marriage?

  Next it is England’s turn to play ambassador. Thomas Randolph is the new emissary with his instructions from Elizabeth, as amended no doubt by Secretary Cecil. This is their reply to Maitland’s official embassy, but also to his secret negotiations with France and Spain about my marriage. Clearly the news will be unwelcome as courteous Randolph takes forever to convey his message. According to Maitland, since English ambitions in Europe disappoint they are obsessed with making Scotland secure.

  So it appears I must have their approval for any matrimonial alliance, which should naturally be English, and if that is forthcoming then they will establish an enquiry to examine my claim to their succession. Shall I, a sovereign queen, be subject to inquisition by the parliament of a foreign power?

  They are insul
ting but I will not be bullied. Henry the Tudor Bully is no more. I remain impassive and say that I will consider my reply after consultation with my Council. We give Randolph no more to chew on, and he has to leave immediately, without satisfaction for his royal mistress.

  When he is next at Court we bait him unmercifully.

  ‘Randolph wants me to marry in England.’

  ‘Has the Queen of England become a man?’ So Beaton.

  ‘Pray tell me, what Englishman should the Queen of Scots marry?’ teases Maitland.

  ‘Whomsoever she chooses,’ fences Randolph weakly. ‘If she can find one sufficiently noble.’

  Our Shrovetide banquet is an allegory of Charity and Time. A radiant girl represents love and beauty. As long as time endures there should be amity between Mary and Elizabeth, Scotland and England. Buchanan scripted and Beaton directed with her usual panache. It was a display for Randolph and his master Cecil to ponder.

  I press Randolph to honestly share his queen’s true opinion, as I am at heart sincere. The word of a prince, he agrees, is worth more than the promises of inconstant counsellors. I desire Elizabeth’s friendship and will be faithful. Should we not form mutual sympathy as our bond? Would it not be better if we could meet together and dispel misunderstandings forever?

  They have little choice now but to express a preference. Elizabeth finally names Lord Robert Dudley. Dudley whom she has pampered in her bedchamber. Dudley, whose dear wife conveniently tumbled down a stair while he dallied with his queen. Am I to wed England’s leavings?

  She is not serious, and puts Dudley forward as an obscure contrivance to ensure he stays by her side. She will not marry him and will not actually let me marry him. I am not so innocent that I do not sense the mazes of a woman’s desiring. Yet this surpasses all. Elizabeth does not want a husband, or an heir, so I too must remain bereft of both.