by Donald Smith
He had allowed Balfour to lead Darnley on with his crazy Catholic plot, while coldly planning with the other lords to have him killed. Now I was in Bothwell’s power, as later I would be in Moray’s prison. The protector was in truth a predator. So I simply exchanged one captivity for another. And this is now my third, in England.
I am no longer able to ride. My gaolers do not want me out and about in the country, even under armed escort. So much they fear England’s Catholic queen. Sadly my limbs are no longer fit to guide that supple lovely creature beneath my flesh. I must be carried in a litter like some aged invalid.
Those last days of freedom seem like a dream. The escape by boat in disguise, the ride to Hamilton. How glad the people were to receive me. Then, after Langside, the desperate flight by day and night through the hills and down the valley of the Ken to Dundrennan. I could have lived wild in that country and endured all hardships. I should have been a soldier, not a queen.
Langside was my undoing. Brave Kirkcaldy, I salute you. If only you had drawn the sword for me when victory could still have been wrested from misfortune. Now you are gone into the dark as well, my own dear love, my gallant knight. Proud as a Scot you bore French arms, and we rode out together on the meadows as dew sparkled in the rising sun. I do not forget. I should have married for the heart and not the head; that is my one true loss amidst all the baubles. I have been too politic. I have been a queen first before all else. But I am womanly by nature.
Elizabeth tried to save me from Lochleven. She knew my life was endangered and sent Throckmorton to intervene and demand my release. So when the dream crumbled at Langside, I came to England, riding south by day and night with eight or nine men around me. They told me not to cross the border since an English refuge could only be false comfort to a Scottish queen.
But Elizabeth was my cousin, a sister queen, no hateful Medici. I knew that meeting face to face we would fall into each other’s arms, as family should, and be firm, loving friends for life. That is why she will not see me, until one of us is dead.
I sat in the bows of a fishing boat, huddled in my cloak, as they rowed me over grey Solway. A sudden dread gripped me. Should I turn for France? The moment passed. I had struggled enough and could do no more. Bear no more violence, flights, alarms. Even prison would be more welcome than this constant fear. So I resigned myself to what might come.
The Marys were my best part. Fleming played mother, sometimes in earnest when I was bereft. Beaton was my foil, Livingston my freer self, and Seton my conscience. We were raised together and did not realise what we had. What is life without fun and mischief to leaven the duties of the day? We had our joys pressed down and running over. I should have kept the Marys’ love closer round me in Scotland. I let other loyalties and cares intrude. Our ring was broken. They are all mature women now and lost to me, even Seton at the last.
But I can summon those memories and laugh aloud, even in this prison. I name each one of you for luck, and call a blessing on your heads. Fleming, Beaton, Livingston, Seton, and Mary Stewart. We are Five Marys, like a snatch or song from old forgotten times.
Small comforts cheer. Food and wine. My little dogs and turtle doves love me. Some new satins and a silver headdress. Silken threads for the embroideries run smooth between my still slender fingers. For the most part, resignation, prayer, repentance. It is not easy when feelings overwhelm and cruel neglect stares me in the face. Harsh pettifogging rules or worse, much worse. Outright rejection by those from whom love might be expected.
God does not fail me if I surrender to his holy will. Sweet Jesus, I have your thorn still. Help me in my hour of need.
I had thought to marry Norfolk and restore my fortunes. Bothwell was far away, like a forgotten season, his pleas unanswered. I am told he is turned lunatic, raving like a beast in chains. He was ever the bear ready for a fight, till biting on its own caged flesh he tears himself to death. I had severed all connection with that rash man, from the time his seed miscarried in my womb. So I divorced him who had been my undoing. Marriage to Norfolk might repair the damage. Maitland said it could be done.
But for some there could be no accommodation. Moray, Morton, Knox, and Cecil above all. With Walsingham his ruthless instrument of deceit and torture. They brought gallant Norfolk down and cut off all my hopes in England, and in Scotland. They could not abide any restoration lest their falsehood be exposed. I scorn their souls.
So I am Queen without a throne, but Queen regardless by birth and blood. I am Mary Queen of Scots, and heir to England. I cannot be divided from my legitimate line even in death. From my veins the blood of future kings will flow.
My claim is vested in the one true Catholic Faith. So I must look to Spain and Rome for succour. If Elizabeth will not help me, then her faithful Catholic subjects will. I shall live to see Cecil go to the block and suffer what he has contrived for others. So many loyal, devoted, broken and offered on the altar.
Seton will take my portrait with her in a roll of cloth. Full length in formal dress, you cannot see my swollen legs or thickened waist. I am myself in height, elegance, command. I wear the crucifix about my neck, a veil of mourning on my auburn locks. I own this image. The Catholic Queen. A Mary in devotion, sacrifice and faith. This is my body.
I was born to govern, but suffered tumult and revolt. I was raised beloved, and expected love, but have received harsh blows, hate, malign deceit. My passion longed for life, but man’s cold indifference drove me back upon myself. Yet I remain every inch a Queen. My heart is my own. I stand unbowed.
The theatre of this world is wider than the realm of England. Other eyes will meet my gaze in places far beyond this island prison, in other times. So my days are swallowed up. Death itself may be the perfect art, if hand and eye keep steady.
Everything I am, and have been, was given to me by my mother. Birth, affection, honour, courage. So I take her own emblem to myself. The Phoenix who dies but is reborn. And I have sown her motto here below the sign. ‘In my end is my beginning.’
Seton, please dear Seton, don’t leave me now alone. God give me strength.
I must let her go. Let all go. Subdue unruly heart and will.
This too will pass. Leave only my obedient self to stand. The earthly body spent, surrendered to decay.
Jesu, I put my hope in Thee
Dear Lord of mine, now set me free.
In cruel chains, in miserable pain I long –
In weakness and sighing, kneeling and crying –
To see Thee, freedom I implore.
Mary Stewart has written this by her own hand.
Questions for Discussion
In what ways does Ballad of the Five Marys match what you know about Mary Queen of Scots? In what ways does it contradict your expectations?
Which narrators do you trust in the story and which do you distrust? And why?
Is the Mary depicted in the novel a queen first and a woman second, or the other way round?
What does Ballad of the Five Marys tell us about the position of women in society, then and now?
Was Mary guilty, partly guilty, or wholly innocent of Darnley’s murder? What are the reasons for your view?
Does James Maitland come to know his father better through the novel? What does he discover through his search and how is he left at the end?
Was Mary’s judgement of men flawed, or were her choices just limited? What is your assessment of the men who mattered most in her life?
How do you see the characters of the Four Marys and the choices they make?
Is this just a historical story or does it tell us anything about Scottish society today?
Does the novel comment directly or indirectly on the question of Scottish Independence? And in what way?
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