He was mourned. His death seemed to many to represent a major reverse to the Catholic cause, for there was no one to replace him as leader of that cause—no one, that is, except his dour half-brother King Philip of Spain. And no one expected King Philip, then entering his fifties, to lead an army, let alone a fleet. He was no commander, he knew little of ships, and above all, he was disliked, while Don John had been revered, indeed almost worshipped.
Although I had not loved him, I too mourned Don John, despite his arrogance and his excessive self-regard. For among the men I had known, he was the one with the broadest and highest vision. He was inspired, and inspiring. Jamie was my love, and ever would be. But Don John, for a brief time, had been my hero, my champion.
Who would be my champion now?
FIFTY-TWO
We began to embroider a tapestry together, Marie-Elizabeth and I, as August gave way to September and then to the frosts of October. Grandmamma Antoinette had been teaching her embroidery since she was five years old, so she was no novice, but there was much more that I could show her and besides, our tapestry was more than a work of art: it was a record of our lives.
Each morning after we had gathered the eggs (my daughter had to teach me how to avoid being pecked by the indignant hens) and harvested the late fallen apples for the pigs we took off our mud-spattered farm aprons and went into the sewing room. There, beside Grandmamma Antoinette’s loom with its brilliant pattern of white lilies and red roses, was the embroidery table with its skeins of silk in a bright rainbow of colors, along with trays of needles, inks and pens.
As a girl in France I had been fascinated by calligraphy, and had learned to form letters in the old fashion of the monks, each letter a small art work complete with decorative banners and curlicues and twisting tendrils of color. So now I took up my pen and carefully fashioned a motto for our wall hanging: ONE LIKE THE LIONESS. We began by embroidering these letters, careful to cover the marks of my ink while following their curving outlines as exactly as we could.
As we sewed, we talked.
“My wonderful mother was a lioness for courage,” I told Marie-Elizabeth, who was trying hard to emulate my small, even stitches, her tongue between her teeth, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I have never known another woman like her. My father King James died when I was only a few days old, as you know, and so it was up to mama to reign in his place. She fought hard to keep her authority—and she kept it, despite all, right up until the time she got sick.” I paused, the memories were painful and it was hard to go on. “Your father helped her all he could. She loved him very much.”
“He has told me a lot about her. How she had a strong will, just as you do.”
I had to laugh at that. “Do I? I sometimes wonder. I think I give in too easily.”
“I have seen a painting of her,” Marie-Elizabeth was saying. “And of my other grandmother too.”
“You have rich noble and royal blood in your veins, little one. The blood of the Stuarts, and the Hepburns, the Tudors and the Guises. Like me, you are heiress to two thrones.” I smiled at her, with what I hoped was a benign smile rather than a sad one—though I suddenly felt sad, speaking of a destiny that seemed unlikely to be fulfilled.
“But my brother James will inherit those thrones, not I.”
At the mention of my son James I sighed and put down my sewing.
“James!” I shook my head. “If only you knew how many times I have tried to send letters to him—and not only letters, but gifts. But he refuses to receive them—or those who claim to speak for him do. I feel he is lost to me.”
“He follows the heretic religion.”
“He was baptized into the true church when he was a baby, of course. But he has been raised as a Protestant—and all that he knows of me comes from the Protestants around him who hate me.
“He is a caulbearer, you know,” I went on. “He was born with special powers. The Scots believe that caulbearers can see the future. I have no doubt he will grow up to be someone remarkable.”
“Does he know about me?”
“No, dear. No one knows about you but your father and Grandmamma Antoinette and my servant Margaret. I have kept you a secret.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
I could tell that she wanted to ask me more questions, but was unsure whether she should. I did not want to frighten her by telling her about Baron Burghley, who had sent an assassin to Rome to kill me, or about my enemies in Scotland, or indeed about any of the dark forces in the world. She was too young, as yet, to have to cope with that knowledge.
“If my brother can see the future,” she said after a time, “won’t he be able to see me in it?”
It was a perfectly logical question, only I had no answer to it.
“Possibly,” I said, “but I don’t think he knows about you yet.”
As the weeks passed and winter approached I was aware that my health and wellbeing were improving. I was sleeping soundly for the first time in years, my body sinking deep into a pile of featherbeds. I ate good healthy food from the farm, reassured by the knowledge that the granary was full of oats and peas and millet put aside for the winter and that the barn was stocked with fruit and preserves and cider made from it, that the pigs had been slaughtered and their meat salted down. On the farm, life was secure and regular in its patterns; it followed the seasons, and the seasons were predictable. I had nothing to fear, there was no uncertainty, no need for trepidation about the future.
The pain in my side that had plagued me for years was less acute, and the headaches that sometimes sent me to bed for days did not come at all at Saint-Cheron. My body felt lighter, my mind suffered less from worrisome thoughts. I loved being with Marie-Elizabeth and Grandmamma Antoinette. My only real sorrow was that Jamie was not with us. On my best days I felt hopeful that in time he would join us at the farm; on my worst days I mourned him, and prayed that he would soon return to me.
Much as I savored my life on the farm, I could not suppress a nagging sense of ennui. The very sameness and certainty that gave me peace of mind weighed on me like a smothering blanket. My days lacked variety, life lacked spice and vigor, the agreeable sensation of unpredictability.
Often, in the long afternoons, I would gaze at the hills surrounding the farm and long to ride beyond them, to end the sameness that had begun to draw a shroud over my everyday existence. I began taking long walks, venturing out beyond the boundaries of the farm, risking the dangers of the forest where at any moment I knew that I might, if unlucky, encounter bands of thieves or gypsies, or uncouth half-wild charcoal men who lived in squalid dens like beasts and were covered in black dust. There were spirits in the forest, so it was said; in invading the realm of the spirits I was tempting fate.
Nothing escaped Grandmamma Antoinette’s shrewd notice and she commented on my restless state of mind and body.
“Your problem, Marie, is that you have seen the world, or a great deal of it, and you cannot seem to settle into a small place after knowing the larger one. Don’t you realize that most people spend their entire lives on one little plot of land, in one village, never even seeing the nearest town? Traveling to another country would be unimaginable for them—and unwelcome.
“Be content with what you have here, Marie! You are not a young woman any longer. Make the most of what life is offering you, and do not pant after what cannot be!”
I tried my best to follow my grandmother’s advice. I thought, if I must spend the rest of my life here at Saint-Cheron, it will be well. It will be well enough. Better to spend it here than in an English or Scottish prison, or enclosed by the decaying walls of Rome. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not shake off the uncomfortable sense of constraint that weighed me down.
A year passed, then two, and the embroidered tapestry Marie-Elizabeth and I had been working on was all but finished. We had poured all our skills into it, and left something of our souls in its colorful panels as well. There were sce
nes of my birth in Scotland and my upbringing in France, my marriage to Francis and my widowhood, my discordant years as queen, my unhappy marriage to Henry and the birth of James, then my second widowhood and my happy union with Jamie. I did not weave his departure into the tapestry; I continued to trust that our separation was temporary, and that we would eventually be together again.
Marie-Elizabeth’s birth was given a prominent place at the center of the hanging, her life with grandmamma on the farm, my unhappy years of imprisonment in Scotland and England, followed by my escape and my time in Rome and Vlissingen. All was depicted: the court splendors, the battles, the brief triumphs and the long years of despondency mingled with evergreen hope. A final scene was a dual portrait of Marie-Elizabeth and me, sewing together happily, a heartwarming family image.
“You see?” Grandmamma Antoinette said as she gazed contentedly at our handiwork. “You see what beauty you can create when you stay in one place, and make a good life for yourself?”
But I knew that it was no use. I had not been born to be obscure, to live a hidden, quiet life. I had the blood of kings in my veins, and so did my daughter. There was more for me to do in the world. I felt certain of it. Besides, while I had been rusticating in Normandie, Christendom had undergone fresh convulsions.
While I had been gathering eggs and tending the livestock, listening to Marie-Elizabeth practice on the lute and virginals, and amusing myself in the evenings playing backgammon and chess with Grandmamma Antoinette, while I watched the seasons change, and the land grow green, then golden, then sere and white with frost and snow, there had been fresh battles. The Catholic cause had strengthened, and King Philip and the might of Spain now stood between the marauding Turks and the Christian lands. My cousin Queen Elizabeth had abandoned her flirtation with Francis the Frog and it was clear to everyone that she was too old to marry and have a child; she needed to name a successor, and I knew that that successor ought to be me.
The wall hanging was nearly finished, but Marie-Elizabeth and I decided not to complete it, but rather to leave room for scenes to come.
“This is about our lives, mama,” she said with a sweetly solemn smile. “We have much more living to do.”
I nodded. “We do indeed.” During my time at Saint-Cheron, Marie-Elizabeth had grown from a pretty child to a young woman. In another year or two she would be old enough to marry, as I had at only fifteen. Her lithe, slight body was taking on a woman’s curves, her bright eyes, soft lips and lovely fair complexion would be alluring to any man. She stood tall and straight and proud. When I looked at her I thought, here is another young lioness, bearing the blood of kings, and with a royal courage.
But the world knew nothing of her, and I was only too aware that the only way I could keep her safe was to allow her to stay hidden, far from the swirling intrigues of princes, until it was time for her to be woven into the tapestry of power.
FIFTY-THREE
On the day that the spare, white-haired, limping Archibald Skerriton came to Saint-Cheron with a letter from Jamie and stunning news for me, I was digging in the kitchen garden, preparing the rows for planting beans. My kerchief was askew, my hair untidy and my hands were brown with the rich loamy soil I had mixed with outscourings from the kitchen and manure from the stables and pasture. I heard men’s voices in the courtyard and, brushing off my hands on my apron, went out to see who had arrived.
The old man walked toward me, his gait brisk despite his limp.
“It has been a long time, Orange Blossom,” he said with a smile and a wink. “But you have weathered the years well.”
It took me a moment to recognize him, but once I did I was overjoyed. Archibald, Jamie’s godfather from the island of Mull, the very worldly former pirate who had once been a bishop. I greeted him warmly, then my questions tumbled out: how is Jamie? Where is he? Is he safe? Does he miss me?
Rather than answer, the old man reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a folded paper.
“This will let him tell you all,” he said, handing it to me then putting a finger over his lips. “But do not read it here. Take it to a private place.”
I went quickly into the house, leaving the groom to tend to Archibald’s horse and Grandmamma Antoinette to welcome him.
“My dearest one,” the brief letter read, in Jamie’s large sloping hand, “I think of you night and day. I trust our fortunes are changing. My messenger will tell you more. I send my heart with this letter.”
There was no signature, and no need of one.
Filled with joy, I washed my hands and face and took off my apron and then went to find Archibald, to find out what “our fortunes are changing” meant.
It was thought best not to speak of important matters in Marie-Elizabeth’s hearing, so we waited until she had gone to bed. Then Grandmamma Antoinette and I sat with Archibald in the spacious candlelit kitchen with its smell of spices and candle wax, and he told me the exciting news.
“Jamie has had word about the location of the letters hidden in Amy Dudley’s casket.”
I was so stunned that I had to grasp the table to keep my bearings. I shook my head in amazement. Such very welcome, unexpected tidings.
“But I thought Jamie had tried his best to find Amy Dudley’s casket and failed. I remember him telling me that no one would even say a word to him about it, let alone confide in him where it might be hidden.”
“True enough. But there has been a change. Amy’s half-brother John Appleyard has loosened his tongue about the letters—and the casket. Always before, Appleyard was a great admirer of Robin Dudley, his brother-in-law. Because of his admiration, he concealed what he knew of Dudley’s guilt—and the queen’s. Appleyard had been at odds with his sister before her death and felt no loyalty to her—also he has a venal side. He kept his secret in part because he wanted preferment at court—lucrative wardships, offices, sinecures. Anything Dudley could procure for him.
“For years he knew where the letters were, but he refused to tell anyone. Now, however, he is angry with Dudley (who is out of favor with the queen, and less powerful than before) and wants to injure him. He is willing to reveal the location of the letters—for a price.”
“How much does he want?” I asked, so quickly and so bluntly that I made Archibald laugh.
“Jamie told me you would be eager. Too eager.”
“Of course I am eager. And from all that I heard when I was in Rome, the English people are eager too—impatient to rid themselves of their barren Protestant queen and to see Catholicism restored.”
Grandmamma Antoinette had been sitting silent, listening intently to all that Archibald said, her intensity eloquent. Eventually she spoke.
“My friends at the French court say that Elizabeth’s throne is slipping rapidly out of her grasp. Her enemies are growing stronger than ever. More and more Catholic priests and missionaries of the Society of Jesus are being sent into England. New converts are being made every day.”
She turned her searching gaze on me, and I nearly flinched, the look in her eyes was so piercing.
“They are full of enthusiasm to see the true church restored. They look to you, Marie, as their rightful queen.”
Archibald nodded. “Your name is on many lips, Mary. And not all of them Catholic. You are the hope of many a rebel. But precisely because of that, you must be more careful than ever to protect yourself—and Marie-Elizabeth.”
I felt a chill.
“The English don’t know about her, do they?”
“No,” Archibald said. “But if she were to leave Saint-Cheron, especially in your company, and return to England or Scotland they might well guess. For that reason Jamie wants her to stay here on the farm, while you come with me, aboard the Black Messenger which is waiting in the harbor near Caen.”
“And go where?”
“To Mull, where he has assembled a force of a hundred men. Where he can keep you safe from Baron Burghley and from the Scots who are in the pay of the English.”
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“I can contribute enough to pay another hundred men—and I have no doubt our French King Henry will contribute even more,” Grandmamma Antoinette said.
“And I still have my jewels, or at least some of them,” I put in. “I should have enough pearls and rubies to satisfy Amy Dudley’s brother.”
“Leave that to Jamie, Orange Blossom. You can talk all over with him when you arrive on Mull.”
With the aid of Grandmamma Antoinette and two of her tirewomen, I packed a few things for the journey. I did not allow myself to dwell on my sorrow at leaving Marie-Elizabeth; had I indulged that awful feeling, I might never have left.
“Never fear, my dear, I will explain to her that for your sake and hers, you had to leave suddenly. I think she is always aware that at any moment, you could be snatched away, or called away.”
As softly as I could, I entered Marie-Elizabeth’s bedroom and, without waking her, kissed her cheek and whispered that I loved her. Then I embraced my dear grandmamma and thanked her for all that she had done for me and for her great-granddaughter.
“Godspeed,” she said as she watched us mount our horses. “Be cautious, Marie. Do not be hasty. Remember all that is at stake.”
It would not be dawn for several hours. A light rain had begun to fall, and the air was chilly.
“With luck, we should be able to make the outgoing tide,” Archibald said as he scanned the eastern horizon. “I told Red Ormiston that I might be back before it was light. He said he would have all in readiness for our departure.”
“You knew I would not want to lose any time leaving Saint-Cheron once I learned of the possibility of finding the letters, didn’t you.”
Archibald looked sheepish.
“Let us say I was forewarned—by Jamie.”
With a final glance back at my dear grandmamma, and a final wave, we were off, finding our way by starlight along the narrow path that led toward the coast, and the rough waters of the Sleeve, and the waiting shores of England.
The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel Page 24