Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  After the execution of Sir James Hamilton of Finnart, James V really is reported to have been haunted by dreams of his former friend. In those dreams, as the novel depicts, Finnart’s ghost is said to have struck off the king’s arms and threatened his head. This was interpreted as relating to the twin deaths of the king’s sons, Albany and Ross. The tale can be found in George Buchanan’s History of Scotland (Blackie and Fullerton, 1827), and is related in more modern biographies of James, such as Caroline Bingham’s James V, King of Scots (Harper Collins, 1971). Bingham’s and Merriman’s books also record the gruesome legends of Finnart carving his initials into the faces of his victims.

  In addition to Finnart’s ethereal dream-haunting, the following stories depicted in the novel all have their genesis in sixteenth-century accounts: Margaret of Denmark’s alleged poisoning; the burning of Janet Douglas; a wizened, blue-robed ghost warning James IV not to fight the English in 1513; Margaret Tudor’s vision of her husband’s body pierced with arrows; and the death of the tubercular Madeleine de Valois shortly after her arrival in Scotland. Needless to say, none of these events, whether the factual deaths or the ghostly tales, were recreated in 1543! Interesting reading here includes George Goodwin’s Fatal Rivalry (Hachette, 2013), Caroline Bingham’s The Stewart Kingdom of Scotland, 1371 – 1603 (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1974), and John Ferguson’s Linlithgow Palace, Its History and Traditions (Oxford University Press, 1910).

  The subject of dreams in the early modern period is a fascinating one. For those who would like to know more about it, I would recommend Janine Rivière’s unpublished PhD thesis, ‘Dreams in Early Modern England: Frameworks of Interpretation’ (University of Toronto, 2013). Valuable too is Reading the Early Modern Dream: The Terrors of the Night (Routledge, 2008) by Katharine Hodgkin, Michelle O'Callaghan, and S. J. Wiseman. For ghosts and similarly spooky matters, I strongly recommend Jane P. Davidson’s Early Modern Supernatural: The Dark Side of European Culture, 1400–1700 (Praeger, 2012), and Julian Goodare, Lauren Martin, and Joyce Miller’s Witchcraft and belief in Early Modern Scotland (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). As Goodare notes in the latter, ghosts in early modern Scottish culture are under researched.

  That chief architect of the Reformation in Scotland, John Knox, was, during the events of the novel, an ordained Catholic priest and schoolmaster, as depicted. However, there is no evidence that he visited Linlithgow during Marie and Mary’s pseudo-captivity there. He was, though, interested in reform, and it was in 1543, according to his personal history, that he was enjoying contact with like-minded men, notably George Wishart (whom Cardinal Beaton was later to send to the stake). I enjoyed Roderick Graham’s lively account of Knox’s life, John Knox: Democrat (Hale, 2001), and it was in this fascinating biography I learnt that, to quote Graham, it was in 1543 ‘the first shoots of his reforming spirit broke through’. Those interested in seeing him beyond the stereotype of the ranting misogynist should enjoy Marie Macpherson’s superb series of novels, The First and Second Blast of the Trumpet (Knox Robinson Publishing, 2013, 2016). The Last Blast is thankfully forthcoming. Knox’s own History of the Reformation in Scotland (Wentworth Press, 2016) is also a (highly partisan) goldmine of information.

  Linlithgow Palace is now a remarkably well-kept ruin, its roof lost to fire centuries ago. Still open to the public, it does not take much imagination to recreate its Renaissance splendour. I had the pleasure of visiting whilst researching the novel and must thank the local schoolchildren who served as tour guides. They were able to teach me much I did not know (and could not find in books) and I commend their ability to learn and recite massive amounts of information. I could not do that at their (or any) age. One liberty I have taken is with the stable block. For the purposes of the story, I have added one to the palace. However, the docent Frances at Linlithgow Palace very helpfully pointed out that in the early-sixteenth-century, treasurer’s accounts indicate that horses were stabled in the burgh rather than within the palace walls. For matters relating to horses’ behaviour and care, I must thank my friend – and expert horsewoman – Samantha Laing.

  A useful guide to the palace of Linlithgow can be found in David and Judy Steel’s beautifully-illustrated Mary Stuart’s Scotland (Harmony Books, 1987). Information on furnishing and architecture is also available in John Dunbar’s seminal Scottish Royal Palaces (Tuckwell Press, 1999), in which I was able to find information on Marie’s tapestries, and the National Trust’s Scottish Renaissance Interiors (1987, Mowbray House Press). Also incredibly helpful was Stewart Style (Tuckwell Press, 1996), edited by Janet Hadley Williams and The History of the Town and Palace of Linlithgow by George Waldie (A. Waldie, 1868), from which I drew the information about one Henry Forrest being dismissed by James V as town provost. This Henry Forrest, who was provost of Linlithgow until the king replaced with Robert Wutherspoon, should not be confused with his namesake, the Henry Forrest, also apparently from Linlithgow, who was burned for heresy in the early 1530s. The reasons behind his dismissal are obscure. Alexander Forrest is fictional, but the brother mentioned in the novel is not.

  Plays, interludes, and masques were performed in early modern Scotland, and in depicting one, I drew on a number of sources. These include A. J. Mill’s Mediaeval Plays in Scotland (Blom, 1969), Ballatis of Luve: The Courtly Love Lyric 1400 – 1570 (Edinburgh University Press, 1970), edited by John MacQueen, and Scottish Poetry of the Sixteenth Century (Sands & Company, 1892), edited by George Eyre-Todd. Danforth’s speech about the Douglas brothers being akin to two fruit trees is adapted from Daniel de Bosola’s lines in one of my favourite Renaissance plays, The Duchess of Malfi, by one of my favourite early modern playwrights, John Ford’s. In keeping with the theme of Renaissance drama, it felt right to end the story with a wedding. Whether or not Simon Danforth ended up with the right woman, I don’t know. What do you think? Let me know on Twitter @ScrutinEye.