For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  There were a few cheers and hats thrown in the air.

  The next morning, I remarked on the incident to my brother. “I couldn’t help noticing that their numbers were a little thin on the ground, considering their sovereign has returned to take up her duties as Queen.”

  “Knox has a powerful sway over the people. What you must understand, Mary, is that in their eyes you are French, and you are a Catholic.”

  “Not just in their eyes, brother,” I corrected him. “That is exactly what I am. Half-French, the other half being Scottish.”

  He laughed and added, “Perhaps they are uneasy with that.”

  “But there are Catholics here in Scotland too, Lord James. Not just Protestants.”

  He shot me a quick resentful glance. “Remember our bargain, my sister.”

  I hesitated. “Oh, I remember. But do you remember yours?”

  A note of acerbity had entered our dialogue which reminded me of the dangers which might lie ahead.

  Holyrood Chapel

  August 1561

  I was wrapped in shadow and there were cold, stone flags beneath my feet. I could smell the solid oak, the

  dust on the air. I had chosen to come to the chapel at Holyrood in order to immerse myself in solitude. In my rooms my ladies and servants always accompanied me, but I craved a moment alone.

  It was late evening. I lit a candle in the darkness, and its light rippled against grey stone walls. The glassy eyes of Our Lady looked down upon me, trying hard to be real.

  Idolatry, John Knox would have called it, but the statues remained untouched. His sabotage could not

  reach here. I could smell the oil paint on the paintings, a heady intoxicating aroma which never seems to

  fade with age and always fills me with inspiration and wonder.

  Knox does not like the presence of art in any

  religious building.

  For myself, I think art celebrates life and God and everything that is beautiful in the world.

  I knew that beneath these flags were the vaults containing the bones of my ancestors. It was a sobering thought. The remains of my own father and grandfather lay here – men I had never met. I wondered for a moment what advice they would give me.

  But it was my mother, Marie of Guise, I missed most of all. She had proven herself to be a strong ruler. How would I be able to emulate her example?

  A footstep on the flags behind me made me turn and I saw Father Mamaret, my French confessor.

  “Forgive me, I have no wish to disturb you, Ma’am,” he said.

  I shook my head and greeted him.

  “I hope you realise how indebted I am to you, Father, for agreeing to leave France with me?”

  “Nonsense. It is my duty to serve you, Ma’am. I could do no less.”

  “I would have been quite alone without you.”

  “Not alone, Mary, surely?”

  It was with a vague sense of unease that I noted his slightly patronizing tone. I chose, however, to ignore it.

  “Who else would serve me so well?”

  He took a deep breath. “There are plenty of Catholics in Scotland who would be as ready to serve Your Majesty.”

  “I do not think my brother would agree with you there.”

  He gave me a long steady look. “On the contrary. I think he would agree. That is what he is so afraid of. The heretics have the upper hand for the time being, but Scotland was a Catholic country until recently. Your brother knows this.”

  I glanced over my shoulder nervously.

  But Father Mameret went on. “They are content to listen to John Knox and his kind for the moment, but it will not last.”

  I smiled, and thought of the promise I had made to my brother back in France – that I would allow Scotland to continue in its Protestant beliefs. His words came back at me now “…for as long as you can keep your side of the bargain.” My half-brother, Lord James, had not believed that I would remain true to my word.

  “I made a promise to the people of my country, Father.”

  “Of course,” he muttered.

  “I will do everything in my power to honour that promise.”

  Father Mamaret watched me patiently. “You always were wise for your years, Marie.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But you have had much to contend with.”

  “I consider myself to be very fortunate,” I replied.

  “Yes…” he murmured reflectively then broke off as if there was more that he could say.

  On my first Sunday in Holyrood, Father Mamaret prepared the Chapel Royal at my request. Word had got out that I would be celebrating Mass in the evening. It was no secret. Lord James had assured me that I would be free to worship.

  So when the fight broke out in the courtyard, I was appalled.

  My almoner was crossing the courtyard when the candles were snatched from his arms, and he was beaten about the head.

  I confronted my half-brother with the news.

  “This is outrageous,” I declared. “You promised me. What about your side of the bargain, brother?”

  He looked surprised by my fiery outburst, of which he had seen no sign before – but I was more than a match for him.

  “It was an oversight,” he told me. “It will not happen again.”

  “Oversight?” I cried, my voice echoing along the corridors of Holyrood. Several pale faces turned in our direction, observing the outburst from afar with growing consternation.

  “When I came here to take up my duties as Queen I did not expect to find my servants beaten about the head by criminals when trying to carry out my orders!”

  “They have not taken kindly to hearing that you are to celebrate Mass this evening, Mary.”

  “You promised!” I roared. “Do you expect me to honour my side of the bargain when you cannot honour yours? This is rebellion, brother. In another country it would look like treason – and I would be required to deal with it accordingly.”

  He met my gaze, but said nothing. He was beginning to understand who he was dealing with.

  Later, when it was suggested that I should consider cancelling the Mass in view of the disturbance, I refused. We assembled in the Chapel Royal at eight o’ clock sharp, although my brother warned me that a riot had broken out in the streets of Edinburgh.

  “And who organized this little rabble, James?”

  He paused before answering. “I assured Your Majesty that you could worship in peace, and I will see to it that you may.”

  As Father Mamaret’s Latin chanting filled the dark air of the chapel, it did not succeed in drowning out the noise beyond. We heard shouts and cries, mostly incoherent, but occasionally calling for the blood of the Papist priest.

  Father Mamaret’s hands shook as he lifted the sacrament, and I glared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the disturbance in any way.

  It was at this point that a loud hammering began on the doors of the chapel.

  As the host was elevated an undignified scuffle broke out and I turned in my pew to witness Lord James forcibly ejecting two old men and slamming the door shut in their faces. He stood firmly in the doorway, legs apart, arms folded.

  Afterwards, as I left the chapel, Lord James caught my eye. “You see I am doing my best to observe my side of the bargain, Mary?”

  I hesitated. “A little less noise next time perhaps?”

  His stern face broke into an involuntary smile for a moment, like sunshine appearing from behind clouds.

  Although I spoke with humour, I was alarmed at what I had witnessed. And I did not then – nor do I now – believe that it was representative of what the whole of Scotland wanted. Knox might have arranged his little rabble of protest, but there were plenty of others, Catholics and Protestants alike, who would rather not adopt his narrow-minded methods. I had only
to win them round.

  St. Giles’ High Kirk

  August 1561

  John Knox, when I met him, seemed impervious to charm. I established this quickly; he was distressingly open in his hostility and rebellion.

  After all, this was the man who was engaged in writing a pamphlet called THE FIRST BLAST OF THE TRUMPET AGAINST THE MONSTROUS REGIMENT OF WOMEN.

  My sister-queen, Elizabeth, fared little better in this treatise of his – he hated us all equally, forbore to condone the idea of any woman in power, and he especially hated myself. At least Elizabeth was not a Catholic, and at least she was not half-French.

  The cobbles were slick and wet beneath the hooves of the horses as we rode up the Canongate towards

  St. Giles’ High Kirk. Crowds gathered to watch us passing.

  There was some laughter from the servants behind me and we rode on, smiling at those I saw along the way. This was my attempt to make peace.

  Knox’s rabble had not approved of my celebrating Mass in private, in my own chapel, but I would attend his service. At the same time, I could allow myself the opportunity to watch him and judge what kind of man I was dealing with.

  The shadowy interior was filled with people, and there was a buzz in the air. Heads turned at our arrival. There were even one or two dogs gathered there, next to their owners, milling about in the dense fug. I could feel the curiosity of those around me, eager to observe their new Queen for the first time. I rose to their inspection, nodding and smiling as I took my place at the front, along with my ladies-in-waiting and companions.

  Then I looked up.

  A dark oak pulpit loomed over us all and I felt his eyes upon me before I saw them. I returned his stare. It was one of blank disapproval and he had no intention of keeping this private. Tact, diplomacy, any attempt at conciliation were completely beyond him. I saw that at a glance.

  His sermon began with a tirade of abuse against what he saw as the ‘Popish’ religion. His eyes were fixed on me, and there could be no mistaking the target of his wrath. I was appalled. My cheeks burned, while the congregation about me fidgeted in their seats in discomfort and boredom. His powerful invective sliced the air and went on and on interminably. Someone behind me coughed, and there were embarrassed glances in my direction.

  This was something my mother’s anxious letters had not prepared me for, despite her best attempts.

  What kind of man was this, I wondered, studying his great flowing beard, his voluminous garments, his heavy brow as he harangued the people from his giant pulpit? His dark-blue eyes were beetling and angry.

  What motivated him? Was it all down to piety, truly? He certainly believed so. I had heard he was married to a woman with grown-up daughters. His step-daughter Margaret was particularly close to him. Not so ‘monstrous’ after all, then? Or was it only the women who had authority over him that made him chafe?

  Once his tirade of a sermon was over, I breathed a sigh of relief – as did everyone else. We were free at last to file back out into the sunshine. But first the crowds.

  They parted to let me through, but I saw eyes staring, wonderingly, some in awe, a few with naked curiosity.

  “Make way,” my half-brother James ordered – always in front of me in those days, to pave the way. “Make way for the Queen.”

  I struggled through into the daylight.

  Then we rode back down to Holyrood.

  “A fiery sermon, was it not?” Lord James said.

  “I didn’t much care for it.”

  “I did warn you,” my brother said.

  I took my brother by surprise then. “I want to see him. In private.”

  “Who?” Lord James asked.

  “Don’t be facetious, James. You know who I mean.”

  There was a meaningful silence.

  “I request that a meeting should be arranged with that man in my audience chamber, here at Holyrood.”

  “For what purpose?” my brother asked in a low voice.

  “To give him the opportunity to explain his actions. We shall see what manner of man he really is.”

  John Knox responded to my invitation immediately, but only in order that he could make his opinions clearer than ever. He strode into Holyrood Palace with an air of defiant self-importance.

  I glimpsed his arrival from an upstairs window of my private apartments and prepared myself for the interview.

  What manner of man is this? I wondered.

  I was to have my answer soon enough.

  Knox was difficult, stubborn, but ultimately disappointed by life. He craved martyrdom, I know this much. He would have loved for the Catholic Church to make a martyr of him. Instead he died peacefully in his bed of old age, waited on hand and foot by his ‘daughters’.

  He distrusted life and pleasure and art, and he distrusted himself – his own weakness.

  “Master Knox,” I said, when we met. “I had occasion to listen to your sermon last Sunday.”

  Knox raised his chin an inch or two. “Aye. What of it?”

  I blinked once, astounded by his abrasive tongue and rude manner. This was not a gentleman.

  “I have to confess I was surprised at its content.”

  Knox glared at me.

  “It appeared to me that you were inciting my people to rebellion.”

  He stuck his bottom lip out so that it protruded from the mass of his grey flowing beard, which fell like a great waterfall over his chest. He appeared to be reflecting on how to answer.

  I spoke for him. “Tell me, Master Knox, why do you incite my people to revolt against their royal sovereign?”

  He stared at me, and after a short pause finally spoke. “Because I am no’ so sure you hev a right to call yourself that…Ma’am.”

  I gaped at him, astonished by his complete and utter audacity.

  “The statement you have just uttered is a treasonable offence. Would you care to explain yourself further?”

  “I do not believe that any woman has a right to rule this kingdom – least of all a Papist French woman. It is an unnatural state of affairs for a country like Scotland. Ye were no’ bred to rule this country. Neither was your mother afore ye…My people…”

  I stopped him there. “Excuse me? Your people?” I said. “I had no idea when I arrived here that Scotland already had a ruling monarch.”

  His brow furrowed. “’Tis not a treasonable statement to declare that my people owe their allegiance to the true Kirk, first and foremost.”

  “I have absolutely no wish to interfere with the worshipping habits of my people, Master Knox. They may worship when they want, where they want, how they want. I believe in tolerance.”

  There was a short silence, while we eyed each other.

  “That is perhaps an idea you are not overly familiar with, from what I have observed of you. But what I do object to is that you should incite my people to rebellion. It is not in their best interests, and neither is it in yours.”

  He remained silent.

  “I hear you are writing a book, Master Knox.”

  “That is right.”

  “Could you tell me a little about it? Its title, for example?”

  Of course, I already knew the title, but wanted to hear it from his own lips.

  He cleared his throat momentously.

  “It is called THE FIRST BLAST OF THE TRUMPET AGAINST THE MONSTROUS REGIMENT OF WOMEN.”

  “How extraordinary. And how beguiling.”

  There was a suppressed titter from others present in the room. I caught my half-brother smiling to himself.

  “Why do you regard us as monstrous, Master Knox? I am at a loss to understand.”

  “I have nothing against you personally,” he began, shifting heavily on his widespread feet. “It is not intended to be a personal attack in any way. I’m merely voicing my opinion – a
nd the view of many others present in Scotland today – that it is a weaker kingdom if we let women govern. It is not natural for women to rule. Being the weaker and fairer sex they know not the political ways, and have a leaning towards ungovernable, unreasonable…hysteria.”

  “Hysteria?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “That is very interesting. When I lived in France, Master Knox, I was forced to witness the torture and execution of many men and women who happened to be of a different religion to the one espoused by the ruling House of Valois – of which I was a part. It was decreed that – being a Catholic – I would approve of this violence.”

  I paused for a moment.

  “I did not. I still frown upon such methods of controlling people, as I do not believe that cruelty is what God wants. If you bothered to examine the pages of the Good Book you are gripping so tightly in your fist, Master Knox, you might see that it tends to recommend kindness and compassion.”

  I could see he was angry. His dark eyes were beetling with barely suppressed rage. He wanted to roar at me, but contained himself.

  “Forgive me, Ma’am, but I do not require to be lectured on the contents of the Scriptures. I am familiar with its contents, chapter and verse, after years of studying it in Geneva. The fact remains that women do not make adequate rulers. The Bible testifies to it, and so do I.”

  There was a splutter from someone behind me, who then struggled to conceal their mirth. I stared at him, this new adversary of mine who had spent years tormenting my mother, Marie of Guise, and now seemed set to torment me.

  “You and I will never agree over religion. I am not for burning men, Master Knox, but be warned. There are many rulers who would have you hung, drawn and quartered for what you have just said to me. If you incite rebellion in my kingdom again, I may be forced to reconsider my views on religious tolerance.”

  I realised I might have gone too far. There was a ripple of unease from the corner of the room where I knew my half-brother stood.

  Knox glanced towards Lord James and it seemed there was a glimmer of communication between them from which I was excluded.