The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  Before she could escape, I turned her toward me. “Isobel, let us leave it in the hands of the Almighty. I will not retract my offer.”

  “Ye are a good man, Thomas. But should ye not have a demurer woman? A woman more elevated than that of a sullied maid? And what of the queen? What does she say to this? For ye do not move without her consent.”

  “How does this decision concern the queen? And you are so much more than a ‘sullied maid.’ You are good and kind. When I needed help to restore my health, you did not waiver, even with my ill temperament.”

  “But ye are a man of the cloth.”

  “Yes, and I still choose you.”

  Isobel opened her mouth to speak, but I spoke again.

  “I want you to be my wife.”

  She stood looking at the floor. What would it take to get this woman to look me in the eyes? It had never been a problem before. I considered my options, then made a decision. I lifted her chin with my finger.

  “Look at me,” I implored. When she finally leveled her gaze at mine, I noticed a spark that hadn’t been in her eyes in a long time. I leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips.

  “Say yes,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against hers. When a smile began to spread across her lovely face, I knew I had won.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, and my heart soared.

  In that moment, I believed I could move on. I could fulfill the calling that my father had wanted for me. I could forget about the beautiful queen that had stolen my heart, and life would go on.

  ~23~

  August 1563-April 1564

  I refolded the letter and sighed. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but Mary’s words lacked her normal warmth.

  Dear Thomas,

  I wish to congratulate you on your nuptials. My prayer is for the two of you to have a long, happy life together, filled with lots of giggling children.

  Accompanying this letter shall be three chickens and a rooster, two small sheep to breed for wool, and bed linens embroidered in France. These items are for the establishing of your household.

  For your personal enjoyment I am including a leather-bound volume of the works of Plutarch for you, and a satin gown for Isobel.

  I wish you well,

  M.R.

  Nothing stood out. Yet, a lot was being said between the lines. At least it was written in her own hand.

  I didn’t hear from Mary again for eight months. I wrote her several times during the course of her hiatus, but for whatever reason, her pen was silent against me.

  Dearest Mary,

  Thank you for the gifts that you sent. Isobel was delighted with the gown you chose for her…

  And,

  My Dearest Mary,

  I have completed my first term at St. Andrews…

  And yet again,

  Dear Mary,

  You might be delighted to know that the sheep you gifted us has yeaned her first lamb…

  Yet, silence still held eminence, and I received no reply. Her reticence was painful, and by February I was forced to admit that her lack of communication was crushing. I was slow to see the necessity it served for healing that unintentional hurt we had caused each other. It was necessary to quell the feelings that I secretly held in my heart for her.

  ***

  “What is it that ye wish her to say to ye?”

  We sat by the fire after supper one night. I sulking, and Isobel doing some stitching.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, surprised at her question.

  “What is it that ye wish the queen to say? I know ye are disappointed that she hasn’t written to ye. Are ye expecting news of something?”

  “Am I that obvious?” I stood to fill my cup with another serving of ale.

  “Aye, ye are.” She sounded a little hurt by my admittance.

  “I only wish to know that she is well,” I mumbled, taking a drink of ale, but never drawing my eyes from the fireplace. When Isobel didn’t answer, I finally looked at her. Trying to change the subject, I said, “Thank you for always having supper ready. I know you were in bed most of the day with a bad headache. Are you feeling better?”

  She nodded but did not say anything at first. Finally, she said, “Ye’ve been spending a lot of time in the chapel lately. Are ye praying for a letter?”

  I flashed my eyes to her quickly. I hadn’t realized that my habits had become so noticeable. I shifted in my seat before answering. “Nay, I just have a lot on my mind, but nothing for you to worry about.” I hoped she wouldn’t notice the brush off.

  But Isobel was a smart woman, and I should have known that whatever was troubling me would be a concern to her.

  “Do ye really think that I haven’t noticed ye coming home from prayer, stiff from kneeling on the cobblestones so long? Ye haven’t eaten more than four or five meals in the last two weeks, and ye haven’t slept in our bed for longer than that.”

  I looked into her pained eyes and repented once more. How could I tell my wife that guilt had overtaken me, and I took to making penance for my untoward heart. I allowed myself not to write to Mary any further. Instead, I found myself being drawn more and more to the chapel to pray, kneeling for hours, and begging the Almighty to remove this sin from my heart. And when I didn’t sleep, I sat by the fire half the night, staring into the flames, and picturing my own flesh burning in fire and brimstone. Nay, I couldn’t tell her those things.

  When she began gathering her things to retire, I reached to take her hand.

  “The semester is almost over, and I will be able to take a break before classes resume. Would you like to take a trip to Inverness? Have you ever been?”

  A gentle smile lifted her lips, and she laid her hand against my cheek. “Only if it will not interfere with your duties.”

  “What duties? I just said the semester would be over.”

  She tilted her head and looked at me knowingly. “Your other duties.” I had a feeling she spoke of the queen, but I couldn’t be sure. She kissed me good night and retreated to our bed.

  That night I fell into a deep sleep. As I slept, I dreamt that I was on a ship with Mary. It was a galley, draped with colorful banners, ribbons and bells. The sun shone brightly as the banners flew, and pipers played, and much merriment was being made; much like the day that I witnessed three years earlier when Mary had first arrived in Scotland.

  Next, I realized I was no longer with Mary on the boat, but I stood from afar and watched as the scene unfolded before my eyes. Mary stood at the bow, joyful and happy, and waving to all her subjects that stood on the shore. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of pure white and wore a thin, silk veil over her face as she continued to wave at the people on land. She looked like a bride adorned for her wedding day. Before long, a large black crow swept down and tore the veil from Mary’s face. It carried the veil off and dropped it into the water a long way off. Mary was so distraught at the loss of her veil that she wept for a good spell.

  Mary eventually dried her tears and continued to wave to her subjects as she made her way down the banks. This went on for some time until a dark cloud moved in and the winds began to pick up. Mary braced herself against the side of the boat and a look of concern overtook her face. She began to cry out in fear of being overtaken by the waves.

  Suddenly, another large crow lighted upon her shoulder and whispered something into Mary’s ear. He was long and beautiful, and his feathers shone, sleek and strong and made the first bird pale in comparison. Her smile returned, and she laughed with the crow for a while until he began to peck at her shoulder. He became such a bother that Mary brushed him off, and he landed in the sea. Of course, her soft heart got the better of her and Mary mourned the loss of the crow who had brought her such security and momentary happiness.

  However, Mary barely had time to mourn the loss of the second bird, when a third swooped down and also began to chat in her ear. It flew about her head, dipping and swirling and making her giddy with amusement. But the reprieve lasted only
a breath, for the third crow began pulling at Mary’s sleeve. The bird continued thus for some time and eventually pulled a ruby ring from Mary’s hand. She hadn’t noticed the ring slipping off her finger until it was completely gone, swallowed by the mischievous crow. Once again Mary began to weep, and this time the loss of the ring, which brought considerably more anguish than the loss of the veil, was too much for Mary to bear. She sank to the floor of the boat in despair and from there the crow was easily able to pull Mary completely into the sea.

  I watched in such horror and attempted to run with every intention of throwing myself into the water to pull Mary from the sea. But as is the case with most dreams, my legs would not move, nor could my voice be heard, and I watched in utter anguish as Mary slipped beneath the waves of the tempestuous sea, never to be seen again. The only source of comfort was seeing the third crow, lying on the deck of the boat, choked to death, with the ring he had stolen from Mary’s finger wrapped around his neck.

  I awoke from the dream in a cold sweat. I knew the dream had some hidden meaning that the Almighty had not chosen to reveal to me. Still, I felt such anxiousness concerning it that I felt I must write to Mary immediately.

  I still did not hear from Mary for another fortnight. It was a Tuesday evening; I had gone to the chapel to pray and therefore was quite late arriving home when Isobel met me on the path leading to our small cottage. She had an excited skip in her step, and her face shone as she waved a letter in the air at me. The small exertion left her breathless and she had to pause and catch her breath before she could tell me what it was.

  “A letter, my lord. From the queen!”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “You are rather excited that I should receive correspondence from the queen.”

  “Aye, well, my hope is that the letter will calm my husband’s spirits and bring him back to the land of the living. Back to me.”

  I stopped walking and gawked at her. Is that how she perceived me? As if I were a dead man, just walking about with no life in me?

  I took the letter from her hand and kissed her lightly on the head. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I directed her back to the cottage. I wanted very much to be as excited as she, but the foreboding feeling that my dream had brought always hung in the back of my mind and extinguished any root of excitement.

  “Will ye take a bite of food, Thomas?” Isobel looked up at me hopefully as she stirred the pot that hung over the fire. Her words were like a punch to my gut, and I realized how much I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Perhaps, ye could take a bowl to your chair and read your letter in private by the fire. I’ve already eaten. I will not disturb ye.”

  I smiled at her and nodded my head. Her concern for me never wavered, even when I neglected her dreadfully. The Holy Scriptures describe just such a woman whose price was far above rubies. A new sense of guilt sprung up and nearly choked me. The Almighty could not have chosen a more perfect woman to be my helpmeet. And yet, day after day, she performed the duties that were expected of her, even if I did not ask it of her. I had not mistreated her. I would never think of laying a hand to her, yet I had been neglectful of her, and I realized that I had not fulfilled my vow to honor and cherish her. She deserved so much more than what I had given her up to this point, and at that moment, I vowed to be a better husband.

  “Issy,” I began, using the pet name I had taken to calling her not long after we had married. “Why don’t you bring your needlework over here by the fire and sit with me a spell.”

  She looked at me in surprise but quickly settled me in with my supper, then went to gather her things to sit with me. Mary’s letter was burning within the pocket of my robe. I longed very much to tear it open and see what news it held for me. Yet, I spoke at length with Isobel and even offered her a hand with her wool as she tried to prepare it for spinning on the cumbersome wheel that she worked with. We enjoyed enlightening conversation as I spoke at length about the course I was presently teaching. I hadn’t known it when I first married her, but Isobel was quite versed in scripture and even had a healthy knowledge of The Scottish Confession of Faith, penned by none other than John Knox.

  “I had no idea that you knew so much about Protestant doctrines, Isobel. Do you enjoy reading?”

  Isobel grew quiet, and her countenance returned to the shy look that I hadn’t seen since the first days of our marriage.

  “I cannot read, my lord.”

  “Then how in the world do you know so much about the writings of Reverend Knox?” I questioned, astonished.

  “Reverend Spottiswoode’s wife, Anne. Of course, her husband had a hand in the Scot’s Confession, so we talk about it quite a bit. We have spent considerable time together, and she has quite a fascination with Reverend Knox. She speaks quite often of his writing, and I ask a lot of questions. I believe I may have misled her into thinking that I can read, although it was not my intention to deceive. I…I just don’t want her to know that I cannot.”

  “Would you like for me to teach you, Isobel?” Although there was no one there to hear my question but her, it was almost as if speaking too loudly would break the trust that she had built in me. Her eyes grew wide and a look of unbelief crossed her face.

  “Oh, I couldn’t trouble ye with that. Ye are so busy. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your work.”

  “It is not an interference, Isobel. I would love nothing more than to teach my wife how to read, so she can show Anne Spottiswoode that she too can read the works of John Knox, if she wishes.”

  I smiled broadly, and a small laugh escaped her lips.

  “What about ye, Thomas? Do ye ever intend on writing some great theological work?”

  “I fear this country is not big enough for two such theological enigmas. For now, I am content to teach my classes, teach my wife, and maintain some semblance of holy behavior.”

  With that Isobel laughed out loud, and I realized how good it felt to hear her laughter.

  “And I shall be content to be the wife of the kindest, smartest and handsomest teacher that St. Andrews has ever had the honor of gracing their doors.” She smiled, and I was humbled at her summation of me.

  I rose from my chair and stepped to where she was still combing wool. I cupped her face with my palm, feeling the smooth skin of her cheek. She looked up at me with her blue eyes, and I actually felt a heat spread through my veins. She grasped my wrist with her own hand, then turned and placed a soft kiss in the palm of my hand. I bent and kissed her on the forehead again, then pausing, brushed a light kiss upon her lips. She smiled again then set her work aside.

  With a contented sigh she said, “I think I shall retire for the night. Perhaps ye would get a better night’s sleep if ye slept in the bed? After ye’ve read your letter, hmm?”

  I nodded at her again, then lifted her hand to my lips and kissed the back of her hand. “I shall try to sleep in the bed tonight and see how it goes.” Seeming content with my answer, she excused herself.

  ~24~

  April 1564

  When Isobel had gone to bed, I turned my attention to Mary’s letter. I looked at my name addressed on the front. Good, it had been written in Mary’s hand. I turned the letter over and saw the seal that she used for her personal letters. Finally, I tore the letter open and with great alacrity, began to read.

  My Dearest Thomas,

  My apologies for not writing to you sooner, but I have been working diligently to secure a competent husband for myself, and a deserving king for my loyal subjects. I have been at length in communication with His Royal Highness, Philip, King of Spain. He is very much interested in a match between me and his son, Don Carlos. It would be a most advantageous match, for they share my convictions in faith and my interest in the throne of England. Although, I must admit that Philip has a much different plan in mind than I, as to how the English throne should be obtained, yet I am still comforted that someone sees my royal right to that throne and is willing to help me secure it.

  It saddens me that I must
seek outside influences to gain the recognition of my rights, for my dear cousin still vacillates and cannot make up her mind as to whom she wishes for me to marry. I have tried, Thomas, I really have, to be a cooperative sister to her, and to heed her wishes so that she may recognize me as her true and rightful heir. But the longer she dithers, the more impatient I become. I even finally agreed to consider her man of choice, Robert Dudley, but once I consented to a meeting, she did a complete about-face and balked at the suggestion of a meeting between he and I.

  Therefore, I have taken matters into my own hands. I will not stand idly by any longer, waiting for someone who feigns to have my best interest at heart, to decide my fate. I received a proposal from Archduke Charles of Austria. I am flattered, and the fact that he is brother to the Emperor could be very advantageous for me as well. However, I would like to pursue this course with Don Carlos and see where it may take me.

  Please keep me always in your prayers. The most important decision of my life is at stake and I must allow the Almighty to guide me as I seek to do what is right for myself and my country.

  All my love to you and Isobel,

  MR

  Don Carlos? I was seething. It had been put about all of Europe that the man was insane. How could she consider such a match? Was she that desperate that she would subject herself to a mad man? I don’t know that Charles would have been much better. Although there were no rumors as to his sanity, he was the grandson of Joanna of Castile, the one they had called La Loca. He also was strongly Catholic and was known to have counter-reformation leanings. And hadn’t he been in negotiations for a marriage to Elizabeth at one time?

  The whole matter made my head swim. I didn’t like to think of Mary with any man, really. But I knew the day would eventually come and she would have to choose. All I could do was offer my honest opinion of her suitors and pray that she took my advice and made the right choice. I removed a piece of paper from my desk and sat down to write to her again. I wondered what ever happened to the rumors of a match with her late husband’s brother, Charles. I laughed to myself. I could accept her marriage to Charles of France. What was he now, about twelve years old?