‘God forgive you! But you will not wait long before the wrath of the Lord descends upon you in this very place!’
Donald had assured Marie that Wishart would not suffer. He said that heretics were usually garroted before the flames got going properly. But Wishart had obviously suffered terribly. As the flames licked hungrily higher, the crowd, which had been in such high spirits, suddenly began to get restless. Many seemed to feel that, whatever his crime, Wishart did not deserve the unspeakable cruelty he was suffering.
Then, above the noise of the crowd, a voice cried out ‘It should be Beaton who burns today, not Master Wishart!’ and Marie turned to see the agitator John Knox shouting and gesturing towards the Cardinal. His supporters joined in with angry shouts of their own, and Beaton started to look nervous. He turned to the Bishop of Moray who sat next to him and said,
‘My Lord Bishop, this rabble is getting out of control. I sincerely hope—’ But before Beaton could finish, a shattering explosion came from the direction of the stake, and those nearest the pyre were showered with the heretic’s blood. Clearly, the gunpowder had exploded.
Mercifully Wishart had already lost consciousness as the heat, the smoke and the pain overcame him, and with a great crash the pyre collapsed around his smouldering remains in a cloud of smoke and sparks. Feeling sick at heart, Marie ran down the steps of the tower, an acrid, sour taste rising at the back of her throat to mingle with the stench of burning meat.
She quickened her pace and ran out of the castle and on into the town, finally stopping in an alleyway. As she gasped for breath, the conventional smells of human excrement and rubbish were, for once, welcome to her nostrils.
Later that evening, when the celebrations were in full swing, Marie discussed George Wishart’s prophecy with Donald, Magnus and young James.
‘After what I saw today, I hope Beaton suffers just as Master Wishart did,’ she told them.
Magnus just shrugged and said,
‘He was out of his mind. He wouldn’t know what he was babbling on about.’
Marie ignored his sarcasm and James said,
‘I for one don’t think he deserved to die like that.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Donald warned.
‘I don’t care who hears me.’
Donald glowered at the boy.
‘Have you forgotten it was your father who gave Master George up for the Queen’s smile and the Cardinal’s gold?’
James flushed and Marie felt sorry for him.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ she protested. ‘James is not yet twelve years of age. There’s no point in blaming him for what his father does.’
It was then Marie remembered she’d eaten nothing since the night before. She’d been so upset at the thought of Wishart’s execution. Now she felt faint with lack of sustenance. Starving herself would not bring George Wishart back, she thought as she followed the others over to the long table illuminated by dozens of candles in many-branched silver candelabra.
Magnus and James filled their plates with greedy enthusiasm. Donald ate absent-mindedly, but Marie could only pick at a little fish.
Already her mother was prancing about at the dance with complete and shameful abandon.
‘Would you look at my mother!’ Marie groaned, but James laughed and said,
‘Och, she’s having a grand time. The three of you are old before your time!’
Effie’s green velvet shoes and stockings were catching everyone’s eye. Or at least, every man’s eye. Her frizz of fair hair was escaping from her gable hood and straggling, wet with sweat, over her brow. Her partner of the moment, the Duke of Glasgow, was sweating even more profusely. A stream of moisture was running down his face and soaking his moustache and beard. Eventually, bellowing with laughter and clutching at his oversized belly, he managed to roar out,
‘Enough, enough, Effie. I’ve a wheen more flesh than you to heave around.’
To Marie’s annoyance, Effie dragged the great bull of a man across to her.
‘Ah, my favourite lady!’ the Duke addressed her.
Marie felt sure the whole of the vast concourse of people must be listening.
‘My dearest one …’ he continued, grabbing her hand and pressing thick wet lips against it.
Marie immediately jerked away.
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir.’
Then, clutching up her skirts, she took to her heels.
‘Marie,’ her mother called after her, ‘come back here at once! At once, do you hear?’
Marie reached the shadowy passageway and sped swiftly up the stairs. The high candles flared and fluttered in the draught making quivering patterns on the stone walls. The light hardly reached the stairs and a couple of times she missed her footing and stumbled.
In the bedchamber, the candles had already been lit and a fire burned smokily in the hearth. Nellie must have been watching for her coming because within minutes she appeared and helped her mistress undress. She was a talkative girl not much older than Marie and she immediately began gossiping about the celebrations. She was eager to know who was dancing with whom. Marie, however, was in no mood for chatter and cut her off abruptly. Nellie left in an obvious huff, and Marie retired to bed.
But she couldn’t settle to sleep. The big four-poster bed was cold and lumpy and the bedcovers pressed heavily down on her. As she drifted off to sleep, a nightmarish vision of George Wishart seemed to appear in the flickering flames of the bedroom fire. She heard his doom-laden voice and she knew with fear in her bones that, one way or another, no good would come of this day.
IV
MARY of Guise looked out of the window and across the lawns to where her young daughter was playing happily. She was glad that winter was nearly over—it had never been this cold in her beloved France, and the freezing Scottish snows depressed her. But today the sun was shining, and she was determined to make the most of it. And like any other four-year-old, her daughter loved to play outside in the sunshine. The only difference was that her daughter was Mary, Queen of Scots.
Since the death of the child’s father, James V, life had not been easy for them. Henry VIII had sent his army to Scotland several times, and wanted to unite England and Scotland under the Protestant banner. But Mary of Guise would have none of it. Until her daughter was old enough to rule alone, Mary was determined to guard the young Queen and her inheritance with her life. And now, as she watched the child at play in the garden at Stirling Castle, the cold hand of depression descended on her as she thought of the future.
There was a loud knock on the door, and her old friend Cardinal David Beaton was ushered in.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ said Beaton, bowing low to the ground.
‘David, it is so good to see you, mon ami.’ Mary of Guise felt as if she had known the Cardinal all her life. Indeed, he had been Ambassador to France many years before, and, when she journeyed to Scotland to marry, it had been David Beaton who had accompanied her. She remembered his arrival at the French Court so long ago. Although so young, he was eager and clever, a born diplomat and an amusing companion. He had worked hard and made many powerful friends in France and in the Vatican, but as the years had passed he had also made powerful enemies. He was hated in England, and it was rumoured that Henry VIII now wanted him dead.
‘And it is good to see you, your Highness. It has been too long. And our young queen seems to be growing up so fast.’
‘Oui, that is so, but perhaps not fast enough for Scotland’s sake, I fear. The English have spies everywhere. It can only be a matter of time before they come for my Mary again.’
‘You are both safe here in Stirling Castle, your Highness.’
‘For the moment, perhaps, but for how much longer?’
‘That I cannot say. You received my letter about the spy Wishart?’
‘Oui. You said he was in the pay of the English?’
‘That is so, your Highness. Posing as one of these so-called ‘reformers’, he has been preaching rebel
lion. But we shall have the last laugh, I assure you.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘We have the names of many of Wishart’s fellow conspirators. Soon they will meet the same fate as their leader, and that should stamp out their unholy treason once and for all.’
Mary rose from her chair beside the fire, and walked over to the window. How different life was now, she thought. When she had arrived in Scotland, she had been only twenty-three, so young and innocent. Her first husband had been French, but had died tragically young, and when she came to Scotland to marry the king, she could speak very little of the language. And then her beloved James had died, leaving her to cope with a newborn child and a kingdom in disarray. Yes, life was a terrible struggle. Her mind drifted back to her guest.
‘The heretics are not the only problem, though, David. Many of the nobles seem to be taking the side of the damned English.’
‘Most are still loyal, your Highness. As far as I can tell. It is only when they get a sniff of English gold that their loyalty seems to disappear.’
At that moment, the door burst open, and the young Mary, Queen of Scots, ran into the room. A flash of red hair, she rushed up to her mother and embraced her. A second later, her flustered nurse appeared and started to apologise for the intrusion.
‘Do not worry, Janet. Leave Mary with us for the moment. After all, what we say concerns her, though she is too young to comprend.’
Janet Sinclair closed the door, and Mary turned to her daughter. ‘Mary, say bonjour to your Uncle David.’
The young Queen had not noticed the Cardinal sitting in the far corner of the room, but immediately ran to greet him, before skipping back to her mother’s side.
‘Our Queen has much energy,’ the Cardinal laughed. ‘I fear she may need it in the future.’
‘You are right, mon ami. And it is up to us to make sure she has a future in Scotland. But what of Governor Arran? I fear that he still has English sympathies, and that the Lords of Scotland will follow his lead.’
‘He is loyal for the moment, your Highness. As long as his son is under my, shall we say, protection, his hands are tied. And he seems more interested in gold than politics or religion.’
‘We must see that it stays that way. I trust you will inform me if the situation changes.’
Cardinal Beaton was to stay overnight at Stirling Castle before returning to St Andrews, and the Queen Mother welcomed the company of such a civilised old friend. Indeed, it was such a refreshing change to be able to talk with him in French. And he was, as ever, an excellent companion at dinner.
The next day they said their goodbyes, and the Cardinal and his entourage departed. From her chambers high on the castle rock, she watched as he disappeared slowly into the distance. And despite his reassurances, she still worried. Henry of England was a powerful enemy even for this prince of the church. If the king of England wanted him dead, it would surely come to pass, and if anything happened to Cardinal David Beaton, her staunchest ally, she dreaded to think what would become of herself and her daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots.
V
A FEW days after the heretic was burned, most of the guests, including Donald McFarlane, his older brother Hamish and their father, left St Andrews Castle to begin their long journeys back to their respective homes. Nobles on horseback, resplendent in satins, furs and scarlet feathers, bobbed along, their ladies riding beside them in gleaming satins and rich velvets. Following them were trains of servants and mountains of luggage.
Only a few of the Cardinal’s close friends in the clergy and some ladies remained. These included the Bishop of Moray, Effie and Marie. Alice McNeal and Magnus had also stayed on. Magnus, however, was poor company for Marie. He was too busy trying to make a good impression on their father. Marie would far rather have had the company of young James Hepburn. At least he was entertaining and always ready for an adventure. However, even James had eventually left when his father, the ‘Fair Earl’, had returned to Bothwell where there was urgent business to attend to.
She missed James. But most of all, Marie missed Donald McFarlane. She took to wandering about the draughty corridors on her own or huddling over a book, giving herself a headache trying to read in the flickering candlelight. Sometimes she just hid away in her bedchamber. Her mind was forever drifting back to Donald. She had grown up with him. He had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember.
‘When are we returning home?’ she began pestering her mother who was perfectly content, continuing to enjoy the Cardinal’s lavish hospitality. And of course there were still enough ladies and even a few gentlemen left with whom she could chatter.
‘You’re more depressing than a dreich day,’ Effie told Marie. ‘And you can just put that Donald McFarlane out of your mind. He’s not the one for you and the sooner you realise that, the better. If it wasn’t for the fact that his father’s such an old friend of the Bishop, we would forbid you to see him altogether. There’s absolutely no comparison between him and the Duke of Glasgow.’
None indeed, Marie thought.
‘The Duke has already spoken to your father. He is serious, Marie. He is!’
Marie tried to be sensible. She would discuss the problem with Donald as soon as she returned home. They would work something out. Donald had always kept her out of trouble before.
Then a welcome yet puzzling thing happened. She received a message written in French from Donald—no doubt to prevent the servant from reading it. It said that she was to tell no-one, but was to come to the castle gate at midnight.
She was looking forward to seeing Donald earlier than expected, but why was he coming back to St Andrews? And why did they have to meet at dead of night?
Unless … an exciting thought struck her. Had he decided the only way out of her predicament with the Duke was to kidnap her and carry her off from under the very noses of her father and mother? Would he gallop off with her, insisting that she must marry him? She felt an unexpected thrill at the thought.
Nellie came as usual to help her undress but Marie told her to go away and leave her alone.
‘I’m gonnae clipe on ye one o’ these days,’ Nellie warned. ‘Aye, one o’ these days, I’ll tell yer mither what a cheeky lassie ye are.’
Marie laughed.
‘No need to clipe, Nellie. My mother already knows all my faults. Away you go and enjoy yourself, then get to your bed early. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Ye’re up tae somethin’,’ Nellie accused darkly. ‘I can tell.’
‘Just get out of here and mind your own business.’ Marie’s voice sharpened with impatience.
‘Aye,’ Nellie muttered, turning away. ‘Ye’re up tae somethin’ all right.’
Marie paced the floor until the time came for her to don her hooded cape and race along the corridor. Down the dark winding staircase she hurried, until she reached the courtyard with its lanterns glowing like embers.
It was just before midnight when she reached the guards on duty. The two men greeted her in surprise. She explained that she had an assignation with her sweetheart, Donald McFarlane, and they laughed and winked conspiratorially. It was common gossip that the Bishop and his mistress were against the match and were planning to marry the girl off to the Duke of Glasgow. It amused them to think that they could do something to help the path of true love.
They opened the gates but were immediately taken aback to find not only Donald McFarlane, but several other men stepping out of the darkness into the yellow light of the lanterns. They were dressed as workmen and carried leather stonemason’s bags. Nevertheless, the guards drew their swords.
The men explained very humbly that they were masons who had much work to complete in the castle, and to save them getting up and travelling at the crack of dawn, they had decided to snatch a few extra hours’ sleep in the castle before starting work bright and early.
There had been a great deal of rebuilding work going on in the castle for some time, and the fac
es of the men, now that the soldiers could get a better look at them, seemed vaguely familiar. Their good humour returned, and the men were allowed in. For a few minutes the guards indulged in teasing banter with Donald and Marie, before bidding them goodnight and sweet dreams.
‘I thought we were meeting at Spynie,’ Marie began once she was alone with Donald. ‘So why have you come back to St Andrews?’
‘Trust me, Marie,’ Donald said. ‘I’ll explain later.’
Before she could say any more he had hurried after the workmen. Marie walked slowly back along the corridor. Her romantic dreams had been dashed, and all her original uneasiness had returned. In the deathly hush of her bedchamber, she wondered what it could all mean.
VI
CARDINAL David Beaton lived in the most luxurious fashion possible and his many mistresses revelled in his lavish hospitality. But Marion Ogilvy was his favourite. They and the few other ladies and gentlemen remaining in the castle had eaten well that evening and supped a great deal of wine. Then the Cardinal and Marion had left the other guests and gone, none too steadily, hurrying as fast as they could in their sexual urgency, to the Cardinal’s private apartment. It was at times like this that the Cardinal lost much of his dignity. He was soon to lose even more.
Before he was able to disrobe, the door of his bedchamber burst open and Beaton was horrified to find himself facing a gang of armed men, swords and daggers at the ready. Marion Ogilvy screamed in terror, and ran from the room.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Beaton addressed the first man he recognised. ‘Donald McFarlane, your father and I are like brothers.’
While he was speaking, he made a desperate lunge for the two-handed sword he always kept beneath his bed, but he never reached it, and the intruders pinned him against the wall.
McFarlane flung the Cardinal’s sword across to the other side of the room, saying grimly, ‘You won’t be needing that where you’re going!’
Burning Ambition Page 3
