Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  I wish I could remember my own coronation, she thought. I must ask my mother to write me a long description of it, for I would cherish knowing all the details.

  If my mother has time, she had to add.

  For Marie de Guise’s time was increasingly spent in trying to govern the ever-more-unruly kingdom of Scotland. The Protestants had issued a “Beggars’ Summons” ordering all friars to surrender their properties to the poor by May twelfth. Marie had in turn ordered all heretical preachers to return to Catholicism by Easter. The battle lines were being drawn in Scotland, as well as everywhere else.

  In the meantime, Mary dutifully followed her father-in-law’s orders, wearing mourning for Queen Mary Tudor at a banquet, where her entrance was announced by a herald proclaiming, “Place! Place! Pour la Reine d’Angleterre.” And as she entered the dining hall, the whole company chorused, “Vive la Reine d’Angleterre!” Upon being seated, she was served off freshly engraved plates showing the arms of England quartered with those of France and Scotland.

  She hoped her cousin Elizabeth would overlook this. Or, she assured herself, if it was true that these empty gestures were the expected thing to do, then such an astute politician as the new Queen of England would surely understand.

  XIV

  The noise was deafening, and the glass shrieked as it crashed on the stone floor of the church—almost like a living thing, thought John Knox. A living thing that hated to yield up its spirit.

  But the spirit was evil, and had to die. It was the spirit of idolatry, the demon that had plagued God’s people since first He had made a covenant with them in Moses’ time—nay, in Abraham’s. It was written in the First and Second Commandments, spelled out explicitly:

  Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them.

  How much plainer could it be? But the response of the Israelites had been the Golden Calf—and our response has been this! he thought, as he kicked the broken head of a Virgin statue that lay a few feet away from her torso. We made graven images and worshipped them: virgins and saints and pretty coloured pictures in glass to entertain people, to set them to daydreaming and amusing themselves in God’s house, as at a holiday pageant.

  The mob had thrown a rope around the stone shoulders of a Saint Peter in his niche, and were yanking him down. They yelled and laughed as the statue hit the floor and exploded in fragments. Saint Andrew in the neighbouring niche followed, and a cheer went up. Dust motes filled the air.

  “Careful of the glass splinters!” Knox cried, and they turned to him like obedient children. The shards were everywhere, and could easily slice open a foot or cut a face. He would feel responsible if anyone was hurt.

  But the mob was growing, taking on a character of its own, almost feeding on the fallen statues and ruined church. How literally they had taken his words in the sermon about idolatry two days ago here in Perth! How hungry they were for reform, and action! Would Calvin have been proud of him?

  At the thought of Calvin and Geneva, a wave of affectionate homesickness swept through him. It would have been so easy to remain there, learning from Calvin, exulting in the experience of actually living in a city dedicated to God, totally purged of idolatry and filled with living saints. I was the least among them, he thought. Only a pupil of Calvin’s and Farel’s, only a disciple. It was like that first Pentecost in Jerusalem, when the flames of the Holy Spirit came down and enveloped the disciples. To be there, to be partaking of it! That was almost heaven.

  But even that—there’s a danger of making an idol even of Geneva, he thought with despair. The devil turns even our best things against us, uses them on our weak spots. Uses my hunger for righteousness and order and freedom to try to ensnare me. For had I remained in Geneva, I would have been turning my back on my own country, instead of helping to liberate her from the bondage of strangers.

  “Master Knox! Master Knox!” They were motioning to him.

  He crossed over the nave, picking his steps with care through the rubble. The mob, armed with mallets and iron bars, stood at the ready before the intricately carved rood screen, which separated the high altar from the rest of the church.

  “Bless our first stroke!” they demanded.

  He did not like the Papist sound of that.

  “Am I a bishop?” he argued. “To sprinkle things with holy water or smoke them with incense or mumble spells over them? Nay, either a thing is of God or it is not.”

  Now they fell silent. He had them under his control, and could direct their actions as he pleased.

  “And I say this altar is not of God!” he roared. “It is an abomination, an adornment to grace a pagan ritual … the mass! For what is the mass but a superstitious magic rite, so secret and blasphemous that the people cannot even be allowed to look upon it whilst it is being enacted?”

  He swept his arms out. “Down with it! Destroy it! Let not one stone remain standing upon the other!”

  The leaders began swinging their clubs and stakes, opening holes in the delicate lacy carving, knocking down struts.

  “Let the daylight into that dark cavern of evil and superstition! Open it up for the people!” he screamed, and his words rose above the hammering and destruction.

  * * *

  That night he had a sore throat from his preaching and from inhaling the stone-dust, and had to submit to the ministrations of his wife, Marjory. She concocted a drink of chamomile and honey and insisted on his sipping it slowly. He liked the taste of it, but Calvin had taught him to guard against that particular snare; even eating and drinking should yield no pleasure beyond the natural satisfying of hunger and thirst. So, to combat the pleasure of the sweet, warm posset—and the nearness of his young wife—he forced himself to listen to a report by Patrick, Lord Ruthven, one of the Lords of the Congregation. The man himself was unpleasant enough to act as an effective counterweight to both Marjory and the drink—he was rough, wild, and reported to be a warlock—even if his news had been more palatable.

  “The Queen Regent has vowed to bring French troops to crush us,” he said. “That’s the word from Edinburgh.” He shook his bushy head, and stroked his claymore—the five-foot-long, two-handed sword he carried everywhere. “We’ll give her such a breakfast, she and her froggies—we’ll split them, and spit them, and serve ’em for dinner like they do in her beloved France.”

  “Please.” Knox winced. He found the idea of eating frogs’ legs repulsive. “How many troops?” he whispered.

  “Two thousand or so. Don’t worry, we will stand. ‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’ Romans eight, thirty-one,” he said proudly.

  Knox smiled. That this uncouth fighting lord, who could barely read, should have memorized Scripture! Ah, Calvin, if only you could share this moment! he thought.

  “That is true,” he said softly. “But even the Lord is helped by good equipment. Remember the conquest of Canaan? ‘And the Lord was with Judah, and he took possession of the hill country, but he could not drive out the inhabitants of the plain, because they had chariots of iron.’ Judges one, nineteen.”

  Immediately he was sorry he had said it, because Ruthven’s face fell. Was I using my knowledge wrongly? Knox wondered. Intimidating my brother, instead of acting in love? It is all so difficult to know! Every action can lead to sin. Pride lurks everywhere.

  “The Old Testament has not been widely spoken of here,” Knox assured him. “We studied it much in Geneva. And you will see, soon there will be a translated Bible in every church, available and”—his throat stung—“preached freely.” He stopped and coughed. “But back to the matter at hand. We will need weapons to combat the Queen and her foreign troops.”

  “I command and can supply many,” said Ruthven. He smiled, a jagged one that showed large teeth lurking just the other side of his thick, furl
ike beard. “I’ll warrant help will come from south of the border, good master. From the English Queen, good Protestant that she is.”

  “Have you word of this?” In his excitement, Knox raised his voice. Immediately he regretted it.

  “Rumours, and something stronger than rumour. ’Tis done; the Parliament has repealed the Catholicism of Bloody Mary; England is Protestant once again. Officially, as of five days ago. You’ve a sure ally in England now, instead of an enemy.”

  “The Reformed Church has an ally,” Knox corrected him. “The English Queen has never forgiven me for writing The First Blast of the Trumpet. She took it so personally”—this genuinely puzzled him—“she even refused to let me set foot in England on my way back here. Ah, well. As long as she supports the Faith.”

  “That she does. Waved away the monks waiting in procession to escort her to Parliament with their ceremonial torches. ‘Away with these torches, for we see well enough!’” Ruthven laughed.

  “Good.” Knox hated monks. Tonsured, interfering fools.

  So Elizabeth was on the Reformers’ side. Let her join them, then, in ousting the French and the Catholic Church from Scotland.

  The Queen Mother, old Marie de Guise—the French cow, as Knox thought of her—had ordered all the Reformed preachers to return to Catholicism by Easter; when they refused, she commanded them to appear before her on May tenth.

  The answer, thought Knox, was my sermon the next day, the sermon that started the rioting here in Perth. Now let her face our army, if she can wade through the rubble of her late Popish ruins! He laughed loudly, not caring that it strained his throat.

  And God has spared us the prospect of her daughter ever returning to Scotland and the throne, he thought. She will be tied up for her lifetime in France, in that land of satin and foppery, whilst we go about our business unhindered.

  Thank You, Lord, he thought. Thank You. Now lead us on to final victory!

  XV

  Early summer in Paris, when the city was tender and in its first spreading ripeness, should have been a pleasurable time for the French court. Indeed, high festivities were in hand: King Philip of Spain, that well-rehearsed bridegroom, had been accepted in matrimony by Elisabeth Valois, after abandoning his hopeless pursuit of the new English Queen. The wedding would take place at the end of June, along with the nuptials of her spinster aunt, Marguerite Valois, to the Duke of Savoy—another hapless suitor of Queen Elizabeth, who was discarding them left and right like a housewife sorting rags.

  But in spite of the expensive preparations—the commotion in the kitchens, the armour-fitting, the tournament practices—within the Hôtel des Tournelles there was an anxiety, a high hum in the air, although no one acknowledged it. Catherine de Médicis was in a perpetual frown and heaviness, her dark eyes looking to something within herself; Elisabeth, only fourteen, was apprehensive about leaving France and becoming the third wife of a man whose other wives had been so short-lived. And Mary was unhappy: unhappy to be losing her almost-sister Elisabeth, unhappy that François was once again ill, and most of all unhappy with the news from Scotland. Her mother was ill and beleaguered by John Knox’s rabid Reformers. Actual war had broken out, with killings on both sides. Led by the Lords of the Congregation, and whipped up by John Knox’s preaching, the Scottish people had gone on a rampage of destruction, while their army had attacked the government’s forces.

  And in back of it was English help. Queen Elizabeth must be secretly sending money to help the rebels. Without English support, the rebels would have been beaten by now.

  O my mother! thought Mary to herself as she dressed for the tournament that was to be part of the festivities that afternoon. My mother, my mother—if only I could see you, be with you … it has been so long since I have seen you, eight years since your wonderful visit here in France, eight long years … I must find a way for us to see each other again, there must be a way … perhaps I can come to you.… The longing was so acute it was like a physical pain, a yearning that tore at her in hidden places.

  Riding in her carriage with its gilded wheels to the adjoining tournament grounds on the rue St.-Antoine, being preceded by heralds running ahead, crying, “Make way, make way, for Her Majesty the Queen of Scotland and England,” seemed something she was doing for her mother’s sake, striking a blow against her mother’s enemy, Elizabeth. Her earlier admiration of Elizabeth’s cleverness had soured now that it was directed against her own mother. She smiled and waved as the people acknowledged her, and Nicholas Throckmorton, the English ambassador, noted everything and would report it back to London.

  She took her place in the viewing balcony on the rue St.-Antoine, next to her uncle the Cardinal, who looked bored already.

  “I wish I had a livre for every official joust I have had to attend,” said the Cardinal, twitching at his robes. “I should have amassed more than Luther claimed the Church made on indulgences. Ah, well. One cannot have a marriage or a birth or a coronation without them. Spectacle is an investment. If wisely used, that is. Now, this…” He gave a dismissive gesture. “Waste. Who sees it? Who is impressed by it? Not Philip. He is not here. He does not reckon this important enough to leave Spain for!”

  The thought had been in Mary’s mind as well. It was hurtful that Philip did not care enough for his new bride to claim her in person.

  “That is a great pity,” said Mary. “For Elisabeth’s heart is not his yet. He will have to win her, and this is no way to begin.”

  The Cardinal sighed expansively. “Love and arranged marriages—they are seldom found together.” He seemed not to care if Elisabeth was happy or not; it was her lot as a princess to endure. “Your cousin Elizabeth declines the hand of the Spanish bridegroom,” he said. “Of course, there is some feeling that perhaps she is not the true Queen. Philip is well out of it. Especially since the Pope has issued his statement recognizing you as rightful Queen.” He had not exactly “issued” the statement, but the Cardinal’s spies had found out about it anyway.

  Mary looked out beyond the tournament grounds, which lay between the Bastille and the river, to the buildings of Paris, shimmering in the June sun, and beyond them to the bright green fields. She had seen the same vista in a Book of Hours: brilliant and jewellike.

  She sighed. “My heart is too heavy with my mother’s troubles in Scotland to concern myself with the romances of my cousin in England, who causes them.” She refused to discuss the formal “claim” Henri II had forced her to make.

  “She does not exactly cause them,” corrected the Cardinal. “The English Queen causes nothing, she merely takes advantage of what naturally occurs.”

  “How clever of her.” Mary was still looking at the perfect June landscape, so like a miniature. She wished she could enter into it, walk along the winding country road that, from here, looked like a brown thread.…

  The contenders were milling at either end of the field, banners fluttering.

  The Cardinal suddenly took off his hat and began fanning himself with it. “When will they start? This is torture!”

  “Soon,” she assured him.

  He heaved a sigh of resignation, and turned to talk to the Queen, seated on his other side. Catherine de Médicis, dressed in a rich green silk dress, looked sour; her brows were drawn up in a straight line, and she kept twisting a handkerchief in her stubby fingers. Mary heard the Cardinal attempting to entertain her. But she grew ever more agitated.

  Tournaments were such pretty things, thought Mary. All the colours, and the ritual—rather like high mass. Perhaps it was a mass, a secular one, of strength and worldliness.…

  The trumpets sounded. The jousts in honour of the marriage of the King’s sister, Princess Marguerite, and his daughter, Princess Elisabeth, to the Duke of Savoy and the King of Spain, respectively, would now commence. Glittering contenders—including the King, wearing the black and white colours of Diane—came onto the field. The first contest began.

  For an hour or so everyone watched avidly, but then
the too-familiar spectacle wore thin and thoughts began to wander and tongues to chatter amongst the onlookers.

  Mary smoothed her blue gown and thought of François. He sat close to his mother, his face pinched with pain from his ever-present ear infection. How did he bear it, never feeling well? Yet he persisted with his lessons, and kept hunting.

  Farther down on the balcony sat the Duc de Guise, back from the wars for good. An agreement had ended the wars: the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis, which stopped all the fighting. France had had to return all her conquests from the last eighty years in Italy. How futile war was, she thought. All the banners and horses and ordnance, but in the end it was as insubstantial as a joust.

  “How is marriage treating you, my dear?” The Cardinal’s voice was warm and close to her ear.

  “I enjoy being married,” she answered.

  “In what sense do you enjoy it?” he persisted.

  “As a wife should.” She would not betray François’s capabilities—or lack of them—to him.

  “Then we can expect a prince soon?” He was relentless.

  “That is in the hands of God.”

  “God helps those who help themselves.”

  Should she listen to this? “In what way?” She yielded to the temptation.

  “For the good of France, it may be necessary to make personal sacrifices. To set aside certain commandments.”

  “Such as the sixth?” She paused. “The one commanding fidelity?”

  “How perceptive you are. Naturally, the Lord would reward such a sacrifice with minor compensations—such as pleasure.” Surely she wanted to taste pleasure! She was fashioned for it.

  “My pleasure is in being faithful to the one ordained to me by God.”

  Oh, dear. What a problem for the succession, he thought.

  “But of course,” he said smoothly. “I was merely testing you, my dear.”

  “I know.” She pretended to believe him. “That is your job, as Cardinal of the Church and as my—”