She remembered the statues! Yes, she did! And there was one, on the other side of the palace, that Lady Fleming had told her was her father. As a child she had stared at it for a long time, trying to make it move and talk. Now she stood before it, examining the dark carved stone. It was not a lifelike image and it told her nothing about her father. Its eyes were large and accusing, its face frowning; it looked condemnatory, like John Knox.
Looking down at the gardens far below, she asked Lusty, “Do you remember our pony races around them, racing around the King’s Knot?” She did remember that, and remembered sledding down the steep hill on a cow’s skull on winter afternoons.
But as she was guided through the palace, and finally took her rest in the Queen’s bedchamber—the King’s stood empty, even though it was grander—with her Marys and Madame Rallay, she was distressed that so little of it felt familiar. Her memories were scattered and sparse.
* * *
The next morning she wished to see the Chapel Royal and the splendid Great Hall flanking the palace across the courtyard. The Chapel Royal was distressingly bare—the Reformers again!—but the Great Hall was magnificent. It had a high ceiling of hammerbeam timberwork and several fireplaces along its walls, with viewing balconies high above the floor. It was some hundred feet long.
I could celebrate my marriage here, she thought. I could be married in the Chapel Royal, and then have a banquet and masques here.… As she thought of it, the empty hall became filled with flaming torches and throngs of people; music sounded sweetly above the din of voices, and she saw herself dancing.…
Married! she thought. Married to whom? Not one of my subjects, surely. And were I to marry a prince from Europe, it would never be here!
This time last year, François and I were hunting the wild boar in the forest near Orleans.… O François! she cried silently. She felt guilt at having, even for a moment, pictured herself at a second wedding.
* * *
They stayed only two days at Stirling, and then, crossing the old stone bridge across the Forth, they set out through the valley leading in a northeast slant toward the town of Perth, which was situated at the very end of the Firth of Tay, where it dwindled into a river, directly above Edinburgh’s Firth of Forth.
The Tay was smaller than the Forth, and Perth itself was a small town, although it stood near the old site of Scone, where the sacred Coronation Stone of Scotland had once been. Legend said it had been brought long ago from Ireland; it was no matter now, as the stone had been carried off by Edward I of England and was now in Westminster Abbey. The town of Perth, once the capital of Scotland, had likewise undergone some fundamental changes. It was here, in St. John’s Church, that John Knox had preached his inflammatory sermon two years ago that had started the looting and destruction.
John Knox! He would be waiting for her in Edinburgh, doubtless with his Bible in one hand and his sword in the other. She dreaded the moment when she would have to take him on, but she would not allow herself to practise for it.
Her heart was heavy as she rode past the damaged buildings, and in spite of the gracious reception of the townspeople, she could not help wondering if she was truly welcome. A chill had come over the day.
And she could hear Lord James and Huntly arguing about something, although she could not make out their words. James’s lips seemed to shrink as they struggled to hold in his anger, while Huntly’s face grew redder and redder.
That evening, after supper, she insisted on knowing what it was.
“Huntly keeps muttering about allowing the mass to be said again, in certain shires,” said Lord James.
“I said it was not right for it not to be! There are still Catholics in the land; Parliament could not force us to convert!” yelled Huntly.
“Please!” said Mary. “In the future, do not give scandal by openly quarreling in front of the townspeople. Wait until you are safely within private walls.”
“You yourself give scandal!” blurted out James.
She was genuinely shocked. “How so?”
“It is not meet here in Scotland for you to ride sidesaddle in a manner to show your legs! It is unseemly, and seems lewd!”
Relieved, Mary began to laugh. Was that all it was? But later she thought of his words, and wondered whether she might cause inadvertent offence in other of her actions. As late as it was (possibly another offence?) she sent for James Melville with a special request in mind.
When the courtier arrived in her chamber, she held out her hands to him. He seemed loath to take them. He merely stood back and bowed deeply.
“Ah, Melville! We have known each other too long to be ill at ease with one another,” she said. “Is it not so?” James Melville, who was about Lord James’s age, had come with her to France and been trained there, although he had also served in German courts and taken his turn at soldiering in Scotland. As a result, he was one of the more sophisticated men in the Scottish court, and she assumed he would be an ally for her.
“What is it you wish, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“It is simple,” she said. “I am unfamiliar with customs here and may, with the best of intentions but through simple ignorance, give offence from time to time. For example, obviously you did not wish to take my hands. Not that I think you were offended!” she hurried to assure him. “But other acts, meant innocently, may not be taken so innocently.”
He was looking at her curiously, his attractive face open and pleasant. In fact, if one had to choose a word to describe him, she thought, one should say “pleasing.”
“I do not understand. I have not been offended.”
“I believe I may have given offence today in Perth, but I am not sure. Lord James made a remark.… Be that as it may, I would like to ask you to assume the office of my monitor. Good Melville, I ask you to please take it upon yourself to tell me if I am at any time giving offence by my speech, dress, or habits. Lord James said the way I rode sidesaddle was not seemly.”
Melville looked embarrassed. “It did seem a bit … provocative. To the people here, I mean! You and I know that Catherine de Médicis has shown her legs that way for years,” he said knowingly.
“That is precisely what I mean, Melville. Customs vary, and I wish to be correct here in all I do. In minor matters of etiquette, that is! I do not mean in matters of conscience. Now, do you promise always to inform me?” She sounded playful, but she was serious.
“I—I will try.”
“And not be bashful about it? Remember, you will be doing me a great service.”
“I—yes. Well, I might as well begin now. Here in Scotland, the monarch does not clasp hands with his servants, nor lean on them, nor touch them overmuch.” He paused. “It could be taken amiss. Of course, you and I know better.…”
* * *
From Perth the party journeyed briefly to Dundee, a town also situated on the Tay, but nearer its mouth, and from there crossed over the Tay into the region of Fife, which lay between the Firths of Tay and Forth, and which from ancient times had been a kingdom unto itself.
All along the journey, Mary had been struck by the clean greenness of Scotland, with its empty, treeless tracts and its hundreds of little lochs. Forests that were cut down here took a long time to grow back. All the colours were soft, often blurred by mists, except for that vibrant green which seemed to shine through everything.
There seemed to be few people to walk these expanses, and few farmers to till around the grey boulders that were strewn everywhere. Overhead the sky was huge and the weather changed from moment to moment. Clouds in the west raced across the sky, rained, and passed on in less than an hour.
Scattered here and there, rearing up over the rugged landscape, Mary saw square towers. They were completely isolated, sticking up like thick fingers.
“Tower-houses,” Huntly explained. “Purely defensive.”
There had never been anything like them in France, strongholds without a castle. But this land was closer to the struggle for su
rvival.
But it was strangely beautiful, with its odd diffuse light and its muted range of colours, the still lochs reflecting silver and grey from the sky. “What a fair land this is!” she said to Lord James, as they rode along a rutted path. The sea was seldom out of view; she could glimpse it, sparkling and flat, off to her left.
She was struck with the thought that, if white was the colour of France, green, grey, silver, and brown were the colours of Scotland. The rocks, the very base of the land itself, were grey in all its variations: from the palest speckled pebbles to the almost-black jagged rocks singing in the sea. These stones were the only building materials, so that the castles were grey, the little cottages were grey, and the paved streets were grey. But so many shades of it! Grey itself began to look rich and mysterious.
And the browns! There were brown sheep, and a deep ashen-hued wool that came from them, woven in the people’s garments. The hills were dun-brown with bare patches, and the fierce little terriers were drab brown. Cottages were topped by pale brown thatch, bogs were greenish-brown, and the bracken and reeds were brown. Even the whisky had been a lively brown!
Lying like a patina over the browns and greys was the silver, for both these colours could shade off into a misty translucent version of itself, so that the sedge could have a pearly sheen to it, and the walls of a castle be wreathed in a luminescence. The lochs, reflecting a tranquil sky, looked like oddly shaped mirrors lying on the land where some careless lady had left them.
Swirling around these plain, honest colours was the ever-present, transcendent green that seemed to appear in such unexpected places, such as in the cracks between the stones of any building, and which lay like a mist over all the land.
In the autumn, another colour briefly held sway, coating the hills with soft purple: the blooming heather. And there were the tiny touches of orange—wildflowers, autumnal brush, fresh-cooked salmon, the flaming hair of one person in a crowd—to catch the eye.
The people lived, for the most part, in sad little stone cottages without even fences around them. They would emerge from their doorways to gape at Mary and her party, to wave shyly at them. They were a sturdy people, and Mary was struck by how often she saw reddish hair and freckled faces among them.
“They don’t usually own their land or cottages,” Lord James explained, “and so they’ve no reason to put up fences or make improvements. Pity!”
Yes, it was. Was this what it meant to be a poor country? Mary wondered what could be done to improve their circumstances. But how could a country, such a small one, cease to be poor? Scotland had only about one-twentieth the population of France, and it was so far north. Unless gold were discovered, how could Scotland ever improve its lot?
After they crossed over into Fife, the landscape became gentler and lusher.
“This is the soft, friendly side of Scotland,” said Lord James. “Over on the western side, with the isles, it’s cold and bleak. Farther north, too, beyond the glens and in the Highlands, the people are different. They live in their mountain fastnesses and keep to their own clans, free from interference. They are for the most part still Catholic. Or so they call themselves. But the truth is, they’re still pagan.”
“Has a king ever visited them?” she asked.
“Our father made a sea-journey up to the Orkneys and then down along the western coast. But no, no ruler has ever gone into their mountains. They speak a separate tongue and they probably would have no idea who he was. They only know their own clan chiefs.”
* * *
Seeing St. Andrews made Mary sad, for it was in the cathedral—completely ruined by the Reformers—where her mother and father had had their marriage blessed. Just across the way lay the castle where the murdered Cardinal Beaton had been displayed. St. Andrews was now a shrine to the Protestant revolution.
The town would have been pleasing otherwise, for it was situated dramatically on cliffs overlooking the restless, noisy sea, and the sound of the waves and gulls flooded the bracing air. But Mary was glad to put it behind her and strike out for Falkland Palace.
They rode through quiet forests—here in Fife were royal hunting preserves—until at last they saw the walls and towers of the palace. It lay basking and golden in the late afternoon sun, stretched out in the hollow like a dozing lion. Behind it was a dense forest.
“Look! Look!” Mary called to Mary Beaton. The golden-haired Beaton rode up to her mistress and looked eagerly where the Queen was pointing.
“’Tis your home from long ago,” said Mary.
Mary Beaton stared at it, trying to remember ever having seen it before. Her father was hereditary Keeper of Falkland Palace, and she had been born there. But since the age of four she had been with her namesake and Queen.
“How odd it feels to come home to a place one cannot remember,” she finally said.
VII
William Maitland stood waiting. But not anxiously! he assured himself. No, not anxiously.
It will be gratifying to see Cecil again, he said to himself in his calmest tones. I enjoyed our previous meetings, and his wife was most gracious. After all, it is not as if this were my first diplomatic mission to London.
But it was his first for a face-to-face meeting with the English Queen. And he was curious about her, she who had excited so many tongues and sparked so many debates, not the least of which was whether she was entitled to sit on the throne of England at all. There was the matter of that charge of bastardy.…
Maitland was neatly attired in a sombre blackish brown velvet suit that he had had made by Edinburgh’s finest tailor. He called it his “diplomatic suit,” because it was sedate enough to please those of a joyless religious persuasion and yet sophisticated enough to meet the approval of a Parisian. The stitching and the material were the finest, enough to deflect all critical eyes that might seek to discern Scotland’s financial woes in the costume of its chief secretary.
His mission had been made clear to him: to come to an understanding with Elizabeth and arrange for a meeting between the two Queens. It sounded simple but was not.
He caught himself pacing. This would not do. He forced himself to look at the linenfold panelling on the walls, to examine the catch on the windows, to stare with intent interest at the Thames rolling by, its surface covered with small boats and its banks lined with people fishing. It was a glorious September day, one of those days that seemed more like summer than summer itself, and up here at Richmond, the rhythm of the countryside was more apparent than in London. He could even see fields stretching away in the distance and, on another side, the royal hunting forest that was still deep green, as if it had no intention of dropping its leaves for winter.
“Her Majesty will see you now.”
Maitland turned around with a start. The door had been opened and a guard was holding it back, while a secretary was peering out. He made his way into the beckoning chamber, remembering all that he had to achieve.
Elizabeth was there, standing, her hands clasped before her. His first thought was how small she was; he had become used to Mary’s height.
“Your Majesty.” He bowed low. “Most glorious Queen, I bring you sisterly greetings from my sovereign Queen of Scotland.”
“I am pleased.”
From his vantage point he could see her long, white fingers—very like Mary’s—motioning him to rise. He did so quickly, and saw her smiling at him.
He tried to keep the scrutiny out of his manner, but he noted everything about her.
“These are my most trusted councillors, William Cecil”—Cecil nodded—“and Robert Dudley.” Dudley also inclined his head.
“I have had the privilege of working with Mr. Secretary Cecil before,” said Maitland.
“Indeed, yes, during the Regent’s time of office. It is a pleasure.” Cecil acted as though it were true. Perhaps it was. Cecil himself was agreeable to work with, being very well organized and coming quickly to the point, and he was a shrewd judge of character as well. As for D
udley, Maitland was eager to behold this lover who seemed to offer women something of which he, Maitland, was ignorant.
“I am curious about my famous cousin the Queen of Scotland,” Elizabeth said bluntly. “To be frank, ever since she was born she has been an object of interest to me.”
Maitland looked at her admiringly. The thin, red-haired woman knew well how to put others on the defensive, and to come directly to the point.
“I believe she is curious about you, as well,” he said. “She would welcome a meeting, so you could behold one another face to face. But in the meantime, she wishes to exchange portraits.”
He had meant to present his mistress’s gift at a more opportune time, not at the very beginning of the interview. But it seemed appropriate now, and so he was forced to give Elizabeth the miniature he had carried with him.
She unwrapped it, folding back the bright blue French silk enclosing it. The miniature showed an oval face with guarded eyes, lips with the merest hint of a smile, a bit of reddish brown hair peeking out beneath a white headdress. She looked like a very young nun, a girl who had taken the veil in the throes of promised religious ecstasy.
“Is this a true likeness?” she asked Maitland.
He took it back and looked at it carefully, his intelligent brown eyes narrowed.
“Yes, and no,” he finally said. “It was painted when my Queen was in mourning for both her mother and her father-in-law. The white veil is the French deuil. She was weighted with sorrow, and that shows upon her countenance. She is much more beautiful than that, for her beauty is joined with motion and spirit.”
“These deaths made her doubly a queen, did they not?” asked Elizabeth. “Therefore her sorrow must have been ameliorated somewhat.”
“She mourned them greatly,” Maitland replied. “And within a few months more, she had to mourn her husband’s death. Three blows within eighteen months—”
“These blows brought her back to Scotland.” Elizabeth motioned for him to seat himself. He did, gratefully. Standing for long periods of time hurt his knees. Cecil and Dudley took seats also. “For which the people must surely rejoice.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 24
