Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could almost hear the sound of the voices at Fontainebleau, little childish voices of Charles, Claude, Elisabeth.…

  Riccio was now playing a French chanson, the tune so sweet and finely balanced. His fingers plucked the strings as lightly as a breeze.

  “I have loved you always,” said the attached note. “Charles IX.”

  “It is always good to return to happy memories,” said Mary. “But I fear that little Charles woos in vain.”

  Even as she was opening the crown-shaped box, Riccio had switched to a mournful-sounding folk tune. The gift box was made so that the top would flip off, and inside were imitation jewels, surrounding a round bottle with its own little crown on top. The note read, “I shall make you the Queen of ice and snow and nights of love that last twenty-four hours. Yours eternally, Erik XIV, King of Sweden.” Mary twisted off the cap and sniffed it cautiously—would it smell like wolves and wilderness? But the unguent inside had a clean smell, like birches.

  “King Erik is indeed persuasive,” she said. Everyone in the circle was laughing now.

  “Another, another!” cried Lusty, handing her the brass-bound box. Now Riccio raced over to the virginal and began playing a dancing, lively tune. Mary opened this one and pulled out a gold-encrusted flagon that winked even in the low light in her chamber. “Though my head is oversize, my heart is even bigger, and my Catholic chapel is larger yet,” the card read. “Be my bride, and sample all three. Yours to command, His Highness Archduke Charles of Austria.”

  Mary opened the flagon and was almost overcome with the powerful scent of rose and carnation mixed. It filled the air and seemed to envelop her.

  “Oh! His suit is strong!”

  Last was the basket; Mary untied the ribbons and found an ornamented box inside. It was filled with powder that had the most delicate scent of lavender. She had always loved lavender, but had only known the French variety. This was different, smelling both sweeter and lighter. The card read, “Do not overlook your humble English cousin, who is shy like this flower of the field, but will endure for more than a season, to perfume your bed or trample underfoot if it please you.”

  “Whoever is that?” asked Mary. “It is not signed.”

  Riccio was playing “Greensleeves” on his lute, and no one owned up to the package.

  “My humble English cousin?” asked Mary. “This lavender comes from the area of Norfolk, I know, but the Duke of Norfolk is married, is he not? And he is not my cousin, he is Queen Elizabeth’s … although I suppose that makes him a sort of cousin-in-law.” She looked at all the faces; would no one confess?

  Humble English cousin … English cousin … the Earl of Lennox’s son, Henry Stuart? He was some three years younger than she, she knew. Once that had made him a child, but now that she herself was twenty, that was no longer true. At seventeen, men went to war as soldiers, and ruled as kings without regents. She wondered if Henry Stuart was that sort.

  “Henry, Lord Darnley?” she asked.

  “Yea!” Riccio leapt up and ran into the adjoining chamber, then reentered, tottering on stilts. Everyone laughed. “I am so tall, I make myself dizzy!” he cried.

  “Is my cousin really so tall?” asked Mary. She really knew very little about him. His father, Matthew Stuart, who was related to the French Stuarts, had been banished from Scotland when she was only two years old, and had lived in England ever since.

  “Very tall, like Goliath!” Riccio assured her.

  Just then Lord James and Maitland entered the chamber, also bearing gifts. They both stared at Riccio as he hung there in the air, looking down at them.

  “You are now one of her ladies-in-waiting?” asked Lord James, disbelief flooding his voice. “You live with the ladies?”

  Maitland had a look on his face like someone who has just seen an embarrassing object where it ought not to be—an expensive gift in a trash bucket, a dog turd on a clergyman’s shoe sole.

  “No, indeed not!” he said, hopping down.

  “You are here so much,” said Maitland.

  * * *

  That evening, Mary asked that a hot bath be prepared for her, so that she could enjoy all the fragrances she had been given.

  “I will soak in water scented with the Spanish soap, will rub my toes with the birch unguent, dust myself with the lavender, put the roses on my neck, and sprinkle my handkerchiefs with the flowers of Provence,” Mary told Lusty.

  “And make Holyrood reek like a harem,” said Lusty.

  As Mary lay in the scented water—so laboriously hauled up to fill her tub—she let herself relax. The fragrance was delicate and soothing, and she stretched out her legs and tilted back her head.

  It had been very amusing today. Very clever of her loved ones to think of those presents and play that game. But …

  She splashed water on her face and felt the warm rivulets run down her cheeks.

  It was not really a game.

  I realize now I must marry, she thought. Part of me wants to marry; I am tired of being alone, I long to have a companion. And after the Huntly rebellion, I lost my last ally against all the convinced Protestants. I have no one to support me, should I wish to do anything contrary to their wishes. Perhaps a foreign prince would not be unwise. The might of Spain would serve as warning to any overzealous lords here. But I would be just as lonely, for Don Carlos would remain in Spain except for short visits.

  Charles IX is hopeless. The Archduke is a distinct possibility. King Erik of Sweden? The same problem as Don Carlos. If I have a husband, I want him with me. One does not marry to escape loneliness and then continue to live alone.

  Henry, Lord Darnley? If he is already a man, then perhaps. He is not an English subject, but he also has royal blood. He is the last male in the Tudor line, Elizabeth’s cousin as well as mine. Perhaps this match would please her, and induce her to soften about the succession. I would like to marry to please her as well as myself, if such a thing is possible.

  “Madam.” Madame Rallay was standing beside her, holding a letter. “This is for you.”

  Mary opened it, and found a poem in gushing, overexcited French, praising her beauty, wisdom, and majesty.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “The poet Chastelard,” replied Madame Rallay. “He has unexpectedly returned to your court, and wishes to pay homage.”

  Annoyance tugged at her. She had been glad to see the tiresome man gone—and now he was back?

  “Another time,” she said.

  The sleek oil from the fatted bar of soap was coating her skin, making her feel as slippery as a fish. Emerging from the tub, she allowed Madame Rallay to blot her with a soft towel and dust her with the lavender powder. A box was waiting on the stool just beside her bath-screen. She opened it and found an embroidered silk stole, a gift from Lord James. She put it on, draping it over her robe, enjoying the luscious smoothness next to her neck.

  She was surprised, as she entered her bedchamber, to find Riccio there. He stared at the stole.

  “It is beautiful!” he said. “Yellow silk of such a vibrant shade … I did not realize there were dyes that could duplicate the colour of marigolds. And the embroidery—pure gold thread?”

  She nodded, and undid her hair, which fell down about her shoulders. “A gift from Lord James,” she said.

  Riccio’s bulging eyes bulged even wider. “Oh, my. Well, it is only fitting that he pay tribute with such an expensive gift. After all, you have made him very rich. The earldom of Moray … such extensive lands!”

  “Yes.”

  “Almost the most extensive in Scotland.”

  “For a newcomer, you seem to have learned quickly who owns what.”

  “A hobby, most gracious Majesty.”

  “I fail to see how concerning yourself with others’ possessions can be called a hobby.”

  “A study, then, if you will. A study of power. Power interests me. I wish to put my knowledge, such as it is, at your servi
ce always.”

  “I thank you.”

  “I would not give Lord James any more lands or honours, Your Majesty. Too much land can result in too much power.”

  “That is for me to decide.”

  Just as she was finishing the sentence, the door opened quietly and Lord James stuck his head in, nodding it in respect.

  “I am pleased you like my gift, dearest sister,” he said. But he was looking at Riccio.

  * * *

  The warm May sun hit the cages and crates, making the animals within them whine and begin to stir. Half the court had come out to see the opening of the Queen’s imports, and now they only awaited the gardeners and keepers to arrive with their pry-bars and saws. The Queen and her ladies were standing about, laughing and letting their spirits enjoy the fine day. Mary noticed John Sempill, one of those young courtiers whose dancing had caused John Knox to lecture his father about its evils, keeping close by Lusty’s side. Ambassador Randolph likewise hovered near Beaton. Ah, spring!

  Although Mary still wore a lighter version of mourning, it was difficult to feel sad on such a day, when all the world was rejoicing. Overhead the trees had unmasked their leaves just a few days earlier, and they seemed to expand before the Queen’s eyes. If the leaves were the size of a ducat in the morning, they would be the size of a bowl by evening. Flowers were springing up, undeterred by having to push their way through the remains of last year’s. Flowers had no memory, although they evoked it in others.

  “Ah!” Mary was delighted to see the workmen and gardeners coming. They strode down the path, carrying their shovels and pushing their wheelbarrows, whistling as they walked.

  “Gentlemen!” she said. “Before you in these crates are plants I have sent for from the gardens of France. There are Persian lilacs—”

  “They won’t grow here,” said one workman quickly.

  “Too cold,” said another.

  “We can try planting them on a slope that faces south, and protecting them a bit,” said Mary. “And here are rose gallica, the red rose which blooms so profusely, and moonflowers which climb up trellises and open only at night—”

  The gardeners said, “It will take manure!”

  “I am sure there is no shortage of that from the royal stables,” said Mary. “And here, I have sent for sycamore trees.” She pointed to the tallest crates. “I do hope they grow here! The sound of the wind in them is one of the loveliest sounds on earth.”

  The men grunted.

  Just then several strong young men approached, dressed in studded leather with gloves and leather caps. They carried whips and clubs. Leading them was an older man with a pistol, the menagerie-master whom Mary had appointed.

  “Where are the beasts?” asked the man.

  Mary pointed toward the cages with bars and air holes. “There.”

  “What is the variety you have?”

  “Two lionesses, a bear cub, a wolf, and a porcupine.”

  “Lionesses!” The men looked interested. “Adult ones?”

  “No, but more than cubs,” said Mary. “At least that was what I was told.”

  The men approached the cages carefully. “Where will you want these beasts?”

  “In a menagerie here at Holyrood,” she said. “Later I will send for animals for the one at Stirling.”

  One thing at a time, she thought. One step at a time. Slowly years of neglect are reversed. The flower beds we laid out last year have thrived with the native varieties. And the menagerie had to be rebuilt before animals could be brought; a lioness cannot wait long in a cage!

  The Marys were laughing and examining the plant stocks the gardeners were unpacking. Some of them looked dead in their straw wrappings. But that could be deceiving. The French roses, for instance …

  At the thought of France, a darkness seemed to flit across the clear, joyous day. Things were no longer light and happy in France. The wars of religion had wrought much sorrow. The Duc de Guise, her beloved uncle, had been assassinated by a Huguenot, shot in the back. All the leaders of both sides had been either killed or captured: Antony of Navarre killed in battle, Conde of Navarre and Constable Montmorency captured, before a treaty of sorts was signed.

  Chastelard, the poet attached to Montmorency’s son, had reappeared in Scotland, some thought now on a political mission of some sort. But the fool—the stupid pawn! Mary felt wretched remembering his strange behaviour, hiding under her bed, claiming to be overcome with love—it had ended with his execution. But Lord James had assured her it had meant to end with hers. The poet had gone to his death quoting Ronsard and saluting his love for her, “the most cruel princess in the world.”

  A spring of killing. Mary prayed that it would be over now, that the demon of violence had been purged. But she would have to wear mourning even longer now, in honour of her uncle.

  Behind her and on the paths of the still-bare garden, Lord James and Maitland were looking critically at the gathering.

  “More French nonsense,” muttered Lord James. “Crates of such things. I hope she is paying for it out of her French dower revenues, and not from crown money.”

  “I am pleased that she labours to improve her home, all the more if she does it at her own expense,” replied Maitland. “Soon she may bring a husband to share all of it.” Seeing Lord James frown, Maitland continued smoothly, “Clearly our Queen must marry. That is the natural order of things. But whom? He should be royal. He should, ideally, be Catholic to please her, but lukewarm in the practice of it to suit her subjects. It is difficult.”

  “The ideal candidate, then,” said Morton, who had been standing by and listening, “would be an irreligious Catholic who would consent to having his son raised Protestant. He should be of royal or noble blood. He should be of sound mind and body. And, preferably, he should be a foreigner—”

  “Quite so,” said Maitland.

  “And why is that?” persisted Morton.

  “So that Scotland is raised into the ranks of the highest councils of Europe, her prestige increased—” began Lord James.

  “No one is listening but us,” said Morton. “Save that bull’s pizzle for the simpleminded. It’s so that she will marry her prince and sail off for Europe to his court, never to return to Scotland. Then we, the Lords of the Congregation, can rule as we are meant to do. All in the name of little James or Robert or Malcolm or whatever she names him.”

  “Ignacio or Pierre or Ludwig, more like,” said Maitland.

  “So negotiations are under way with Don Carlos, Charles IX, and the Archduke Charles?” asked Morton.

  Lord James smiled and shrugged. “The mails are slow after the long winter. And the Queen has not shown herself to be exactly consumed with interest in the entire issue.”

  “That puzzles me. She seems to inspire passion in men but have none of her own,” said Morton. “That John Gordon episode. And then the scandal with the French poet last month.” He shook his head. “Both of them died for their obsession with her.”

  Maitland shook his head. “Strange business.”

  “Poor little poet. He was someone’s dupe—someone who wanted to dishonour the Queen of Scots. An agent of some sort,” said Morton. “Sent from France.”

  “Whoever sent him knew the Queen well. She is not circumspect; she is too free and familiar with everyone. She encouraged him, unknowingly perhaps, but danced with him, hung on his neck,” Lord James remembered. It had been coquettishly disgusting.

  “As she does with that Riccio fellow.” Morton frowned with the impropriety of it all.

  “Indeed. Precisely.” Lord James nodded. “It is not seemly. And of late I believe she has been confiding things of a political nature to him, and seeking his advice.”

  Morton raised one eyebrow. “Then you should look to it, men, or you will find yourselves without a position.” He looked at Lord James and Maitland. “I am Chancellor now, in Huntly’s place. But the little Italian may soon be the master of all of us.”

  “Nonsense!”
cried Maitland.

  “Is it? How often have you conferred with the Queen in private since the Chastelard affair?”

  Lord James shrugged. “I see no change. She has been upset, naturally, and—”

  “And sought solace from her faithful lute player. Yes. Understandable.” Morton snorted; he understood all too well. Sins of the flesh.

  “She is unhappy about the continuing religious wars in France,” said Lord James. “The death of her uncle the Duc de Guise. Orleans, where François died, desecrated by killings and destruction. The forest where they hunted, now filled with soldiers and artillery … it grieves her.”

  “France is past,” snapped Morton.

  The cries of astonishment and excitement as the lion cages were opened drew their attention.

  “You must admit she has brought graceful ways to Scotland,” said Maitland.

  “Scottish lions,” said Lord James. “They are our emblem. They mean power as well as grace.”

  “If it is power she wants,” said Maitland thoughtfully, “then she should try to please Elizabeth by marrying to suit her.”

  * * *

  A year later, still unmarried, Mary lay prostrate in bed—alone. She had been struck down by a virulent fever, fierce aches in her back and legs, and chills that shook her so badly that she was mounded under heaps of covers, even though it was once again May and quite warm. She called for a fire to be lit in the chamber, and Madame Rallay and Bourgoing obeyed, even though it made those two indefatigable caretakers sweat profusely. Mary’s teeth were chattering; her lungs were on fire and she coughed in spasms, but nothing came up.

  It had come upon her quite suddenly, while she was going over dispatches with Riccio—promoted now to secretary in charge of her French correspondence, which was most of it. A quick stabbing pain in her head, a feeling of heat, of dizziness …

  “I must stop for a moment,” she had said, and made her way unsteadily to her bedchamber. “I will rest here, just for a while.…”