Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Knox sleeps,” said Darnley, pointing upward.

  “Knox never sleeps,” said Mary. “Except with his young wife.”

  “Think you he does what we do?”

  Mary blushed. “Nay. I doubt it.”

  “So do I, wife.” Darnley took her hand and kissed it. “Do you know, even at this hour I am planning for the later one when I may come to you in the dark?”

  “Aye. I also.” It was true.

  Darnley reached down and began feeling the cobblestones in the gutter. He found a loosened one and drew back his arm to throw it, aiming at the window.

  “Stop it!” Mary restrained his arm. “What are you about?”

  “Knox is against our marriage.” He twisted his hand to free it. “He shall need to replace his windowpanes.”

  “No.” Mary dashed the stone from his hand. “His windowpane is not his mind. And he blames every obstruction and petty annoyance on me; pray do not give him true cause.”

  Darnley sighed and turned away from the window. “I would love to knock his pate.”

  “That seems to be a favourite phrase of yours,” said Mary. “You have said it to the old Duke of Châtelherault, to—”

  A crowd fresh from the tavern jounced past them, still singing:

  “Drink up your liquor and turn your cup over

  Over an’ over an’ over

  The liquor’s drink’d up ’n the cup is turned over.

  I’ve bin to Glasgow and I’ve bin to Dover.…”

  “He needs it. His pate is addled to begin with.”

  They passed the town house of the Earl of Morton.

  “It is not your place to knock pates. That is for apprentices on their holiday.” Would even Robert Dudley have threatened to knock pates on a London street? “Not for princes.”

  Darnley made a disagreeable sound but kept walking up the street. “All right, then,” he muttered.

  Now that they were in Edinburgh proper, the street became even broader, became, in a way, the meeting place of the citizens. In the widened area near St. Giles Cathedral squatted the immense Tolbooth, a combination Council House and gaol. Right below it was the Tron—the public weighing beam—and the old Mercat Cross. Here the citizens of Edinburgh had their daylight needs met—from worship of God to enacting legislation to having their wool weighed—and at night they tended to gather there as well. The area was fairly well lit by torches and provided the requisite milling area for large groups.

  As they approached the Tron, Darnley ran toward it, jumping onto its weighing bucket. It sank and hit the ground with a thud.

  “How much does the young gentleman weigh?” called a strong, sure voice from the steps of the Mercat Cross. “What is he worth?”

  “A golden crown,” replied Mary, forgetting that her voice was at variance with her costume.

  She pulled Darnley out of the bucket. “And I shall give you one,” she whispered, taking his hand. She drew him over to the Mercat Cross, with its huge, waist-high circular base. People were sitting all around on it, their legs dangling.

  “From this place, where all royal proclamations are read, I shall have you proclaimed King the day of our wedding,” she promised him, whispering in his ear.

  “And what does this fine young gentleman do?” asked the voice, now almost beside them.

  Mary looked up to see him perched on the rim of the pedestal base. He was dark and had a well-trimmed beard and longish hair. Suddenly behind him she saw the pale faces of prisoners staring out of their windows in the Tolbooth. She nudged Darnley to reply; she dared not speak herself.

  “I am cousin to the valet de chambre of the Lord Darnley, visiting at Holyrood Palace,” he said. “My duties are light—mostly looking and listening, truth be told. And this”—he indicated Mary—“is my younger brother.”

  “Height must run in your family, then. And at an early age, for you’ve got your growth before your voice.”

  Observant man. They would have to be careful, but that was the higher sport.

  “Aye. I am but fifteen,” Mary said boldly. “I am so weary of waiting.”

  “All will come in time, lad,” the man assured her.

  “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, is your trade?” asked Darnley.

  “I am a printer. I work yonder”—he pointed at a doorway across the street somewhere—“at Bassandyne’s. We printed five different books last year, and sold nearly all.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice.

  “There is little to do in the long dark winter here except read,” said Darnley. “Little wonder your business flourishes.”

  No, no, Darnley, thought Mary. Do not say that. Say how well chosen his books must be.

  “What do you know of winters here?” said the man. “You haven’t spent one.”

  “We came in February.”

  “In the middle of February. And to a hunting palace. You’ve no notion of what we do here in Scotland in the ‘long dark tunnel’—the short days from November to January—do you? And in England, where you come from, there’s frippery and concerts and such like, so I hear. But I don’t pretend to understand England, never having been there myself.” He drew himself up as a model to be emulated.

  “How do you know exactly the time we came?” Mary asked.

  “Everyone does. We follow everything concerning our Queen. We know when she comes and when she goes, who visits her and when, whom she eats with, what she wears, what songs she and the deformed little Italian sing, and on which night.”

  This stranger knew all about her, and she did not even know his name!

  “But how true is your information?” Mary could not help asking.

  “That depends on the informant,” the man replied. “Some are, of course, more reliable than others.”

  Who are your informers? Mary could see that Darnley was on the verge of asking, and she stayed him with a look. Nothing would warn the man quicker.

  “This information you have just recited is, for example, false. The Italian is not deformed. I know, for I have spent time with him,” Mary said.

  “Not deformed? But I was told—and from an absolutely reliable source—that he was hunchbacked and had protruding eyes like a bullfrog’s!” The man was obviously disappointed.

  “No,” said Mary, laughing. “He is of low stature but otherwise normally shaped in all respects. But tell me—what have you heard about the Queen’s marriage?”

  The man now laughed. “Shall I tell you, and you of Lord Darnley’s household?”

  “Why not?” said Darnley. “I’ve no liking for my master’s master; I’m simply here for a change of scene. I think he’s a … oh, I know not.”

  “A simpleton,” said the man. “An ambitious simpleton. And the Queen so taken with him. Still, she must wed, and there is no one else available. ’Tis my opinion that whatever suitor had come in person, she would have swooned over him. Only Lord Darnley came; the other fools fiddled with ambassadors and letters—hardly very enticing. If she had seen the Lord Dudley—pardon me, the Earl of Leicester—in person, now that might have been different. But the Earl, being another ambitious man, sticks close to his own Queen. Ah, well. She’s a good woman and deserves a turn in the bed, and an heir.” The man moved his legs and swung them down. “I’m going to Ainslie’s Tavern,” he announced. “Come with me.”

  Mary and Darnley scrambled after him, their hearts beating wildly. This was fifty times better than eavesdropping.

  As they were crossing the street, a horse and rider made their way down past them. People uncovered their heads and called, “Blessings, Lord Moray.” The person acknowledged them freely and then moved majestically on.

  Lord James! How easily and naturally he accepts the homage of the people in the street, thought Mary.

  “The Earl of Moray,” explained the man. “You have most likely not met him, as he has not frequented court since your master’s arrival. He’s the King’s bastard and the foremost man in Scotland.”

&nbs
p; How simply the man said it: the foremost man in Scotland.

  “How so?” Mary asked.

  They were standing in front of the tavern now, but she clutched the man’s doublet and wanted an answer before they entered the noisy room.

  “He alone spans the time before the Protestant Kirk, going back to the old Queen’s time. He’s the one man we have had to run things through all the troubles during the war against the French, the time when we had neither queen, but only John Knox, and during the first years of the young Queen’s return. He has held Scotland in the palm of his hand, and treated her tenderly. ’Tis a pity—and an ill omen—that he has withdrawn from the Queen’s council and, indeed, from the entire government.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Darnley demanded.

  “Everyone knows,” said the man. “’Tis no secret.” He looked longingly toward the tavern, where loud noises and the smell of beer and bread puffed out each time the door opened.

  “But what will happen to the Earl?” asked Mary, her hand still on his doublet.

  “He will either grow stronger and overthrow the Queen and her chosen, or he will wane in strength and fade away. The people will decide.”

  Mary let go of him, her fingers releasing their hold. “And it is of no matter to you which one?” she asked.

  “Not really. As long as my printing press is undisturbed. Moray seems a good man, the Queen is a good woman—nay, let the people decide.” He shrugged. “Come.” He gestured toward the tavern.

  “Nay. I have little thirst,” said Mary. The heat and noise from the tavern were repulsive. Who would choose to go in there, when he might remain outside and have clean air and see the stars?

  “Suit yourself.” The man turned in.

  Mary walked rapidly away, up toward the dark bulk of the castle ramparts. Once they were away from the Tron and the Mercat Cross, there were few people abroad.

  Lord James. He had a following, and common people saw him as her equal. She had not fully understood this.

  “The printer is only one man,” said Darnley. “His opinions are his own,” he insisted. “He does not speak for everyone else.”

  But his words sounded hollow.

  The Lord James had indeed withdrawn in protest against her forthcoming marriage, and was gathering his forces. Everyone on her own island was against it: Queen Elizabeth, Lord James, most of the Lords of the Congregation. She had forced the Lords to sign a document in Convention approving of the marriage, but the paper was worthless, and she knew it. From France, Charles IX and Catherine de Médicis had approved, as had Philip II and the Pope. But what weight did that carry? In the arena of the outside world, a great deal. But this was of most immediate concern in the Scottish and English world, and that was the stage she now walked upon. The boards were shaking, and did not feel at all steady under her feet.

  Did she need permission from her own people to wed? And if so, how to get it? What about Knox? He had been preaching against it, booming out in his sermons about the dangers of letting two Papists wed. But if his mind could be changed?

  She looked back down the street at St. Giles, its prickly crown spire, partly blocked by the square Tolbooth, curving over the roofs. Every Sunday in there, hundreds of people hear his sermons, she thought. If only I could harness them! They would have more influence than a thousand proclamations. Knox cannot be entirely stubborn and blind; surely he is open to common sense and political considerations. An heir for Scotland—without an heir, we are lost. And I’d permit him to be instructed in the Protestant faith as well as my own, so he could be wise and understand all his subjects.… Yes, I can offer that promise to Knox.

  Knox it must be, then. I must endure Knox once more, and speak with him.

  * * *

  John Knox looked out the window. What was all that commotion? There were people milling about, and someone had drawn back his hand to throw a stone aiming at his—Knox’s—window. Hooligans! There had been so many of them of late, roaming the streets of Edinburgh, yelling, carousing, causing destruction. It was the influence of the Queen, and all those filthy Papists she had brought with her—or, more correctly, revived. For the latent Papists had been brought out again, as a rain will renew dried and scorched grass.

  And if she succeeded in marrying that English Papist, Darnley, it would only worsen.

  That is why it is my duty to speak out against it at all times, he thought. It may yet be preventable.

  The man’s hand was down; the stone had not been thrown. His companion had restrained him, and now they were passing on. Knox sighed. That saved him the trouble of having to replace whatever little panes would have been shattered. Any time spent on such things, necessary and trivial as they were, took time away from the true things in his life.

  “John, are you coming to bed?” The sweet voice called from the back bedroom, drifting down, and he heard it above the raucous noises of the night outside, as a greyhound can discern his master’s voice above a thousand others.

  Margaret, his new wife. He gripped the iron window latches as if that would steel him, quiet his heart that had leapt up at the sound of her voice.

  He had loved Marjory well, the mother of his sons, and had wept for weeks after her death. God had removed his helpmate, and there were moments when he begrudged God her presence and even begrudged Marjory her place sitting beside Jesus in supreme bliss. All the rebellious earthly thoughts came to possess him: I needed her more than You did. Why did You take her? You have so many; I only one.

  And, blasphemous final feeling: God is like that rich ruler Nathan described to David: he required the poor man with only one ewe to surrender it for his feast, when he had large flocks of his own. At length he had, after much praying and weeping, been able to surrender her into God’s keeping and say—and mean it—the Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.

  As he had finally rested in the Lord’s will, Margaret had come into his life.

  Margaret Stewart, the daughter of Lord Ochiltree, one of the foremost Protestant lords. She had royal blood, being descended from James II, and in the ordinary scheme of things would have been far above his station—he, the son of a Haddington merchant. But as “there is neither bond, nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in Christ Jesus,” so the humble man and the daughter of nobility could mingle in marriage with the blessing of the new Kirk.

  And Margaret had wanted him, had been more eager for the match than he.

  I felt a desire for bachelorhood once more, but the Lord had other plans, he thought.

  “John!” Her voice was more insistent.

  “I come,” he said. He turned from the window in the darkened room and made his way through the rooms and up the narrow staircase.

  His feet were reluctant—why? Was it that he lacked energy for what he knew would be required of him? Or was it that he hated to see that other side of him arise, that no amount of energy could tamp down?

  He walked down the narrow connecting hallway until he reached the bedroom with its great double bed. Margaret lay in it, the covers up around her chin.

  “At last,” she said.

  Knox removed his everyday doublet, a dark brown leather one, and sat on a stool to take off his shoes and hose. He kept trying to think how tired he was, but already his lower body was tingling. Deliberately he pulled off each shoe with great effort, stressing to himself his weariness. The shoes dropped heavily on the bare wooden floor.

  He went to his chest and pulled out his coarse linen nightshirt, unironed and rough. He slid it down over his shoulders, almost enjoying its unpleasant rasp on his skin.

  He could delay no longer. Slowly he walked to the bed and pulled back the covers in a decisive military manner. It was more convincing to him than to her.

  He lay rigidly in bed on his back, half dreading and half aching for them to come together as man and wife. He clutched the covers; his long brown beard lay neatly on the blanket outside, lik
e a horse’s tail that had been combed straight.

  “John…” his wife whispered, moving closer to him. She slid over and was now right next to him.

  She reached out and touched his hair, smoothing it carefully, running her fingers beneath it to his scalp, caressing it. Again he felt his groin tingle.

  She raised herself on her elbows and then turned her face to his and kissed him. Her lips first pressed themselves on his, then forced them to part. She had a small, moist tongue which she wriggled into his mouth, past his tight, chapped lips and guardian teeth. At first, as always, his reaction was to withdraw his tongue to keep it safe. Then something—not himself, never himself—let it loose and it began to entwine and probe with hers.

  She was now half on top of him and her breasts felt like filled wineskins, jostling and squashing this way and that. He almost expected to hear fluid sloshing in them. It was comical, amusing. Why then did his pole, his manhood, start to throb and expand?

  Could he command it to lie quiescent? He tried, by sternly ordering it to do so. The he tried to ridicule everything that was causing it excitement. A woman’s breasts: big bags like a cow’s udder. A kiss: two sets of lips pressed together, like a wine press. The tongues: two slugs crawling slowly over each other, leaving a trail of slime. And soon, a crevice and a protuberance fitting together with a lot of heaving and thrusting, like a donkey with too wide a burden caught between two posts—straining and pulling and groaning.

  At the picture of the donkey straining, he grew even more excited. He was now as large and erect as any donkey, and he was on fire to relieve himself.

  He rolled Margaret onto her back, where she lay, an entire body of obedience and sensual opportunity.

  “Take off that shift,” he whispered, and she sat up in bed and slowly removed it. First one arm, then the other.

  I should have just pushed it up, he thought. His member was starting to twitch on its own; it would not be long now. I cannot just let it happen by itself like a sixteen-year-old apprentice, he thought. The embarrassment of it, the shame. His member stirred again and a wave of heat passed down it.