Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  It was that which killed him, so they say, thought Mary. Well, I will not cross there. I will go by water. Arrival by water has always brought me fortune.

  She seemed to be able to see land far across the water. “Is that England?” she asked Lord Herries, who was standing beside her on the rise overlooking the waters.

  “No. Today you cannot see her. It must be exceptionally clear to do so. We are separated by about twenty miles of open water at this point. I think what you are seeing are purple clouds.”

  “Oh.” She was disappointed. “Dear Lord Herries, will you please write the necessary letter to whomever? What official or lord has command of that area?”

  “Lowther is deputy governor of Carlisle; it is to him that I must write, then.” His voice was heavy. “The Duke of Norfolk is the foremost northern peer, but there are lesser ones, like the earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, who are very pro-Catholic and will no doubt receive you gladly.”

  “You sound so sad,” she said. “Pray do not be so. I have received guidance; I know what I do is right.”

  The sun had gone now, and the water was a rich burgundy colour. Beside them, the rushing stream of the Abbey Burn tumbled past, making its way down to the Firth.

  “Sometimes evil spirits mislead us,” he said. “Satan can assume a pleasing shape, can appear as an angel of light. I take that to mean that he has the power to trick us into believing our impulses are divinely rather than demonically inspired.”

  “I go in the name of peace,” said Mary. “Surely you cannot call peace to be anything the devil desires.”

  Herries shook his head. “I do not claim to know as much about the devil as some folks, but I do believe he is out and amongst us more than he is recognized.”

  “Please write the letter before morning,” said Mary firmly.

  * * *

  Now, after more arguments and pleadings from her company, she was alone at last, walking in the deserted Abbey church. She had had her way, and they had dutifully retired to sleep and left her to pace and keep her own counsel. The great stone columns in the silent nave were like man-made trees, their arches soaring upward to be lost in darkness. There was a mouldy, damp smell like moss. The Abbey, like all the still-standing old ecclesiastical buildings in Scotland, was in poor repair. Parts of the wall had given way, and there were leaks. She could tell by the water stains and the faint sweet smell of wet stone.

  A half moon was shining, giving just enough light to make fuzzy outlines of the altar, the niches, the mouldering wooden screen that had once divided the monks’ end of the church from the lay brothers’. Cistercians. White monks. It seemed to her she could almost see their ghostly shapes gliding between the aisles and columns. Shades, summoned up from some faerie realm. From a time before all these religious wars and hatreds.

  Oh, gentle monks … She wished she could reach out to them, but she knew they would vanish. They were not real, of course, she knew that.

  It is only my distracted, overtired senses that make me see forms in the moonlight. If I truly had the gift of the “sight,” then I would see more than that, I would be able to predict the future, whereas it is dark and veiled from me.

  She went out the south door and entered the cloisters, the arched stone arcades where the monks had walked during bad weather. The moonlight coated the grass court and turned it silver. Each arched section threw sharp black shadows across the silvered ground, making a stark pattern like the black and white tiles at Chenonceau.

  Chenonceau. So many ghosts tonight!

  From the arcade openings she could see the monks’ graveyard beyond the church, their simple tombstones standing up like the mysterious circles of stone in northern Scotland and Brittany, circles where supposedly magic rites had been practised by vanished people.

  Racing clouds covered the moon briefly, then passed on. Ghostly galleons. Bothwell used to call them ghostly galleons, she remembered. He said they were the spirits of seamen doomed to ride the skies for all eternity, always blown before the wind.

  Bothwell, always a sailor, first and foremost a man of the sea.

  I cannot see water without thinking of you, she thought. Perhaps that is why I want to go to England by water—as if you were a water-god and could favour me. Oh, my husband, where are you now? A year ago tonight it was our wedding night.

  In the moonlight she could see the feathery white of the Abbey orchard in bloom. The rows of trees were like slim young girls attired in lace, waiting to dance. There was a sea of delicate, distant fragrance rising from them, a fragrance like youth, not overpowering but dizzy with sweet promise. The dead monks slumbered on.

  Where are you? she wondered with a piercing sorrow. Can you see the moon tonight that I see?

  Should I go to England? You are the only one whose opinion I wish to know. You are the only one who can stop me. If it is true that souls can speak across land and sea, speak to me tonight, and tell me what you would have me do. Speak to me in a dream, or in my thoughts, and I will obey. Speak, beloved husband.

  * * *

  She dipped her pen in the ink and began the letter.

  Dundrennan, May 15, 1568

  To the high and mighty Prince, Elizabeth—

  You are not ignorant, my dearest sister, of great part of my misfortunes, but these which induce me to write at present, have happened too recently yet to have reached your ears. I must therefore acquaint you as briefly as I can, that some of my subjects whom I most confided in, and had raised to the highest pitch of honour, have taken up arms against me, and treated me with the utmost indignity. By unexpected means, the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from the cruel imprisonment I underwent.

  But I have since lost a battle, in which most of those who preserved their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness. I beseech you therefore, my dearest sister, that I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all my affairs.

  In the meantime, I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions, and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to obtain by your means.

  To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to its Queen this token, the jewel of her promised friendship and assistance.

  Your affectionate sister,

  M.R.

  Lingeringly she removed the diamond friendship ring from her finger. It was time to send it. Time to redeem its promise.

  * * *

  The sun was coming up as Mary at last sealed the letter. She had received no messages, no impressions in her sleep. Bothwell had not visited her. Her dreams had been inconsequential and hard even to remember. She had prayed about the decision, but at last it had become clear that she must proceed.

  It was the destiny of England and Scotland to be united under her son, James, and this would help cement it, and lay to rest the bad feelings and suspicions about her own intentions toward the crown. When Elizabeth received her, it would be tantamount to recognizing James as her successor.

  I can rest in safety in England and receive my people there conveniently. Going to England will also prove to Elizabeth that I have no wish to bring foreigners like the French onto our soil. I have chosen England above them.

  * * *

  She dispatched the letter to go along with the one to Lowther. They would take several days to reach their destination, and then an unknown time after that before a reply was received. Mary stood on the little pier at the foot of the Abbey Burn, from which the monks of old had traded with England and Ireland, and watched the boat making its way out into open water. Around her the pastures were filled with cattle and singing birds.

  Suddenly she was seized with a desire not to wait. It came upon her so completely and so overwhelmingly that it felt like a supernatural message, one that had her in its grip.

  Go now, it urged her. Do not wait for a reply. Waiting is dangerous. S
urprise is the best element. If you are already there, then they must give permission. After all, have you considered what you would do if they refused? You be the master. You decide where you will go, and let them adjust themselves to that decision. Your instinct has never failed you yet. Your instinct is to go. Go now.

  “When is the next tide?” she asked Herries calmly. Boats could only leave during high tide, as during low tide there were long, exposed mud flats.

  “At three o’clock,” he replied.

  “Find me a boat,” she said. “I wish to cross this afternoon.”

  Herries stared at her as if she were demented. “No!”

  “It has come to me that this is the right thing to do. I know it. Obey me, for it must be so.”

  * * *

  They walked, following the Abbey Burn as it gushed for two miles through a grove of ash and alder trees, making its way to the Solway. Everyone was silent, as if they were going to a funeral. Only Mary felt lighthearted and at ease.

  Almost twenty people insisted on accompanying her, determined to protect her and share her fate: George and Willie, of course, but also Lord Livingston, Lord Fleming, Lord Claud Hamilton, Lord Boyd, and Lord Herries, with their attendants.

  Lord Herries had procured a common fishing boat that was also used for transporting coal and lime across the Solway, and it awaited them at the pier. It was a shabby-looking vessel, stained and weatherbeaten. Mary saw it without comment, then turned to look once more across the fields and back up at the Abbey, silhouetted against the sky. Then, without lingering over her farewell look at Scotland, she stepped into the boat.

  “Come!” She motioned to her party. They filed down the pier and got in, wordlessly. The boat was packed; it rode very low in the water.

  Those staying behind stood forlornly on the shore and dock. Suddenly the Archbishop of St. Andrews waded into the water and grasped the sides of the boat.

  “Don’t go!” he said in a fierce voice. “Dear lady, I beg you! I implore you! This is folly! Misfortune awaits you!”

  Mary laughed uneasily. She nudged the boatman to cast off. “Why, you will ruin your clothes!” she said.

  The boat started to move, being pulled by the heavy surf at the confluence of the creek and the open water. The Archbishop hung on, and attempted to stop the boat’s drift. But the current was stronger, and he was pulled by the boat.

  “Stop! Stop, before it is too late!” His knuckles were white from grasping the wooden sides.

  “Farewell, my dear Archbishop,” said Mary. “I shall be back in Scotland soon, restored to my throne by my cousin. We shall meet again in a few weeks. Now, I pray you, do not ruin your garments!”

  The Archbishop was now up to his chest in the water. “I care not for the garments!” he cried, but the boat was torn out of his grip, drifting seaward. Unable to swim, he stood in the cold current and watched it until it was out of sight, upon the Forth proper.

  * * *

  The sea, which could be dangerous in that area, today was calm and inviting. The winds were fair, and conjoined with the tide, escorting them toward England. All omens were favourable. Mary turned to look back once more at the receding shore of Scotland.

  “To England let us go, and merrily!” she said, more loudly than was necessary.

  * * *

  It took four hours to make the crossing. At seven that evening, they came into the harbour of the little fishing village of Workington. As they beached the boat, Mary noticed how unusual the stones on the seashore were: they were all egg-shaped, of various sizes, and in a rainbow of colours, pale blue, cream, brownish pink. She kept staring at them, as if this proved that England was indeed very different from Scotland. As she climbed out of the boat and alighted, she stumbled and fell on her hands and knees on the stones, seeing them very close up. She closed her fist around a handful of them.

  “’Tis not an omen of stumbling,” said Herries loudly, “but that she comes to take possession of England.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Fishermen had started to gather in curiosity.

  “Nay, that is not so!” said Mary. “I do not come to take possession of England, but merely to be restored to what is rightfully mine in Scotland.” How could Herries say such a thing? What if it was repeated to Elizabeth?

  More and more people were gathering on the beach. It was a Sunday evening, and after a day of leisure, people were enjoying one of the first warm spring nights. It was imperative that they identify themselves.

  “Where lives Sir Henry Curwen, lord of this town?” asked Herries. “I have brought hither from Scotland an heiress we hope to marry to his son. I pray you, direct me to his home, good people.”

  The fishermen spoke amongst themselves for a moment. “He lives at Workington Hall, to the east of town. Here, we will show you.”

  All the while Mary was looking around, expecting to see something unusual or symbolic of her decision. But it was an ordinary little fishing village with an ordinary pier. The spring evening was an ordinary evening. All the portents and warnings and implorings seemed terribly wasted on this moment.

  England. I have crossed to England. This is English soil. It should feel to me the way it felt to Caesar crossing the Rubicon, she thought. But it feels like … nothing at all.

  * * *

  Sir Henry Curwen—who was an old acquaintance of Herries’s—was in London, but his family welcomed the refugees. Once safely within the house, Mary revealed herself, and was relieved to find that the family, which was Catholic, almost trembled with admiration for her. She was warmly welcomed, fussed over, fed, and stared at. She asked Herries if there was any token she could give, and he had only an agate drinking cup he had brought from Dundrennan, but they received it as if it were a holy relic.

  She had not been prepared for such idolization. Why were they treating her like a goddess? Of all the surprises she had received in the course of the last few weeks, this was one of the most unlooked for. But it buoyed her, making her feel that all would be well.

  The change from whore to goddess was dizzying.

  That night she asked for a paper and pen. The awestruck Lady Curwen brought her the finest creamy paper they had, and in addition insisted that she take a leatherbound book with blank pages.

  “For you to use, and to remember us by. My cousin, who is a devoted son of the Church—our Church—cured and embossed the leather himself.”

  “I thank you.”

  “Oh, it is our pleasure, our delight! If only you could know—oh, if only Sir Henry were here! We are your greatest admirers!” She backed out of the room, her head bobbing like a ducking stool.

  Mary had almost forgotten what it was to be admired in an unqualified manner. But now it seemed as unrelated to her real self as the curses had been. Both were directed at a symbol, and the person inside the symbol walked and breathed and slept as if in a suit of armour.

  Now Elizabeth must be formally told of her arrival. She spread out the good paper gratefully. No more handkerchiefs and charcoal.

  She began writing, slowly. She would explain it all to Elizabeth. She started as far back as Riccio, and in the telling, the letter grew and grew. She felt as if she were already before Elizabeth, that Elizabeth was actually hearing the words, as if by sympathetic magic.

  BOOK THREE

  Queen of Exile

  1568–1587

  I

  Elizabeth was sitting before an open window at Greenwich, trying to do two things at once. Her councillors claimed she could actually do four—listen to one person talk, compose a letter, make plans, and speak herself. She encouraged them to think this, as it made her more formidable in their eyes; they were like little children who actually believed their mother had “eyes in the back of her head” and could see them stealing sugar. But today she was having difficulty doing even two things: looking out the window at her ships at anchor in the Thames, and composing a letter to her remarkable cousin, the Scots Queen. The breeze was gently blowing in,
and the smell of the water was inviting. Only a queen would choose to be inside on a fine spring day like this. All normal people would be outside, savouring the delicate May warmth of the sun, smelling the new-turned earth. Well, after this letter was done … she would order the barge brought round, and she and Robert would go out on the river. They would trail their hands in the water and sing. Songs always sounded better outdoors—even banal lyrics seemed sweet and original.

  She sighed. Now, as to this letter …

  The Scots Queen had escaped from Lochleven! Another of her daring ventures, so it seemed. One could not help but admire her. She had courage and tenacity, and always seemed to find sympathizers, even among her gaolers. Curious, that. She made enemies of her councillors, and friends of her gaolers. But what did it mean, that Mary was at large? Could she oust the Regent? Would her son’s anointing be undone? Thank God that, in her usual delaying manner, Elizabeth had “neglected” to recognize the new King. Hence she could afford to wait and see what developed.

  They chide me for it, all of them—Cecil and Robert and Norfolk, she thought. For my caution and delay. But as often as not, it serves me as well as action.

  Wind was filling the sails of the boats down below. Time to get on with it. She spread out the paper and began.

  Madam,

  I have just received your letter from Lochleven, but before its arrival came the news of your deliverance and timely escape. We must give thanks that God in His mercy has seen fit to hear your prayers. I rejoice at your freedom, and that subjects who seek to bind their true princes may be made to see, by this example, that heaven does not smile on it. It is to be regretted that your love for one who was an unworthy ruffian made you so careless of your state and honour and caused you to lose so many of your friends.

  I, as your kinswoman and sister queen, will do all that lies in my power to restore you to your throne, but only if you will place yourself in my hands and not traffick with the French with an end to employing them on Scottish soil. Think not to toy with them in secret, my not knowing: those who have two strings to their bow may shoot stronger, but they rarely shoot straight.