by Donald Smith
Beaton
Only because he was imprisoned by the Inquisition.
Seton
He was innocent of any heresy and freed. And when in prison he prepared his Psalms of David.
Beaton
Mary prefers the French poets.
Livingston
Only because they flatter her more.
Beaton
Does Buchanan not charm?
Livingston
He is too old, and smells musty.
Seton
His learning brings honour to Scotland. And his piety.
Beaton
I think he may be a heretic. Seton herself will become corrupted.
Livingston
Don’t bully Seton. Must he always write in Latin though?
Beaton
He speaks it like a native.
Livingston
I thought he was Scottish not Roman.
Seton
We shall record our poems as they are completed.
Sacred Sisters by Mary Seton
Moments ago the poet’s laurel was withered,
The lyre was mute, I lost all hope.
But now Apollo throws his shrine’s doors wide,
Delphi’s in action and the sacred sisters
Leap with fresh laurels from its glorious cave.
Livingston
Diane de Poitiers says Seton has written well. It is a very correct poem.
Epithalamium by Mary Beaton
Go, then, and blaze the way with wedding torches
And laughter linking all your peoples’ hopes,
Prayers, good wishes. Francis, you go first,
Sure in royal birth, a Prince of Hector’s line,
Clinch in your heart your lawful wedded wife,
Your natural co-equal whom her sex
Gives you as one obedient to her wish,
Whose own free choice has made her now your spouse.
Beauty’s finesse, high forehead, dimpled cheek,
The gentle light that’s laughing in her eyes -
All show she fuses wisdom with her youth,
Effortlessly majestic, subtly lovely.
Nor does her cleverness, preoccupied
With all Athene’s work, yield to her beauty,
But, educated by the nimble Muses,
Her wisdom nourishes profound content.
Seton
Everyone agrees that Beaton’s poem is very fine. Poitiers says that we should all recite before the King but I could not read aloud in public. Let Beaton do it; she has the best voice, apart from Her Majesty.
To Francis
Your patience wins a prize which, had the ancients
Won it, would have meant that Menelaus
Never would have wept for kidnapped Helen
Whose beauty Paris knew he had to steal
Across the surging sea; whose beauty Greeks
Joined forces to win back. Yet in your case
Pale Venus would have given Priam’s son
The lovely Helen with no need for war.
Francis, you’re brave as any Greek or Trojan,
And you would fight to keep your young wife safe,
But Venus smiled on you and so did Cupid,
In giving you a princess close to home.
From infancy you grew up loving her.
The flame of longing made you a strong boy
And nourished the deep tenderness of passion.
Fleming
This poem is anonymous and is not for reading aloud. The author is a true poet.
The Auld Alliance by Mary Livingston
Scotland alone has lineage that holds
Two thousand years’ of royal marriages,
Her people attacked by hostile neighbours
Yet always free of foreign domination.
If what you long for is a generous dowry
Then the Scottish fighting spirit is that gift.
When war ravaged all the world, and nowhere
Maintained its freedom in the face
Of Roman rule, one ancient people prized
In Scotland here unbeaten independence.
When the barbarians broke the power of Rome
Scotland alone was refuge for the Muses.
From Scotland Charlemagne brought to the French
Culdees to teach a rising generation.
Your wife brings you the dowry of a nation
Faithful to France for many centuries,
Linked to your people in a strong alliance,
Always an emblem of the winning side.
Beaton
Though Livingston wrote this she admits that Mister Buchanan helped her with the history. Livingston does not know a lot of history. But she is a proud Scot and so is Buchanan. He knows how to speak in Scots, English, Irish, French, Spanish and Italian as well as Latin.
Marriage by Mary Fleming
But you, Nymph, worthy of a splendid marriage,
Though Juno and belligerent Minerva,
Venus and the fair, gift-giving Graces
Make you as beautiful as you could wish,
And though the chosen heir to France’s throne
Should yield a sceptre to you and declare you
Tenderly his equal, you acknowledge
Your place as woman, and so learn to do
His word, setting your own authority
Aside in marriage, but, placing your husband
In charge, learn still to win out through your love.
Rigour is sweetened by obedience
And by obedience love is got and held.
Beaton
Fleming is trying to teach a lesson with sugared words. Will Mary start suddenly to do what Francis tells her? Will Francis tell her?
Livingston
She will wear white. But it shows off her fair skin and red-gold hair. Can it be lucky to wear white, the colour of mourning? No one could be more fortunate, the happiest girl in the world. The dress is long and flowing glinting with diamonds and jewelled embroidery. Her crown is golden, studded with sapphires, emeralds, rubies. The court has gone crazy with talk of dresses, jewels, crowns, honours, gifts, titles. This is the wedding to end all weddings. A union made in heaven. And everyone must have their place, and their costume.
Beaton
The commissioners signed an agreement today, preserving the ancient rights and liberties of Scotland. Her sovereignty will remain intact, according to the Scots.
We are to walk in the bridal procession, but must not wear white. By order of Queen Catherine. I knew we should not be excluded. Where shall we be placed?
Don’t be ungrateful and suspicious – Fleming chides us like an anxious mother hen. Fools, everything at Court is political. There are other papers being signed, out of the sight of our dull commissioners. If Mary dies her throne will pass to Francis. Till every debt to France is paid the kingdom will be governed from Paris.
Fleming
Her Majesty will not sign such papers. Beaton must not speak out of turn. We must decide the best arrangement of our hair. And our jewellery. In France we are among friends and family as much as if we were in Scotland. This is our home now.
Livingston
It’s alright for Fleming. Who can I marry if we do not return?
Seton
We are sworn to Her Majesty’s service.
Livingston
Mary comes to us late at night, laughing and crying like when we were girls. If Granny Bourbon finds out she will beat us.
Beaton
Beaton cannot be beaten now because she is a grown-up woman.
Mary
Tonight I stayed up very late to write to my mother. This is my last. All I can tell you is that I account myself one of the happiest women in the world.
Beaton
As we came out of the archbishop’s palace a roaring wave of sound engulfed us. Every window and gallery was packed. People hung from the roofs waving and cheering. Banners waved with fleurs-de-lis, and a
few rampant lions red on gold.
We formed up on a walkway leading into an arched gallery. It was all open to view. Trumpets and drums. Then the Duc de Guise, a hundred gentlemen of the household, bishops and abbots, the royal brothers and uncles in shimmering court array. More musicians, the Swiss Guards marching in emblazoned tunics. I could not keep track in the swirl and clamour. Colours swam before my eyes. I was determined not to sway or stumble. But all eyes were for her, waving in white, red flowing hair beneath a sparkling crown. Francis walked beside her squat, dark, dumpy. Hats rise into the air all around. The roar was deafening. And we came on behind, far behind in the display.
We wound out onto an open stage raised before Notre Dame. Tiers rose on both sides lined with ambassadors and emissaries. Above a silken canopy of azure blue sprinkled with golden flowers. As Mary and Francis went into the Cathedral to hear Mass, the Duc de Guise stepped forward and cleared the stage so that everyone could see. Then on a signal the heralds hurled showers of golden coins into the crowd.
We went after them into the dimness of the church and the glimmer of a thousand candles. As my sight adjusted I moved forward to kneel, as Mary and Francis knelt before the altar. Time stands still: pure voices rose into the gloom. I wondered if we were in Heaven. Go in peace, the Mass is ended. Back into the light filled fanfares. More showers of gold and shouts of joy.
At the banquet I saw Mary’s face wince, contort, as she sat at the top table. It was her headache. She turned towards King Henri. He signed a gentleman to lift the heavy studded crown free from her temples and hold it high above her head.
Soon her face was wreathed in smiles. She took the floor on Henri’s arm. Then the revels began – jugglers, masquers dance. A mechanical ship, masted and gilded, came sliding in so Jason and the Argonauts could find the Golden Fleece. Shall we ever see such a day again?
No sooner was the feasting over than Mary Tudor died in England, her womb swollen not with child but with disease. The English are unlucky with their birthing. Her sister Elizabeth is Protestant and a bastard.
Mary has become the Golden Fleece, a prize which unites four kingdoms. She will join the crowns of England, France, Scotland and Ireland in one, crushing Spanish pride. Hers is the blood line – Tudor, Stewart and now joined to Valois. Proclamation is made in Paris and her royal arms are combined with those of England.
Mary Stewart has risen far above us. She is destined to reign in power and glory. What will become of the other Marys now?
Maitland of Lethington
From this time my father’s journal turns to affairs in Scotland, where he has become Secretary to the Privy Council. It is as if the act of writing clarified his thoughts and helped him define things for decision.
He knows that every member of the Council calculated their advantage. But much of his own consideration remained undeclared. It is not fitting, he implies, or beneficial that everything be exposed to the scrutiny of lordly men. Or worse, to public gaze.
William Maitland has become a man of government. He is astute and analytical, in the Italian manner. He made his first incision in France. Now like a surgeon he cuts beneath the skin to expose flesh and bone. The symptoms of Scotland’s condition were clear but contradictory. Maitland argued for legitimate succession and an English alliance. How can these be reconciled except in his devising?
I am in awe of my father’s powers, young, untried, but far ahead of all his Scottish peers. Yet it is like observing the mechanism of some cunningly contrived clock move, without hearing it tick or chime. What is the impulse behind the motion?
Then the death of kings, or queens, changes everything. He has surveyed all the pieces on the board, when one essential figure topples, and every other must be rearranged. So it was with Mary Tudor and so it was again in France. Jousting, a lance pierced the King’s eye, and Henri was no more. Francis and Mary were rulers of France now as well as Scotland. The fatal blow was struck by the hand of a Scots knight in sport. From such casual ill chance many consequences flow.
Mary and Francis should have come to Scotland as monarchs of a client kingdom. It would have been their nursery, their exercise ground. But now they were thrust upon a greater throne, leaving Marie de Guise to contend with England.
The wheel has turned again; the more Maitland reflects the faster events spun on.
We must act urgently, decisively.
The Privy Council will take direct control of our peace talks on the Borders. Kirkcaldy will be dispatched to secure an English alliance. Bothwell must be replaced in the negotiations. Brilliant horseman he may be, but this is a task for statesmen.
We may yet slip the French leash without war. But that depends on James Stewart and his zealous allies. Faction I know and understand, but Knox and the godly band have a kind of power that is more to be feared than respected. Are they pawns or players in their own right?
Fomenting everything, England turns Protestant again under Elizabeth, while Marie de Guise defends all Catholics in the French interest. Have we not enough to cope with in this divided kingdom without religious strife?
It is my resolve to steer the ship of state into stable anchorage, though the course be neither simple nor straight. The art is in the navigation. Events have called me to this moment and I shall not refuse my part.
This was no longer a game. My father was facing his first crisis, and things were about to get worse, much worse for Scotland, this small kingdom in a troubled world.
Mary
Dear Maman,
I hope you are well.
I was sad not to receive another letter from you, and fear a letter may have been lost due to the present troubles, for which I am sorry.
I wish you could come and visit me in France, and see how our lives here have changed. It is a long time since we were able to talk together. As you know I cannot come to Scotland because I have become the Queen of France.
I have my own household with a company of ladies and chamber maids, a dressmaker and jeweller, a wigmaker who tends my hair, and many other servants. I meet my steward each day to arrange household matters but it is the King’s chamberlain who makes all the decisions.
My best time is picking which jewels to wear from the royal collection. They bring me so many pieces to choose from that I never wear the same items. But I have my favourites and the rope of pearls you gave me is the most precious of all.
Francis does not always keep as well as he should. I am not able to look after him myself since he is surrounded by the Court. Only sometimes at night are we able to be alone together as when we were children. We did not play at being kings and queens for long.
Please do not think any ill of me. I understand my duty and that this is what I was born to be. From my birth you have trained and guided my steps, and educated me to become a queen. It was for this I came to France leaving you in Scotland.
But, Maman, I sorely miss the Marys. You sent them to be my companions and my solace. They have been sent away to be schooled in French manners, according to the King’s mother Queen Catherine. But the aim is to separate me from Scots company. I am to forget my native land and be wholly France. I am a slave to my duties.
Without Fleming, Beaton, Livingston and Seton round me, I am left alone. Can a queen be lonely in the middle of her household? I am certainly sad sometimes and miss my dearest friends. Please come and see me or at least write to ask for restoration of my Marys. The Medici may take notice then.
Yet if you come you will see for yourself how things are managed. My uncles are still at Court, but they have little influence. The Dowager Queen Catherine steers all. Francis must undertake what she instructs, and I am compelled to follow on like his shadow. I am watched over like a child. Diane de Poitiers has been denied the Court and I am left friendless.
I do not think the Medici likes me. I am sorry to write frankly. But I never had such looks and frowns from her before. She was usually friendly if sometimes indifferent. Now she addresses me coldly, fixes me w
ith a hostile gaze when I venture an opinion, and commands my obedience in all things, directly or by subtle shifts and contradictions. She must have her way in everything without demur.
I am sending this with Uncle Charles’ messenger, for I believe that even my letters are spied upon.
Please do not be concerned. I am strong within myself, and determined to make my own way as Queen. I shall master the art of government, since what you have always wished for me is to be a ruler.
I am very sorry for all the trouble in Scotland. Uncle Charles says that some of our subjects have risen up against us, incited by false preachers who despise the Church. Would they overturn God’s order and depose their anointed Queen? I would like to come to Scotland and meet John Knox, till he answers for his doctrines. Grannie and I have you always in our prayers.
There are wars also in France, where religion is made the cause for bloodshed. Is this the Peace that Christ commanded? Francis and I do not care for violence.
Can you not come and visit me? Do not leave it so long that we become strangers to one another. I want always to have and hold you, mother, nearest to my heart. Your ever dearest and most loving daughter,
Mary, Queen of Scots
Children of Flodden
Scotland, 1543–1560
James Maitland
SO MANY ROADS lead to France. But that cannot be my resting place. I must go further back to find the start. France is the lure and distraction; my first quarry lies in Scotland.
In this regard my father contradicts himself. He sounds remote from Scotland, unconcerned with its history and intent on moving in a larger sphere. Only Lethington commands his affections. But his whole adult life was spent serving our nation. My mind returns constantly to the fate of Scotland, though my adult years have been lived in exile. William Maitland seems the exception, for my grandfather’s writing is also devoted to Scotland. Yet I have met many Scots who wish to deny their patrimony and claim citizenship of a wider world.
We are all children of Flodden, that terrible slaughter, when the new century was still young. The flower of Scotland was hacked down by English billhooks and trampled in the glaur – earls and bishops, lairds and chiefs. But worst of all a nation’s government expired on that Northumbrian hillside. The first William Maitland, my great-grandfather, fell there near his King, James IV. Often I heard old Sir Richard rue the day. Some were haunted by the ghosts who straggled home, others by those who never returned.
