by Donald Smith
‘Your Majesty is not all for peace and harmony.’
‘Only on good terms.’
‘I salute you, Madam. I thought to go by Rheims to inspect the tomb in which your mother’s honoured remains will rest.’
‘That is most considerate. Please greet my Aunt, the Lady Renée, and assure her of my prayers at this sad season.’
She gave me her hand and then slowly turned away followed by her ladies. Only the Equerry stayed to go with me to the stables. Three bags neatly bound at the neck. And each one contained a hundred golden guineas.
Arriving back in Paris I took the town by storm. Rising late next morning I opened two messages from Anna. In the first she was ill and begged me to return. In the second, growing with child, feverish, and fit to die.
Flanders and Scotland beckoned, though I paid my respects to the Abbess Renée, and lit a papish candle for the Guises’ soul. Those French women seemed to be my guardian angels.
James Maitland
MANY ACCUSED MY father of deserting Marie de Guise in her hour of need. But they were wrong. His course was unchanged through those months of strife. When, led by France, she began to persecute the Scottish Protestants a balance shifted. The change was hers, not William Maitland’s.
That is the truth revealed by these papers. The French had deserted Scotland and a new political settlement was required. There was a strong Protestant interest among the nobles, without whom the country could not hold together. Argyll, Morton who led the Douglas clan, young Lindsay, James Stewart himself, and many of the lairds were Protestant, by reason of conviction, or of hunger for the Church’s wealth.
But at this same moment expediency was rotting the roots of our nation’s character and civilisation. Both the Crown and the Church were weak and unable to guide events. Compromise became the watchword, and my father was a connoisseur of compromise.
The Maitland aim throughout was unity and peaceful alliance with our neighbour England. Every eye was on Elizabeth as Parliament convened in London. Which direction would she take? The correspondence shows my father was kept informed by Secretary Cecil of every move in England. Both knew their advantage lay with a parallel settlement in Scotland – a Protestant Kirk owing allegiance to the monarch alone. Everything in good order; the realm governed and directed. What matter if Catholic ways continued by custom and private conscience?
Consider then my father’s anger and disgust when the mob rose up in Perth, inflamed by Knox’s preaching. His letters urged the nobility to put down riots and protect the Kirks. Looting of friaries and the destruction of the monasteries was no part of his proceedings. Against his advice, the Queen Regent had inflamed opinion by summoning the preachers to trial. Now forces had been unleashed that would be hard to rein back.
To the last my father was affectionate and dutiful to Marie de Guise, going to Edinburgh Castle to pay his respects on her deathbed. She was a woman abandoned, but not by the Secretary who laboured so long in her service. She parted this mortal life reconciled with William Maitland. Let others examine their own conscience.
When turbulent factions tried to supplant Mary Stewart with her half-brother James, or with a Hamilton, he refused support, reminding all of Scotland’s allegiance to her legitimate succession. He understood the nation’s mood. Though the assembly that deposed the Regent commanded his support, the Secretary insisted that only a Parliament of the Three Estates could settle religion and the succession. He steered the ship through troubled waters.
So the old order was adapted in a new guise. Scotland would not change rulers, though God’s Word demanded them in Knox’s rubric. The kingdom of this earth was not to be shaken; the Church must look to heaven for succour. George Buchanan was summoned home to guide the ministers with humane learning, and protect the universities from their barbarities.
This was my father’s most influential, if not his finest hour. With intelligence, diplomacy and skill he navigated round the rocks, letting others stand upon the pulpit or blow their trumpets in the market place. While managing Parliament, he kept the nobility from further blows, removed foreign armies from Scotland’s soil, sent embassies to France and England, and reformed the Church by legal form.
It was ever his delight to exercise power without claiming any for himself. To influence and direct in secret was his art and cunning. It must have seemed that every ambition was achieved even amidst strife and faction. Only uniting the sister kingdoms remained undone, but with both rulers young, time and succession were on his side.
Then in one cruel and sudden blow all again was changed. Leafing through his papers I can sense the shock. So many gaps, mere notes in place of memoranda; at points even his meticulous hand falters.
Orléans on an autumn day. The royal consorts are departing for Chenonceau where they had spent their honeymoon, rather than view an execution. They had no taste for bloodshed. The chests and beds and tapestries and books were all packed. The barge was rocking on the Loire awaiting its passengers when orders were changed. King Francis had a pain in his right ear and must lie down amidst the empty rooms.
Doctors were summoned, a canopy erected. The ear began to suppurate and discharge. His fever rose. Mary remained at the bedside. Dispatches hastened to every corner of the kingdom, and the ambassadors took up their pens.
He was purged and vomited. His body was loose and wasting fast. When the discharge from his ear subsided, teeth and jaws began to throb. An inflammation like a quince swelled behind the ear. He endured headaches, fevers, and sickness for two weeks.
Over the last few days he was delirious. The Court was sealed to all except his mother, and Mary his wife. Death came as a merciful release, and Europe was left to reel in shock.
As France moves to crown another boy king, Mary is given over to pity and lament for her dear lost Francis. But the Medici, spider at the centre of the web, reduces the newly widowed household and takes the royal jewels into her keeping. The unmerciful mother-in-law forecloses to protect the interest of her own blood, flagrant, reclaiming her power.
No one considers Scotland except the Scots. Everything for which I have wrought is put at risk. All is calculated on Mary’s European crown. If she comes home to rule, the Scots will have a queen without a party, a husband or religion to support her. This newly Protestant kingdom with a Catholic queen, who knows little of her native land or its factious politics. Will she trace her poor late mother’s path of sorrows? God spare our lovely Mary, and this poor realm of Scotland, from such a fate.
My father’s correspondence begins anew across the continent. If another dynastic marriage could be made, with Spain, or Germany or even Denmark, then danger might be averted. Mary Stewart might not return.
Yet in the strangeness of providence, if Mary had not come back to reign, my father and mother would not have been united. He would have lost the greatest joy of his earthly existence. He would have lacked sons to follow in his steps, or understand his ways and worth.
Did William Maitland still believe in providence, or in the throw of fortune? A Stoic to endure and die may have been his final faith. Holy Spirit, guard my thoughts and pen.
This much is sure. Before the close of summer Mary Stewart came back to Scotland, and everything was altered, for her and for my father. I was not yet born. But the future was being fashioned in a crucible of warring elements.
Queen of Scots
Scotland, 1561–1565
Mary
IT IS NOT fitting for a Queen to share her private thoughts except with her equals. Not even with my Marys, who share everything with each other, while I have grown apart. If I speak only to myself, you will still listen. I do not wish ever to be alone again. I hold my pen to write, the paper smoothed out before me, its texture like a fine brocade. The touch comforts my hand. In words there is a world that I can make my own, when I am left to myself.
Francis became ill at Orléans. I was still grieving for you, Maman, and for our lost kingdom of Scotland. We wished to l
eave before the execution of the noble Condé was carried out. I do not like such loss of life. Why must all these disgraces and defeats end in butchery? I hope that Scotland is less cruel than France, yet fear that men everywhere hunger for revenge.
We were going to Chenonceau where Francis and I were betrothed. We spent our first weeks there also playing at being married. We were packed up and ready to embark on the royal barge, when Francis felt sick and giddy. Then a piercing pain began in his ear.
We went back to his bedchamber which was now empty and stripped down to bare boards and walls. Cushions were brought and he was laid down twisting in agony. I sat by him trying to hold his hand. Sometimes he clutched at me furiously but in other moments he was entirely lost to me.
The doctors came like disturbed rooks, pecking and croaking. Inflammation of the ear seemed their best description and they began with mustard plasters, salves and poultices. A mattress was unloaded from the boats, and four men raised his body and lifted it over. His dark hair was matted and tangled, his face white and smeared with ointment. A canopy was rigged to veil His Majesty, and a stool was carried in so that I could sit low beside him, or kneel to pray.
By evening the pain seemed to ease, and a fever began with flux and sweating. They came to and fro with cloths and pots, hanging the canopy with fragrant herbs to try and suppress the stench. I sat on all night, retiring only to wash and change. My head nodded with sleep but I remained conscious throughout of my dear one’s restless tossing frame. Every so often he would moan or mutter but he did not look at me or speak. Was this how my own father died of a fever? Near dawn the ear began to discharge noxious fluids. I thought of the plague and how I might be next to sicken and die. But I reached out and took his sweaty hand in mine, to dare God, for I did not feel that I could die. Were we not too young?
By midday the flow had ceased, and it seemed as if the fever might abate. I went to wash, ate some bread dipped in wine, and lay on a couch in the antechamber till evening. When I returned to my station, a swelling like a pear had formed on the side of Francis’ head and he was very hot. As darkness fell the fever climbed again. I insisted on holding the cool water and cloths myself, and bathing his brow.
When we were children I used to mop his smeary face. Little Francis, who grew to be a King. He stopped being a child to become a boy. This is like when he had measles or the sweating sickness, and I played at being nurse. Wife.
This creature in the bed, dissolving before me, had limbs and a soft white belly; black hairs were sprouting on his chest, like seedlings in the garden. His eyes were soft and dark like a dog fearing rejection or the casual blow. Francis, my puppy, we were happy and loving in our own chamber.
Was that what Grannie meant by conjugal relations? Cuddling, rolling and rubbing beneath our canopy. All the time we were coming closer. He was getting stronger and manlier. The seeding again, of new life, spilled warmly, to grow damp and cold on my flesh. Then I could get up to wipe it off and wash.
Is this my little warrior, my sweet Francis? Stinking in his vomit, and worse. All the wiping in the world will not make him clean. Can the herbalists not do better for a King, to control the stink? Their purges and enemas make it worse.
Queen Catherine arrives and tries to take charge. I will not let his mother have my place. She did not care for him when Francis was at her knee, so why should she usurp me at his sickbed? I see the judgment of death in her eyes, as she instructs more physicians. And I too am condemned in that gaze: a Guise. Now she will have control of this Court. I cannot think beyond this bedside; the rest is of no account to me.
The doctors plan to bore into his head to relieve the pressure. They assemble their instruments of pain, but the swelling subsides. Hope surges up. Then suddenly fever mounts again. I am taken off to sleep. I return. My little Francis is wasted, diminished flesh on gaunt bones. All that puppy fat has burned away.
By morning he is gone. Thank God he can be at rest. I cannot weep. Must not be other than I am, numb, insensate; this is a kind of death in which my unfamiliar person still responds slow and sluggish to a disembodied me. Is that what it feels like to die? I remember that once long ago I was joined to that Mary in the flesh. Shall I ever be married to myself again?
Sitting in darkness, calm and still, veiled in mourning. I cannot be touched.
If only there had been a child. I thought there was; to call my own, heart.
Francis was my child. You remember when we had to dance before the King, his father, and I had to steer every step and make conversation for two of us. Beaton was going to giggle so Fleming had to pinch her hard. I was Queen beside my consort, a fellow monarch, not a child.
Everything was written in our book, even what Poitiers said about perfumes and complexion, or how we chattered about young men like Kirkcaldy or James Hepburn. Poor Poitiers will never regain Court favour. The Medici will see to that. I used to stroke Diane’s skin so smooth beneath my palm. She was fully formed, abundant in her own flesh, replete. Not like my awkward bony frame.
I think William Kirkcaldy very handsome, even if he is a Protestant. Could I have chosen a young gallant, like Livingston does, I would have chosen him to be at my side. He is on a white horse and I on a grey, galloping through green leaved branches. Are we in Scotland, in this dream, Maman?
My Marys are coming back to join me, now that my household is reduced. I have my own estates to sustain me. In France, with my Marys, we can go on.
What was it like when you went to Scotland as a Queen? Was my father strange or brooding? You did not speak about him much. You had babies born and die. You had a castle, a palace of your own, and your household around you, at Stirling. I must pronounce it with the ‘r’ extended, as you taught me, Stirrrling. Did you cry for home at night, missing Grannie Bourbon? You were a widow and a mother already in France.
France is my home. Though I come from Scotland, I was educated in France, and am Queen by my blood of Scotland, France and England. I am granddaughter of Henry VII; that cannot be annulled. Queen Dowager of France. Girl queen no longer. Queen Consort no longer.
What is my place in this puzzle?
The uncles have betrayed us, Maman. They sold my birthright to retain their power in France. They left you at the mercy of Scots Protestants, and signed a treaty to give up my claim to England.
I shall not sign their treaty. What is written in the blood cannot be set aside so lightly. My cousin Elizabeth will understand that without the claim of birth our royal estate is worthless. Some would have it so, lacking order or degree. They do not desire God’s peace but unending conflict. They claim the people’s cause and make their lives a misery.
I have sent Elizabeth my portrait and trust that she will send me hers. We are two queens cast on a world which men would direct. I want her friendship and she will not deny me hers. Is she tall or short, fair skinned, red haired? What colour are her eyes? How would we stand one beside another? Royal cousins: sisters left to ourselves we agree on all things, religion excepting, but we can learn to accept our differences as long as our kingdoms live at peace. Will she marry too?
The Uncles consider offers for my hand, from Austria, Denmark, German Princedoms, behind my back. They want to sell me to Spain, but the Medici will not allow me to be great at her expense. I have lost my family, not just my husband.
I cannot weep because my eyes were already dry.
Rheims is the best place. Aunt Renée reminds of you. She keeps her youth and dignity. The high chambers and silent vaulted corridors breathe our faith. When I was a little girl, Grannie Bourbon and I knelt together at this altar where I kneel to pray for you.
Your belongings are spread out in Renée’s apartments. I had to make the inventory. Your dresses are all black, your cloaks lined with wool worn bare. I touch the ragged fibres with my fingertips. I cannot smell your scent.
Did your splendid beauty come finally to this – a faded tapestry, one cape of violet velvet? So sparse; jewels gone to pawn for gu
ns and powder, a woman without adornment or display. I remember your gorgeous colours, the lustre of your pearls and flesh. The perfume of your majesty. My bounteous fragrant mother.
The coffin is dull grey lead. Inside your body is embalmed, veiled beneath a pall emblazoned with a white cross. I cannot see into this tomb but cover you with woven silk, emerald and golden yellow. Colours of the spirit overcome fleshly decay.
They would not bury you at Holyrood beside my ancestors the kings, your king, my father. They laid you on trestles in the Castle but now you are come home, to Aunt Renée and to me. And we will lay you here in the Abbey’s blessed peace; and light perpetual will shine upon you. I thank God for the comfort of our religion, the true Catholic faith.
The lights on the altar, before the Blessed Virgin, are your requiem. Broken for us, tended by you, Mother of Christ, I have you in my mouth for life eternal. We are not separated by mortal death but eat together, united at the feast of Heaven. This do in remembrance of me. You are my body and my blood forever.
I should stay here in the convent and make my home with you.
Mary
MY BROTHER JAMES has arrived from Scotland and lodges in the town. The Uncles are at Rheims to pay respects to their beloved sister. Why did they not go to Scotland and rescue us? I am no longer Guise, not in my heart. Are hearts not ours to dispose of as we please?
The ambassadors came in with solemn faces, and hinted about another marriage. If only the Marys were here they would take them off one by one. Beaton and Livingstone do their voices, while Fleming tries to maintain decorum and a straight face. Elizabeth has still not sent me her portrait, yet we are supposed to be like sisters. I do not think that Secretary Cecil favours my correspondence. He is not my friend.
But my Marys are coming next week. Shall we all go home to Scotland, as once we sailed to France, when you waved us off, all the mothers together? Apart from Fleming’s mother who came with us for a time. We didn’t understand why she had to return and Fleming wept salt tears. We thought it was because she had to be like the rest of us, motherless. They say Lady Fleming was surprised by the Medici in Henri’s bedchamber. Court scandal; I mistrust such gossip. What are the palaces like in Scotland?
