by Donald Smith
‘That’s as may be, but the book is about women in general.’
‘Very true, but I think you have the wit to distinguish between philosophy and sedition. If I wanted to disturb your estate because you are a woman I could have chosen a better time than when your own gracious presence is in the kingdom.’
‘Beautifully phrased, Maister Knox. I see you are a courtier after all. But you have taught my people to receive a different faith from what their Princes allow. How can that doctrine be of God, when God commands subjects to obey their Princes?’
‘Right religion comes from God alone and not from worldly Princes. Where would you and I be if the Apostles had obeyed the Emperor of Rome?’
‘They did not raise their swords against him.’
I hear my voice raised in the heat of argument. He remains controlled but emphatic.
‘But they disobeyed. To disobey commands is to resist.’
‘The sword, man, they did not rebel by the sword.’
‘God did not grant them the means.’
‘So if they have the means then they can violently resist?’
‘If the Prince exceeds his bounds.’
There he is evidently wrong, and I take him to task.
‘If they dislike the Prince’s actions, then they can take up their swords and strike. Where then is the solemn command of scripture – to obey? Why are rulers distinguished from subjects if they are denied authority?’
With another sigh, as at a recalcitrant pupil, Knox showed his true colours.
‘Madam, if my father is mad or drunk then he must be seized and bound till the madness is past. What if he attacks my brothers or sisters? He must be restrained from murder and it is no different with Princes. This is not rebellion but true obedience.’
‘Well then, Maister Knox, I see how it is. My subjects will obey you and not me. They will do what they like, not what I command, and I shall be subject to them, not them to me. What kingdom could survive such government?’ I demand.
His response was more conciliatory, and self-deprecating.
‘God forbid that anyone should obey me or do what they please. My argument is that both rulers and subjects should obey God. And that, in return for their authority, Princes should nurture the Church. If that be subjection it will carry them to everlasting glory.’
‘There I agree, but it is not your Kirk that I will nurture, but the faith in which I was born, since I believe it to be the true Church of God,’
Now he is openly provoked, and abrupt.
‘Your will, Madam, is no reason. Nor does your thinking it make that harlot the immaculate spouse of Christ.’
‘Remember to whom you speak, sir.’
‘The Church of the Jews, which crucified Christ, was no more astray from the purity of religion than the Church of Rome.’
‘My conscience does not agree.’
‘Conscience, madam, requires knowledge, and I fear you have none.’
Who is he to deny my learning?
‘Knowledge? Since I could read as a child I have studied religion.’
‘So had the Jews. They read the Law and the Prophets but according to the teaching of the Pharisees. Have you read anything apart from what the Pope and cardinals allowed?’
‘You interpret Scripture in one way, and they in another. Who is to judge?’
‘God speaks plainly in his Word and his Spirit guides us into all truth. Where for example does Scripture command the Mass? It is an invention of man; let those that teach it show where it is laid down and I will grant their plea. Otherwise it is no solemn sacrifice but an abomination, like the idolatry of the Virgin Mother and all the Saints.’
‘You are too harsh, sir, and better than I can answer you.’
‘Would that the most learned papist in Europe were here to carry the argument.’
‘You might be answered sooner than you think.’
‘I would answer with my life if need be.’
‘That will not be necessary. We shall live in better times, Maister Knox, and by other manners.’
‘I pray God that it may be so, Madam.’
His shoulders drooped as if the fight were over. I have certainly heard enough.
‘I see from the impatience of my ladies that their dinner is getting cold on the table.’
‘Thank you for your patience in hearing me, Majesty. I pray that you may be as blessed within the Commonwealth of Scotland as ever Deborah was in Israel.’
He manages to incline his head without bending his stiff neck. Sacré Dieu, was ever a monarch so lectured?
I remained standing till he withdrew, showing no impatience or annoyance. I shall hear Mass when and where I wish, despite his preachings.
I saw Maitland studying me closely. They did not expect such an audience, and I held my own. If I take relief in tears, what is that to him or any other man?
Fleming, oh Fleming, now I feel what my mother bore. By herself.
Mary
I WANT TO spell out everything I see and rehearse it, because these sights bring me closer to you. I thought that France was what we shared and that taking you home to Rheims was the nearest we could still be to each other. But now I know that Scotland is where you belonged, and I want to share that, since I am your successor. This is our country, Maman.
We set out with only a small train – the personal guard, my Marys, James Stewart, and the immediate household – so we can travel quickly rather than depend on mules or carts. It is refreshing to canter away from Edinburgh on a bright breezy day, passing by woods and rigs, farm towns, and kirks in the sunshine.
We cross Cramond Brig and, coming up over the ridge, we see the wide river spread beneath us and all of Fife beyond. What big skies there are in Scotland with clouds sailing over seas of blue. I break into a gallop startling the peasants who labour in their fields. The others come on after me like a hunt in full chase. I shake the Court loose from my hair.
After a couple of hours of steady riding, we come down towards the river and the Castle of Blackness rears up ahead guarding the estuary. I send a messenger to pay our respects to the Governor but press on inland towards Linlithgow.
Niddrie Castle, a house of the Setons, is on our left, and the family ride out to greet us and press us to visit. This is some ploy of dear Seton’s to introduce me to her sisters and brothers, so there is much embracing and crying on the road. I will not be moved to turn aside from our route, but everyone is happy with the warmth of this meeting. I invite them all to come on later to Linlithgow so that we can dine together.
Clattering through the West Port we come into the High Street lined with fine houses. Onlookers come running and bonnets are waved as word spreads that their queen has come. Linlithgow is a loyal town and our château rises above the houses. Coming up the Wynd, where the galleries of the merchants’ residences nearly meet over our heads, we go through the Palace archway. It is handsomely ornamented with my father’s chivalric arms. I stop at St Michael’s Church and go in to pray before entering the palace. The altars here have not been cast down.
I touch the great font in which I was baptised, having been born on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of St Mary the Virgin. You gave thanks to God for my safe delivery, but the kingdom did not rejoice in the birth of a girl. Yet had I not been born, within days of the King my father’s death, Scotland would have fallen into the hands of Henry Tudor and of his heirs. Two Queens, two Marys, kept this nation free and independent, as she has been since ancient times. It came with a lass – I think my father was ower sair on the lassies.
I feel your presence strongly in this palace where I was birthed. It is a true royal residence and we must restore it all, chambers and audience rooms. Let water flow once more from the fountain and we shall feast in the great hall and hear minstrels in the gallery. From the galleries we look down on a fine lake.
Tonight we must be simple and en famille with each other. In time we will keep Easter at Linlithgow, or Yule, as royal Ste
warts did before. It is good that my brother is here with us. Together we can bring the good times back, as they were before our grandfather went to war and the flower of Scotland was cut down. It was here at the gate an old man came to Margaret Tudor as she passed from the Church, warning that her husband should not go to England. And a chill passed through her heart. She did not hold his body in her arms again, alive or dead. Yet it is through her that my claim to England comes.
Morning arrives cloudy from the west with spits of showers, but I think the day will blow clear again. We cross the Avon and climb out of the valley to find the River Forth spread below us on the right once more, but with a solid massif of hills on the other side. These it seems are the Ochils, a word as strong and squat in the mouth as their appearance to the eye.
We keep on the higher ground, heading towards Falkirk, as we plan to visit Callander Castle. This is Livingston’s home, bounded by woods and hunting parks while commanding the slopes on the western side of the valley. We gallop through the gates beneath waving trees. And when we arrive the Flemings are here as well, gathered in welcome. They have ridden over from Cumbernauld to see their beloved daughter. Tears and hugs over again, and I am introduced all round. For them our youth is a chapter of lost years. But these families are loyal, the fabric of this Kingdom, and it is through them that we shall restore our nation’s prosperity and good name.
We are well entertained, and pressed to stay, but drag ourselves away to take advantage of the long light evening and reach Stirling. The skies are clear but tinged by crimson in the west, as we top a hill and see Stirling Castle rising from its plain like a ship on the ocean. Before us is the field of Bannockburn, and beyond the citadel to west and north, steep Alpine ranges, ridged and pinnacled, are bathed in sunset, like battlements in an apocalypse. These are the never ending Highlands, wave after mighty wave, all in this kingdom, larger than we had imagined from schoolroom maps. We pause to take in the panorama before breaking into a canter, determined now to reach a goal so near and the safety of its walls before darkness falls.
The town is lit to welcome us with torches and braziers. People are waving on the streets, accompanied by pipes and drums. Acrobats and jugglers come tumbling down the broad market square, where in front of their Tolbooth the Provost and Baillies are assembled in official welcome. Toasts are pledged and quaffed to repeated cheers as new barrels are broached for distribution to the commons.
Horsemen wait to accompany us up and onwards through the town. On each side we pass the mansions of the earls, rich in carvings and hung with banners. Each household stands at their gate with arms at salute and flags flying. As we cross open ground towards the portcullis the last red light throws the fortress and its ring of mountains into black relief. Finally we enter your castle and home. We are exhausted and fall into our beds without ceremony or delay.
We are up early to walk the ramparts and gardens. A theatre of nature is laid out around us. I summon Maister Buchanan, who is lodged here, to point out the scenes. We have never seen him so moved, almost passionate. He is my Scots Poet now.
‘This is my calf country, Madam’, he tells us. ‘See there – Menteith, where your lady mother took you as a child to shelter on the Isle of Inchmahone.’ I peer out into the cloudy distance where my island lies hidden. We were all there together. ‘And beyond stretches the Lennox – that is Ben Lomond above the clouds.’ Perhaps now, he hints, the Earl of Lennox will return home from England with his fine son, Darnley. In Scotland it seems even the scholars have some clan to which they are loyal.
Moving round we are looking down at the river and the hills are much closer. ‘That is Dumyat, Madam – the Dun or fortress of the Maetae. They were a lost people with their own language who reigned here in ancient times. That bridge below is where William Wallace defeated the English army when he enticed them over to the marsh beyond and fell on them fiercely. Through the pass of Allan there is Dunblane where the Saint of Bute founded his cathedral.’
‘Is that not where Margaret Drummond and her sisters lie buried? She was my grandfather’s love but the nobles poisoned her so he would marry Margaret Tudor.’
‘So gossips and rumour-mongers say, but history is something other.’
‘You despise the storytellers? I seem to have known such stories from childhood.’
‘Indeed, most of Scotland’s histories are story, lies, and fable. They wrote in Latin with no understanding of the ancient tongues spoken here.’
‘I read the Latin ones in Paris, but it appears that you must write your own history, sir.’
‘I shall, Madam, if I am spared to serve this kingdom.’
‘What models will you take?’
‘Livy and Tacitus will shape my style, but the matter will be Scots.’
‘You must come, Maister Buchanan, when we are at Holyrood, to read Livy with me. And you must write a masque for our Court. What is a palace without poets? And you are reputed to be Europe’s finest.’
‘As Your Grace pleases.’
He is well satisfied but reluctant to show it. There is something of the curmudgeon in Buchanan, yet he has the Muse’s gift.
We return inside to eat and prepare for Mass. The chapel choir is summoned to sing once more. It is famous for its music but has fallen into disuse due to the absence of my mother.
We proceed from our apartments across the inner courtyard accompanied by two Chaplains, with the solemn chants sounding from the Chapel’s open doors. Then it erupts. Argyll, still pulling on his doublet, comes running through the arch shouting in Irish. Followers appear with drawn swords. Cries for the guard. Lord James appears already armed. Does he watch every movement close at hand? He argues with Argyll, who seems beside himself with rage. Then James comes towards us and commands me to turn back. I stand my ground, and see Argyll’s troopers go inside the Chapel. Screams and shouts. What outrage is this?
‘It is not agreed. Only the private Mass at Holyrood. Now please go before any lives are lost. Argyll has authority here.’
‘My priests?’
‘Cracked heads will mend. Now go before we see worse.’
We are shepherded away by guards as if we might be assaulted next. Do I command here only for show? They are scattering vessels, shredding the music books like madmen.
This time is spoiled. We remain indoors all day. That night I topple a lamp in sleep and nearly burn myself to death. I must not show fear. Whatever happens, I must not let them see I am afraid.
The morning is wet as we form up in column, and huddled in our cloaks, trot out of almost deserted streets. Crossing the Forth by Wallace’s bridge we follow the causeway towards Dumyat and then turn towards Dunblane. The Cathedral Tower appears to nestle above the village. We go out by a steep street of cottages onto higher ground and immediately meet the wind. An empty moor stretches to the west but we set course northwards, and are on the hills all day, with occasional castles and settlements on each side. Gradually the weather lightens and more distant Highland mountains emerge. I begin to stir back to life yet still cannot bring myself to speak to my brother. He seems not to notice, plodding on with his normal taciturn aspect. I start to believe his spirit is in tune with Scotland’s soul; that he would be fitter than I to rule this moody land.
The afternoon is brighter as we come down into the Earn valley and follow the river towards Perth. The ground is rich, and when we climb up again it is only to look down into the even greater sweep of the Tay and its fertile plains. This river stretches back into the hills, but just before it widens to meet the sparkling Earn, the towers and steeples of the town are gathered tight within their walls.
Again the people have assembled to welcome their queen. The guildsmen perform an ancient sword dance, musicians play, and every archway is garlanded with greenery and flowers. The Provost greets me warmly, wine flows, and a golden heart weighed with coins is borne on angel wings into my ladies’ hands. Our mood is lifted by this gay scene and even a Calvinist dumb show in the backg
round, posturing against the Mass, cannot subdue the people’s merriness.
A great banquet is held in the Trades Hall to celebrate our coming. Even in France I did not witness such abundance; geese and swans, duck, capons, haunches of venison, sweetmeats and pasties follow each other on huge trenchers, with copious wines and ales. It is a prosperous town, and the entertainment continues until late.
When the minstrels fall silent players come bustling in with one interlude after another. These are farces with thieves swopping sheep for babies in the cradle to escape detection, and a peasant who sends his wife to plough while he stays to keep house and wreak havoc. The Scots do not laugh quietly. Calls and jests accompany the performance, while they respond in kind and weave boisterous spectators into their action. I see Maister Buchanan’s brows darken at such lapses, but these dramas do not aspire to be of Aristotle’s school.
All seems well until next day when we ride the burgh bounds before departing Perth. Blackfriars, Whitefriars, Franciscans and the Charterhouse: this town was rich in sacred orders. But every window gapes, doors hang ajar, debris is strewn in the yards. Each has been sacked and pillaged. ‘What has happened to the holy fathers,’ I ask but none can answer. It seems they had accumulated wealth, and a Beggars Summons was nailed to their gates, threatening destruction if their worldly means were not given to the poor. Surely alms were distributed? Then John Knox came stirring the fury of the mob. All has been despoiled by those who greeted me yesterday with such joy. The crowd who cried ‘Hosanna’ turned to ‘Crucify’ before Passion Week had ended.
I was affected by these sights, and felt unable to continue with our journey. I thought they would carry me into Charterhouse, where the first King James, my ancestor, was murdered by his nobles. I sobbed till they laid me on a pallet and brought soothing cordials. I was lifted onto a litter and borne between two horses away from that loyal burgh.
