Spy for the Queen of Scots

by Theresa Breslin

  Mary touched his arm. ‘I do believe you,’ she said softly.

  He looked pleased and I had a fleeting pang of resentment at the power this woman had over men.

  Her eyes met mine, and she smiled as if to reassure me and then said, ‘I do also believe that Jenny is feeling the cold and would benefit from the warmth of your cloak.’

  Duncan began to untie the cords at his neck.

  ‘I am perfectly well without it,’ I protested, although my body was chilled with the fog seeping into my bones. ‘I do not want it,’ I reiterated firmly as he swung the cloak off his shoulders.

  ‘Best to do as our queen commands,’ he said, and draped it around me.

  It was a cloak of fine wool, still warm from the heat of his body, and it smelled of him. The sudden sensual shock caused me to fall quiet. A host of emotions tumbled within me. I looked away and frowned. I didn’t want to be beholden to Duncan Alexander. I’d resolved to control my feelings when I was near him, yet I enjoyed his attention. I risked a glance at him. He had gone to the rail of the ship and was peering ahead.

  The wind freshened as we approached land. The fog thinned and the sea became visible with white caps on the waves. By this time the face of the Duke of Aumale was tinged with nausea, but as Mary remained on deck, so must he.

  ‘I was five years old when I left these shores,’ she told me. ‘But it’s my native land and I wondered if I might recall anything.’

  Suddenly in the distance we saw several small craft – early morning fishermen hoping for a catch.

  ‘Oh!’ Mary put her hand to her nose. ‘The smell!’ she cried in delight. ‘I recognize that distinctive smell from the curing huts! I do recall it. I must have travelled with Mama to a place the fishermen brought in their catches. Newhaven! There, I remember!’ She was overjoyed to have rediscovered this personal memory of her life with her mother. ‘The fishwives made us welcome and had sewn a striped apron to fit me.’ Mary closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The wind had coloured her normally pale complexion and she looked very beautiful with curls of copper escaping from her headdress. ‘My mother’s presence is very near.’ She sighed and murmured, ‘I do not see it with my eyes but I feel it within me.’

  I sensed the bond between me and Mary growing ever stronger. Tears came into my eyes as I thought of my own mother and saw the land where I’d once lived with my parents. I did not care that some of my memories might be wish-dreams, there were disjointed scenes I could recall, as Mary was doing. The feel of the silk of my mother’s dress between my chubby fingers; being cradled in her arms; the sound of her voice singing to me in Italian; the musky smell of the perfume she wore.

  Although Mary hadn’t seen her native land for thirteen years, and therefore her memories be more tenuous than mine, I did empathize with her mood. And so when the Queen of Scots clasped my hand and spoke, her words chimed with those in my own heart. ‘I have come home, Jenny,’ she said. ‘I have come home.’

  Chapter 22

  BUT IT WAS a raw, unwelcoming homecoming and, to begin with, no welcome at all. There was neither party of nobles, nor town burghers, nor officials, nor any attendants waiting to transport the queen to a royal residence.

  ‘Perhaps it is some kind of test of my endurance,’ Mary declared calmly as we waited on board while Duncan Alexander and others went ashore to announce her arrival. ‘The Scots are reputed to be hardy folk, but my father’s blood runs in my veins and I will prove myself their equal.’

  When he returned Duncan’s mouth was set in a tight line. ‘Majesty, they did not expect you so soon and have made what arrangement they could muster at such short notice.’ Approaching the jetty we saw a few tousled men-at-arms. ‘This is your escort. You are to be conducted to the house of a local burgher, there to await the official party of nobles from the Palace of Holyrood at Edinburgh.’

  ‘The queen is to walk?’ I was surprised. I’d been about nine years old when I left Scotland and my childhood impressions were of a friendly, hospitable people.

  Duncan inclined his head. ‘It is not far and I have asked them to sweep the street ahead of you.’

  The Maries made expressions of annoyance and dismay and the Duke of Aumale began to bluster in protest. It was then that Mary displayed her usual readiness to make the best of a bad situation.

  ‘If there is no one here to announce my presence in a proper fashion, then we must do it ourselves,’ she said.

  She called the ship’s captain and asked him to confer with the captain of the other galleon. Some minutes elapsed, and then the cannons of both ships fired a salvo out to sea. People came rushing out of doors. Seeing the two magnificent galleons, one painted white, one all red, flying the flags of France and Scotland, they realized what was happening in the harbour.

  ‘There,’ Mary said with some satisfaction. ‘They are sure to have heard that cannonade in Edinburgh and know now that their queen has arrived in her realm.’

  As we descended the gangplank my first thoughts were of my father. There were still signs of the bombardment where his French soldiers had made their last stand before surrendering to the combined forces of the rebel Scots and English armies. This was where he had died doing his duty for his country and my queen. I concentrated on the fact that his death was an honourable one and on my resolute belief that his soul had joined my mother’s in Paradise.

  On reaching the burgher’s house, the four Maries complained loudly on Mary’s behalf. I thought of France where, when the court moves from one place to the next, teams of servants are sent on a week or more ahead of time to prepare the castle or château. This Leith merchant’s house was well appointed but it didn’t compare to any mansion we’d visited in France. We were given an upper floor consisting of a dining chamber, a receiving room and a bedroom.

  When the escort of nobles finally arrived to transport Mary to the city it was a doleful sight. The horses and trappings were of poor quality. Instead of a thoroughbred stallion or a bedecked and bejewelled palfrey for their queen to ride upon, they presented her with an old mare, a sad swaybacked piece of horseflesh.

  ‘I thought it best, good sister,’ Lord James Stuart said, ‘that you have a mount that would give you no trouble to control.’

  And yet he must have been aware that she was a fine horsewoman. He’d spent enough time in her company in France, and surely his spies had informed him of her skill in the hunt. Was it carelessness on his part or the beginning of his campaign to bring her down and make her easier for him to manage?

  Mary’s face registered her disappointment. She’d been eager to show her subjects a resplendent queen whom they might be proud to have as their monarch. These horses were not caparisoned like French horses, with decorated cloth to show rank and wealth. Some lacked bridles and one had no saddle.

  Small knots of townsfolk stood around chatting and pointing. They watched as the luxurious goods being unloaded from the two galleons onto wagons – mirrors, bales of cloth, boxes of gold and silver plate, barrels of wine, and crates of crystal glasses packed with straw – brought the ordinary work of the port to a standstill. There was as yet no sighting of the other vessels, which meant that our hunting dogs and birds and, more importantly, our ponies and horses, their embossed leather saddles, silver bridles and rein hangings, were not available.

  When we heard this news tears welled in Mary’s eyes. ‘This is not the way I had thought to make my triumphal entry into Scotland,’ she whispered to me. ‘It is important that the people who have first glimpse of me know me to be a queen.’

  ‘We could wait here a while,’ I suggested. ‘Our other ships might arrive or better horses be summoned from Edinburgh.’

  ‘No!’ Duncan Alexander, who must have been listening very intently to hear our quiet conversation, was at my elbow. ‘With respect, it’s already afternoon. It wouldn’t be wise to delay until evening to travel the road, and this place is not secure enough for her majesty to spend the night.’

  Mary regarde
d him for a moment and then nodded. She called on Lord James Stuart and gave him a sunny smile. ‘I will accept the horse that you have so generously offered to carry me to Edinburgh. I won’t impose upon this good merchant any longer, and besides, I would rest tonight in one of my own royal residences.’

  The queen and her ladies took the laird’s own bedroom. The Maries fussed about, making sure that essential items from her wardrobe were brought from the ship that the queen might change, ready for her journey to the city. Still officially in mourning for the death of her husband Francis, Mary’s gown and train was predominantly black, heavily embroidered with bead work and jet. But, to relieve the unrelenting darkness of her dress, she had chosen a stomacher decorated with pearls and diamonds to sit around her middle, and patterned hose and shoes shot through with silver. In matters of fashion and dress Mary was very sure of her own choices. She knew that with her height, slim figure and pale colouring, too much ornament might appear crass or vulgar. She was conscious that her stunning hair and eyes were her best features and paid attention to her coif and neck ruffs, settling on an ornate black and silver headdress with a long white veil edged with diamond thread. About her neck and breast gleamed the necklace of fat black pearls, while upon her fingers we placed rings of ruby, emerald, gold and silver. On her brow was a simple band of white pearls with wisps of her golden auburn hair being allowed to show. I looked at her and marvelled. She appeared womanly and vulnerable so that men might want to protect her, but aloof and dignified as a widow should be, yet her manner was composed and regal to command respect.

  Her attendants were also obliged to wear public dress of sober mourning colours and I had donned a dove-grey dress with trims of white lace at my cuffs and neck. Beginning at my brow, my cap covered my hair, but as I surveyed myself in the mirror, on an impulse, I drew out some of my blonde curls to frame my face as Mary’s did.

  As we arranged a velvet-trimmed Florentine riding cloak around Mary’s shoulders, an equerry came to say that Lord James Stuart, with a number of nobles and lairds, was ready to ride with her.

  ‘Let them wait,’ she said when she heard this. ‘Their expectation will sharpen. They have come to see a queen and I will not disappoint them.’

  But when it was time for her to depart and she started down the staircase, Mary’s face paled and her body shook with nerves.

  ‘Here . . .’ Duncan Alexander, who had been waiting outside the door, proffered a leather bottle. ‘This is usquebaugh, distilled here in Scotland, more potent that any you might taste in France.’

  I knew of this drink. On occasion we had sipped it at the French court. Translated as ‘Water of Life’, and known in English as whisky, it was so fiery that the taste of any strange substance would, I realized, be disguised.

  I stepped between them. ‘Her majesty takes nothing to eat or drink except that given to her by her attendants.’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I’ll serve it in a glass,’ I said, and, hurriedly fetching a goblet, poured out a large measure of the amber liquid. I took a gulp before handing it to Mary.

  Duncan glared at me furiously. The Scots were noted for their pride and I had insulted him. The liquid burned like fire in my throat and then down into my stomach, sending a wave of heat through me.

  ‘That will certainly warm your bones,’ he observed.

  I could feel the alcohol taking hold within me – not the slow languor of wine, but a more potent brew suited to this wild country that sent my senses whirling. I coughed.

  ‘I’d advise you to give your mistress somewhat less than what you took for yourself,’ Duncan said in a superior manner before going outside to organize the guard who would march beside us.

  He held Mary’s stirrup as she mounted the mare. Her Scottish lords and her family from the royal houses of France assembled around her. The bulk of the minor courtiers, maids and servants would have to walk, but the maids of honour and those of higher rank had been allocated places on wagons. On my way there I passed Sir Gavin of Strathtay. A few years older than me, he was one of the young Scots lairds who’d come from Scotland to meet Mary at Calais and escort her home, and had been very attentive to our needs during the sea journey. He was preparing to mount a farm horse that he’d bribed a local resident to loan him.

  ‘If you wish to accompany your queen, you may ride with me,’ he said.

  I hesitated.

  He was very attractive, with neatly combed brown hair and an open cheerful face. Smiling into my eyes he made a bow. ‘It is entirely your choice. If you go in a wagon you’ll trail far behind her.’

  As I’d appointed myself to watch out for Mary, then I should really keep as close to her as possible. I glanced about me. Some other young gallants had also hired horses and were offering ladies a seat. I looked again at Sir Gavin and inclined my head.

  He linked his fingers and clasped his hands so that I might put my foot there. This I did while gripping the horse’s mane and he helped me up. Then he followed, leaning forward to gather his reins which meant that his arms were on each side of me.

  Not far in front of us I saw Duncan Alexander. He swivelled round, eyes roving through the assembly. His gaze passed over me and then snapped back. For a moment he stared at me, snug between the arms of one of his fellow countrymen. He pursed his lips and then turned to face the front.

  ‘You might want to take hold of my belt.’ Sir Gavin’s mouth was very close to my cheek.

  The whisky was ringing in my ears and I was unsteady, but I was still rebellious enough to demand, ‘Why?’

  ‘Else you might fall off.’ He laughed and, kicking the horse’s flanks, we lumbered forward to join the queen’s cavalcade.

  Chapter 23

  BY THE TIME we were on the road from Leith to Edinburgh, word had spread and people were flocking to see Mary. Some had obviously hurriedly changed into better clothes and scooped up their children, tidying their hair and wiping their faces in the hope of receiving a royal blessing or perhaps some more worldly reward. Others had left their labours in the fields and farms to view the spectacle. Soon each side of the roadway was lined with an assortment of folk gaping at their queen.

  Mary’s Scottish lords clustered close to her, almost as if they wished to block her from the people’s view, and them from her. It seemed that this publicity wasn’t really something they wanted. I think they’d hoped for an ignominious arrival – for the queen to come quietly into her country as if by stealth. The day was turning out to be more of a royal progress, and now I appreciated the queen’s wisdom in taking time with her appearance. Mary sat tall and elegant in her saddle. The breeze whipped at her veil, exposing her face. She didn’t replace it to shield herself from their gaze, but instead raised a hand in greeting and smiled and waved. I was so proud to be with her. Light sparkled on the silver of her headdress and stomacher as she cast her cloak back from her shoulders. Her jewels and rings flashed fire. She was the focus of all attention, a dazzling figure of authority and power.

  As we climbed up the slope towards the city the sun came out, and what had begun in cold mist and gloom as a raggle-taggle of riders with a line of pack mules and wagons trailing behind became a pleasant slow ride on a warm summer’s evening. We came to the crest of the hill, and there was the Scotland of moor and mountain and, before us, the jewel of the capital city of Edinburgh.

  ‘Oh, this country is so beautiful!’ Mary exclaimed, loud enough to carry beyond her immediate company. ‘What glorious mountains! I had no idea the landscape would be so arresting.’ She turned excitedly to her companions. ‘What gorgeous colours! It is all quite breathtaking.’

  She reined in her horse. At once a section of the on lookers surged forward to see their queen, only to be prevented by the men-at-arms on either side of us. Mary was unperturbed by any danger these people might present, and went on talking animatedly: ‘If these are my subjects, then I am well pleased with them. Look at the handsome men and the pretty girls. See the comel
y women and their bonny, bonny bairns!’ She smiled, and as she spoke confidently in Scots, the crowd cheered. ‘Give some pennies to these mothers, some sweetmeats to their children.’

  She beckoned to a senior courtier, who looked very uncomfortable, crushed with another on an ancient plough horse. ‘Make sure one of the wagons is halted and that this is done.’ She raised her hand and, breaking free of her entourage, spurred her horse to trot on ahead. Great hurrahs came from the onlookers; mothers lifted up their children to see her as she passed and prayed for blessings to shower down upon her. One man tossed his bonnet in the air and shouted out, ‘Long live the daughter of James the Fifth, rightful heir to the throne of Scotland!’

  Lord James Stuart flinched. It was clear that the fact of his illegitimate birth was, once again, being flung in his face.

  Mary was impervious to any frowns or scowls from her Scots lords. And I was too. Buoyed up by the adulation our spirits lifted so that when we reached the outskirts of the city we were full of joy. Mary sat tall in her saddle and remarked upon the tranquillity of the waters of the loch, the unusual architecture of the spire of St Giles, the quaintness of the houses huddled together on either side of narrow lanes and wynds, and the elegance of the buildings with their crow-stepped gables ascending the hill to the heavily fortified castle squatting on its rock. The majesty of this castle dominated everything, its vast bulk louring over the city, the loch and the countryside beyond.

  Then we saw the Palace of Holyrood. And I understood why Duncan had wanted us to travel there before darkness. Although situated outside the city walls, it stood secure and gated at the bottom of a long street leading directly up to the castle on the rock.

  ‘Why, it’s like a château of France! Don’t you think, Jenny?’ Mary called to me. ‘Like Chenonceau?’

  ‘Or Chinon,’ I agreed. The design of turrets and pinnacles with interior courtyards was in the French style, and although the stone was different, it suited the city. The parkland and trees surrounding it made for a beautiful setting below the craggy outcrop known as the Chair of the legendary King Arthur.