Spy for the Queen of Scots

by Theresa Breslin

  And now my memories were real, swamping me with their vividness, evoking bitter-sweet recollections of my past times. I recalled my father sitting me in front of him on his horse, much as I was seated now, and cantering with my mother through Holyrood Park. I brushed tears from my eyes.

  Gavin touched my hand. ‘Are you well?’ he asked solicitously.

  ‘I left Scotland as a child. Being here again makes me think of my mother and father, now sadly dead.’

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured in sympathy. ‘Lean on me a little and let me share your sorrow.’

  I closed my eyes and relaxed against him and he drew his arms more tightly around me in support.

  Inside, Holyrood Palace was distinctly less agreeable.

  It was evident that, since the death of Mary’s mother, Mary of Guise, no female hand had taken care of the fabric and furnishings. It was a shocking change from the splendour of my early upbringing. Then I had skipped up and down the imposing staircases and hidden behind beautiful tapestries and handsome furniture. Now the floor coverings needed cleaning, the canopies and wall hangings were dusty. It smelled stale, as though the windows hadn’t been opened for months. The decoration was vastly different to the opulence we were used to in France. But Mary’s mood was such that it refused to be dampened.

  ‘There is elegance to this austerity,’ she commented, pretending not to notice the state of disrepair, ‘and a certain dignity in the design.’ As we went through the main hall and into the royal apartments at the western end of the palace, she stopped to admire the carved scrolls and emblems.

  There was a moment of deep sadness when we entered the bedchamber that had been her mother’s. ‘How lonely she must have been, with no husband or child for company,’ said Mary. ‘So far from home, so far from France.’

  ‘But this was her home,’ I reminded Mary gently. ‘My mother told me that yours did love her adopted country. She stayed here after your father died when she could have retired to France. She remained in order to keep Scotland secure for you to inherit.’

  ‘You are right, Jenny.’ The queen smiled through the tears glistening in her eyes. ‘And therefore I owe it to her to be the best ruler possible.’

  It was evident then that some preparation had been made. A fire burned in the grate and the bedsheets were clean and smelled of lavender. Some wild flowers sat in a jug on the windowsill. Mary bent to smell the fresh scent. She tilted her head on one side and said, ‘Summon the maid for this bedchamber to my presence please.’

  The maid was brought in. She could have been no more than thirteen years old and she was shaking with fear.

  Mary indicated the jug of flowers at the window. ‘Did you do this?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘I meant nae harm, ma’am – I mean, majesty, your honour,’ the girl gabbled in such broad Scots, her teeth chattering with fear, that we could scarce make out what she was saying. ‘I only pulled a few wild flooers fae the park – no noble ever walks there. I thocht it would be allowed.’ And she prostrated herself, almost weeping in terror.

  The queen went forward and touched her on the head and bade her rise up. ‘I wanted to thank you for the work you have done in this room to make it so comfortable for my rest,’ she spoke gently in Scots. ‘I am not much older than you and very far from the home I have known since my childhood, and to see these flowers has cheered my heart enormously.’

  The girl managed to raise her eyes to look upon the queen. ‘Thy mither liked wild flooers.’

  ‘Why, so she did!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘I had forgotten that. Is that the reason you chose these flowers for me?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Ye are like thy mither in looks. She was a bonny brave wumman.’

  ‘I thank ye,’ Mary replied. ‘Perhaps another time we will speak more of my beloved mither. Meanwhile’ – impulsively she pulled a small silver ring from her pinkie – ‘accept this ring as a token of my favour.’

  The girl’s eyes grew wide with wonderment.

  ‘What is your name,’ the queen asked her.

  ‘Rhanza,’ she replied.

  ‘Hold out your hand, Rhanza,’ Mary instructed. And when the maid did so, she dropped the ring into it. ‘This ring has my initial, the letter “M”, as a monogram. When you wear it, I’d like you to pray that I am as good a queen as my mother was.’

  Marie Fleming laughed as she closed the door behind the girl. ‘Rhanza was hardly in the corridor before she was biting the ring to see if it really was silver.’

  We took supper in the great hall. Present were the lords who had escorted us from Leith plus some other nobles and lairds. The food was plain but wholesome and there was plenty of it, as well as copious amounts of strong drink. I had a headache, the result of imbibing too much whisky, and so I sipped only light wine. Most of the rest of the company were not so moderate – apart from one man, William Maitland, who listened to everything that was said on a subject before passing comment himself.

  It was still summer and the sun doesn’t set in these northern lands until late. As the meal ended, in the gloaming of oncoming darkness Marie Beaton pointed to a window and cried, ‘Fire! Look! Upon that hill! The city is on fire!’

  We rushed to the window. For an awful moment I thought that some madman, his mind inflamed by John Knox, who objected to a Catholic woman ruling Scotland, had decided to burn the town with us in it. But then I saw what it really was.

  ‘I think it’s a bonfire,’ I said in some relief. The flames leaped into the air, with sparks from the kindling sending a merry trail across the sky.

  ‘Where is that?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Calton Hill,’ answered one of the lords. ‘We skirted past it on our way up from Leith.’

  ‘It’s the ordinary country folk who have done this then.’ Mary’s voice showed the depth of her pleasure.

  ‘See! There’s another bonfire!’

  ‘And one here,’ someone called from the other side of the room.

  ‘There are several upon the hill of Arthur.’

  ‘And look to the castle!’

  We strained to see the short mile to the castle. The tiny chapel was illuminated by the glow of firelight. And then, all over the ramparts, bright red signals pierced the darkness. Even though the night wasn’t cold the soldiers must have lit their braziers to join in the welcome for their queen.

  Mary clasped her hands together. ‘This is most heartening to me,’ she rejoiced, ‘and all the more so as it wasn’t a planned celebration.’

  From below us came a sound of music: fiddles, rebecs, pipes and a side drum beating time. And then a whole chorus of voices singing.

  ‘I am being serenaded,’ said Mary. She opened the window and stood, all unprotected, at the casement.

  ‘Come away, sister,’ Lord James Stuart advised her. ‘You might catch cold standing there.’

  ‘Good brother,’ said Mary, ‘I am very well.’

  ‘Besides being unseemly, it’s dangerous,’ he said testily. ‘What if some person of ill intent looses an arrow at you?’

  ‘It would hardly reach the window,’ Mary answered him. ‘Although’ – she laid her hand on his arm – ‘I do thank you for your concern on my behalf.’

  Her attempt to mollify him didn’t work. He continued to tut and look with displeasure at the commotion below us and said that most likely they’d use bawdy language and show no respect to the queen.

  Seeing Mary watching, the singers redoubled their efforts. More folk joined them and they began a round of traditional harvest songs and then a variety of verses, some from Maying time, romantic and flirty. Mary laughed at their merrymaking and ordered ale and quince cake to be sent to them. When that was done, they raised their flagons and toasted her, and she turned to Lord James, saying, ‘Brother, this is the best welcome a homecoming monarch could ever have. It is unorchestrated and thus comes straight from the hearts of my people.’

  I glanced at him, expecting him to be happy at this. But he was not pleased. Rather James Stuart fro
wned and bit on his thumb the way a child might when seeing another receive a toy they had especially wanted for themselves.

  Chapter 24

  THE NEXT FEW days were a frenzy of activity.

  We’d yet to get hold of most of our household goods as our lost cargo ships had been forced by bad weather to dock at English ports and were impounded there under some pretext of tax problems. But we had plenty to do: rooms had to be allocated and the Wardrobe established for the multitude of clothes and accessories brought from France. These were supplemented by what remained of Mary’s mother’s belongings. As the tally for those didn’t match the inventory lists for the late queen’s goods, it was obvious that items had been pilfered. Some of the most expensive gowns and headdresses could not be found.

  ‘Those that are missing are very special pieces that were sent from France,’ I told her. ‘I recall one, a birthday gift to your mama from your grandmother.’

  The rest of Mary’s ladies made sympathetic noises. It seemed such a low thing, to rob the dead, and we remarked on the character of someone who could do this. It was Mary herself who banished our despondency.

  ‘I suppose we should take it as flattery,’ she joked, ‘that the goods that are gone are of French origin. We will speak no more of this and take it as a sign that the Scots admire French fashion and style.’

  I thought it brave of her to dismiss what was both theft and insult to her person so lightly. Even more so because she was weary with the constant round of meetings on matters of state with Lord James Stuart – and with others seeking appointment to a whole range of offices. Duncan’s predictions were coming true. Mary’s half-brother had already vetted applicants and many appointments went to those he nominated.

  We were glad when Sunday arrived and we could enjoy a day of rest. The queen was keen to visit the private chapel in Holyrood where it had been agreed she could hear mass. In France she attended mass daily and had felt the lack of it over the last days. We made a procession with her chaplain and some of our, mainly French, attendants, and set out along the corridor. Mary looked forward to these times of quiet reflection and drew strength from the sacrament of Communion. Not everyone in her retinue was as devout as her, but they accompanied her as she read from her book of meditations. I was the last in line and was not immediately aware that, ahead of us, the entrance to the chapel was blocked by a group of men.

  ‘No pope here!’

  I craned to see what was going on. One of the men who’d attended dinner on our first evening, Lord Lindsay, had stepped forward to bar the queen’s way.

  Bewildered, Mary lifted her eyes from her book; then, recognizing the man who spoke, she replied in an even tone, ‘Indeed, Lord Lindsay, you are correct. There is no pope here.’

  ‘No mass!’ He jostled one of his companions so that the man almost fell against the queen. ‘Scotland is a Protestant country!’ he shouted. ‘There will be no mass, I say!’

  Several things happened all at once. Those barring our way began to yell, ‘No mass! No popery! Death to all priests!’ One of the women screamed. And then two arms came firmly around my waist and I was lifted off my feet and placed in an alcove. I struggled free and whirled round, nails ready to claw at this person.

  It was Sir Duncan Alexander.

  ‘Hush! Hush!’ He sidestepped my lunge at his face. ‘I’d rather avoid another scratching from you. Remain here while I try to rescue the queen.’

  He ran off down the corridor. I stared in surprise at his retreating back: running away didn’t constitute a rescue. Immediately I went towards the chapel. I wasn’t prepared to take orders from him, and anyway I’d no more leave Mary alone in these circumstances than I would abandon her in a forest full of wild beasts.

  I pushed through to the front. The queen stood there, holding onto her prayer book as might a drowning sailor to a spar of wood.

  Most of the men in front of the chapel door were dressed plainly, not unlike the French Protestants who’d adopted a distinctive dark attire, but these clothes were of rougher cloth. They were milling about, with Lord Lindsay leading the shouts of condemnation. Since arriving at Holyrood we had tried to tune our ears to the broad vowel sounds and strongly pronounced consonants, but it was hard to make out exactly what was being said. Mary turned to one of her Scots aides and asked in French, ‘They are speaking so fast that I cannot follow. Help me with this.’

  The aide replied, also in French, ‘They protest that mass is to be celebrated here while the law of the land forbids it.’

  ‘But I am going to mass in my own private chapel,’ Mary said in Scots. ‘This was agreed. No?’

  ‘You are right to say “no”, madam.’ Lord Lindsay spoke to the queen even more insolently than before, talking as if to a slow-witted person or a doltish child. ‘It was not agreed. Not by us, the people of Scotland. Nor by our parliament, which has passed a law against the saying of mass.’

  ‘I was assured that I could attend mass privately.’ Mary retained her dignity and her stance.

  ‘Let us inform you on this,’ Lord Lindsay broke in, staring directly at our chaplain. ‘A priest may be executed for celebrating a mass in Scotland. What say you?’ he addressed his supporters. ‘Shall we spare the expense of a trial and do it now? Let’s hang him, and then we will be assured there will definitely be no mass.’

  Whether they really meant to lay hands on our poor chaplain, who was now shaking so badly he could hardly hold the ciborium containing the unconsecrated hosts, I do not know. He gazed at the queen in supplication. Mary Stuart was firm in her faith and had, on occasion, defied the fearsome Catherine de’ Medici. So, despite her being only eighteen, I knew that she would try to defend her beliefs.

  There were mutters and growls at Lindsay’s suggestion, but not all of them in agreement. Obviously some were true Protestants who had come to join in the protest but baulked at murder.

  Mary seized the moment to speak out: ‘To administer such a sentence would go against your own rules.’ Her gaze was steady as she looked at Lord Lindsay. ‘You make Scots laws for Scotland. How will anyone else respect them if you do not do so yourself?’

  Lord Lindsay began to reply: ‘In Scotland the people have the sovereign right to—’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Mary interrupted quickly. She might not have understood all of what was being said, but she knew the general meaning and had picked up on the word ‘sovereign’. ‘I am the sovereign and you are my people,’ she said. ‘I will worship as my conscience dictates. And I guarantee you that you will too.’

  But the protestors had moved to surround us, and more came from we knew not where. This situation was different from France where lesser courtiers were not permitted to approach the royal personage unless it was to make a special plea or present a gift.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ said the Duke of Aumale. Someone caught at his sleeve, and he cried out and pulled away.

  I saw Mary’s colour change and thought she might faint. Marie Seton and the rest went beside her to bear her up.

  I stepped in front of the queen and, putting on an act of bravery, said, ‘You must stand aside. All of you.’

  Lindsay, who had suggested hanging our priest, pushed his face into mine. His teeth were black and broken and his breath was foul. He pointed at the image of a crucifix on the cover of my missal. ‘That is idolatry,’ he said, ‘and is forbidden in the Bible. Graven images, statues, holy pictures – all popish frippery.’

  ‘They are a means of concentrating the mind on devotion,’ I replied.

  He snatched a Bible from the one of the others and shook it under my nose. ‘Listen to the true word of God.’

  ‘I do,’ I said, my voice beginning to waver. I couldn’t believe that these men would refuse to defer to the royal presence.

  Lord Lindsay raised the Bible above his head, and I thought he meant to strike me. My heart quailed. And then Duncan Alexander was at my side.

  He pushed me behind him. ‘I told you not to move from where
you stood. I had you safe in the alcove.’

  ‘I am protecting my queen. As you should be,’ I retorted.

  ‘You are not in France! Here the monarch has no army to call upon. I ran to bring Lord James Stuart here. He’s the only one who can quiet this rabble.’

  And suddenly Mary’s half-brother, Lord James Stuart, appeared. His servant struck the shaft of a sword upon a shield while Lord James shouted angrily, ‘Be quiet! Be quiet! Disperse at once! Do you hear me? This I will not tolerate!’

  I!

  Lord James had used the word ‘I’! In the presence of the queen he had just stated that there was something he would not tolerate – as if he owned and governed the realm! I was dumbfounded, but no one else seemed to notice it. By now Mary was close to fainting and, helped by Duncan, she and her company took shelter in the chapel. And there we stayed long after mass was over until we were knew that the unruly crowd had gone.

  That evening Mary enquired as to the names of the men who had tried to prevent us from entering the chapel. ‘I recognized Lord Lindsay,’ she said, ‘but who were the others?’

  Lord James claimed that everything had been so confused that he hadn’t noticed exactly who they were. It was frankly not credible that he didn’t know or have the means to find out their names. Surely he, who had contacts everywhere, must have heard rumours of a protest planned for Sunday morning? Had he waited until the mood became so ugly that only he could calm it? Was this so that Mary would be grateful to him as defender of her right to hear mass? Yet we knew he was a declared Protestant. Was he, as Duncan thought, manipulating both sides for his own ends?

  William Maitland, whom Mary had asked to attend this meeting, opened his mouth as if about to say something and then changed his mind. But he and Lord James spoke with the queen at length – with the result that the very next day she issued a proclamation stating that she wanted an end to religious discord. Her view was that everyone should have the freedom to worship as their conscience dictated, and though she might differ in her own practice, she accepted Protestantism as the religion of Scotland.