by Jean Plaidy
IT WAS AUGUST. Through the French countryside passed a brilliant cavalcade at the head of which in a magnificent carriage decorated with cloth of gold and silver and bearing the arms of Guise and Lorraine rode the great Duke and his brother, the Cardinal. There followed in a beautiful chariot Mary Stuart; and behind her came her four Marys with a company of French noblemen, poets and musicians.
Mary knew that at Calais she would say good-bye to those two uncles who had been her guardians since she had set foot in France, but their three brothers, Mary’s uncles, Claude the Duc d’Aumale, François the Grand Prior of Lorraine, and René the Marquis d’Elboeuf, were to accompany her to Scotland. She was glad of this; her uncle René she liked particularly because he had a gay nature and it was a comfort to have him with her.
She was conscious all the time of Henri de Montmorency, the Sieur d’Amville, who made it his delight to be at her side and gratify her smallest wish. He had introduced to her notice a very personable young man who played the lute with charm and wrote verses which fell not far short of those of Ronsard. This was Pierre de Chastelard, and she had made up her mind that she would reward that young man with a good post when they reached Scotland. She liked him; he was so gay and charming; and she was fond of poets. Unfortunately he was a Huguenot, she had heard; but then, so was Henri de Montmorency, and she would not let a persons religious opinions interfere with the friendship she felt.
She was a little happier than she had feared she would be, and that was due to the people who were going with her. She looked around the company. There were many familiar faces.
She was glad to see Lord Bothwell’s among them. She was not sure of her feelings regarding him as a person; he was certainly rather crude but he gave such an impression of strength and power that when she contemplated the journey before her and all its perils, she was glad to know that he was with the expedition.
He had come promptly at her summons; he had arranged for her departure with Lord Eglinton. She trusted them both, for their loyalty and their knowledge of the sea.
Flem had said that Bothwell should travel in the galley with Mary and themselves, but Mary would not have it.
“No,” she said, “suffice it that he is with the party.”
“But,” persisted Flem, “Your Majesty says that you feel safer because he is of the party.”
“Safer, yes—but it is enough that he is in one of the galleys. He will be at hand to save us from our enemies. And in my galley I wish to have those about me whom I love… my dearest friends and those who delight me with their company.”
“And he does not?”
“He is a Scotsman of rough speech, and we shall see enough of such in the months to come. I wish to enjoy cultured society for as long as I can. Only you, my four darlings, and my dear uncles and a few of our chosen friends shall sail in the first galley. The others may follow, and among them the Border Earl.”
Flem sighed, causing Mary to smile. “You seem to have a fondness for him,” she teased. “Have a care. I have heard that his reputation is quite shocking.”
“It is simply that he has an air of being able to subdue anyone… including the Queen of England.”
“He has a blustering manner, it is true,” agreed Mary, “but he shall not subdue the Queen of Scotland. No! He shall travel in one of the accompanying vessels with others like himself.”
And so it was arranged.
When Mary stepped into the galley a sense of foreboding had come to her. She looked very lovely, dressed in her mourning costume. Her veil was full and held in place on each shoulder; her headdress was the shape of a scallop shell and set with pearls, and about her neck was a collar of pearls. Her flowing gown was of cloth of silver and most becoming with its sleeves full from the elbow to shoulder and tight from elbow to wrist; the ruff of point lace set off her face to perfection.
Her uneasiness was enhanced by the terrible accident which took place before her eyes. The sails had not been completely unfurled and the royal galley had not left the harbor when a ship, entering the port, capsized suddenly and all aboard were drowned, as no help could reach them in time.
Mary cried out to those aboard to turn back, to do something; but the galley could not turn around and there was nothing to be done but watch the struggling bodies in the water or turn shuddering away.
It was a bad omen, said everyone; this meant bad luck for the Queen of Scots.
Mary walked up and down the deck, her eyes fixed on the land she was leaving. She longed to move out of sight of those shores, yet she dreaded the moment when she would no longer see them.
She could not forget the terrible screams of those drowning men. She explored the galley in the hope of turning her mind to other things, but her sadness was not relieved by the sight of the slaves, with their shaven heads and despairing faces, who worked at the oars. She could not bear to look at their naked backs which were marked by the lash. She thought of them, sweating over the oars when the wind was against them; she thought of them exposed to the cruel weather, with the chains about their legs; they were such sad creatures that they must have longed continually for death.
Impetuously she called the Captain to her and said: “The galley slaves shall not be whipped while I am aboard. No matter what happens … no matter what, I say… the lash shall not be used. Do you hear me?”
The Captain was amazed and about to protest; but she had turned away, and those who were near saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.
As it grew dark her Marys begged her to leave the deck and go to her cabin, which had been decorated in a manner fitting a Queen; but she could not bear to turn her eyes from the last glimpse of that land which she loved.
“It is now, my dear France,” she said, “that I have lost you, for the envious darkness like a black veil conceals you from my eyes which are thus deprived of their chief desire. Adieu then, my beloved France! I lose sight of you and I shall never see you again.”
“Dearest Majesty,” pleaded Seton, “meat and drink await you. You must sleep. You can do no good waiting here.”
But Mary shook her head. She turned to the Captain and said: “Set up a bed for me here.”
“Here, Madame, on the poop gallery?”
“Yes, here,” she commanded. “For when it is again light it may still be possible to see the shores of France. I must not be deprived of a last glimpse of them.”
So the bed was set up on the poop gallery, and Mary lay down while her women drew the curtains.
“As soon as the first glimmer of light is in the sky you must awaken me,” she ordered.
The wind died down during the night so that when the dawn came the galley was still close to the French coast.
It was Flem who awakened Mary, and the young Queen started up from her bed, her eyes red from last night’s weeping, her sorrow returning as she remembered where she was.
The curtains about her bed were drawn back and, looking out, she saw the receding land of France.
She wept afresh.
“It is over,” she said. “Farewell beloved land which I shall behold no more. Farewell, France!”
Thus she remained until there was no longer sight of land.
The perilous journey to Scotland had begun.
Mary the Woman
ONE
ALTHOUGH IT WAS AUGUST WHEN MARY FIRST SAW LEITH again after all her years in France, a thick sea mist hid the countryside. The French shivered in the cold damp air; they looked at each other and shrugged. It seemed that all the warnings about this dismal land were by no means exaggerated.
The foreboding in Mary’s heart deepened as she stepped ashore. Her thoughts involuntarily went to Calais and that glittering cavalcade which had accompanied her. How different was her arrival in her own country!
There was no one to greet her as she stepped ashore. She was aware of a bunch of fisherfolk, their rags scarcely covering their bodies, their faces scored with weather. There was no welcome; there was only curiosity. O
ne ragged boy came up boldly to stare at her. A child who might have been boy or girl touched her gown, laughed, and ran back to the group of fishermen and women.
Was this the way to greet the returning monarch?
Elboeuf cried out: “Good people, here comes your Queen!”
But the people were silent; they nudged each other, and although they did not laugh, the faint curl of their lips suggested that the Marquis’s brilliant garments and mode of speech aroused some kind of mirth in their bleak minds.
Mary said quietly: “Is it that they do not know me? Is it that they do not want me?”
Her three uncles conferred together.
“Lord James should have been here. Huntley… Maitland… some of them surely. What savages!”
Mary found her four namesakes beside her. She said: “It is no use standing here waiting for them to look as though they are pleased to see me. I am tired and would rest. I need food.”
D’Amville was beside her. “Your Majesty, I will send pages ahead to find out what lodging may be made ready for you.”
“Better send Scotsmen,” said Mary. “They will more readily procure it.”
“Procure it!” said d’Amville fiercely. “It shall be given freely by these subjects to their Queen.”
Chastelard caught the Queen’s glance. She smiled faintly at his indignant sorrow. She was ashamed of her country then; she was even wishing that there were no French in her retinue. What must they be thinking, who were accustomed to so much splendor, so much honor afforded to their kings and queens!
Men were sent on in advance to warn the townsfolk of the Queen’s arrival. Mary glanced over her shoulder to where the galley lay like a ghost-ship in the mist. More people came out of their hovels to look at her, to stare incredulously at the display of glittering jewels. Their low voices mingled with the doleful cries of the seabirds and Mary could not understand what they said.
And if she, with her beauty and her fine clothes, startled her subjects, what she had seen of them and the hovels in which they lived startled her. Never during her years in France had she been allowed to glimpse such poverty. These people’s houses were little more than mud huts; the children, ill-clad and ill-fed, crawled about on the stones while the women sat at the doors mending nets. Mary believed they did not know who she was. Deeply she pitied them and yet she found herself turning from them in revulsion.
But now the pages and heralds were returning, and with them came hurrying some of the chief burghers of the town. These, though rough men, were a little more aware of what was due to their Queen. They knelt before her and, kissing her hand, swore their loyalty.
They explained to her that their town had been ravaged over and over again by the English hordes. After raids many of the houses were burned to the ground. In these hard days they had scarcely the time or the inclination, even if they had the money, to rebuild. There was no castle in Leith worthy to shelter the Queen. Where she could rest that night, none could say.
One of the burghers, Andrew Lambie, came forward and, kneeling before her, cried: “Your Majesty, my house is a humble one, but it is at your service. If you will accept a lodging, although I cannot pretend that it is worthy to receive you, the honor will never be forgotten by your humble subject.”
Mary smiled with relief and gratitude. “Your offer is accepted, good Master Lambie,” she said. “I thank you. You are the first who has made me feel really welcome in my country.”
SO SHE LAY that night on a humble bed in a small room where the rafters seemed to be pressing down upon her, covered by a homespun blanket. It had been a strange experience.
“It is only for a night,” she said to Beaton. “Tomorrow we shall ride to my capital, and then everything will be different. I shall ride on my palfrey. Perhaps the mist will lift and all the people will come out to greet me. They will know me for their Queen.”
The Marys exchanged glances. They had decided they would not tell her yet that one of the galleys of their little fleet had been captured by the English. It was the one in which the palfrey was being carried, and with it all the beautiful horses which were used in the processions, together with the rich hangings and canopies and magnificent house furnishings which Mary had decided she could not leave behind.
But Mary had seen their glances and she demanded to be enlightened.
“Then how shall we ride into my capital tomorrow?” she asked.
“Doubtless we shall be able to find horses as fine,” said Livy.
“Where?” demanded Mary.
Livy waved her hand. “Oh… here…. There are bound to be horses… magnificent horses.”
Mary laughed. “In those mud huts! I doubt if the poor creatures would recognize a fine horse … let alone possess one.”
“Let tomorrows troubles take care of themselves,” said Seton earnestly.
Mary began to laugh. “I cannot help it. It is funny. Such pomp we enjoyed, did we not? My lord Cardinal… my lord Duke in all their robes, and their coaches covered with cloth of gold and silver. What a glittering array! And all to say farewell to me. And then… my arrival! That should be a joyous thing, should it not? A Queen comes home… but there is no one to greet her … no one but a few ragged children who come out of their hovels to see what the tide had thrown up. It is funny. Laugh, Seton. Beaton, you too. Livy! Flem! I command you to laugh.”
They tried to soothe her, but Mary could not stop laughing. The tears were rolling down her cheeks and suddenly her four Marys realized that she was not laughing; she was weeping, wildly and bitterly.
She threw herself on to the burgher’s bed which creaked and groaned under her shaking body.
EARLY NEXT MORNING, having heard of the Queen’s arrival, some Scottish noblemen came riding into Leith.
Mary was delighted to see her brother, Lord James, and with him that man who was his staunchest supporter and of whom she had heard so much—Maitland of Lethington. Immediately on their heels came the Due de Châtelherault and his son, Arran. She was less pleased to see those two; and the sullen-eyed Arran, whose offer of marriage had been rather curtly refused by her uncles on her behalf, made her very uncomfortable. His brooding eyes did not leave her face; he was already far gone in sickness of the mind.
But she felt more at home to have those men she knew, if only by name, surrounding her. Her brother took command; his clothes might seem shabby beside those of the French, and his horse was by no means a credit to him, yet he had dignity; moreover he was her own flesh and blood.
When he saw the room in which she had spent the night he was greatly disturbed; but she could laugh at it now.
“It was most graciously offered,” she said.
“And was the journey good?” he asked, taking her hand and smiling indulgently at her.
“It could have been worse. Suffice it that we have safely arrived, although we have lost one of the galleys to the English. It contains my palfrey.”
“Then we shall have to find a new one for you. Your subjects wish you to be happy here, but none wishes it more than he who is your most loyal subject… your own brother.”
“I know it. Jamie, if you were not a Protestant you would be perfect.”
That made him laugh. He was handsome when he laughed; it was then that the Stuart charm broke through his seriousness.
“You will find Holyrood and Edinburgh Castle very different from Fontainebleau and the Louvre,” he told her. “You know that, do you not? There are no Gobelins tapestries… none of your fountains and flower gardens, no glittering chandeliers nor Venetian mirrors to which you are accustomed.”
“I brought furnishings with me. It is to be hoped the English have not taken all. I can send for more.”
“You must do that,” said James. “You must make your own Court as you would have it, and you will be its delightful Queen. I doubt not that erelong you will have made a little France of your apartments in Holyrood, and there you will have your songsters and your poets.”
“J
amie, you are my dear brother. You know how I suffer from homesickness … for it is hard not to think of the land in which one has lived so many years as home.”
“I understand,” said James. He was pleased with her. She was charming. She was as beautiful as a butterfly, and so should she be, flitting from pleasure to pleasure. Let her have her Little France in Holyroodhouse; let her have her fancy poets and her mincing gentleman dancers. Let her have all she wanted, provided she left the government of Scotland to Lord James Stuart.
THEY SEARCHED every stable in Leith to find a mount worthy of her, but they had set themselves an impossible task. At last they found a weary old nag who had seen happier days; he was mostly skin and bone and had a pathetic expression which made the Queen want to weep for him. On his back was a scratched old saddle.
Alas, it was a poor substitute for her palfrey, but it was the best they could find; and when she saw the mounts provided for the rest of the party she realized that hers was comparatively handsome.
So they left Leith watched by the silent fisherfolk, and a strange sight they were, with the Queen of Scotland, richly clad and glittering with jewels, leading the party with her brother Lord James Stuart, and behind them the colorful courtiers dressed in the French manner riding on a collection of horses which, said Mary, might have been rescued from an abattoir.
She said to James: “I cannot ride through the city thus mounted.”
“Remember, dear sister,” was James’s reply, “the people of Edinburgh have never seen your grand French processions. They will think you magnificent enough.”
“I could weep for chagrin. What must my uncles think?”
“They must take us as they find us,” said James grimly. “Here we are more prone to admire that which is simple in life than lavish spectacles.”
Mary shivered, and not from the damp air.
They were a few miles from Holyrood when, turning a bend in the road, Mary saw before them a crowd of shouting people. At first she thought they were the citizens of Edinburgh come out to welcome her, but as they drew nearer it seemed to her that this was a menacing crowd. They shouted and, although she could not understand what they said, she heard her name mentioned. Their mottled flesh showed through their rags; their feet were bare and bleeding; and to her horror she saw that many of them were brandishing sticks.
