by Jean Plaidy
“The Queen! The Queen!” shouted the ringleaders, and the crowd rushed forward, surrounding the cavalcade.
Mary was brought to a standstill, but she was not afraid. Rather she welcomed the excitement. She preferred these raucous shouts to the sullen indifference of the fisherfolk of Leith. She discovered in that moment that she was stimulated by danger; instinctively she drew herself up on the worn-out saddle, and nothing at that moment could make her look anything but queenly.
“What do they say?” she demanded of James. “They are telling me something. Do not spare me, I beg of you. Are they telling me to go back to France?”
James held up his hand. Mary was proud of him as she watched. There was about him that which commanded immediate respect.
“Silence!” he roared. “Silence in the presence of the Queen!”
There was an immediate hush. Mary looked into the wild faces of the men and women who were pressing so close to her, as James said: “They do not come to attack you. They come to ask your clemency. They have broken into the prison and rescued one James Kellone who was to have been hanged. They are asking for a free pardon for him and for themselves.”
“What was his offense?” asked Mary.
“He is guilty of masquing on the Sabbath Day, which is against the law,” said Lord James in severe tones.
“But surely not worthy of the death penalty! Indeed I am glad that some of my subjects know how to laugh. I will speak to them.”
“Your Majesty, have a care. Remember the Kirk of Scotland.”
But Mary rarely paused to think. She was with these people of hers. They no longer looked fierce. They had longed for gaiety, for masques and laughter. Dear God! she thought. How I do too, and how I understand their longing!
She forced her horse forward a little so that she was no longer beside Lord James. She lifted her hand and cried: “Good people of Scotland, bear with me, your Queen, for I have lived in a strange land and, having just come among you, my speech will sound strange to you.”
There was silence all around her, broken only by the squawking of sea-birds. In the crowd it seemed that no one stirred. They stood, their sticks held lightly, their mouths open, waiting for what the Queen would say; and if they did not entirely understand her words, her smile was friendly and her face the fairest they had ever seen.
“You ask pardon for one who has been condemned to die. My subjects, most happily I grant a free pardon to that man and you all.”
A free pardon! That much they could understand. They called out one to another: “Free pardon! May God bless the Queen.” They cried then as one voice: “God save the Queen!”
And when the cavalcade pressed on, it was surrounded and followed by a mob of poor people waving their sticks and looking barbarous indeed. The stench, so said the more delicate of the French afterward, all but made them vomit. But Mary felt happier than she had since she set foot in Scotland. It was pleasant to know that she had made some of her subjects understand her; it was pleasant to know that some—however humble—were proclaiming their loyalty.
Lord James was disturbed. It was a charming gesture, charmingly made, and it might be that she did right to make it at that moment. But as his eyes met those of Maitland of Lethington he knew that the great diplomat agreed with him that Mary Stuart would find trouble in Scotland. The Kirk—and its leader, John Knox—would find good cause to quarrel with her, and the Kirk and John Knox wielded great power in Scotland.
DUSK HAD FALLEN before Mary reached her capital city and, as it grew dark, she had the pleasure of seeing the bonfires flare up, first on Cal ton Hill, then on Salisbury Crag; she saw them burning in the city itself and she could hear the shouts of the people. It was comforting; their welcome might be rough according to French standards, but it was at least a genuine welcome.
Now she could see the fortress which had been built by her father. It looked dark, even menacing. She gazed uneasily at its towers and their crenelated battlements.
Here she would rest, just outside the city’s walls; for clearly she could not make her triumphal entry into her capital in darkness.
It was a vast and noble palace, but it seemed chill and without comfort. The few tapestries which hung on the walls lacked the brilliance and beauty of those to which she was accustomed; here were no delicate carpets, no carved furniture; everything was plain, heavy and sparse.
Mary had been warmed by the loyal shouts of the mob which had accompanied her to the palace, and soon she would have some of her cherished possessions about her; she would bring warmth and cheer to the place; so that a little discomfort now seemed of small account. She could endure anything, she believed, provided she had the love and loyalty of her people. Even now she could hear the people from the city, crowding about the walls of the palace and calling: “God Save the Queen!”
Tired as she was, in need of a hearty meal and the comfort she had known at the Court of France, she was not unhappy.
She found Flem beside her. Flem seemed touched with a glowing excitement; she had not noticed before that Flem was growing into a real beauty. Mary noticed also that the stern Lord Maitland had his eyes on Flem, although he was doubtless old enough to be her father.
That served to remind her that now they were home there would necessarily be a few marriages in her suite. She was going to enjoy bringing happiness to those she loved. There would certainly be other marriages to consider besides her own.
Dear Flem! She was not indifferent to the admiring glances of that important statesman. Mary would tease her about it tomorrow.
The meal was served and it seemed more tasty than it was, so hungry were they. And when it was over Mary retired to the apartment which had been prepared for her. While her Marys helped her to disrobe she talked excitedly of the way in which they would refurnish these apartments. It seemed to her then that the nostalgic melancholy of the first day and night had diminished a little. They were not in love with their new life—any of them—but they were becoming reconciled to it.
Then suddenly there broke out beneath her window what seemed to them a caterwauling, a barrage of the harshest sounds they had ever heard. Mary started up in horror, and hastily caused herself to be robed once more. Just as Flem and Livy were fastening her gown, and as the noise had grown louder and wilder and more discordant, there was a knocking on the door of the apartment.
It was Lord James with Lord Maitland, Marys three Guise uncles and d’Amville.
“What has happened?” cried Mary in alarm. “Is someone being murdered?”
“The loyal citizens of Edinburgh have come to give you welcome,” said Lord James dryly. “They are playing the bagpipes in your honor. It would be well for you to appear at your window and say a few words of gracious thanks to them.”
“And,” said Elboeuf in rapid French, “mayhap that will have the desired effect of putting an end to such earsplitting sound.”
Mary, listening, began to detect the stirring music in what had at first seemed harsh to her, and she felt angry with those Frenchmen who put their hands over their ears. This was bad manners. To those people below, the old Scottish airs and melodies were sweet music and intended to be a tribute to her.
The bagpipes were subdued as those outside the palace walls began to sing.
“But what sad songs!” cried Mary. “It would seem as though they were sorry that I have come. They can hardly be songs of rejoicing.”
“They are the hymns of the Kirk,” said Lord James solemnly.
“Hymns!” cried the irrepressible Elboeuf. “At such a time! I should have thought sweet madrigals or happy songs expressing joy at the Queen’s return would have been more suitable.”
“The people of Edinburgh thank God that the Queen has returned, and they do so sincerely and solemnly. They have been taught that it is sinful to sing profane songs. The Kirk does not allow it.”
“But for the Queens homecoming …”
“They wish to greet her in a God-fearing way.”
And while most of the French put their hands to their ears, trying to shut out the sounds, Mary went to a window and cried: “I thank you all, good people. I thank you with all my heart. You have delighted me with your loyal greetings and I rejoice to be among you.”
The people cheered and shouted. The solemn singing of hymns continued far into the night, and the pipes kept up their stirring strains until far into the morning.
FROM THE WINDOWS of Holyroodhouse Mary could look on her capital city. She could see the High Street—the neatest and cleanest in the world—with its stone flags and the channels on either side, made to drain off the rain and filth, and the stone houses with their wooden galleries. There stood the Tolbooth Prison, and as she looked at it she swore none should be incarcerated there during her reign merely for wishing to masque and enjoy laughter; she could see the Lawnmarket and the noble houses and gardens of the Canongate which led to Holyrood.
The great Tron stood in the center of Market Cross, and there were the stocks and pillories. This was the busiest spot in all Edinburgh, and here, during the days which followed the arrival of the Queen, the people gathered to talk of all that her coming would mean. Apprentices from the goldsmiths’ shops in Elphinstone Court, tinsmiths from West Bow, and stallholders from the Lawnmarket all congregated there in Market Cross to discuss the Queen; and when they discussed the Queen they remembered that other who had told them—and the world—that he was her enemy: the man whom they flocked to hear in the Kirk, the man who swayed them with his promises of salvation and—more often—his threats of eternal damnation.
John Knox ruled the Kirk, and the Kirk was ruling Scotland. Preaching armed resistance to the Devil—and the Devil was everyone who did not agree with John Knox—he had on more than one occasion stirred the people of Scotland to rebellion. With his “First Blast against the Monstrous Regiment of Women” he had told the world of his contempt for petticoat government, although now that Elizabeth was on the throne of England and promising to do much good for the cause which was John Knox’s own, he wished that he had been a little more cautious before publishing his “First Blast.” He was a cautious man for all his fire. He believed God spoke through him; he believed he owed it to the world to preserve himself that he might the better do God’s work. For this reason he had often found it necessary to leave Scotland when his person might be in danger. “All in God’s service,” he would say from the safety of England or Geneva. “I take a backseat for the better service of God.”
In his absence his actions might be questioned, but when the people saw again the fanatical figure with the straggling beard streaming over his chest like a Scottish waterfall, and heard his wildly haranguing voice, they were converted once more to their belief not only in the reformed religion but in the sanctity of John Knox.
“Have you heard Knox’s latest sermon?” was the often-repeated question.
They had. They would not have missed it for all the wealth of Holyroodhouse.
Knox was setting himself against the Queen as he had set himself against her mother. He had preached against the Devil’s brood and the congregation of Satan. This included the Queen. Had he not prayed to God to take her mother, declaring to his congregation, when she was smitten with the dropsical complaint which eventually killed her: “Her belly and loathsome legs have begun to swell. Soon God in His wisdom will remove her from this world”? Had he not rejoiced openly in the Kirk when she had died? Had he not laughed with fanatical glee when he had heard of the death of Mary’s husband? “His ear rotted!” cried John Knox. “God wreaked Divine Vengeance on that ear which would not listen to His Truth.”
John Knox was no respecter of queens; he would rail against the new one. He would do his utmost to rouse the people against her; unless she cast aside her religion and took to his, he would work unceasingly for her defeat and death as he had worked for her mothers.
The French in the palace were inclined to laugh at the preacher; but Mary did not laugh. The man alarmed her, although only slightly as yet. She looked to those two statesmen, her brother James and Lord Maitland, to help and guide her in what she had to do, although she reminded them that when she had come home she had made no bargain to change her religion. She was a Catholic and would always be so. She would, she said, try to show this man the way of tolerance.
Lord James nodded. He was determined that his sister should leave the government of the country to him and Maitland. They were Protestants, but of a different kind from Knox. Religion was not the whole meaning of their existences; it was something with which to concern themselves when more important matters were not at issue. Maitland and Lord James, while agreeing that a happier state of affairs might have existed had the Queen adopted the religion of the majority of her subjects, were quite prepared to let her celebrate Mass in her own chapel.
Mary, characteristically, wished now to concentrate on what was pleasant rather than unpleasant. She renewed her acquaintance with two more of her half brothers—John and Robert—handsome, merry boys, slightly older than herself, and she loved them both.
Some of the furnishings had been sent from Leith, and it was a pleasure to set them up in her apartments. The lutes and musical instruments had arrived, so the Court was now enjoying music in the evenings. Mary herself sang and danced under the admiring gaze of many, including d’Amville and Chastelard.
The people of Edinburgh had shown themselves delighted with her youth and beauty. She looked as a queen should; she always had a smile of warm friendliness, and the men whose lives she had saved on the way from Leith to Edinburgh talked of her beauty and wisdom and how, in their belief, she would bring great happiness to her country.
Mary had much to learn of the bitterness and venom which always seemed to attach themselves to religious differences. It did not occur to her that there could be any real reason why she should not continue in her mode of worship, while any of her subjects who wished to follow a different doctrine should do so.
Knox, according to her uncles and d’Amville, was something of a joke, and she did not take him very seriously until her first Sunday in Holyrood Palace. That day she announced her desire to hear Mass in the chapel and, dressed in black velvet and accompanied by her Marys, she was making her way there when she heard the sounds of shouts and screams.
Chastelard came running to her and begged her not to proceed.
“Your Majesty, the mob is at the gates of the Palace itself. They have been inflamed by the man Knox. They swear they will not have the Mass celebrated in their country.”
Mary’s temper—always quick—flared up at once. She had intended to play a tolerant role with her people; she was infuriated that they should attempt to do otherwise with herself.
“The mob!” she cried. “What mob?”
“Knox’s congregation. Listen, I beg of you. They are in an ugly mood.”
“I, too, am in an ugly mood,” retorted Mary; but she listened and heard the cries of “Satan worship! Death to the idolators!”
Flem had caught one of her arms, Seton the other. Mary threw them off angrily, but Chastelard barred her way.
“At the risk of incurring Your Majesty’s displeasure, I cannot allow you to go forward.”
She laid her hand on the young man’s arm and her anger melted a little as she caught the ardor in his eyes, but she was not going to be turned from her anger. She pushed him aside, but even as she started forward, she saw two men bringing back her priest and almoner. There was blood on their faces.
She ran to them in consternation. “What have they done to you?”
The almoner spoke. “It was little, Your Majesty. They wrenched the candlesticks from us and laid about them. But Your Majesty’s brothers were at hand, and Lord James is spe
aking to the people now.”
She hurried on. Lord James was addressing the crowd which had gathered about the door of the chapel.
The crowd would stand back, he ordered. None should come a step nearer to the chapel on pain of death. He himself, Lord James Stuart, would have any man answer with his life who dared lay hands on the Queen or her servants.
There was a hush as Mary approached.
James said to her: “Say nothing. Go straight into the chapel as though nothing has happened. There must be no trouble now.”
There was something in James’s manner which made her obey him. Trembling with indignation, longing to turn and try to explain to these people why she followed the Church of Rome, yet she obeyed her brother. He seemed so old and wise, standing there, his sword drawn.
He sent Chastelard back to bring the priest and almoner, that they might celebrate Mass in the chapel according to the Queens wishes; and after a while Mary was joined by the priest and the almoner, their bandaged heads still bleeding from their wounds.
Mass was celebrated; but Mary was aware of the mob outside. She knew that, but for the fact that her brother stood there to protect her, the crowd would have burst into the chapel.
SHE SAT WITH her brother in her apartments. Lord Maitland was with them.
She was perusing the proclamation, addressed to the citizens of Edinburgh, which was to be read in Market Cross.
“There,” she said, handing the scroll to James, “now they will understand my meaning. They will see that I do not like this continual strife. I am sure that with care and tolerance I, with my people, shall find a middle way through this fog of heresies and schisms.”
Maitland and Lord James agreed with the wording of the document. It was imperative to Lord James’s ambition that his sister should continue as nominal Queen of Scotland, for the downfall of Mary would mean the downfall of the Stuarts. It was necessary to Maitland that Mary should remain on the throne, for his destiny was interwoven with that of Lord James. They wished for peace, and they knew that the father and mother of war were religious controversy and religious fanaticism.
