The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel

by Erickson, Carolly

  I loved looking at my daughter—but I knew that I would have to part from her, and soon. She belonged with Grandmamma Antoinette, who could guard the secret of her birth and make sure she grew up protected from the danger and turmoil that swirled around me.

  We had only six days together, Marie-Elizabeth and I. Six days for me to hold her in my arms, feed her, talk and sing to her, smell her sweetness and tell her how much I loved her. Then, on the seventh day, as Margaret and I had agreed, she wrapped my darling child in our warmest blanket and put her in the laundry basket that Geordie took to the village. They set out in Geordie’s rowboat, and once again I went to the top of the tower to watch them start out across the lake, praying for my daughter’s safety and hoping that it would not be long before I would see her again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  All that long winter my arms felt empty, and I longed to feel my dear baby girl within them again. I missed my little boy too, of course, but I had become used to seeing him only rarely—and if the truth be told (I know this is a terrible thing to confess), I loved him less because he was Henry’s child, conceived by force, and being raised by my enemies. It is a hard thing to write, but it is true. I strive not to hide the truth from myself—when I perceive it.

  All that long winter too I felt my hopes rising within me, knowing that Jamie was near (I often saw his boat at dusk, and we signaled to one another, though he was never able to come ashore because of the risk that he might be captured) and that Grandmamma Antoinette and Marie-Elizabeth were living at the Poor Clares mansion in the village across the lake.

  And I had another reason to hope. For wonder of wonders—or perhaps not really so wondrous, given the swift and unpredictable ebb and flow of Scottish loyalties—the tide of popular favor had once more turned, and my people, lords and commoners alike, were returning their loyalty to me. Not all of them, to be sure: my brother the regent and the others who had forced me to abdicate still had many Scots on their side. But my party, if I can call it that, was swelling its ranks once again, according to the messages I received from Cristy Ricarton.

  And so, for the first time since my captivity on Lochleven began, I began to think seriously of how I might escape from the island and take refuge in a secure fortress where my own army (the same army that had melted away the previous year) could protect me and defend my cause.

  I had a secure fortress in mind: Cristy Ricarton’s castle, which I knew to be a thick-walled, battlemented fortress, only a few miles from Lochleven village. If only I could get there, I would be safe.

  As it happened, there was a death on the island early in May, when I had been there for the better part of a year. Sir William Douglas’s steward, a Catholic cousin of his named Duncan, fell over and died during a feast and his wake was held the following day.

  Boatloads of mourners began arriving early in the morning to attend the wake, and more boats went back and forth from the island to the village throughout the day for meat pies and bannocks, black buns and crowdie and tayberries and venison and whisky for the many guests. Duncan had been a much loved man, and the mourning, like the drinking that went along with it, was vocal and prolonged, with speeches and sung laments and dancing far into the night.

  I waited until dark and then, after a hurried word with Margaret and another with Geordie—ever eager to help me in any way he could—I slipped on my plainest skirt, bodice and sleeves and tied a cloth cap over my hair to hide my golden-red curls. I borrowed Margaret’s scuffed slippers and, with a basket over my arm and a small knife, went out of the tower and down to the lakeside where the acacias grew. It was essential that each mourner have a sprig of acacia to throw into the grave, and the trees were being stripped bare of their branches in order to supply the tributes.

  Hundreds of men and women thronged the open space between the main tower where Sir William and his relatives lived and the smaller tower that was allotted to me and my household. The singing, fiddle-playing and buzz of talk made for a confused scene as I moved inconspicuously among the gathered folk, keeping my head lowered, intent on reaching the little copse of trees by the lakeside. Once I reached it I began cutting small branches to fill my basket—while watching for Geordie and his rowboat. No one, it seemed, was watching me, for the guards were as intent on their mourning as the visitors from the village, and I could not see Sir William anywhere.

  Before long Geordie appeared and I climbed into the rowboat, concealing myself beneath the thwarts and holding my breath out of sheer apprehension as he skillfully rowed the little vessel out onto the lake, the oars scarcely making a sound as they dipped in and out of the dark water.

  Freedom! I thought as I lay in the bottom of the boat, listening for voices, for pistol shots, for anything that might signal my recapture. Soon I will have my freedom once again, and my dignity and my authority, and then let us see what my brother the regent can do! I was filled with excitement, and could not wait for the boat to touch the shore. When I felt the bump of our landing I wriggled free and, with Geordie’s help, stepped out onto wet sand that did not belong to Sir William Douglas, but to lords and villagers faithful to me, their anointed queen.

  I threw my arms around Geordie and kissed him, and let him lead me to where our horses awaited us.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I should have gone to France. I know it now, I shall regret it forever. I should have gone, then and there, as soon as Geordie and I came in sight of the gates of Cristy Ricarton’s castle, and saw that it was surrounded by soldiers.

  I should have gone, but I was stubborn, and so we turned our horses around and went back to the lakeside village, to the mansion where the Poor Clares lived, instead. Where my grandmother Antoinette was staying, with my little Marie-Elizabeth.

  Even though, once we reached it and I embraced my little girl and my dear grandmother with a fervor I cannot describe, I found myself unwelcome.

  “What can you be thinking, child?” Grandmamma cried when she saw me. “You must not be seen here! There are soldiers everywhere. Your escape is known. Your only hope is to flee to France as quickly as you can. Now, tonight. Go!”

  But I did not leave. Instead I went inside my grandmother’s small, sparsely furnished suite, and made myself at home—after telling Geordie to guard the door, of course.

  “There is no need to go. No one knows who you are, grandmamma, or who Marie-Elizabeth is. The soldiers, if they come, will not look for me here. Now then, where is Jamie?”

  “He did not expect you. He is off on a raid, on the Black Messenger, with his friend Red Ormiston.”

  I was crushed, but I realized that I had no reason to expect Jamie to be waiting for me in the village. I had not been able to send word to him in advance about my escape. I had made the decision to leave the island too quickly for that.

  “Are you aware that he raids the English ships? Sometimes the French ones too?”

  “I know he has been outlawed—even though as my husband, he is rightfully King of Scots.”

  Grandmamma’s disapproving features softened at this, and she chuckled. “King Jamie, is it? I admit that he is quite a man, dear, and he has been very good to us these past months, but I hardly see him as a king!”

  “Oh, grandmamma, I don’t want to quarrel with you! I am so glad to see you! I have missed you so much!” I embraced her again, and was alarmed to feel her trembling. Then I realized, she was not trembling, she was weeping.

  “Stubborn girl!” she said through her tears, her voice breaking. “You must leave! I tell you this for your own protection! For the protection of your child!”

  “Grandmamma, things are changing. My subjects are giving me their loyalty once again. Cristy Ricarton has written to me, telling me of all the lords, all the important commoners, and even bishops, who are swearing to defend me and restore me to my throne!”

  “And all these men, will they fight for you? I know what is being said, what is being whispered—perhaps better than your friend Ricarton. I have been here in
Scotland quite a while now. My servants overhear the village gossip, and watch what is happening. From what they tell me I know for certain that you will never be safe anywhere but in France.”

  Marie-Elizabeth began to cry, and I picked her up and rocked her in my arms as we talked. My grandmother was relentless. She continued to press me to ride on, that very night, toward the seacoast where I might find a ship to take me to Calais.

  “Listen, my dear, your brother-in-law King Charles remembers you very well and likes you, even favors you. You remember him as a boy, but he is a grown man now. It displeases him that you have been so ill-used in your kingdom of Scotland. He invites you to return to your own true country, where your family is. You still have your dower lands there, and the income from them; Charles will add to those lands, if only you will return. Think, my dear, of the secure future you can give your little girl, and perhaps your son too one day, surrounded by loving relations, far from the dangers of constant warfare and strife. A life of ease in the beautiful French countryside.”

  “Tell me, grandmamma, if the king is so concerned about me, why hasn’t he sent any soldiers to help me? Not a single one!”

  “And have the English helped you? No! They have been sending money and men to your enemies in Scotland! At least King Charles has not done that!”

  We continued to quarrel, while I rocked my daughter and Geordie stood guarding the door. In the end my grandmother realized that she could not dislodge my stubbornness, and I rested on her bed, with Marie-Elizabeth’s cradle beside me.

  It was the last full night’s rest I was to have. For from the day following my escape from Lochleven onward my life became a chaos of jangled emotions and frustrated hopes. I literally had nowhere to lay my head (the Poor Clares mansion being invaded and ransacked by soldiers soon after I left), so while I tried to gather what troops I could, intent on fighting my brother James and his forces, I was always in hiding and never at my ease. I did have supporters—and oh! it was so good to hear my people cheering for me again, instead of shouting curses at me—but no sooner did they assemble to fight for my cause than they fell to quarreling among themselves, and when I tried to do battle against my brother’s men my ragtag forces could not mount an attack. There may have been treachery among my commanders, or it may have been that the dire fate that has haunted me since I was born put an end to my futile efforts. I will never know.

  Had Jamie been there to guide me I might even then, in defeat, have listened to him and chosen the wiser course—the course my grandmother saw so clearly. But Jamie was at sea, and I could not seek his counsel.

  So in the end, beaten and abandoned by all but a few dozen of my loyal men, I simply fled for my life, southward through the rough border country, fearing pursuit from hour to hour and snatching what sparse food and sleep I could.

  I sent a messenger to my cousin Elizabeth with a hastily scrawled note. “After God, I have no hope save in you.” In my distracted state I imagined that my only chance to preserve my life, to prevent my enemies from capturing me and locking me up again, was to reach the safe haven of England, where my royal cousin would shelter me.

  Such is the blind hope born of weariness and despair, fed on daydreams and the imaginings of half-starved nights sleeping on the wet ground, wrapped in some kind soldier’s plaid. I was tired and hungry, bone-weary from the effort of crossing streams where there were no bridges and riding down through pathless glens where the way was blocked by trees and scrub and it took hours to go a single mile. My stomach rebelled at the crowdie and haggis, the oatmeal and sour milk that were all I had to sustain myself. My mind too rebelled: I saw, with the terror of the beast mortally pursued by the hunters, that there was no safe place for me.

  It was with infinite relief that at last, toward evening on the sixteenth of May in the year 1568, I embarked on a boat half the size of the Black Messenger and sailed in her across the wind-swept waters of the Solway Firth, out of Scotland and into my cousin’s domain. Into England.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The orchards were all in bloom outside my windows, acres and acres of apple and pear orchards fragrant with pink and white blossoms, when I was moved into Wingfield Manor in the spring of 1569.

  The violent weather that had ravaged the countryside for several years was over, the skies were blue and the spring winds mild, and when I walked amid the blooming trees, watching them shed their petals like a delicate fall of pastel snow, I felt, just for a moment, as if I had returned to the France of my youth, where Francis and I had walked hand in hand as children in the fragrant gardens of the Louvre and Chambord.

  I could not help but admire the rooms prepared for me at Wingfield, rooms of modest size but quite adequate for my immediate needs, and those of my household of thirty. My cousin Queen Elizabeth had sent some of her own gold and silver plate all the way from the Tower of London for my use, along with dozens of Turkey carpets and handsome tapestries for the walls, beds and cushions and hangings. She had made me a generous gift of baskets filled with her castoff gowns, gowns made of velvets and silks and other stuffs that were perfectly usable once the stained sections were discarded and the clean unsoiled lengths restitched and fitted.

  Fitting was a challenge, for I was growing plump, the bodices, skirts and underskirts of my gowns all had to be cut on more generous lines than in the past. My hostess and frequent companion Bess (who was really my warden but I did not like to be reminded of that) liked to bake, and her delicious cakes and meat pies were my downfall.

  “More pudding?” she asked me, offering me a tray, an ingratiating smile on her round face. She sat opposite me, resting her bulk on a bench piled high with embroidered silk cushions. At least, I thought, I am not getting as fat as Bess. I took a pie and sampled it, the rich sweet smell of the honey and cinnamon mingling agreeably in my nostrils as I ate. There was delicious cider to wash it down.

  My warder Bess, Countess of Shrewsbury, had reached the advanced age of forty-one, the age (so everyone said) when women turn to lard and lose their beauty. I was then in my twenty-seventh year, though my admirers were swift to tell me I did not look that old. I had a long way to go before I reached the dreaded age of forty-one.

  I glanced down at the diamond ring I wore, a gift from my newest admirer, Thomas Howard. (I did not for a moment forget my dear Jamie, or my vow to be ever faithful to him, but Thomas was very sweet and a little sad, having lost three wives in a row and being quite besotted with me.) I wondered how many pies I would have to eat before Thomas would regret having given me the lovely ring.

  I noticed Bess’s eyes on my ring and quickly looked out the window at the flowering orchards. I could tell that she was trying to read my thoughts. We had spent so very much time together in the year since I first arrived in England, we knew each other well—altogether too well, it seemed to me. My cousin Elizabeth had appointed Bess and her husband George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury to be my hosts and to make certain I did not escape the queen’s carefully circumscribed hospitality. They housed me in their various manors and mansions. They made certain that I did not stray, or try to escape—and made certain too that others, Queen Elizabeth’s enemies, did not try to kidnap me in order to make me the focus of their conspiracies.

  They were spies—and yet at the same time potential subjects of mine, for was I not the next in line for Elizabeth’s throne? Bess and her husband knew only too well that, if Elizabeth died and I became Queen of England, I would remember every detail of their guardianship. They knew that they had to be very careful in all that they said and did. Frankly, I thought theirs a thankless job.

  “I believe that is the ring the duke sent you, is it not?” said Bess, her words somewhat indistinct as she was munching on a meat pie.

  “Yes. It belonged to his great-great-grandmother. She must have been a tiny woman. The ring had to be made larger to fit me—and I have slender fingers.” I held up my hand to admire the ring—and to admire the hand as well, for I have beautiful hands with
long graceful spidery fingers and they have been much commented upon throughout my life.

  “Has he asked you to become his wife?”

  I looked at Bess, unsmiling, my gaze even.

  “I have not had the honor of a proposal.” I was aware, as I said these words, that had Thomas asked me to marry him and had I agreed, I would have been quite capable of giving Bess the same answer. I was learning to lie, although I suspected that I was not as good at it as Bess was.

  “No doubt he will need to request the queen’s permission.” Bess spoke casually, as one who spent a good deal of time at the royal court and was comfortable in the presence of the much feared Elizabeth.

  “I believe she would favor a match between us.” I did not mention Jamie. I had learned not to.

  Bess sighed and put down the tray of sweets and savories. “It would certainly solve many a problem for you, if you were to marry him. You would have a definite standing in this country. You would have a husband who dotes on you—yes, I’ve seen it in his eyes, he is in love. You would cease to be looked on with—shall we say suspicion?—as a Frenchwoman.”

  “I am of course much more than a duchess. I am a queen, and heir to the throne of these realms, as my cousin Elizabeth herself has acknowledged.”

  “There’s many who would dispute that, as you know,” Bess retorted, suddenly tart. “I don’t have to remind you how much our Parliament dislikes Catholics. England will never have a Catholic ruler again, not after the disaster with that acolyte, that zealot, that semi-nun, Murdering Mary.” I knew that she meant the late Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth’s fanatically Catholic half-sister and my cousin. “Nor do I need to bring up the claims of others besides yourself to Queen Elizabeth’s throne.”

  “One less claimant now,” I shot back. Lady Catherine Grey, another Tudor cousin, had just died, strengthening my own succession rights.