Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Good. Pray show these gentlemen their queen.’

  The wet nurse placed the child in a huge wooden cradle in the corner of the room, and slowly unwrapped her. Marie nodded encouragement. ‘Go, go. Meet my daughter. Meet Mary, Queen of Scots.’

  Danforth and Martin stepped towards the cradle and looked down. The child was milky white, its eyes closed. ‘She favours you,’ said Martin, grinning.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Marie. ‘She has my eyes. And I doubt not that she shall grow to be as tall.’

  Danforth felt his heart stir. But it was not because of the presence of a sovereign child. The sight of any child might have done it. ‘God save your Grace,’ he whispered.

  ‘Well, have you ever seen so good a child?’ asked Marie. There was a little note of challenge in her voice.

  ‘Never,’ said Martin.

  ‘I only pray that she is served in her time by better men than I have been. Soon she shall meet the English ambassador. Letters have come telling me he is even now in Edinburgh, and will soon be upon us here. Still I must feign that she will go to Henry as a bride for his son. But, thanks to you gentlemen, it will be a false hope. Your unmasking that, that false murdering knave Guthrie has stiffened my resolve that England will never have my little queen.’ Danforth bit his lip, hoping she was right. What King Henry was not given willingly, he suspected, me might try to take by force. ‘Never,’ she repeated with finality. ‘The French king is sending the Earl of Lennox to join me and your master in resisting any attempts by that man Arran and his Douglas masters. Or Henry of England. This child is the chief jewel of Scotland. She is mine. Not theirs.’

  Bowing to the cradle, the men stepped away, following Marie back to her bedchamber. The windows were open, and birds were squawking outside. Fresh air and sunlight filled the room. Danforth’s could feel his heartbeat. He wanted to ask to speak to Marie alone again but was wary of offending Martin. He cleared his throat. ‘Your ring, your Highness. I must return to you your ring.’

  ‘Keep it,’ she said, throwing a hand up. ‘I have no use for it. I seldom wear it.’

  ‘Thank you. There is one more thing I feel I must ask your permission for, as I am still under your service.’ She raised an eyebrow, amusement kindling her features. ‘You might write the cardinal and ask him likewise. You see, I … I have it in my head to marry, and beget children of my own…’

  Epilogue

  Few women could boast that their wedding rings had once been given by a king in pursuit of one of the most beautiful and eligible noblewomen in France. Diane Beauterne could. She smiled her open, guileless smile at Danforth as he slipped it onto her finger.

  They were married in the chapel of St Andrews castle, on a bright summer morning in June. Cardinal Beaton himself presided. After being shunted around the country, Danforth’s master had been finally set at liberty, to return behind the forbidding walls of his own great ecclesiastical abode. He had offered to wed Danforth to Diane before going off to await a French fleet, which was supposed to arrive to help resist the marriage between Queen Mary and Prince Edward, even then being debated. As the politics rumbled on, Danforth had only smiled, at his bride to be, and at the assured words of Queen Marie: England would never have Mary Queen of Scots. The much-vaunted parliament of March had indeed made the Bible available in the vernacular, but Danforth had courtship to turn his mind from the spread of dangerous new ideas. He hoped only that the decision, once made and enacted, would shut the hot gospellers up. Besides, he been busy otherwise. He had improved his French and learned about the orchards and flat lands of France, of the peasants and the wolves and the wild forests. In turn he had told Diane everything, of his life in London, of his flight northwards, of the loss of his first wife and their child. She had been like a smiling nursemaid, listening and applying the salve of her smile.

  As he looked at her, he recalled his proposal, in the bare little library at Linlithgow. For a moment he was back there again.

  ***

  Dust hung in the air, making its way languidly nowhere. She entered, her passage disturbing it, making it dance and spin. His heart began racing, just as it had when he had sought his meeting with Guthrie, knowing he had tipped off Forrest to be ready with a weapon. It was absurd to think of that, he knew. His bandaged side testified to the end of those horrors. Besides, he had spoken with the dowager, who had in turn spoken to Madame LaBoeuf. All had been done properly. All was correct. No reason to fear.

  Still his heart hummed.

  ‘You wished to see me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, mistress. Oui,’ he added, trying to smile. It felt ugly. He relaxed his face. ‘Do you – have you been told on what matter?’

  ‘Oui,’ she said. He thought he saw a blush as she looked downwards, into the little bouquet of flowers clutched at the front of her bodice.

  ‘Good. Please … do not think me forward in asking for your hand. It is … these past days, amidst such horror. I find you have become a bright jewel. Though I am not a rich man, I have space enough for a bride. After a proper space of courtship of course. You … you will never be poor in love.’ The words seemed almost to be spoken by someone else. He did not know if he meant them. It was too early for love; that came after marriage. But he could love this woman. Something about her made him want to reach out and protect her goodness from the savagery of the world. ‘If you would consent. I ask your consent.’

  ‘It is,’ she said, looking up – and yes, there was a blush, ‘my father you must ask.’

  ‘Your mistress has written,’ he said. ‘It is the dowager’s will.’ That came out wrong, and he bit his tongue. He did not wish her forced to marry him. ‘It is your will I hope for. Will you marry me?’

  ‘Have I your heart, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then yes. I will marry you, and gladly. You’re a good man, I think. My friend, she told me so.’ Danforth barely had time to consider who she meant before she plucked a flower and held it out to him. It was lilac. He took it, the brief touch of their fingers warming him like good wine, and slid it into his doublet, over his heart. ‘My parents will send the dowry – the tocher they call it here, I think. Then I should be glad to find some place in the world away from … from all of the world of madness and cruelty.’

  He shook his head minutely, disinterested in dowries. She was bringing him something he had been grasping at only weakly for months. A key. A key that might open a door and let him out of himself, and back into the world.

  ***

  She looked up at him now, and he smiled. Her dress was violet, a gift from Marie. It did not fit well, but custom dictated, of course, that it could not be altered. Her blonde hair cascaded down it, curled and waved. Danforth reached out and brushed it, his own suit hanging loosely. Helping him dress that morning, Martin had told him that it was bad luck for the groom to have the knots and latchets on his clothing tied on his wedding day. It would not do to court misfortune.

  When he had finished reading the sacraments, Beaton smiled at them, Danforth last. ‘Well,’ he said in Scots, ‘I thought you might have taken a Scottish lass to bed and board many years since. Mr Danforth! Well, in the eyes of God, it’s better late than never. And Mistress Beauterne, wife to Danforth … take care of my lad here. He won’t take care of himself.’

  They parted after the ceremony, Diane going off to change for the dinner and masque that the cardinal had arranged for the afternoon. They were bound for Danforth’s – for their – home in Edinburgh the next day. Beaton had given him a month off, joking that he had no need for an English secretary unless he exchanged his pens for guns. It was strange – even just the previous year, enforced time away from his work would have been a curse, not a blessing.

  Danforth left the chapel for his own chamber in the castle. He found Martin waiting outside. He smiled at his friend, but the smile was hesitant. Martin had entertained some foolish notion about his marrying Rowan Allen. It was absurd – he would have thought Martin delighted to se
e him married to a French girl. He would never had imagined such a fate for himself. Yet when he had realised, back in Linlithgow, that it was Diane he favoured, the younger man had nearly collapsed, cursing him for all the fools on earth. Well, it was done now. Diane was his wife.

  ‘Congratulations, Simon.’ Martin held up his hands. ‘You’ve beaten me to the altar. I never would have thought it.’

  ‘Aye,’ smiled Danforth. ‘Though she was all for us being hand-fasted only. It would not do, of course. I insisted that a good ceremony, in the grace and presence of God, was necessary.’

  ‘Of course you did. How does it feel?’

  ‘Feel?’

  ‘To be married, I mean.’

  They were walking along the hall of the servants quarters, crunching over rushes. Danforth sensed an edge again in Martin’s voice. ‘It feels good, Martin. I … it feels right. Her goodness, it is … well, it is like a shining candle in a dark world.’

  ‘Have you told her that?’

  ‘I think that she must know.’

  ‘You should tell her. Here, go and change and then come and have a bite with me, before dinner. I have something to tell you.’

  Danforth changed into his livery and walked downstairs with Martin. The younger man had stolen from the kitchen, and together they skirted the bustling servants preparing for the cardinal’s military expedition and passed out into the bright sunlight. A stiff ocean breeze whipped at them, their light cloaks flapping.

  ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what is it so urgent that you must tell me on this of all days?’ A sudden dark thought crossed his mind: surely not another murder.

  ‘I … in a minute, Simon. I meant to ask you first, what brought you to this?’

  ‘To here? You did.’

  ‘No, no – you know fine well what I mean. What brought you round to the idea of marriage, all of a sudden? I thought you were a confirmed widower.’

  ‘She is a good woman,’ said Danforth. Then, feeling as though he ought to say more, ‘I found I have no wish to go on alone. To end up like one of those Douglas creatures, Simms or Hardie. Mindless servants, bound to their master like bees to their queen.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Life, Arnaud. It is a short thing. I thought mine ended when my wife and child passed away in England. Yet here I stand still. What is that for? Why was I spared, if not to go on to something else? God commands that we go forth and multiply, not put our hands over our chests and wait for the grave. So … so many of us have our time on this earth cut short. Painfully short. It seemed to me a great selfishness that I should be given such a stretch of life only to squander it in misery, never thinking. God gave us minds too, the better to serve him.’

  ‘Good for you. I mean it,’ said Martin.

  ‘Was that all? You wished to interrogate me?’

  ‘No. There is something else. I … I’m going to Linlithgow,’ He gnawed on a chunk of bread and then threw the rest to the ground. Immediately a seagull came down and barked at it before snatching it up and tearing off.

  ‘What, has his Grace some message for the dowager? You might ride south with us – we are leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘I want to see Mathieu’s grave,’ said Martin, his eyes still on the ground. One hand wandered up to his breast, where he had pinned the little thistle badge. Danforth fell silent, crossing himself at the boy’s name.

  ‘He was a good child. I am sure he will be missed by all who knew him.’

  ‘Aye. But … it’s not just that. I’ve decided … I’m leaving his Grace’s service.’

  ‘What?’ Danforth jerked forward, putting out a hand to him.

  ‘Don’t try and convince me otherwise, Simon. I’m going over to the dowager. I’ve let him know.’ He looked up, a crooked grin on his face. ‘The cardinal says it’s better to have a man on the inside anyway.’

  ‘What?’ Danforth repeated, cursing the stupidity of it. ‘You are going to spy on her?’

  ‘Of course not. No. He was just jesting. But I am going. I’m going to be a queen’s man. Thought you’d be pleased at the sound of that – me working for the royal household, can you imagine?’

  ‘But … are you not happy in his Grace’s service?’

  ‘I’m not happy at all, Simon. I’m … I don’t know. But not happy. Maybe I will be working for the dowager. Or maybe everything will be the same. But I want something else in life. I … I want to be married, to be like you.’

  Danforth paused, his mouth falling open. No one had ever been envious of him before. He had not imagined it possible. ‘But … but … you are a young man yet. Younger than me, past thirty now. There is time.’

  ‘I hope so. I certainly don’t want to wait until I’m at your great age before I take a wife!’

  ‘Pah – better to wait and be sure she is a good woman. You – you are likely to end up with some toothless old dame with more money than sense. A kept man.’

  Martin chuckled. ‘Perhaps. Who knows.’ They walked on a little in silence, veering around loaded and covered wagons, towards the gate of the palace. ‘Let’s take a look at the sea.’

  The path led out, grassy stretches on either side curving round the high, whitewashed walls. They approached the edge of the cliffs on which the castle stood. The rhythmic roar and crash of the tide swept up to them, the screeching of seabirds occasionally drowned out by it. Ahead, the iron sheet stretched into the distance, broken here and there by white rollers. ‘Well, there it is,’ said Danforth. ‘You have seen it? It looks to be at peace today,’ he said. ‘A good sight.’ The salt picked its way into his nostrils, fresh and clean.

  ‘It wouldn’t dare be otherwise. Not on the day of your wedding.’

  Danforth strained to detect a note of bitterness beneath the bonhomie. ‘Let us hope it stays that way.

  Martin was looking out intently. ‘Aye. The great ocean. We’re all like little fishes in that ocean.’

  ‘All Neptune’s minnows, to be sure.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Martin, brushing a few crumbs from his doublet. ‘I hope your new wife can stomach all of that pish. Rowan would have.’

  ‘I think you will find, sir, that my wife has a stout heart and mind.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I … I will do,’ he said, taken aback by the bluntness of the question. ‘At any rate, I shall enjoy greatly coming to know a woman’s love again. Mistress … My wife – she makes me smile.’ That, at least, had the benefit of unvarnished honesty.

  ‘Should’ve been Rowan,’ Martin muttered.

  ‘Enough! Arrant nonsense. To speak of another woman on my wedding day, have you no shame?’ He turned, crossing his arms, and beginning a march back the way they had come. Martin joined him, plucking at his sleeve.

  ‘She’ll need a stout mind as husband to a man who spends all day carping on Greek Gods! Unless you’ve just been after a cloth-eared nurse to wipe your arse and feed you soup with a spoon.’

  ‘Neptune is the Roman name,’ snapped Danforth. ‘Not Greek. Any schoolboy might know that. And I should think you would want to learn while you can, for you will find few stout minds and fewer books in the library at Linlithgow!’

  Together they made their way back to the castle, bickering contentedly.

  Author’s Note

  From February to July 1543, Marie de Guise was indeed a virtual prisoner in the palace of Linlithgow, having been chased out of that other great Stewart palace, Holyroodhouse, by the lord governor and protector of Scotland, James Hamilton, Earl of Arran. In the ensuring months and years of political wilderness, Marie (I’ve rendered the spelling of her name in this way to avoid confusion with her infant daughter) was under scrutiny from the governor, whilst being courted by Cardinal Beaton. In March 1543, Beaton was moved from Dalkeith to Blackness before being released to his own castle. In that same month, the Scottish parliament legislated in favour of making the Bible available in Scots and English, and the queen dowager and Beaton joined forces with the newly-returned
Matthew Stuart, Earl of Lennox (who was later to court Marie, be disappointed, and defect to the English, marrying Margaret Douglas and producing the infamous Lord Darnley, later husband to Mary Queen of Scots). Marie never gave up her attempts to secure her daughter’s future, eventually sending her to France and finally managing to wrest governorship of Scotland from Arran. She became the country’s regent in 1554 and held it until her death in 1560.

  For those interested in Marie de Guise’s life, I recommend Rosalind Marshall’s masterful biography, Mary of Guise (Collins, 1977). In addition to covering the details of her life in France and Scotland, it recounts her serious and unspotted reputation, her occasional impatience, and, of course, her famous quip when Henry VIII sought her as a bride. Knowing that she was tall, the uxorious English king is said to have stated that, being big in person, he was in need of a big wife. Marie responded that although she might be a big woman, she had a little neck. If you are interested in her life beyond the period covered in the novel, her political ascent is covered in Pamela Ritchie’s Mary of Guise in Scotland, 1548 – 1560: A Political Study (Tuckwell Press, 2002).

  It was from Marshall’s book that I also learned about the influx of Hamilton spies to Marie’s household in the crucial days of 1543 on which the novel focuses. The inclusion of their allies, the Douglases, is my own invention. Real figures in Marie’s household include Robert Gibb, her master of horse, and Thomas Marshall, her master cook. Gibb, who went on to be rewarded for his faithful service to the Stewarts with significant property and land grants, had his story told by his descendant, Sir George Duncan Gibb, in The Life and Times of Robert Gib, Lord of Carribber (1874, Longmans, Green, and Co.).

  In charge of Scotland were not only Governor Arran, who was assured this position due to his being a grandson of James II, but the nefarious Douglas brothers, Archibald, Earl of Angus, and Sir George. This pair of rogues had long been exiled from Scotland, having fallen foul of James V, and as refugees in England, had been bought by Henry VIII. As a result, their goal during the period depicted in The Cradle Queen was to convince the Scottish governor and parliament (then known as ‘the estates’) to grant the infant Mary Queen of Scots to Henry VIII for marriage to his son, Prince Edward. However, as they were veteran turncoats, it is unclear exactly how committed they were to doing Henry’s bidding (Angus, for example, was to fight against the English during the war known as the Rough Wooing). Marcus Merriman’s The Rough Wooings of Mary Queen of Scots (Tuckwell Press, 2000) is invaluable in making sense of this time in Scottish and English history.