Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George
Was that a question? Only if he cared to treat it as such, he decided. “Indeed they do. It has been long since we have had a sovereign with us. A regent,” he said, “is not the same.”
“So it would appear.” Elizabeth sat back and folded her hands. She stared at him with her black, birdlike eyes.
Cecil leaned forward. “Dear Mr. Secretary,” he began, “when last I wrote to you, in Scotland, you assured me that your Queen would approve the treaty we so laboriously contrived, regarding the French, the English, and the Scots. We have abided by our word; we have withdrawn from Scotland. The French likewise. But your Queen has never ratified it, giving, quite frankly, vague and flimsy reasons. As you know, she was to renounce her pretensions to the throne of our glorious Queen here present.”
Maitland welcomed the opening. He smoothed his sleek beard, so evenly trimmed; he was quite proud of it. “That is because, as the treaty was written, my dear Queen was obliged to surrender not only any present claim to the throne of England, but also any rights to the succession, even if you—God forbid!—died without leaving heirs. That she cannot do, in good conscience. For that would mean renouncing the rights of her successors—which, God be willing, she will be granted—regardless of how they might be needed should the occasion require.”
“What occasion?” Dudley asked suddenly. His voice was loud, and bordered on the blustering. This was attractive to women?
“Neither of these fair Queens is wed,” replied Maitland, in his smoothest, most soothing tone. “In the next generation, who will rule, failing an heir on either side? It is only prudent that each could step in to save the throne of the other in such straits.”
“Prudent!” snorted Elizabeth. “Dangerous temptation! Not that I am tempted by Scotland, mind you!”
“But your son might be,” said Dudley. “And if Mary were childless—”
“Exactly. Or vice versa,” said Maitland. “You should choose each other’s kin before all others. You do not want to resort to strangers.”
“Mary Stuart is a stranger,” Elizabeth said stubbornly.
“Not by blood,” Maitland persisted. “And if you would agree to a meeting, that would end such concerns.”
“Oh, I agree to a meeting,” said Elizabeth airily.
“When?” Maitland pressed.
“Not until after the next Parliament,” Cecil cautioned. “You must not leave until then.”
“Next summer, then,” said Elizabeth. “We can meet … somewhere in the north. Perhaps Nottingham?”
“She will meet you anywhere, and gladly,” said Maitland. He hoped he was right. “In July, then?”
“August. I can combine it with a progress.”
Both wily Cecil and handsome Dudley looked surprised.
“The young Duke of Norfolk will have to provide the hospitality and entertainment, then,” said Dudley. “Who else is up there? The Earl of Northumberland, the Earl of Westmoreland … but they are so unpractised.”
“Therefore more resourceful and resilient,” said Cecil.
There was amiable chuckling all around. Elizabeth motioned to one of her ladies, and soon a servitor appeared with a bowl of crystal, a plate of flat bread, and glasses of fresh cider.
“The autumn has been generous,” said Elizabeth. She took a glass and sipped from it.
Maitland realized with horror that the interview was at an end, and he had not yet received an answer to his main business.
“This blackberry comfit is made from berries brought me by my dear Robert,” said Elizabeth, indicating the contents of the crystal bowl. She smiled at him.
Maitland helped himself to the bread and comfit only after Cecil and Dudley had partaken. He made sure to eat slowly and give no hint of haste. At length he wiped his mouth with his linen handkerchief.
“Most gracious Queen, to continue on the topic of such interest to us all: my mistress will gladly sign the Treaty of Edinburgh if it is amended to recognize her now as your successor to the throne—failing your own issue, that is.”
Elizabeth turned and stared at him. There was nothing soft or dainty about her face now; her mouth grew so tight and small it looked like an old scar.
“What! Think you I could love my own winding sheet?” she finally said, in a low hiss. “The moment I name Mary Stuart my heir, I should be forced to hate her, as every time I looked at her”—she glared at the miniature—“I would be seeing deep into my grave.”
“So must everyone think who makes a will,” Dudley said lightly. “Yet lawyers tell us we must. Sure, ’tis unpleasant to read those too-explicit phrases: ‘upon the moment of my death,’ ‘within ten days of my death,’ ‘my body shall be embalmed with,’ yet we shudder and sign, because not to do so is … irresponsible.”
“Robert!” she snapped. “Do you say—do you imply—that I am irresponsible toward my throne and my people?”
“To refuse to marry and refuse to name an heir … yes, it is irresponsible!”
“Ah!” Elizabeth cried in exasperation.
She must truly love him, thought Maitland. No one else could dare speak to her in such a manner. Yet it is needful. Perhaps … thank God for Dudley?
“Robert!” She laughed and caressed his hair.
Maitland was shocked.
“You know that cannot be,” she said fondly. Then, quickly, she was as imperious as before. “The moment I name my heir,” she said seriously to Maitland, “I lose control. Plures adorat solem orientem quam occidentem. Most people are ever prone to worship the rising rather than the setting sun. The heir becomes the focus of all the unfulfilled dreams of the people. I saw it in my sister’s reign, when I was the heir. Let me explain something to you.”
She drew Maitland off into an alcove of the chamber, where there was a window seat, well furnished with cushions. She sat, and indicated that he was to do likewise.
“A future ruler is a dream,” she said. “A present ruler is the waking world. Children dream of apples in December, and cry when they awaken and have none. Just so subjects will dream of what a prince will give them when he comes into his inheritance, and cry when they find it is but a lost dream. For I tell you this: there is no prince living, or who ever lived, including Solomon, who is rich enough to satisfy the cupidity of the people. So subjects always long for the future prince, and never love the present one according to his deserts. Unless the present one is their only hope.”
How well she understands the ugliness of human nature, thought Maitland. Yet if she refuses to marry, she will eventually undo her people. For no one lives forever to be anyone’s only hope.
“I see,” he said.
“However, if at this moment I were forced to choose an heir, I should choose Mary Stuart above all others,” she said unexpectedly. “I prefer not to choose, but if I were forced to…” She arched her thin, pale eyebrows.
“Are you willing to commit that to paper? I fear my mistress will ask me to repeat it so often my brain will wear out.”
“It looks healthy enough to bear a few repetitions,” said Elizabeth, smiling. The smile changed her face and made her look mysterious and fetching. Even her sharp, dark eyes seemed sympathetic rather than interrogating. “And no, I will not put it in writing. Your Queen must trust your memory and my intentions. Besides, soon enough she will be able to ask me face to face. Just a few months! In the meantime, tell her I will send her a portrait soon, and I give her this diamond friendship ring.”
She pulled a ring off her finger. It was a double ring, made in two intertwined parts: two hands clasped two diamonds in the middle, which together formed a heart. She separated the two parts and gave one to Maitland.
“This is an English custom,” she explained. “If the Queen of Scots would be my heir, she must begin to understand English customs. We give a diamond ring that fits a mate. It can be returned to the giver in time of distress, to presume upon the friendship. When the two halves are fitted together again, then I am obligated to come to her aid.”
“She will be deeply honoured,” said Maitland, examining the ring.
“Tell her not to presume upon it, nor to return it to me for a trifle, like Master Knox,” said Elizabeth, laughing and rising. The interview was at an end.
VIII
Mary felt her hat fly off as she galloped through the forest of Falkland on this last day of October. It lifted and spun like one of the leaves falling lazily, landing—who knew where? At the same time her hair came loose and streamed out behind her, like an untidy schoolgirl’s. Panting and laughing, she kept on riding, not slowing to let the rest of her party catch up.
The French were, she knew, comparing this forest to the ones at Chambord and Fontainebleau, and she did not want to stop and let them make snide remarks to her about Falkland. This was her forest, and a forest that her father had loved, and by now the Frenchmen—her uncles the Marquis d’Elboeuf, the Duc d’Aumale, and the Grand Prior François, as well as the writers Brantôme and Chastelard who had accompanied them—seemed like intruders. Or rather, people she had to pretend in front of. And she disliked always having to defend Scotland to them. The unkind thoughts she herself harboured she kept to herself, for the courtiers would magnify them and report them gleefully to Catherine de Médicis.
She caught herself using the word gleefully and felt ashamed. That is my own interpretation, she thought. I cannot know how they really feel. But I know I will be relieved when they return to France.
Now she reined in her horse on an open knoll and let the others catch up to her. The great forest of Falkland, beneath the Lomond Hills, spread out golden on all sides of her. Down in the hollow the hounds were baying—had they cornered something? She and her party had already taken a roe and several hares and had no need of more today. Besides, the sun was halfway down the sky, and they had all been warned that they should be back at the palace well before dark on this night of all nights.
“Hallowe’en,” Mary Beaton’s father had intoned ominously.
When Mary showed no recognition of the word, he had shaken his head. “The worst night of the year for God-fearing men … it’s the beginning of the dark time of year, and the devil and witches celebrate. Stay indoors.”
The French had shrugged their shoulders and laughed.
But Mary Beaton had whispered to her mistress. “My aunt is a witch. Lady Janet Beaton—she bewitched Bothwell and took him for a lover, and she a married woman twenty years older, with seven children! Now she’s old, but doesn’t look it. She has the face of a young maiden.”
“Is he still—are they…?” asked Mary. Bothwell! A witch’s lover … It made him, suddenly, an object of curiosity.
“I do not know. I imagine they must meet at least occasionally for old times’ sake. A spell of witchcraft cannot always be broken.”
Mary Fleming had overheard the exchange and, tossing her head, looked scornful. “Mr. Maitland says all that is nonsense, and is used only to frighten superstitious, simple people and bend them to one’s will.”
“Oh, Mr. Maitland?” said Beaton. “Aren’t you formal about him?”
Flamina looked embarrassed—something that happened rarely. She had found herself drawn to him, and liked to believe that he was attracted to her, as most men were.
“I heard he was an atheist,” Beaton persisted. “That he said God was a bogey of the nursery.”
“No one is an atheist!” said Flamina. “What a vile thing to say about him!”
Maitland. Atheist or no, he was an able diplomat. Mary was anxious for Maitland’s return, probably more eager than Flamina, for politics could be as exciting as love.
Now young René, Marquis d’Elboeuf, came up to her, his horse all in a lather.
“By the Virgin! What are you doing?” he said. “Must you ride like the—what do they call it here?—the banshee?”
Chastelard galloped up, clutching her hat. “Here, Madam. I had to climb down a ravine to rescue it.” He handed it to her, his eyes accusing.
“Make a verse about it, Chastelard,” said René. “Tell of your undying love for the cruelle princesse.”
Chastelard did not smile.
“Let us return,” said Mary. “It grows late.” She replaced the hat on her head and nodded her thanks to Chastelard. He continued staring at her. What did he expect—a reward?
The sun was bathing the voluptuously rounded gatehouse towers of the palace in dying red light when the hunting party trotted into the courtyard.
“Have we time for a game of tennis?” asked the Duc d’Aumale, hopping off his horse.
“It will be dark in less than an hour,” said Lord James. “Have you not had enough playtime and exercise for one day?” He himself was anxious to get to his desk, piled high with papers; and he had secret correspondence to get off to Cecil.
“Mais oui, but it is such a fair court!”
Lake a gang of children, the Guises and the poets dashed across the lawn to the stone-walled jeu quarré tennis court. It resembled a large, high-roofed black box with a net stretched across the middle.
“It seems our father was not to be outdone by his uncle,” said James to Mary. “I have seen Henry VIII’s famous tennis court at Hampton Court, and this is better.”
“Ah.” Mary watched as the four Frenchmen threw off their riding cloaks and tossed their hats on the ground to begin playing. Little René gathered up the leaves that were lying on the black polished floor.
“Perhaps I will learn to play!” she called to them.
“Women do not play tennis!” cried Brantôme.
“My Marys and I will practice in private here, behind the high walls,” said Mary with a laugh.
“Then you will be as scandalous as Master Knox makes you out to be,” said Mary Seton, standing quietly beside her.
“Good!” said Mary.
“Have a care, dear sister,” said Lord James. “Do not provoke Knox. Remember the Scripture: ‘Abstain from all appearance of evil.’”
“So tennis is evil? Fie!”
“A woman cannot play tennis unless she dresses herself in men’s clothes, and that is an abomination unto the Lord.”
Mary burst out laughing.
“Deuteronomy twenty-two, five,” intoned Lord James. “And I pray that the sound of your laughter at the Scripture does not carry beyond these walls.”
“Why, how could it? Unless someone reported it? See, the laughter has already gone, carried away on the wind.”
Lord James sighed. “I leave you to this amusement. I have work to do.” He glanced up at the sky, laced with purple clouds in hovering shapes. “Do not linger here much longer.”
A sudden rising wind soon brought an end to the game, swirling masses of leaves through the windows of the court in a vortex. Laughing and tired, the young people made their way into the palace, glad to be indoors, to have a supper of rich white soup and “friar’s fish”: red trout with lemons, anchovies and Rhenish wine. They sprawled in front of the great fireplace in the Queen’s privy chamber and ate, washing down their food with French wine.
Soon the men decided to go to the Duc d’Aumale’s chambers to play cards and backgammon, and the women were left alone, dreaming before the fire.
Mary looked at her Marys, a great feeling of protectiveness and affection sweeping over her. They sat on their stools around the fire, their heads bent, each one dreaming her own, enclosed dream. Mary Seton, tall, self-possessed, the oldest of the four—of what was she dreaming? Seton had a certain seriousness of purpose that caused the others to call her “the duenna,” and that kept men from being attracted to her.
Mary Fleming was restlessly moving her head. La Flamina, with her fiery temperament and flamboyant looks. She had tumbling red-brown hair, and her vitality was so marked it gave life even to colourless people she associated with.
Mary Beaton, with her golden colouring, like Midas’ daughter … she reminded Mary of a marigold, an unshowy but very beautiful flower.
Mary Livingston was beginning to
“Whatever are you doing?” asked Mary, her voice the first sound to rise above the snapping of the logs in the fireplace and the rising wind outside.
“Telling my fortune. ’Tis an old Hallowe’en custom in Falkirk, where my family is from. If you throw an apple peel over your left shoulder, it reveals the initial of your future husband.”
“Well, what does it say?” asked Fleming, jumping up.
“Nothing. It just lies there in a corkscrew.”
“Here! Let me try!” Fleming grabbed an apple from the bowl by the fireside, and began peeling it.
“You do it,” said Seton, handing Mary a large apple and a knife.
Mary stared at the apple as if it were the one offered Eve by the serpent. Then, slowly, she took the knife and began to peel a strip. When it was long enough, she gingerly tossed it over her shoulder and forced herself to go look at it.
To her relief, it also spelled nothing; nothing recognizable. It lay at crazy angles.
“Nothing.” She started to pick it up.
“Wait!” Fleming got down on her knees and inspected it. “It could be an H.”
“No, never.” There were no Hs in any of the candidates who had been paraded before her—on paper—for her hand: Don Carlos, Prince Erik of Sweden, Archduke Charles of Austria, Charles IX of France …
“Clearly, there is no one,” said Mary, feeling relief.
“But there will be,” said Flamina.
“It is not yet a year since François…” Mary’s voice trailed off.
“You are only eighteen,” said Beaton. “You must not pass your life alone.”
“All the men I might marry—or rather, the children—are not appealing,” replied Mary.