"Thank God for you, James Hepburn," she said slowly.
"When may I fetch you, my Queen?" he asked.
"In the summer," she said.
"The fleet will be at the ready." He smiled and bowed. "I will take
my leave, if you please," he said. "The country will rejoice."
"You came all the way for this interview? Have you no other business
here in France?" she asked.
"Transacted long since," he said. "I am, as I said, a gambler. And a
queen is well worth a sea journey."
"How old are you?" she suddenly asked.
"Twenty-five."
"That is young to pronounce yourself incorruptible. Have a care, James
Hepburn, lest you tarnish betimes."
He sighed and made a gesture of resignation. "Only extraordinary
events prove our composition. And what man would willingly seek that?
Our Lord even allows us to ask to be spared it: "And bring us not to
the test." "
"If I return to Scotland, must I be drowned in a sea of Scripture
quotes?" That even this young adventurer should spout it!
"They only float on the surface, my Queen. Like a lot of flotsam and
jetsam. You'll find the waters underneath clean and cold."
Long after he took his leave, she sat and read through her mother's
papers. Strange how little she had understood her through their formal
correspondence, which had been guarded and managed by her privy
secretary, William Maitland.
Maitland. Did I not meet him when he was here in France? But that was
so long ago, Mary thought. But my uncles told me .. . what? That he
was the cleverest man in Scotland "a sort of Scottish Cecil," they
said. And that is clever indeed.
She looked tenderly at the pile of her mother's papers. Here were
notes and jottings and all the letters she had kept, which were somehow
much more revealing of her person.
At length, when she had finished with them, feeling drained and sad and
yet oddly comforted, she remembered: she, Mary, had just promised
someone to go to Scotland! And yet it was only a verbal promise to
this James Hepburn; it carried no weight. She could still change her
mind.
The forty days of formal mourning came to a close on January 15, 1561,
with a memorial service at the Church of the Greyfriars. The day was
ugly and sleety, the church cold and comfortless as the monks chanted,
"ExsuJ-tabunt Domino ossa humiliata ..." Mary pulled the hood of her
black mourning gown more closely about her head to muffle the cruel
sound.
Francois was embalmed now, she knew. His heart had been removed and
would be interred in Paris at St.-Denis, to be with his ancestors.
Artists had sculpted a magnificent tomb, so she had been told, near
Henri IPs, and his heart would lie in a reliquary surrounded by
sculpted flames. His heart .. . she hated to think of its being taken
from his body, even though she knew it was customary.
Then she was free to leave Orleans, that prison of unhappiness, to
which she vowed never to return.
Paris, which she had always loved, was scant comfort now. She was
forced to inventory all her jewels and belongings and part with many of
them, returning them as property of the crown. Nicholas Throckmorton,
the English ambassador, called with the official condolences of Queen
Elizabeth, but as soon as he decently could, he changed the subject to
the Treaty of Edinburgh and hinted at his mistress's extreme
displeasure that Mary had not yet ratified it. The Scottish government
had done so, and only her signature was lacking. She demurred, saying
that the death of Francois had changed everything.
How so? persisted the ambassador.
"The treaty was formulated on the basis of my husband and my being King
and Queen of both Scotland and France. Now there is only a Queen of
Scotland," she said. She was weary of it all and tempted to sign just
to rid herself of his pestering. But Francois it would be betraying
his wishes. She must not sign things out of weakness or laziness.
"It changes nothing, as well you know," he said quickly. "The question
is of your claim to the English throne or the succession." He was a
friendly enough man, young, genial quite attractive, in spite of his
flaming red hair and Protestantism. Mary actually liked him. "King
Francois had nothing to do with the matter."
She smiled artlessly. "The matter is too deep for me. I must consult
with my Scottish council, since I have no husband to advise me."
Throckmorton almost laughed. As if Francois had ever been capable of
political advice! But did this mean that she did not wish to consult
her French uncles? Was she freeing herself from them?
"Your Majesty, the question is a weighty one, and until it is resolved,
it hinders your relationship with your most noble cousin, Queen
Elizabeth."
"It grieves me that it is so. But I know the Queen would not want
anyone to stand by while her hereditary rights were set aside. The
Queen did not do so herself in a similar situation."
Throckmorton nodded. But the matter must be resolved. There was
Mary's claim, supported by the Pope, that she was actually the true
Queen of England at that very moment. Then there was her legal claim
to the right of being included in the succession. They were not the
same. The first claim must be abjured; the second, however, might be
allowed to stand if the first were renounced. The longer the first was
insisted upon, the less inclined Elizabeth was to grant the second in
compensation.
Queen Elizabeth's patience was wearing thin, Throckmorton knew. Mary's
behaviour was confirming her worst suspicions, and she was increasingly
agitated about her cousin's motives.
"This cannot go on," said Throckmorton grimly, and was irritated at
Mary's lighthearted laughter in response.
But the laughter was false. Her spirit was still mourning, and she
took long walks on the terraces of the palaces, wrapped in voluminous
white cloaks, pacing alone. The wind would tear through her garments
and leave her shivering. In vain, Brantome and the other court poets
tried to walk with her or persuade her to come inside. Her lonely
pacing figure appealed to their poetic fancy, and Ronsard recounted the
sight of Mary swathing your body from head to waist, your long fine
mourning veil billows fold upon fold like a sail in the breeze as the
wind drives the boat forward. Dressed in these same sad robes, you
prepare to leave the fair country of which you have held the crown. The
whole gardens are filled with whiteness of your veils like the sails
which billow from the mast over the ocean wave.. ..
That Mary was thinking of leaving France was now widely speculated
upon. But she awaited some sign, some portent that would direct her.
TWENTY-ONE
Why did it have to be so nasty, tonight of all nights? William
Maitland of Lethington kept peering anxiously out his window, watching
the b sheets of rain pelting the paving stones on the High Street of
Edinburgh outside. Not that rain would keep Scotsmen from anything,
but it lent such a grim aspect to the proceedings.
Well, where would you hold it? In a pavilion in a flowery mead in
southern France? he asked himself. The business at hand would be just
as demanding and draining, no matter where it was held.
He sighed, and forced himself to leave the window. Was he nervous? Was
that possible? He, who prided himself on his ability to think calmly
an unusual trait in Scotland! to allow no sentiment to intrude upon
hard decisions .. . could he be nervous?
He looked about the room in his spacious town house, readied now for
the expected guests. All was in order, and he permitted himself quiet
pride in looking over his library, which included a fine collection of
poetry from his father's own pen. There were leather chairs made with
softest Spanish leather, and his most prized possession: a marble bust
of a Roman youth he had hand-carried all the way from Italy. He had
been educated in France and had been able to travel in Europe,
especially enjoying the art and the politics of Italy.
Ah, Italy! As always, the marble bust recalled for him his time in
Florence too brief! when he had found himself surrounded entirely by
the ferment of art in the making, and the final polishing of the
political creed of Machiavelli. He had felt so at home there. But
then, those who jokingly called him "Michael Wily" here had no idea of
what the real thing was.
There I would be regarded as so inept as to be transparent, he thought
with amusement. So it is best that I employ my talents here in
Scotland, where subtlety is as yet undiscovered.
The one thing a politician must always do is to be sure in his own mind
what his goal is. He must never confuse himself. So what is my goal
here, and why is it making me so uneasy? he asked himself.
He sat on one of his chairs, settling into its comforting contours,
watching the rain dash against the window panes.
To make the changes here in Scotland go smoothly, he thought. Was that
it? Yes, the changes had been dizzying, and the past year the
erstwhile Secretary of State had felt that he and the country as well
was being sucked down into a whirlpool. The religious revolt,
completed almost before it was begun; the death of the Regent; the
repudiation of the Auld Alliance .. .
But he had been delighted by the collapse of the ancient
French-Scottish alliance. Once Scotland had become Protestant, its
future was inevitably tied to England, its near neighbour. Anyone who
thought clearly and not merely with emotion! could see that. It was
so plain! So obvious!
That was it. I am afraid others will not see it, will not understand,
will want to obstruct the inevitable. And I it will be my sad lot to
have to try to persuade them.
And Mary, the young Queen, the widow of France ... she will have to be
persuaded too. But persuaded to what?
Should she come here?
He jumped up out of the chair, so nervous he felt he could not sit
still. He hated waiting. Waiting, waiting, for everyone to arrive ..
.
Yes, she should come here. She should come home. We need a ruler of
mature years on our own soil and she needs useful work to do. She is
too young to moulder in dowager hood when her own country is in
turmoil. We'll persuade her
There was that word again: persuade. Persuading was so difficult!
Hadn't everyone had the experience of trying to persuade a balky mule
to budge? And people were so much more
He heard a knock. Someone had at last arrived! He rushed to the door,
and as he did so, he felt himself slowing down, feeling that he was in
command of himself now that he had clarified his thoughts. The mud had
settled out of them, and he could see to the bottom.
It was John Erskine, a thin man with an even thinner face, who,
strangely enough, enjoyed the pleasures of the table immensely,
although they did not show on him.
"Ah! The Commendator!" said Maitland with just barely perceptible
sarcasm. Erskine's family had possession of the monastery on
Inchmahome, but they hardly cared about religious treasures from the
past. James V had given this plum into their hands, as he had likewise
many other such monasteries to his favourites and bastards.