"Ah, now!" Erskine pulled back his hood; it spilled rain out all over
the floor. "There goes my cowl!"
Behind him there was another arrival. Maitland saw the dark bulk of
James Douglas, the Earl of Morton, standing dripping in the doorway.
"Come in, come in!" he told him.
Morton shook his cloak outside and then handed it to a waiting servant.
He carefully fluffed up his wild red hair, so that it stood out around
his head like a halo. Then he shuffled into the room.
The three men stood waiting, a trifle awkwardly. It would not do to
begin this meeting until all were present no, it would not. Maitland
still felt calm. All would go well, he knew it.
Another loud, precise knock. Maitland opened the door to see Lord
James Stewart standing there.
"Sorry to be delayed," he muttered, handing his dripping cloak to a
servant. He then stepped into the room as if it were his own.
"Erskine has accused you of attending the witches' and warlocks' Sabbat
tonight," said William Maitland, greeting him. When Stewart looked
stony-faced, Maitland said, "You know, it is May Eve, when they hold
their revels."
"He should know all about them," Stewart grunted. "They accuse his own
sister of being one."
"My sister is also your mother. It's in our blood, then," said John
Erskine. "All true Scotsmen are half witch." He laughed easily, and
motioned Stewart to take his place at the table, which had been placed
precisely in the middle of the room.
"We are all here now?" said William Maitland, a smile on his face.
"Good Lords of the Congregation?" It was a very small group, these
four who took it upon themselves to direct the Scottish government.
"Aye." Morton, with his great bush of red hair on his head and face,
lifted a pudgy hand in affirmation. In his mid-forties, he was the
oldest man present.
Maitland nodded to his servant and then took his place at the table. In
a moment the servant reappeared with oatcakes and sugar bread arranged
on a silver platter, and set them down. Morton reached out immediately
and took two. He fed on them like a hungry bear, leaving crumbs in his
beard.
"We must draft the letter," said Maitland. "We can wait no longer. We
have no choice. We must decide upon what terms the Queen of Scots
should return here, and what enticements and concessions we are
prepared to offer her."
To his annoyance, Erskine spoke up, his thin voice emanating from his
thin beard. "Pity about Elizabeth." He was examining one of the
oatcakes critically.
"She had no interest in Arran, nor in our throne," said James Stewart.
"Still, it was wise to ask her."
Maitland allowed himself a rare "if only." He had never expected that
the English Queen would accept their offer of marriage with the Earl of
Arran, and its implied dislodging of Mary Stuart from the throne, but
it would have solved many problems for Scotland. If only .. .
"She has no interest in marriage, so I am told," said Maitland at
length.
"No interest in respectable marriage," said Morton, eating another
cake. He rolled his eyes to indicate need of ale to wash it down.
All the men laughed except James Stewart, who did not find lechery
amusing. "So we must make our terms with my sister the Queen," he
said, cutting off the guffawing.
"Your half sister the Queen," corrected Maitland.
"Aye. My half sister." Lord James nodded. "We must needs set forth
our position: she will not interfere in our religion and will be guided
by us, the Lords of the Congregation, in all things."
"Do you expect her to become Protestant?" said Morton. "Or to have no
opinions of her own?" Morton had a polished English diction, acquired
from many years spent there in political exile, totally at variance
with his wild looks.
"Or perhaps we plan to substitute ourselves for her Guise uncles as
advisers? And what about John Knox? Why is he not here?" Erskine
sounded distressed, as though he had been abandoned. He nibbled the
oatcake daintily.
"Ah, yes, Master Knox," sighed Maitland. "You and I know, gentlemen,
that he is here. In fact, he is everywhere. He would be king here.
And that is why we need a queen."
"A Catholic one?" asked Erskine. His father had once been Mary's
guardian, and he had been her childhood playmate, but that did not keep
him from coldbloodedly discussing her now.
"Yes, a pretty Catholic one who will not permit the land to be as dull
and grey as the Forth on a November day. She'll dance and wear satins
and have music and banquets "
"Knox will explode!"
"Oh, I think not," replied Maitland. "For at heart he's a hardheaded
Scotsman, and he will know that a sparkling court will raise Scotland's
prestige abroad. A government of sober men, working in committees,
does not appeal to the imagination, or even seem like a real country.
Even if they actually do the running of it."
"If we could do the running of it " began Lord James.
"While she dances and sings," Maitland finished. "Do you see?"
"No wonder they call you "Michael Wily," " said Morton in admiration.
"Machiavelli could learn from you. The pupil surpasses the master. But
what if sheer .. . ?"
"Refuses to submit? But she cannot. She will have no one to support
her. She is completely alone here. No relatives, no "
Lord James laughed. "We're all her relatives," he said. "I'm her
brother, you're her first cousin, Morton "
"Through illegitimate ties, though. All the Stewart kings left pass
els of bastards," Morton reminded Lord James.
"What about Bothwell?" Erskine asked suddenly. "Even though he's
Protestant, he isn't one of us. And he supported the Queen Mother
against us."
"If young Mary Stuart puts herself in our hands, he'll be no
opposition," said Morton. "We can make sure he is always in the saddle
chasing brigands in the Borders or on the sea fighting pirates. He's
not a court creature, anyway."
"The truth is, she has no legitimate relatives in Scotland," Maitland
said, steering the subject back to its original course. "Her nearest
legitimate relatives are the Guises in France and Queen Elizabeth in
England and Lady Margaret Douglas and her boy, Damley, also in England.
She has no one here." He was still smiling inwardly at the remark
about Machiavelli.
"I see you have already thought this out," Lord James said quietly. He
was still angry at being included in the pass els of bastards."
"But of course. And I have even composed the first paragraph of our
letter to her. May I show it to you?" He opened a folder, took out a
piece of paper, and handed it to Lord James.
While James was reading it, Erskine shook his head. "I have known her
since childhood, and my family is supposedly her protector."
"Why, so you shall continue to be," said Maitland. "After all, it is
your hereditary office, is it not? Keeper of the royal children?" Even
though Mary was no longer a child, she would need a protector. She must
not be brought here and then left to fend for herself.
"I cannot protect her from Knox," he said. "He seems like a ravening
wolf, ready to set upon her."
"I will allow her the mass, if she insists," said Lord James
suddenly.
"Then we will need to protect you from Knox," said Maitland. "Remember,
the mass is now illegal and punishable by death." Parliament had just
passed these laws, in the exuberance of the Protestant revolution.
"Queens and kings have never been troubled by laws and never shall be,"
said Morton. "Adultery was never legal, yet James V was open about
it."
"The mass is worse than adultery to Master Knox."
"Then Master Knox is an idiot." Erskine said the shocking words. No
one laughed. "I think ultimately he does not want there to be either
kings or queens in the land."
"A country without a king cannot exist," said Lord James. "There is no
such thing."
"Except in the case of a baby being king. Then someone must rule in
his name."
"Regent, king 'tis all the same thing."
"There hasn't been an adult monarch to come directly to the throne of
Scotland in six generations. We Scotsmen have much practice in ruling
ourselves by now. It's a queen that'll be a novelty for us today."
"One that may be difficult to get used to. Freedom is a habit that's
hard to break," said Maitland. He cleared his throat. "Then let us be
agreed: the Queen of Scots should return and take up her sceptre. But
she must submit herself to our counsel, and honour our religion. She
must have no ideas of reintroducing Catholicism, as her cousin Mary
Tudor did in England."
"Perhaps she'll go the other way," said Erskine suddenly. "She's
young, and has never seen anything but Catholicism. If she comes here,
and her eyes are opened to the truth "
"Perhaps Knox can convert her!" Morton gave a great blast of a
laugh.
This was in danger of turning into a joke, Maitland saw with alarm. The
men seemed playful and offhanded. "Gentlemen!" he said, rising, and
slapping the flat of his hand on the table. "You are talking about
your Queen! Remember we need her we have needed her since the King
died and left us leaderless so long ago. We should be thankful that
one has been provided us by fate."
"Fate?" Morton rolled his eyes again; it made him look like a mastiff.
"It was God."
Oh, yes. All these Lords of the Congregation laid everything at the
feet of the Lord. "Of course," said Maitland smoothly.
"We'll send the letter," said Lord James. "And I'll follow it in
person, if we don't hear from her immediately. Time grows short."
TWENTY-TWO
Day came like a pagan spirit to France, flowers springing up in her
'footsteps in the meadows and along the riverbanks. She opened her
purse and let floral perfumes escape on the warm breezes. Her white,
swirling robes were the foam on the surging spring streams and the
clean, hurrying clouds in the bright blue sky.
Through this countryside, alive with Flora's touch, Mary rode, also in
white robes. In leaving Paris behind, she felt the full impact of how
life had rushed on past the dead Francois. In the palaces, in closed
rooms, time could be made to stand still. But out of doors, it was a
different matter. There had been ice on the ground when Francois died;
now there were fresh new grass and violets and lilies-of-the-valley.
She felt completely removed from all these sights of spring, as if her
white mourning gown and veil had encased her in a barrier through which
nothing could penetrate no longings, no quickening of spirit. Yet she
did what needed to be done, and she was en route to attend the
coronation of Francois's younger brother, Charles, at Reims, in the
beautiful cathedral where Francois had been crowned less than two years
earlier.
Twenty-one months between coronations, she thought. Only twenty-one
months that he was King, and I Queen of France. Two summers, one
winter.