Is it my duty to go to Scotland, the task for which I was created? For
what other reason was I born who I was, if not to shoulder this
office?
Is it possible just possible that I am to be an instrument to save this
land, so muddled now in error? For what other reason can it be that I
am the last remaining Catholic in both the Tudor and Stewart families?
But I have the horrible example of my cousin Mary Tudor in what can go
wrong. I cannot fall into her error.
But if I am gentle, merciful, acting always under the guidance of love,
might not they be led back to the truth?
There was no answer from God, nothing but the increasing numbness in
her knees as she pressed down on them on the cold stone. The silence
surrounded her like a held breath.
At length she rose, stumbling from the lack of feeling in her legs. She
made her way over to her narrow bed, pulled back the covers, and lay
down stiffly. As sleep crept up on her, she had one drifting certainty
of thought: If I do not go, then all my mother's sacrifices were in
vain.
The next morning she awakened and sat bolt-upright, filled with
conviction. She must go to Scotland.
The decision was less a decision than an order from somewhere deep
within her, which had gathered strength during the night and now took
command. She did not dare to question it; it seemed to have its own
authority.
As she bid farewell to the abbey, glancing at it from over her
shoulder, she whispered, "Mother, you and I are now changing places."
She took her route slowly back to Paris. This time the small roads at
the height of spring looked different to her. The cottages were hung
with garlands, and children swung from ropes on trees, crying out with
exuberance; orchards were in full bloom; farmers were tilling the
fields, and the smell of fresh-turned earth rode on the air. People
called to her as she passed, and in spite of herself, she felt her
spirits lifting as she responded to the warm air and the bright spring
colours. She was only eighteen, after all.
As she threaded her way along, she silenced her small party of
attendants, because she did not want to chatter. The calls of the
birds, the cries of the playing children, were soothing to her in a way
no conversation could ever be. They rode in single file down the
well-trodden path, inhaling the heavy aroma of the flowering fruit
trees.
Up ahead was another party, approaching from the opposite direction. A
group of revellers, no doubt, looking for a spot to stop and have a
picnic, or perhaps pilgrims, paying a visit to some obscure saint's
well or grave. It was as much a part of springtime as the mating
birds, and as noisy and twittering.
But as they came closer, Mary suddenly recognized the lead rider. It
was her brother, Lord James Stewart. He appeared in front of her like
a vision, a creature wholly out of place in this blooming, merry, pagan
countryside.
"James!" she cried, waving to him.
He came forward and saluted her. "Your Majesty!" He dismounted and
took off his hat in token of respect.
In spite of her disappointment in him for joining the Lords of the
Congregation, she was pleased to see him. He was family, after all,
her blood or half-blood brother.
"James! How came you here?" she cried.
"Searching for you," he said. "You were not in Paris." His tone
hovered between disappointment and accusation.
"Indeed not. I was minded to visit my relatives."
"Did you receive the letter?" he asked bluntly.
Mary looked back at her party Madame Rallay, Mary Seton, and Father
Mamerot and signalled them to halt. "Let us seek a clearing, where we
may rest and I may speak with my dear brother, the Lord James Stewart,
so unexpectedly met."
"There is one a mile beyond here," he said. "I passed it and it looked
most inviting." Mounted again, he reined his horse and turned around;
his party did likewise.
Once at the clearing, the parties dismounted and settled. Mary drew
her brother apart.
"You are persistent and resourceful," she commented. "The countryside
is full of roads." Her knowledge that he was a leader in Knox's
movement made him seem far away from the brother she had played with at
Stirling, and she was guarded with him.
"I was lucky." He smiled, and it made his features quite pleasing. He
was a stolid-looking man, with a broad nose and wide cheekbones. "Or
else the Lord aided me, as my mission was in accordance with His
will."
She stiffened. It was begun already, then, the Reformed preaching.
"Your mission?" she asked.
"To speak to you in person, after we had dispatched our letter. To
bring you home to Scotland. Yes, we want you. We want you to return.
To us, your people."
"My 'people," as you call them, seem to have strayed far from their
obedience to their sovereign." She chose her words carefully. "They
deposed my mother "
"She was not the sovereign," he said quickly.
"She was the ruler appointed by me. Then they made laws about the
religion of the land and declared them binding, and defined what was
treason and what was not. In short, they took all the prerogatives of
ruling upon themselves, under the direction of Master John Knox."
He started to say something, but she cut him off. "Nay, make no demur
rings she said. "Knox bellowed, and you followed! It was he who
directed this 'revolution," and it is to him you yield your allegiance.
For what purpose, then, do you entreat me to return?"
James looked startled and taken by surprise by her attack. "Because
you need a country, and we need a queen. And if you would see your way
clear to considering the merits of the Reformed Faith "
"Nay, never! Do not delude yourself on that! I will not change my
faith like a hat, for political purposes! This is my faith, and I hold
it as dear as any Knox does his! And besides" she looked at him
searchingly "what does it say of a ruler, that she change her faith for
expediency? How could her people rely on her for any consistency? She
would be nothing, a wave tossed here and there by every wind that
blows." She looked carefully at James. There had been a time when he
was being groomed for the Church, when it was thought he would content
himself there. He had seemed to take seriously his position as
Commendator of St. Andrews. "If you would see your way clear to
return to the faith of your fathers, I could see you wearing a
Cardinal's hat," she said.
"Like your devout uncle?" he replied. His pleasure at rejecting the
proposition was obvious.
They both laughed.
"Two statesmen make political offers to one another, and are refused in
statesmanlike fashion," James said. "Now we can proceed to
business."
"You seem to be misled," she said in a clear voice. "We are not two
equal statesmen, but queen and subject."
He did not reply, but inclined his head slightly. "As to your return,
we the Lords of the Congregation are prepared to offer you every
fealty, if you respect our religion."
"I will respect yours if you will respect mine." He started to speak,
but she went on. "I am informed that, under the influence of Master
Knox, you have made the saying of mass illegal and punishable by death.
This is a great sin, to which your consciences must answer at some
later date. But I insist on the right to the practice of my own faith
in private. I must be able to attend mass and receive the sacraments,
which I need in order to live. Do I have your promise, your solemn
word, on this?"
"Master Knox "
"Master Knox is not king! There can be but one anointed ruler in the
land. If it be Knox, I shall not come. Make your choice. I ask but
little; it is what you would ask, were our positions reversed."
"True enough." He closed his eyes and seemed to be fighting some inner
battle. "But the people must not see your priests, or the Popish
trappings, or it may incite them to violence. They must remain hidden.
Mass must be restricted to you and your household alone; nowhere else
in Scotland may it be held!"
"Yes, brother," she said. Were there no Catholics left in Scotland?
How could the faithful survive, with no spiritual sustenance?
"When may we expect you in Scotland?" he was saying.
"In the summer," she answered. "I will notify you later of the exact
date."
"My heart is gladdened to be able to take this news to my brethren," he
said. But he did not look particularly joyful.
And which brethren did he mean?
The moment of parting had come. The court had journeyed with her to
the port of Calais. It was a gay festivity for them, a pageant like
the ones enacted at weddings and baptisms. Lord Bothwell had arranged
for the ships: a white galley for Mary, and a second one with her
goods, including her horses, both flying a blue flag with the French
royal arms. There was artificial excitement because Elizabeth had
refused to grant Mary a passport in the unlikely event that her ship
ran aground and she was forced to come ashore in England. Elizabeth
was attempting to register her dislike of Mary's refusal to ratify the
Treaty of Edinburgh; Mary used the refusal as an exercise in dramatics
for Throckmorton's benefit, saying that Elizabeth could slay her if she
wished when she fell into her hands.
The Cardinal of Lorraine stood by the dock and embraced her. "You know
that my love goes with you," he said. "Do not lose heart among those
heretics."
"If my own religion is permitted me, how can I lose heart?" she
asked.
He eyed the galleys. "It would be better if you would leave your
jewels in my safekeeping rather than trust them on the high seas in
these vessels."
"I have already left most of them in France, as I had to surrender them
into Queen Catherine's keeping," she said. "I have only what I brought
with me from Scotland, and the Great Harry, and the long ropes of black
pearls Queen Catherine gave me for a personal wedding gift."
"I wonder she does not demand their return," he said.
"She has hinted at it. But I did not hear. Besides, good uncle, if
you trust my person to these vessels being infinitely more vulnerable
and mortal then the jewels should be safe enough."
He laughed. "Indeed, they should." He looked long into her eyes, and
his smile faded. "May God go with you," he said.
The day was dull and misty, unlike the usual August weather. As the
rowers prepared to take them out into the open sea so the sails could
be hoisted, a fishing boat foundered in the harbour and went down. All
hands aboard were drowned.
As the royal galley waited in respect, the passengers silently lining
the rails, Mary felt sudden, unsettling fear.
"What a sad augury for a journey," she said. She looked out at the
shore and was aware that she was already beyond its help and comfort.
As they cast off and left the harbour, and France dwindled into the
distance, she clung to the railing and kept staring at its receding
coastline. Tears streaming down her face, she kept repeating,
"Farewell, France. Farewell, France. I fear I may never see you
again." Her words were muffled in the sound of the oars and the rush
of the wind, a melancholy lost cry.