"Sir?"
"But they do not." He glanced at the twinkling spark of colour that
denoted a bonfire. "They do not. They are blind!"
THREE
Lord James leaned over and said to Mary, "Holyrood was one of our
father's favourite palaces. He built the front tower, and he tried to
make the palace seem French, to please your mother." Was there a pause
before "your mother"?
Not until they passed into the actual forecourt could Mary see the
palace looming ahead, like a dark echo of a French chateau. The round
tower was there, with its conical cap, like the ones in the Loire; but
the stone was mottled instead of white, and the windows were small.
Against the woolly mist it looked cold and prisonlike; it was attached
to the original part of the abbey, which clung like an appendage.
"Oh," was all she could say. She did not want to go into it; it looked
menacing. And it was so small! Was this the grandest palace her
country afforded?
Inside the palace it was as cold as the outside; nay, colder.
"Welcome to Holyrood," said James, and his voice sounded hollow in the
near-empty guard room.
As she looked around questioningly, James quickly said, "I told you
things were not quite ready. We understood that you would be bringing
furnishings from France."
He led the party up the large stairway and then to the first cluster of
royal apartments. "These are the King's apartments," he announced.
"Antechamber, presence chamber, and bedchamber." They were empty, but
Mary tried to imagine them filled with people, with life and colour,
and failed. Central to the picture there needed to be her father, and
she had no moving, living memory of him.
"The Queen's apartments are directly above," he said, leading the way
back out through the antechamber to a wide stairway. "There is also a
small connecting staircase directly between the two bedrooms, but with
a party this large I prefer to use the main staircase."
Had he been French, Mary thought, he would have made some allusion to
the staircases between the two bedrooms. As it was, he recited it as
an architectural fact and nothing more.
He seemed proud of the Queen's apartments, as he stood at the threshold
of the audience chamber and beckoned.
Mary walked into the chamber. It was a fair one, with an oratory and
fireplace, and several windows looking out onto the courtyard.
Tapestries hung on the walls, and the wooden ceiling had been freshly
painted.
She made her way across the length of the chamber and crossed the
threshold into the adjoining one. For a moment she stood alone in it.
It was smaller than the audience chamber, and an odd shape not quite
square, but not round, either. Two outpocketings bulged from the room,
framed by doorways.
She lifted the curtain of one and quickly realized what it was: it
contained a velvet-hung device called a "close stool." The other
minute chamber had a fireplace and a window, although it was only about
eight by ten feet.
"Whatever is this for?" she asked James, who had come into the room.
"It is so tiny!"
"You may use it as a supper room," he said.
"For dolls?"
"You will find that in the winter, January especially, a small room
with a fireplace is most welcome. A table will fit in here, and your
mother the Regent had as many as six guests to dine with her here." He
paused. "So I have heard. She never invited me."
Before Mary could reply, he continued, "This room is in the tower.
Remember the round turret you saw from the courtyard? The rest of the
rooms, the public rooms, the ceremonial rooms, are all in the front.
There is the Chapel Royal" he looked at her sternly "which has been
lately stripped of its idols and made pure."
"And this is where I am to have my private masses?" she asked. Seeing
him frown, she said, "As you promised." She had meant her remark to
sound light, but he chose to answer gravely.
"Aye. I promised. And I stand by my promise. Regardless."
"Regardless of what?"
"Regardless of Master Knox." A wonder that he had not been here yet.
"Master Knox!" she said, letting her anger escape her control. "That
man who has stolen my brother from his ancestral faith, and who drove
my mother to her grave! I give you Master Knox, for I'll none of
him!"
It is not you who will have none of him, James started to say, but it
is Knox who will determine who will have you. Instead he said, "Master
Knox has wrought much good in Scotland. You will find he is a good
citizen, dedicated to advancing his country."
"He is an insurrectionist who preaches rebellion and destruction!"
"You will find, Your Majesty, that many of the nobles here have become
corrupt. Years of disorder have taken their toll. They are venal and
to be bought. Master Knox is not for sale, and his only purpose is to
better his people, both materially and spiritually."
Voices behind them intruded, and Mary turned to her party and began
showing them her rooms.
That night, as she lay in bed, it was eerily quiet.
What a strange place this is, Mary thought. I do not seem to remember
anything; nothing feels familiar. My father is entombed here, in the
abbey church, and my other ancestors lie near him. Just out this
window, just below me ... The whiteness of the fog faded gradually into
blackness and Mary fell asleep without being aware of it, sliding off
into slumber like a child sliding down a grassy bank into cool
waters.
She heard a strange noise; at first it played about in her dream as if
it belonged there, but then it grew too intrusive and demanded her
attention. She blinked awake and shook her head, trying to place
herself. Music was wafting into the chamber, rising louder and
louder.
She went to one of the windows and looked out. Standing below in the
courtyard was a crowd of townspeople, playing wild melodies on
instruments she had never heard before primitive fiddles and hollowed
reeds and little drums. When they glimpsed her, they let out a great
shout and flourished their torches.
"Welcome, sweet Queen! Welcome!" they cried, and struck up a new
tune. She managed to open the window and wave to them.
"Thank you!" she cried. She saw little flickers of colour here and
there in the fog; they had made more bonfires to welcome her.
The musicians kept playing, and the people thronging in the courtyard
cheered and cried with joy. "Dear Queen sweet Queen welcome to
Scotland!"
"Your music is lovely!" she called to them. "Please play on, and
return to play again for me tomorrow night as well!"
When at last they stopped playing, and the crowd slowly drifted away,
the flaming torches winking smaller and smaller like fireflies as they
dispersed in the fog, Mary lay back down and closed her eyes. How
quiet it suddenly was .. . the chamber seemed to be waiting, listening
in the dark.
It is only my imagination, she thought. But I don't like those
curtained rooms, they remind me of the places where Nurse Sinclair used
to tell me bogeys were hiding.. ..
The half-forgotten stories came back to her, chillingly: the stories of
the creatures under the bridges in Scotland, hiding in the wells,
taking other shapes; of the monsters in the deep, cold lochs; of the
witches walking about, passing as ordinary people. They said that Lord
Ruthven, a member of the Lords' Council, was a warlock.. ..
It's nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, she kept repeating to herself. But
she kept her face turned away from the little adjoining room.
The next morning, instead of dancing sunshine to make a mockery of her
night fears, there was still nothing to be seen but a grey smudge at
the windows. The fog had not lifted. An immense disappointment
gripped her. She was eager to see Edinburgh, to behold Scotland. Why
was it hiding its face from her?
Without waiting to call one of her attendants, she dressed herself as
warmly as possible. No fire burned in the fireplace; evidently the
Scots did not consider heating a necessity at this time of year.
No French nightgowns here, she thought. Not if I wish to sleep in
comfort.
There was a smart rap on the door, and she said, "Enter."
Before they even stepped in, she knew it would be Lord James and
Maitland. And she was right.
"I see you have risen early," said Lord James, with faint approval in
his voice. "That's good. We heard that at the French court, no one
rose before noon. That'll not do here."
His shirt was open at the neck, and he seemed to be wearing no
under-linen. Was he not cold? Evidently not. "Good morning,
brother," she said. "Good morning, Maitland. I cannot imagine who
told you such a blatant falsehood, but I can assure you that people in
France rise as any other people." She smiled at him. "I slept
well."
"Not so well that the musicians failed to wake you last night," said
Maitland. "For that, I apologize."
"I found their music pretty and their welcome touching," said Mary.
"I will be pleased to show you about the grounds," said James, "after
you have finished breakfast. I have ordered the food to be sent up."
He bowed smartly, and was about to take his leave.
"I would like my Marys to join me," said Mary. "Where are they? In
the future, they must sleep near me."
"Of course," said Maitland. "Anything you desire, we will attempt to
fulfill."
Flamina, Lusty, Beaton, and Seton were with her in a quarter-hour, and
were chattering like monkeys. "The fog ..." "Strange quarters, to be
put so far from you." "It's so cold here, how do they stand it?" "What
shall we do today?"
When the breakfast was brought in, they examined it critically. A
mound of whitish, granular material lay in a covered dish, emitting
gentle puffs of steam. It had a rough, nutty odour to it. Another
covered platter had rows of russet-coloured smoked fish. Yet another
had hard, textured buns, arranged in a tier. Luckily in a moment a
servit or appeared with more plates, spoons, and sugar.
"This is oatmeal," he said, spooning it into dishes for them. " Tis to
be eaten with milk and sugar."
The five women looked at it dubiously. It looked most unappetizing,
but it smelled good. Mary took the first bowl and the first bite, and
dutifully pronounced it good.
Giggling, the others followed suit.
The servant went on to explain that the smoked fish came from the
nearby area and were considered a great delicacy, and the buns should
be smeared with butter.
All of them had trouble understanding him. Mary vowed to become
proficient in Scots as fast as possible. Her vocabulary was still that
of a child. She realized that Lord James, Maitland, and even Bothwell
had been speaking French to her, and it had seemed so entirely natural
that she had not even been aware of it at the time.
"The Scots people hate the sound of it," Bothwell had said.