"Then I shall. And if none are to be found here, then I shall have to
bring some from France after all," said Mary.
All afternoon, Mary busied herself setting her rooms in order. She
ordered all her miniatures to be unwrapped and set out on a shelf, and
she had her embroidered bed covers and valance put on her bed. She set
her chiming clock on her mantelpiece, and last of all, she took the
ivory cross from the convent out of its protective wrappings and hung
it in a small, shrine-like box on the wall near her bed. The morning
sun would illuminate it, caressing its smooth planes.
Later in the evening, she sat looking at it. She was exhausted; the
exhilaration of the arrival and the exploration was giving way to
crushing weariness. The cross reminded her that religion might become
her biggest problem here. Her very tiredness made thoughts swirl
through her mind, blowing this way and that.
Perhaps if I assured them right at the outset that I mean no harm, that
Christ forgive me! I come not to bring the sword, as He said, but
peace.
Like the decision to come to Scotland at all, this one also rose up and
seized her. It was less a thought than a feeling.
She reached over and picked up her little bell, and summoned her
secretary.
"I am minded to issue a proclamation," she said.
"What? Now?" He looked out the window into the dark.
"Yes. Now. It can be posed straightway. It is not very long. Write
it down."
The little man fetched his writing materials and then waited obediently
for her to dictate.
"Say: "My good subjects, it is the command of the Queen that there
shall be no alteration or innovation in the religion of the country as
she found it upon her arrival in this land, nor any attempt against the
form of public worship in use, upon pain of death.
"At the same time, Her Majesty commands that the French people in her
service who wish to practise their own faith in private may do so
without molestation. Signed, Marie R." "
Brantome, who had overheard her, came and stood by her side. "Perhaps
you should not be hasty," he said. "This is noble, but it may cause
your Catholic subjects to lose hope. They could take it amiss. And it
will not win the Protestants to you. Only your own conversion can do
that."
"No, I wish it posted," she said stubbornly.
"I pray you, wait until morning," Brantome said. "Never do anything on
impulse."
Mary yawned. "I will concede and wait an hour. But only an hour!" She
looked at him fondly. "Old friend, 'tis true you have seen many courts
and years, and have much wisdom."
In an effort to stay awake, she took up her needlework and began
stitching. But it seemed to lull her even more toward sleep.
Just as her eyes were closing, there was a knock on the door. Mary
Seton answered it and was surprised to see one of the councillors
standing there. His eyes were searching the chamber for the Queen.
When he saw her, he smiled. "I have just received this from England,"
he said.
Which one was he? He had been present at the dock, and today .. .
those button like eyes. Maitland. Yes, Maitland. She was pleased
with herself for remembering. But what was his Christian name?
He was holding up a heavy envelope, which he handed to her. The seal
on it was so massive it had partially torn the paper. It showed a
woman seated on a throne: Elizabeth of England.
Mary ripped it open.
We hereby do permit and extend our protection to our most dear and
loved cousin, Mary Queen of Scotland, should it chance that the Lord
Almighty should cast her upon our shores, or necessitate her passing
through our realms.
"It is the passport I sought before leaving France," Mary said. "The
passport that she refused. Now she issues it, after the fact. To what
purpose?" She was thinking out loud, but Maitland replied.
"It seems" he looked at the date "she issued it just before your actual
departure."
"When she knew I could not possibly receive it in time," said Mary,
wonderingly. "Yet perhaps she wished to make a gesture of friendship,
and this is what the belated passport means. My dear" what was his
name?
"William, I wish to send you on a mission, to go direct to my sister
sovereign."
"What? Tonight?"
"Nay! I am not that impulsive. But after the ceremonial entry to
Edinburgh, I would dispatch you to the English Queen, on business of
the utmost importance." She looked at him. Her mother had chosen him
and trusted him; he must be worthy.
"May I inquire of what this urgent business consists?"
"Certainly. I wish to end all misunderstandings with her, and for us
to deal honestly with one another from henceforth. After all, we are
nearest kin to one another, both queens, both in one isle should we not
be in loving closeness?"
He bowed, stifling a smile of joy, both at her ultimate mission and at
being the one selected to carry it out.
"You will arrange it," she said confidently. She wondered if she ought
to show him the proclamation, but decided not to. It did not concern
him.
Later that night she gave orders that it should be posted at the Mercat
Cross on the High Street in Edinburgh, where all royal proclamations
were read. By morning everyone was talking about it.
FOUR
The fog continued to blanket the city, where the people were busy
readying the streets for the ceremony to follow on the morrow. The
fountains had to be converted so that they would spout wine, and
glasses provided so that the Queen could be saluted; the stages and
decorated arches for the pageants and allegories had to be erected. But
all the while the people were murmuring and wondering about the
proclamation. What could it mean?
At last the fog lifted, on the very day that Mary was to make her
ceremonial entrance into her capital city, as if it wished to humour
the natural curiosity of both Queen and subjects alike. It fled away
in shreds, leaving piercingly blue skies and a sun that made sharp
shadows.
Mary, dressed still in grey-black mourning, but wearing the Great Harry
on her breast and a diadem of gold and pearls on her head, set out with
a splendid company to make the mile-long journey up the hill to
Edinburgh
Castle, where she would dine in state, and then return to Holyrood by
nightfall.
As she approached the castle, it loomed larger and larger until it
filled the whole sky with its sombre outline. It gave an overwhelming
impression of darkness, of brutish melancholy. The greenish tint of
moss on cracks and crevices reminded her of tombstone growths.
Once inside, she was ushered into the Great Hall, where the tables were
set as fair as any in France, much to her surprise. There were places
for at least sixty people: the leading men of her realm. Each, before
taking his place, knelt before her and murmured his name, title, and
promise of allegiance. Some she recognized, others she tried to commit
to memory. She studied each face diligently, trying to assign
something to link the face and name together.
There was James Douglas, the Earl of Morton, with his bright red hair
the colour Judas' was supposed to be and his tiny dark eyes. He had
inherited the sword of his ancestor Archibald "Bell-the-Cat" Douglas,
and was wearing it this day. It was richly ornamented and heavy,
bespeaking its history.
There was George Gordon, the Earl of Huntly, a square-jawed man with
florid colouring. Mary knew he was the leading Catholic magnate in
Scotland, with vast tracts of land in the north. He looked vaguely
familiar, and then she remembered: when he had come to France years
ago, she and the Marys had thought he looked like a rooster. He still
did.
She was having difficulty suppressing a laugh when the rooster said,
"That proclamation! How could you have done it?" His voice was
rough.
Before she could answer, the next man was kneeling, saying, "Archibald
Douglas, Your Majesty."
There are so many Douglases, thought Mary. The Red Douglases and the
Black Douglases, and they all marry into the other families, so that
the Earl of Morton's wife is sister-in-law to the Hamiltons. I shall
never, never remember it all! Yet they know these things so perfectly
they conduct their lives according to the exact degree of kinship. I
fear I shall always be an outsider in understanding these webs of
loyalty although I myself am kin to half of them!
"James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, Your Majesty." He looked up at
her and she took his hand, bidding him rise. "I know this castle must
seem hateful to you," he said. "Have you seen it yet?"
She did not understand, and he looked embarrassed.
"I meant the room in which your mother passed her last days," he said.
"If you like, I can show you." He paused. "Another time."
Yes. She had known her mother had died here. And she would have to
force herself to enter the very room and say farewell.
"I would appreciate that."
His place was taken by Erskine, then by Archibald Campbell, the Earl of
Argyll, then another Stewart, the Earl of Atholl.. ..
After the dinner, they waited, mounted, in the great courtyard that
wound around the castle like a snail shell, spiraling down toward the
castle gates. As Mary sat her white palfrey, which had finally been
returned by the English, she could look out on the countryside in all
directions, even as far as the glitter of the waters of the Firth of
Forth. Directly below the castle on the north side was a loch,
oval-shaped and motionless this windless morning.
" Tis a fair city, is it not?" said a voice behind her. She turned to
see Lord Bothwell, mounted on a huge charger. "And I see the English
have seen fit to return what's rightly yours." He nodded to the pure
white horse upon which she sat. His eye appreciated the fine breeding
and good configuration of the horse. Surprising that the English had
surrendered it. He imagined that Robert Dudley, Elizabeth's Master of
the Horse, had seen to it his mistress had had a ride or two on it
first.
"Yes. It spreads out before me like a perfect model. So beautifully
situated, so neat."
"They say 'tis like an ivory comb, the Royal Mile of High Street, with
the center clean, but the teeth on either side stinking and foul. The
wynds the side streets are beyond description, I fear. At least to a
Queen. But the High Street it's the fairest in the world!" He could
not keep the pride from his voice.
Today she would not have wished to be anywhere else; even Paris seemed
sprawling and unimaginative compared to this dramatic wedding of hard,
dark, natural rock and smooth, polished building-stones, of steep
cliffs and equally steep-pitched roofs and gables surmounting them atop
tall, thin town houses, all framed by the bright blue sky with its
racing clouds.
Behind her were her household, her Marys accompanied by their
distinguished fathers and brothers; her French and Scots servants; her
household guard. The French servants wore black livery and the Scots,
red and yellow.