"I I will try."
"And not be bashful about it? Remember, you will be doing me a great
service."
"I yes. Well, I might as well begin now. Here in Scotland, the
monarch does not clasp hands with his servants, nor lean on them, nor
touch them overmuch." He paused. "It could be taken amiss. Of
course, you and I know better...."
From Perth the party journeyed briefly to Dundee, a town also situated
on the Tay, but nearer its mouth, and from there crossed over the Tay
into the region of life, which lay between the Firths of Tay and Forth,
and which from ancient times had been a kingdom unto itself.
All along the journey, Mary had been struck by the clean greenness of
Scotland, with its empty, treeless tracts and its hundreds of little
lochs. Forests that were cut down here took a long time to grow back.
All the colours were soft, often blurred by mists, except for that
vibrant green which seemed to shine through everything.
There seemed to be few people to walk these expanses, and few fanners
to till around the grey boulders that were strewn everywhere. Overhead
the sky was huge and the weather changed from moment to moment. Clouds
in the west raced across the sky, rained, and passed on in less than an
hour.
Scattered here and there, rearing up over the rugged landscape, Mary
saw square towers. They were completely isolated, sticking up like
thick fingers.
"Tower-houses," Huntly explained. "Purely defensive."
There had never been anything like them in France, strongholds without
a castle. But this land was closer to the struggle for survival.
But it was strangely beautiful, with its odd diffuse light and its
muted range of colours, the still lochs reflecting silver and grey from
the sky. "What a fair land this is!" she said to Lord James, as they
rode along a rutted path. The sea was seldom out of view; she could
glimpse it, sparkling and flat, off to her left.
She was struck with the thought that, if white was the colour of
France, green, grey, silver, and brown were the colours of Scotland.
The rocks, the very base of the land itself, were grey in all its
variations: from the palest speckled pebbles to the almost-black jagged
rocks singing in the sea. These stones were the only building
materials, so that the castles were grey, the little cottages were
grey, and the paved streets were grey. But so many shades of it! Grey
itself began to look rich and mysterious.
And the browns! There were brown sheep, and a deep ashen-hued wool
that came from them, woven in the people's garments. The hills were
dun-brown with bare patches, and the fierce little terriers were drab
brown. Cottages were topped by pale brown thatch, bogs were
greenish-brown, and the bracken and reeds were brown. Even the whisky
had been a lively brown!
Lying like a patina over the browns and greys was the silver, for both
these colours could shade off into a misty translucent version of
itself, so that the sedge could have a pearly sheen to it, and the
walls of a castle be wreathed in a luminescence. The lochs, reflecting
a tranquil sky, looked like oddly shaped mirrors lying on the land
where some careless lady had left them.
Swirling around these plain, honest colours was the ever-present,
transcendent green that seemed to appear in such unexpected places,
such as in the cracks between the stones of any building, and which lay
like a mist over all the land.
In the autumn, another colour briefly held sway, coating the hills with
soft purple: the blooming heather. And there were the tiny touches of
orange wildflowers, autumnal brush, fresh-cooked salmon, the flaming
hair of one person in a crowd to catch the eye.
The people lived, for the most part, in sad little stone cottages
without even fences around them. They would emerge from their doorways
to gape at Mary and her party, to wave shyly at them. They were a
sturdy people, and Mary was struck by how often she saw reddish hair
and freckled faces among them.
"They don't usually own their land or cottages," Lord James explained,
"and so they've no reason to put up fences or make improvements.
Pity!"
Yes, it was. Was this what it meant to be a poor country? Mary
wondered what could be done to improve their circumstances. But how
could a country, such a small one, cease to be poor? Scotland had only
about one-twentieth the population of France, and it was so far north.
Unless gold were discovered, how could Scotland ever improve its lot?
After they crossed over into life, the landscape became gentler and
lusher.
"This is the soft, friendly side of Scotland," said Lord James. "Over
on the western side, with the isles, it's cold and bleak. Farther
north, too, beyond the glens and in the Highlands, the people are
different. They live in their mountain fastnesses and keep to their
own clans, free from interference. They are for the most part still
Catholic. Or so they call themselves. But the truth is, they're still
pagan."
"Has a king ever visited them?" she asked.
"Our father made a sea-journey up to the Orkneys and then down along
the western coast. But no, no ruler has ever gone into their
mountains. They speak a separate tongue and they probably would have
no idea who he was. They only know their own clan chiefs."
Seeing St. Andrews made Mary sad, for it was in the cathedral
completely ruined by the Reformers where her mother and father had had
their marriage blessed. Just across the way lay the castle where the
murdered Cardinal Beaton had been displayed. St. Andrews was now a
shrine to the Protestant revolution.
The town would have been pleasing otherwise, for it was situated
dramatically on cliffs overlooking the restless, noisy sea, and the
sound of the waves and gulls flooded the bracing air. But Mary was
glad to put it behind her and strike out for Falkland Palace.
They rode through quiet forests here in life were royal hunting
preserves until at last they saw the walls and towers of the palace. It
lay basking and golden in the late afternoon sun, stretched out in the
hollow like a dozing lion. Behind it was a dense forest.
"Look! Look!" Mary called to Mary Beaton. The golden-haired Beaton
rode up to her mistress and looked eagerly where the Queen was
pointing.
" "Tis your home from long ago," said Mary.
Mary Beaton stared at it, trying to remember ever having seen it
before. Her father was hereditary Keeper of Falkland Palace, and she
had been born there. But since the age of four she had been with her
namesake and Queen.
"How odd it feels to come home to a place one cannot remember," she
finally said.
SEVEN
William Maitland stood waiting. But not anxiously! he assured
himself. No, not anxiously.
It will be gratifying to see Cecil again, he said to himself in his
calmest tones. I enjoyed our previous meetings, and his wife was most
gracious. After all, it is not as if this were my first diplomatic
mission to London.
But it was his first for a face-to-face meeting with the English Queen.
And he was curious about her, she who had excited so many tongues and
sparked so many debates, not the least of which was whether she was
entitled to sit on the throne of England at all. There was the matter
of that charge of bastardy.. ..
Maitland was neatly attired in a sombre blackish brown velvet suit that
he had had made by Edinburgh's finest tailor. He called it his
"diplomatic suit," because it was sedate enough to please those of a
joyless religious persuasion and yet sophisticated enough to meet the
approval of a Parisian. The stitching and the material were the
finest, enough to deflect all critical eyes that might seek to discern
Scotland's financial woes in the costume of its chief secretary.
His mission had been made clear to him: to come to an understanding
with Elizabeth and arrange for a meeting between the two Queens. It
sounded simple but was not.
He caught himself pacing. This would not do. He forced himself to
look at the linenfold panelling on the walls, to examine the catch on
the windows, to stare with intent interest at the Thames rolling by,
its surface covered with small boats and its banks lined with people
fishing. It was a glorious September day, one of those days that
seemed more like summer than summer itself, and up here at Richmond,
the rhythm of the countryside was more apparent than in London. He
could even see fields stretching away in the distance and, on another
side, the royal hunting forest that was still deep green, as if it had
no intention of dropping its leaves for winter.
"Her Majesty will see you now."
Maitland turned around with a start. The door had been opened and a
guard was holding it back, while a secretary was peering out. He made
his way into the beckoning chamber, remembering all that he had to
achieve.
Elizabeth was there, standing, her hands clasped before her. His first
thought was how small she was; he had become used to Mary's height.
"Your Majesty." He bowed low. "Most glorious Queen, I bring you
sisterly greetings from my sovereign Queen of Scotland."
"I am pleased."
From his vantage point he could see her long, white fingers very like
Mary's motioning him to rise. He did so quickly, and saw her smiling
at him.
He tried to keep the scrutiny out of his manner, but he noted
everything about her.
"These are my most trusted councillors, William Cecil" Cecil nodded
"and Robert Dudley." Dudley also inclined his head.
"I have had the privilege of working with Mr. Secretary Cecil before,"
said Maitland.
"Indeed, yes, during the Regent's time of office. It is a pleasure."
Cecil acted as though it were true. Perhaps it was. Cecil himself was
agreeable to work with, being very well organized and coming quickly to
the point, and he was a shrewd judge of character as well. As for
Dudley, Maitland was eager to behold this lover who seemed to offer
women something of which he, Maitland, was ignorant.
"I am curious about my famous cousin the Queen of Scotland," Elizabeth
said bluntly. "To be frank, ever since she was born she has been an
object of interest to me."
Maitland looked at her admiringly. The thin, red-haired woman knew
well how to put others on the defensive, and to come directly to the
point.
"I believe she is curious about you, as well," he said. "She would
welcome a meeting, so you could behold one another face to face. But
in the meantime, she wishes to exchange portraits."
He had meant to present his mistress's gift at a more opportune time,
not at the very beginning of the interview. But it seemed appropriate
now, and so he was forced to give Elizabeth the miniature he had
carried with him.
She unwrapped it, folding back the bright blue French silk enclosing
it. The miniature showed an oval face with guarded eyes, lips with the
merest hint of a smile, a bit of reddish brown hair peeking out beneath
a white headdress. She looked like a very young nun, a girl who had
taken the veil in the throes of promised religious ecstasy.