"I go to convey the baby Prince to his nursery in Stirling, where he
will be raised in safety. When you recover, you may follow," she said
to Darnley. "Take him away," she ordered the guards.
"You will pay for this!" snarled Darnley. "You will go to join your
beloved Riccio, and there will not be anything left to bury! No need
for you any longer you've produced the Prince! No need no need your
life is worth nothing...." His voice died away as he was dragged down
the hall.
"The feeble, unimaginative threats of a coward," said Mary, pretending
to a disregard she did not feel.
"I beg you, be vigilant. A coward is the deadliest enemy there can
be," said Sir John, alarmed.
Mary hugged the baby one more time before handing him to the nurse. "A
coward is dangerous only if he has accomplices," she said. "And there
is no one now who would intrigue with him, after he once betrayed them
all." She sighed and smoothed her skirts nervously. "And if I were
removed, before he had title to the Crown Matrimonial, he would no
longer be husband to a Queen, but just a a male dowager!" She began to
laugh in jerky little gasps. "He would have to go about in a white
veil!"
Just then she heard a clatter of hoof beats in the courtyard, and
leaned out of the window to see Bothwell astride his chestnut horse.
His reddish hair glinted in the sun, and he wheeled his horse about,
looking up at her window.
"Fare thee well," he said. "I shall see thee in Jedburgh." He stared
at her, as if he had watched everything that had just happened.
"God keep thee," she said, feeling her strength departing with him.
Slowly she waved at him, and he saluted her and turned away.
I used thee, she suddenly realized. I have not used thee except to my
mother and my child and my once-husband.
And he used it to me.
&
"You have my heart," Mary said to Lord and Lady Erskine, handing them
the bundled baby that was the surety for Scotland's independence. As
he left her hands, she felt a pain almost as great as when he was
born.
Poor women do not have to leave their hairns, she thought. Nor does
John Knox have to surrender his sons into the keeping of another
family.
"We will guard him as our own," said Erskine. He nodded to the
formally dressed chamber attendants, and a plump matron stepped forward
and took the baby. James cooed and reached out a hand to her face.
"She will replace Lady Reres after a fortnight or so," said Erskine.
No, no, I cannot bear it! screamed Mary to herself.
Now you know how your own mother felt, she thought.
"Come, you must know that he will always be yours," said Erskine. "You
may come here and spend as much time with him as you wish. You will
select his tutors and consult with them about his readings and
schoolwork."
But I will not be here to see him struggle with his lessons and learn
his games. I will only be shown them after they are practised and
perfect. I will not comfort him the first time someone hurts him with
words, or answer his odd, unexpected questions.. ..
"Socrates' gaoler said, "Try to bear lightly what needs must be," "
said Erskine.
THIRTY-THREE
Mary returned to Edinburgh after a few days spent with the Erskines at
Stirling, seeing Prince James settled. Then she rode slowly back to
her capital. She tried to think of the baptism, to plan for it. It
would be glorious, and throw Scotland open to the world. For a few
brief days the French would come, and see what had become of their
erstwhile Queen, after leaving their realm. She would take pride in
welcoming them. And Elizabeth? Would Elizabeth actually come?
But planning for a fgte, no matter how magnificent, could not still her
anxious heart. The happenings at Traquair had shattered the platform
upon which all else was erected: the finality of her marriage to
Darnley, her need to honour it, to forgive and endure him, to consider
herself dead to anything else. Her sudden preoccupation with Bothwell
so profoundly disturbed her that she thought about it continually, as a
problem to be solveA-She analyzed it constantly, seeking some
explanation for it. The logical ones she found were that in her
detestation of her husband she had imagined qualities in Bothwell to
distract her from the dreadful truth that she was afraid to confront
about Darnley. Or that he simply appealed to her memory of her uncle
Francois, Duc de Guise, the great warrior Le Balafre, complete to the
scar on the face. As a child she had thought him the ideal man; now
she saw his shadow in Bothwell. Or that, because he had rescued her
from Holyrood after Riccio's murder, she had confused gratitude with
attraction. There was a simple explanation for it, she was sure, one
that, in explaining it, would nullify it, render it harmless.
As soon as she returned to Holyrood, Darnley fled from Traquair House
into the countryside to go hawking. She was relieved that she did not
have to see him, but knew that eventually he would have to be fetched
back. Oh, would this never end? What was the answer?
It was time to call back the lords who had been punished by being sent
away from court, particularly Maitland. All must be tranquil for the
great public ceremony; when the noble foreign guests arrived, they must
not find half the court in banishment. Maitland returned, along with
Argyll. Lord James and they were all reconciled with Mary.
Things are back as they were, she thought. At least on the surface.
John Knox had taken refuge in Ayrshire in western Scotland, and was not
present to plague her with sermons or threaten her about the baptism,
which she hoped would be according to Catholic rites. She needed to
settle that with the Lords of the Congregation.
Accordingly, at one small Privy Council meeting, Mary brought it up to
Lord James, when he inquired as to who would officiate at the
ceremony.
"I had thought .. . Archbishop Hamilton," she said quietly.
There was a moment of deep silence. Then Lord James said, "A
Catholic?"
"Yes."
"The people will not permit " began Maitland.
"The people must have expected it! The Prince's mother is Catholic,
and his father" painful subject "comes of a Catholic family!" she
said.
"But he is the heir to the throne of a Protestant country," said Lord
James.
"Do you expect me to have John Knox perform the baptism?" she cried.
"I realize his country will be Protestant. Why do you think I am
content to have Lord Erskine train him Lord Erskine, a good Protestant?
I want my son to understand that faith. But for his baptism nay, it
cannot hurt him either way, and it will help my conscience. A Catholic
baptism is no bar to becoming a Protestant later as every one of you
can attest, as well as John Knox!"
"So you are willing to entertain the idea that he may choose freely to
be Protestant, once he reaches the age of reason?" asked Lord James
cautiously.
"Yes, of course. None of us can have our faith chosen for us by our
parents; if our faith means anything, we must choose it for ourselves.
But no one can choose from ignorance. One must know something in order
to be free to choose or reject it."
Maitland smiled. "She makes perfect sense, and a good case. I say let
the ceremony be Catholic if the Queen wishes."
"Very well," said Lord James grudgingly. "Now, as to the costs what is
your plan? I know nothing of such ceremonies; we never have them in
Scotland now."
"Since the Prince has godparents from three countries, each will send
an ambassade of at least fifty persons; and then there will be the
banquets, the fireworks I cannot reckon now exactly how much. But I
will look at the books kept in the Exchequer House and see how much the
treasury can allow. I will do this immediately, so that if a tax is
necessary "
"Oh, the people won't stand for a tax," said Lord James quickly.
"If a tax is necessary," she continued evenly, "I am prepared to make
concessions that the people may find acceptable. Or even welcome."
Within the week she moved to the Exchequer House, a dwelling on the
Cowgate the street that ran parallel to High Street ostensibly to avail
herself of the account books at all times, in reality to do both that
and have privacy. She found that she could think best in small rooms
without the protocol of palace life, not to mention the watchful eyes
of the court. She took her secretary, Claud Nau, who was so good with
figures and had a working knowledge of the expenses of such a
celebration, and Madame Rallay, and in a few days Lady Reres joined
her, having been replaced at Stirling. She brought news of Prince
James and all his nursery arrangements.
Mary soon discovered that she enjoyed going over the books of both the
government and her household. She found the old ones, going back to
her mother's reign, and delighted when she saw the first entry for
herself "white taffeta for the princess's baptism." Sometimes she
would call Lord James or Maitland to consult over an entry, to explain
notations in abbreviation, but mostly she liked to puzzle over them
herself, leaving the books open to the area in question. She would
thus be able to work on them continually as she pleased, without
worrying about losing her place in them.
Her initial understanding, however, was correct: the crown had very
little money, not enough to finance the celebrations on the scale she
wished. Very well, then, there must be a tax.
"We are a poor realm, sister," said Lord James. "You have only to
compare your coronation with that of Queen Elizabeth's to understand
that. So the only way is a tax." Clearly he thought the baptism an
extravagance, and a foolish one.
"It will not help us if the world perceives us as a poor realm," she
said. "If we hide it and make a goodly show, it will stand us in good
stead later."
"What of the King?" asked Lord James. "Will he behave himself and
attend? There is no point in borrowing money, and putting on a show,
only to betray to the world what we have as a King. I know he objected
to asking Queen Elizabeth."
"He'll come, he'll come," said Mary, with an assurance she did not
feel.
The weather turned nasty cold, rainy, and dark. Mary was loath to
leave the Exchequer House, which had become her retreat from the world,
and now she was trapped inside it. She retired to her private chamber
and read in a comfortable chair before a fire, revelling in the few
hours of complete privacy and lack of outside demands. The rain dashed
against the windows.
She looked out and saw women hurriedly taking in bedding that they had
been airing in the adjoining courtyard. When the house servant brought
up more logs for the fire, she pointed out the dwelling attached to the
courtyard and asked, "Whose house is that?"
"David Chalmers, Madam," he said. "Lord Bothwell's servant."
"A fine house for a servant!" she said, surprised.
"Oh, he's more than just a servant he's a companion, a friend who
serves him. Yes, Chalmers lives here most of the year."