Authors: Carolyn Meyer
“Dear sister, you have taken us all by surprise! As soon as I had word that your galley had entered the harbor at Leith, I ordered work to begin in earnest, as you will soon see.”
But why did you wait so long?
I wondered.
Is it that you do not truly want me here?
In my opinion, each room should have been adequately furnished, and I could then have replaced whatever I wished with my own things, now bobbing about somewhere in the North Sea. But I said nothing.
First, no official welcome. Now, nowhere to sit or dine or sleep.
We climbed from the ground floor to the first floor of the tower. Here were the king's apartments, unoccupied since my father's death, nearly nineteen years earlier. Directly above them were the queen's apartments. At one time this had been my mother's, but after my father died she had seldom stayed here, preferring her other palaces. Here was where I intended to live my life. And here I now found a beehive of activityâworkmen setting up a great bed and arranging benches and chests; women carrying in linens and coverlets.
I was suddenly overcome with deep feelings: grief for the loss of my mother and satisfaction that, as my father's daughter, I truly belonged here. Mingled with these strong emotions was strong apprehension. How would I fare in this land of which I truly knew so little?
“James, if it is not too much to ask, I would very much like to examine my quarters on my own,” I told my brother.
He bowed and left me, taking with him the lords who had accompanied us. A handful of servants remained, unsure what was expected of them, and I dismissed them as well.
I stood silently in the center of the queen's outer chamber. The walls were richly paneled in wood, and the coffered ceiling was beautifully carved and painted. Near the top of the circular stair, a window with a kneeling bench looked out over the old Abbey of the Holyrood. I could imagine my mother coming here to say her prayers; I would do the same. I knelt where I believed my mother once had, gave thanks to God for my safe arrival, and asked His blessing on this, the beginning of my new life.
Next to the outer chamber was the queen's bedchamber, nearly as large and just as sumptuously decorated. Adjoining were two turrets, each containing a small room. One of them, I thought, would make an intimate supper room where I could entertain my closest friends. The other would be my dressing room, where, if I wished, I could be completely alone. Through the small panes of the windows I gazed upon the gardens my mother had laid out years ago to resemble those she had known and loved in France.
I descended the stair to the great gallery. It was badly damaged; windowpanes were missing so that rain had ruined the floors, and the plaster was cracked and broken.
“The work of the English,” James explained. “When King Henry the Eighth sent his troops here demanding your hand for his son Edward, my dear Mary, the palace was sacked. The great gallery suffered the most damage.”
“If it was sacked on my account, then I shall have it repaired on my account,” I promised.
***
The kitchens were not yet in order, and the cooks I had brought with me spoke only French and could not make themselves understood. But the townspeople rallied, bringing chairs and setting up boards and trestles in the great gallery and somehow contriving to put together a fine supper for my entire retinue: roast meats, vegetables grown in nearby gardens, fruits picked from the orchards. Musicians brought out their instruments, and while we passed the evening pleasantly, furniture was being hauled out from storage and set in place in my apartments. At last, wearied by the journey and the long day and the strangeness of it all, the people present went off in search of places to lay their heads.
I climbed gratefully onto a bed piled with wool-stuffed mattresses, and I would have fallen asleep immediately had it not been for a terrible racket that broke out on the palace grounds below. I stood up to see what it was. At least a hundred, or perhaps several times a hundred, musicians armed with fiddles and rebecs had gathered beneath the palace windows and now sawed away discordantly on their instruments and sang. I supposed it was intended as a sort of serenade. The Four Maries, whose shipboard beds had been set up temporarily in the king's apartments, below, rushed up the stair to find me.
“I believe they are singing,” said Seton.
“It sounds like the howling of cats,” La Flamin said. “Shall I go down to investigate?”
“Oui, s'il vousplaît,
" I said. We were still more comfortable speaking French among ourselves.
Borrowing her serving maid's hooded cloak, La Flamin went out to learn what she could. The dreadful noise continued unabated, an insult to the ears of anyone who truly loved music. Presently she returned, flinging off her disguise.
“There are two explanations for what is going on, depending on the source,” she reported. “Some say it is a rustic welcome. Bonfires and various celebrations are going on throughout the city, and those celebrators who own musical instruments of any kind decided to offer their queen a serenade. That is the better explanation.”
“And the other?”
“Some say these are Protestants sent by the preacher John Knox to sing psalms as a way of notifying the Catholic queen of their presence. They say he has ordered them to continue for as many nights as is required until the queen gives up her idolatrous practices.”
I sank onto my bed and sat there with my head in my hands. “Go now, and get what rest you can. Tomorrow I will greet them as their monarch.”
The clamor continued through the night, giving me little rest. The next morning, I struggled out of bed and dressed in the best of the gowns I had available, put on a number of jewels, and had Seton arrange my hair and settle a golden coronet on my head. Then I summoned several of my own musicians to accompany me to the forecourt with trumpets and sackbuts.
I mounted one of the crude carts that had hauled goods from the ship and instructed my musicians to play a loud flourish. The local musicians stopped to stare. When they realized their queen was standing before them, they fell silent. I spoke to them, thanking them for their welcome.
“You have given me a delightful experience,” I told them, “adding immeasurably to my pleasure at being here among you, my good people of Scotland. Now I bid you all return to your homes for a well-deserved rest.”
They cheered, and as a chilly dawn crept over the city, the crowd drifted away. I returned to my apartments, set aside my crown and jewels, and at last fell into a deep sleep, ending my first full day and night as queen in my own kingdom.
I
HAD ARRIVED
in Edinburgh on Tuesday, the nineteenth of August. For days after, I waited impatiently for the arrival of the transport ships. At last a messenger brought word from the lord high admiral that English vessels searching for pirates had detained one of our ships.
“Unfortunately, the ship has all of your majesty's horses and mules on board,” the messenger reported.
“The queen of England has taken my horses prisoner?” I asked, too amazed to be angry.
“I cannot say for certain, madam. But Lord Bothwell promises that he will secure their release.”
“Then I suppose I shall be pleased to use Scottish mounts,” I said. “I understand that they do have fine horses here,” I added wryly, for many in my stable were from Scottish stock.
Days later, my horses, mules, and their equipage were reportedly making their way slowly from the headland where British ships had seized them. There was nothing to do but wait. Lord James did all he could to make me and my retinue as comfortable as possible.
On my first Sunday in Scotland I ordered Mass to be celebrated in the royal chapel. When word got out, an angry group of Protestants suddenly filled the forecourt, loudly condemning the “idolatry” The priest was in the sacristy preparing the bread and wine, and one of my servants crossed the forecourt with the candles to be used in the Mass. Several protesters seized him, wrested the candles from him, and trampled them in the dust.
I entered the chapel with the Four Maries. My brother, himself a Protestant but no supporter of such violence, had promised me that I would be allowed to hear Mass in my palace and now placed himself in the doorway He was a big man with a commanding presence, and he would not allow any of the ruffians to enter the chapel. Nevertheless, those of us kneeling inside could hear the shouted threats outside. The elderly priest trembled so violently he could scarcely lift the sacred host. The service proceeded without further incident, but I was determined that no such insult should be repeated. I issued a proclamation that no one was to be prevented from privately practicing his religion, and the penalty for disobeying this edict was death.
My proclamation served only to inflame John Knox. The very next Sunday, the fiery preacher shouted from his pulpit for hours on end that a single Mass said in the royal chapel or anywhere else was more to be feared than an army of ten thousand sent to destroy the realm.
I would have to confront John Knox, and soon.
***
Meanwhile, the provost of Edinburgh presented himself and informed me that he had undertaken to arrange an official welcome for me on the second of September. I would host a banquet at Edinburgh Castle, the fortress that was once the home of Scottish kings. Following this, I would make my formal entry into the city, an
entrée royale
along the High Street, from Edinburgh Castle at one end to Holyrood Palace at the other. The provost assured me that all was in readiness. I needed only to be present.
The first question was what I should wear for this grand event. I was officially in mourning for my husband and still wore the
deuil blanc,
but I realized that this was not the custom here and that the Scots did not understand why I went about in a long white veil. I decided on a black velvet gown enriched with gold braid and hundreds of tiny white pearls. The Four Maries, as my chief ladies in waiting, would be gowned in gray silk.
Somewhere at sea was a ship with my gilded carriage, but even if it appeared, it would be useless on the deeply rutted track that served as the main avenue through Edinburgh. Since my horses and mules had finally arrived from their English imprisonment, I mounted my favorite palfrey trapped to the ground in shimmering satin brocade.
We left Holyrood at midmorning on the appointed day. Surrounded by my leading noblemen, whom I was just getting to know, I rode in a stately procession up the hill to Edinburgh Castle. The rugged fortress commanded the highest ground above the city, which lay huddled in its overbearing shadow. Smoking torches lit the blackened walls of the gloomy great hall, even at midday. A fire had been laid in the huge stone fireplace, and by the time my banquet was served, crackling flames had taken off the chill.
“Serve the richest sauces and the daintiest pastries you can conjure,” I had instructed my French cooks. “My guests must be deeply impressed but not entirely overwhelmed.” I wanted to make clear to the noblemen and local officials, who for years had been accustomed to acting independently, that I was their queen and must be recognized as the monarch and ruler.
It was not easy for my cooks to find the ingredients they wanted, but the dinner was, I felt, a great success. When the meal ended, we descended Castle Hill as the great guns of the castle boomed with such force that the ground shook beneath my feet.
The local townsfolk had gone to considerable effort to make a fine impression on me as well. Archways and platforms had been built along the High Street and pageants were performed. At each stop I made, singers and actors of all ages took part in a presentation meant to welcome their queen and to make sure I understood that this was no longer a Catholic country but a Protestant one in which the Mass was despised as an idolatrous act. The first gift presented to me was a Bible and a psalter. I recognized that I was being pressured to accept the Protestant faith, and this deeply displeased me, though I chose not to show it.
My procession passed through Lawnmarket, the neighborhood immediately below the castle, and then moved on to the High Kirk of St. Giles. The crowds there were well behaved and genuinely welcoming, but when we reached the High Cross, it became evident that the fountain was flowing with wine instead of water. The revelers were quite drunk. I signaled that we should move on. As we rode by John Knox's house, I imagined him fulminating at one of the windows above. We passed through Netherbow Port with its turrets in the ancient walls and then entered Canongate. Holyrood Palace lay only a short distance beyond. I was relieved that it was nearly over. I felt I had made the impression I desired on the townspeople and had managed to turn aside their mindless hatred of the Catholic faith.
Two days later, at my invitation, John Knox and I came face to face.
***
I knew about Knox's venomous sermons condemning me, and I was well acquainted with his pamphlet
The First Blast of the Trumpet.
Lord Bothwell and I had thoroughly discussed the major points of it; namely, that women were not fit to rule. The preacher found us weak, frail, feeble, and foolish creatures who were “repugnant to God,” in his words. He believed in violence and the right of subjects to remove by force a ruler who displeased them. The French had a law that prevented a woman from ruling in her own right. Apparently Scotland had John Knox.
This would be a very interesting interview.
I disliked the man on sight and could discern neither grace nor charm in him. He was many years my senior and puffed up with pridefulness. The churlishness in his manner of speaking to me was irritating, and I found him outrageous in his insistence that I could be forcibly removed from the throne because I did not worship God in a manner he approved of.
“Is that what you intend, sir?” I demanded. “That I be removed from the throne for my religious beliefs and because I am a woman?”