Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (155 page)

"My dear people," she said, "I am aggrieved at what happened at
Lang-side, I mourn those who have fallen, and I am grateful that God in
His mercy has spared you and brought you here. But now I must consult
with you. What shall now be done? What advice would you give me?
Speak frankly."

Lord Henries was the first to stand and speak. "Dearest sovereign,
this battle is not decisive. You must bide your time and gather
strength to fight again. I myself can promise you that you will be
safe under my protection here in this district for at least another
forty days. That should allow us time to regroup and add the Gordons
to our forces."

Lord Claud Hamilton now stood. "I must only add that you should retire
to a stronger fortress. One that could possibly withstand a siege.
Otherwise, I agree with Lord Herries."

Mary was aware of eyes fastened on her from all around the wall. They
were staring at her short hair. She ran her hand through it, disliking
the feel of the bristles. She was probably very ugly. She had not
even looked in a mirror. "How can I remain in this countryside, when
it is so hard to know who is loyal?" she asked.

Lord Livingston spoke up. "Your Majesty, it would be better to go to
France. There you could gather your forces in peace. You have estates
and the income of queen dowager in France, you have relatives there,
you are still the sister-in-law of the King, who has always been fond
of you."

"Never!" cried Mary. "I cannot return as a landless fugitive to the
land where I once reigned as Queen! The shame is too great!"

"But, Your Majesty,", said George, "you love the French countryside,
the language, the people. You would recover your spirits quickly, and
"

"Say no more! I will not hear of it!"

The faces staring at her were truly shocked. France had been a
constant in any scheme, an ultimate safeguard and refuge taken for
granted. A few of the men had already looked ahead to make
arrangements for going there with the Queen, just in case.

"Then what else can there be?" asked George in a soft voice. "You
will not stay, nor will you go. Yet you must do one."

"I shall go to England," she said. "That is the answer."

"Your Majesty, no!" cried Henries. "No, on no account! Why would you
even think of such a thing?"

"I am astounded that none of you has ever thought of it. It is so
obvious. England is the only country that has supported me during my
imprisonment. Elizabeth threatened the Lords, and it was only that, I
believe, that spared my life. She has refused to recognize the
government of the Regent, or to call James King. She is my true
kinswoman by blood, and bound to me with ties of honour."

"It is not safe to go to England!" said Livingston. "Have you
forgotten that James I was held a prisoner there for twenty-five years?
Have you forgotten that your own father did not deem it safe to go? The
English cannot be trusted!"

"Elizabeth is not Edward I or Henry VIII. She is a woman, like myself,
once wrongly imprisoned herself. She has shown herself to be my friend
in my season of woe. I must trust to the deep conviction I have, which
assures me this is the right course of action."

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but you once said the same words
about choosing to marry the Lord Darnley! Feelings are not facts!"
blurted out Lord Fleming.

"I am touched by your concern, but I must decide, ultimately, for
myself."

"Then we must beg you to sign a paper absolving us of responsibility
for this decision, and stating that we advised against it!" cried
George.

"Why, if you wish it," she said, surprised. "There is another thing
that perhaps is hard to explain. England and Scotland the truth is,
one day they will be joined under the rule of my son James. I know it,
and Elizabeth knows it. It is not as if we were such different
countries anymore."

Mary was watching the sunset on the waters of the Solway Firth, which
divided Scotland from England in a broad wedge that narrowed and
narrowed and finally came together about forty miles to the east, right
near the place where her father's army had met such demoralizing defeat
at Solway Moss. It was that which killed him, so they say, thought
Mary. Well, I will not cross there. I will go by water. Arrival by
water has always brought me fortune.

She seemed to be able to see land far across the water. "Is that
England?" she asked Lord Henries, who was standing beside her on the
rise overlooking the waters.

"No. Today you cannot see her. It must be exceptionally clear to do
so. We are separated by about twenty miles of open water at this
point. I think what you are seeing are purple clouds."

"Oh." She was disappointed. "Dear Lord Herries, will you please write
the necessary letter to whomever? What official or lord has command of
that area?"

"Lowther is deputy governor of Carlisle; it is to him that I must
write, then." His voice was heavy. "The Duke of Norfolk is the
foremost northern peer, but there are lesser ones, like the earls of
Northumberland and Westmoreland who are very pro-Catholic and will no
doubt receive you gladly."

"You sound so sad," she said. "Pray do not be so. I have received
guidance; I know what I do is right."

The sun had gone now, and the water was a rich burgundy colour. Beside
them, the rushing stream of the Abbey Burn tumbled past, making its way
down to the Firth.

"Sometimes evil spirits mislead us," he said. "Satan can assume a
pleasing shape, can appear as an angel of light. I take that to mean
that he has the power to trick us into believing our impulses are
divinely rather than demonically inspired."

"I go in the name of peace," said Mary. "Surely you cannot call peace
to be anything the devil desires."

Herries shook his head. "I do not claim to know as much about the
devil as some folks, but I do believe he is out and amongst us more
than he is recognized."

"Please write the letter before morning," said Mary firmly.

Now, after more arguments and pleadings from her company, she was alone
at last, walking in the deserted Abbey church. She had had her way,
and they had dutifully retired to sleep and left her to pace and keep
her own counsel. The great stone columns in the silent nave were like
man-made trees, their arches soaring upward to be lost in darkness.
There was a mouldy, damp smell like moss. The Abbey, like all the
still-standing old ecclesiastical buildings in Scotland, was in poor
repair. Parts of the wall had given way, and there were leaks. She
could tell by the water stains and the faint sweet smell of wet
stone.

A half moon was shining, giving just enough light to make fuzzy
outlines of the altar, the niches, the mouldering wooden screen that
had once divided the monks' end of the church from the lay brothers'.
Cistercians. White monks. It seemed to her she could almost see their
ghostly shapes gliding between the aisles and columns. Shades,
summoned up from some faerie realm. From a time before all these
religious wars and hatreds.

Oh, gentle monks .. . She wished she could reach out to them, but she
knew they would vanish. They were not real, of course, she knew
that.

It is only my distracted, overtired senses that make me see forms in
the moonlight. If I truly had the gift of the "sight," then I would
see more than that, I would be able to predict the future, whereas it
is dark and veiled from me.

She went out the south door and entered the cloisters, the arched stone
arcades where the monks had walked during bad weather. The moonlight
coated the grass court and turned it silver. Each arched section threw
sharp black shadows across the silvered ground, making a stark pattern
like the black and white tiles at Chenonceau.

Chenonceau. So many ghosts tonight!

From the arcade openings she could see the monks' graveyard beyond the
church, their simple tombstones standing up like the mysterious circles
of stone in northern Scotland and Brittany, circles where supposedly
magic rites had been practised by vanished people.

Racing clouds covered the moon briefly, then passed on. Ghostly
galleons. Bothwell used to call them ghostly galleons, she remembered.
He said they were the spirits of seamen doomed to ride the skies for
all eternity, always blown before the wind.

Bothwell, always a sailor, first and foremost a man of the sea.

I cannot see water without thinking of you, she thought. Perhaps that
is why I want to go to England by water as if you were a water-god and
could favour me. Oh, my husband, where are you now? A year ago
tonight it was our wedding night.

In the moonlight she could see the feathery white of the Abbey orchard
in bloom. The rows of trees were like slim young girls attired in
lace, waiting to dance. There was a sea of delicate, distant fragrance
rising from them, a fragrance like youth, not overpowering but dizzy
with sweet promise. The dead monks slumbered on.

Where are you? she wondered with a piercing sorrow. Can you see the
moon tonight that I see?

Should I go to England? You are the only one whose opinion I wish to
know. You are the only one who can stop me. If it is true that souls
can speak across land and sea, speak to me tonight, and tell me what
you would have me do. Speak to me in a dream, or in my thoughts, and I
will obey. Speak, beloved husband.

She dipped her pen in the ink and began the letter.

Dundrennan, May 15, 1568 To the high and mighty Prince, Elizabeth

You are not ignorant, my dearest sister, of great part of my
misfortunes, but these which induce me to write at present, have
happened too recently yet to have reached your ears. I must therefore
acquaint you as briefly as I can, that some of my subjects whom I most
confided in, and had raised to the highest pitch of honour, have taken
up arms against me, and treated me with the utmost indignity. By
unexpected means, the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from
the cruel imprisonment I underwent.

But I have since lost a battle, in which most of those who preserved
their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my
kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope
but in your goodness. I beseech you therefore, my dearest sister, that
I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all
my affairs.

In the meantime, I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions,
and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to
obtain by your means.

To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back
to its Queen this token, the jewel of her promised friendship and
assistance.

Your affectionate sister, MR.

Lingeringly she removed the diamond friendship ring from her finger. It
was time to send it. Time to redeem its promise.

The sun was coming up as Mary at last sealed the letter. She had
received no messages, no impressions in her sleep. Bothwell had not
visited her. Her dreams had been inconsequential and hard even to
remember. She had prayed about the decision, but at last it had become
clear that she must proceed.