Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (29 page)

A pain that trailed off into familiar dullness made itself felt in her
heart.

Why, I was happy then! she thought. So happy I did not even think
about it, did not treasure it, did not reach out and try to make the
moment linger. It passed me by like a mist.

Why did I not pay more attention? she thought. Why was I so careless
of my joy? Even my memories are only of things: marble pillars and
gold salters and banners of fleur-de-lys; silver trumpets and attar of
roses; sleek white-toothed hounds and flaming torches and silk-hung
litters; ambassadors in velvet breeches and vellum proclamations with
orange-red wax seals.. ..

She sat, watching Charles being crowned Charles IX in the deep, cool
beauty of Reims Cathedral, heard the echoing words of the ceremony.
When Francois had been crowned, the court was in mourning for Henri
II's death; Catherine could not stop crying throughout the ceremony.
Now it is I who cannot see through my tears, she thought, and she ..
.

She glanced over at Catherine de Medicis and observed how alive with
excitement she was. She strained to see every detail of the
coronation, and her eyes were glittering.

That is because she will rule in France, thought Mary. She is come
into her own at last. Henri is gone, Diane is gone, Francois is gone,
I am gone, and my Guise relatives along with me. She need share her
power with no one, until Charles marries.

My uncles tried to persuade me to marry Charles. Catherine would never
have permitted that; it was the last thing she would ever have wanted,
to continue sharing her power. But what no one realized was that it
was the last thing I would ever want. I don't like Charles; there is
something wrong with him. He alternates between melancholy and fits of
temper; he kicks his dogs and his servants. He sucks on a bottle of
eau sucre and stares at me in a demented manner. No, I'll none of him!
Pity the woman he does marry.

The trumpets sounded forth to announce that France had a new king,
Christianissimus, His Most Christian Majesty, Charles IX.

Not very far away, also in Reims, lay the Abbey of St.-Pierre, and it
was there that Mary took her lodging that night. Her aunt Renee was
abbess there; and her mother's body was going to be interred there
within the week. The Protestant lords had finally let Marie de Guise
go, to seek her rest at last on her own soil.

The entrance to the abbey lay at the top of a hill, with a road leading
to it that was straight and bordered with a row of plane trees on
either side. Their leaves were just starting to come out, making a
fine green mist on the dark branches overhead.

The great door seemed to draw Mary, beckoning her as forbidden things
sometimes did in dreams; yet when she reached it she felt relief and
comfort, not danger.

"Welcome, Your Majesty," said a sister, opening the door and bowing
low. Then, right behind her was the round figure of Rene de Guise.

"Come, my child," she said, embracing Mary. "Come, and rest."

It was the first time anyone had offered her anything since Francois
had died, without wishing something in return.

Renee led her to the cloister, where yet more things proclaimed spring.
Together they sat on a stone bench, facing the well, which was
surrounded by blooming quince trees. At their feet, just beside the
brick path, was a bed of herbs just coming up: wolfsbane and absinthe
and coriander.

"It is over, then?" asked Rene.

Mary nodded.

"And?"

"The rest of the court has gone on to the coronation banquet at the
bishop's palace. And I I am here." She shrugged. She hoped Charles
and his mother had not been offended, but no matter. She could not
have endured it the glittering merriment, the noise, the golden
platters and cloying food. And the dancing. "I shall never dance
again!" she cried.

"Nonsense!"

Had she actually spoken the thought out loud? She had not meant to.

"You are young, and too spirited never to dance again," Rene'e
persisted. "God will restore you to yourself in time." Uninvited, she
took Mary's hand and squeezed it.

Oddly, Mary did not find her touch offensive. Ordinarily, no one is
allowed to touch me, she thought with surprise. And I am allowed to
touch no one. My dogs, yes, but not people. How odd it all is.... She
felt overwhelmingly weary.

Time passed; she did not know how long they sat in silence, only that
the light began to fail and the blooms of the quince took on a
luminescence. A bell tolled.

"Vespers," Renee said softly, taking her hand and helping her to her
feet.

As she rose, she felt light and more rested than she had in months. She
followed the Abbess into the chapel, and, like a sleepwalker, let the
words of the service caress her.

And:

Deus in adjutorium intende .. . Doming ad. adjwandum me festina.

Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine Eyes lofty.. ..

The words felt like milk to her, soothing and full of sustenance.

I am weaned, because my mother is gone, she thought. And all this she
looked around at the bare chapel, with its echoing walls feels warmer
to me than the court. At the altar, here, is where my mother will lie.
She will hear these voices forever, will be surrounded by all this
love. And I am cast out into the world, to take her place.

The notes of the chanted Psalm quavered upward.

It was so familiar. She had stood here before, had heard voices just
like these, had shivered with the beauty of it.... At Inchmahome. The
monks .. .

Around her, the sisters were starting to leave, going to supper in the
refectory.

At long tables they sat, backs straight on the low benches, a single
candle at each end, eating in silence. There were loaves of brown
bread and two dishes of cooked vegetables stewed apples and baked
parsnips.

A young nun perhaps even younger than I, thought Mary read the day's
portion of Saint Benedict's Rule to the company in a clear, precise
voice. "What Kind of Man the Abbot Ought to Be" was the reading for
May fifteenth.

"The Abbot should always remember what he is and what he is called, and
should know that to whom more is committed, from him more is
required."

Like a ruler, thought Mary. But if God has called me to be a queen,
why does the abbey feel so much more like home?

After supper, the nuns returned to the chapel for the final service of
Compline before making their way with lighted tapers to the upstairs
dormitory. There they would sleep in a common room until they were
awakened in the deep of the night to return to the chapel for the Night
Office.

Renee touched Mary's arm and guided her to the private room where she
was to sleep. It was on the ground floor and looked out on the garden
where they had sat earlier in the day.

The room was quite well furnished: an ample bed, writing table, chairs,
chest, and vases of flowers. On the wall was an ivory crucifix and
beneath it, a priedieu covered in velvet. A room for a queen.

"For our guests," said Renee, as if reading her thoughts. "All guests
are honoured, all pilgrims are equal." She lighted the three candles
in their silver candelabra. "I received word yesterday regarding the
.. . arrival of your dear mother's remains. Travel is slow .. . the
interment will not be possible for another few weeks."

The unspoken question.

"Alas, I cannot be present." Though I want to be, though I long to
stay here, become one of you ... "I must go out in the world. Perhaps
to my dower estates in Touraine. Perhaps even to ... Scotland." There,
she had embraced it.

"The Lords enclosed a letter to you," said Renee. She handed it to
her. She would not stay while it was read. "Rest well, my dear
child." She started to leave the room, then nodded toward the
crucifix. "I wish you to have this," she said. "It is an ancient one
that seems to have a soul of its own. I sense it wants to go with
you."

Mary started to demur, but something in her aunt's face silenced her.
Renee came back to Mary's side. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Mary's
head, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Mary sat down on a chair before the table and slowly broke open the
seals on the letter. She resented their intruding on her even here,
these haughty traitors. My heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty,
did not apply to them, she thought angrily.

The letter was a lengthy one, filled with carefully balanced phrases
and equivocations. They were anxious to justify themselves. A great
deal of Scripture was quoted. But the message was this: they wanted
her back. They invited her to return, and their tone was not only
respectful but warmly cordial. If she would come to Scotland and
reside there with her people, they, the Lords of the Congregation,
would welcome her and support her and recognize her as their own
sovereign, and give her all their loyalty.

Nothing was said about her religion or who would actually do the
ruling. Was it to be the Lords of the Congregation, or she?

It was signed by her brother, Lord James Stewart, in his own name as
Commendator of St. Andrews, and on behalf of the other Lords.

How surprising, she thought, their change of tone. Perhaps the people
cry out for their queen, and the Lords are beginning to feel themselves
on shaky ground. For whatever reason, they find themselves in need of
me.

She felt her heart beating faster, in spite of herself. They needed
her. Scotland was calling her home.

She looked out the window, through its stone frame to the little
garden, glowing faintly in moonlight outside. But this is where I
belong.. .. The convent had felt like a homecoming, and she had
realized how deeply she cherished her faith, how sweet it was to be
surrounded by others who were further advanced in spirituality and
could teach her.

Out in the world, she thought, it is easy to believe yourself spiritual
if you have the merest touch of it. But here here the truth is
revealed. I am a novice indeed in the life of the soul.

Rising up inside her was a surge of energy, of worldly challenge to be
met. Scotland sounded a call, and the letter lying on the table was
like a gauntlet thrown down, flung at her feet. Take me up, if you be
no coward. If you are able.

The yellow of the paper, shining in the candlelight, was stronger than
the delicate light in the garden outside, and it drew her back toward
it. She left the window and picked up the letter to read it once
again. And then again.

At length she knelt before the crucifix and held up the letter like a
child-offering.

"I know not what to do," she whispered. "Direct me."

The room was utterly silent. She fancied she could even hear the sound
of the candles burning, the wax dripping. If only God spoke out
loud.

But He does not, she thought. All I hear are my own thoughts.