Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (34 page)

After breakfast, Lord James and Maitland reappeared to escort the women
around the grounds of Holyrood. As they stepped outside, Mary saw that
the fog was still as dense as ever; so dense, in fact, she could not
even detect where the sun was.

"Is it usual to have fog like this?" she asked in Scots, very
slowly.

James looked pleased at her attempt. "No," he said. "No, not at
all."

"Knox will, of course, say it was caused by your arrival," Maitland
said suddenly. "He will use it after his purpose."

"Knox!" said Flamina. "Tell us about this creature!" She tossed her
head.

Maitland laughed, and drew her aside. "John Knox," he said, "is the
leader of our Kirk...."

Mary did not hear the rest of the conversation. Lusty, Seton, and
Beaton had fallen in with Maitland and Flamina, leaving her with
James.

The mist was curling and uncurling around their feet as they walked.
Mary tried kicking at it, to clear away a yard or two, but it refused
to flee.

She laughed. "I am anxious to see Scotland, and yet it veils itself
from me! All I have seen so far is that it must be very green, for
green glows through this mist."

"Yes. That it is. If you could see, now, you would see the fair front
of the palace, and off to the left, the Abbey church, where our royal
father lies in his tomb."

Our royal father. How he loved the phrase, she thought.

They stood quietly for a moment. Then James continued, "Stretching out
farther to the left if only you could see! are the ornamental gardens
and the orchard. There are also ornamental gardens on the other side,
and a large hunting park behind the palace, not to mention a graveyard
as well. The Abbey was an ancient one."

But the way in which he said the last sentence betrayed no sadness or
lingering fondness for the old ways.

"I pray no one else saw your priest yesterday," he said quietly.

"I realize that my situation is unique," she said. "There has never
before been a ruler whose personal faith was at variance with his
subjects'."

"Ah!" Before replying, he turned to see where the others were. "This
is a difficult matter. It is best you not antagonize people. There is
already enough suspicion that you do not hold your native land in high
esteem. It is said you consider yourself French, that you wept upon
leaving, that you clung to the rail lamenting the parting."

"You were not there!" How dare he steal her private moments and make
them into something silly and pitiable? "And I do care for my people,
and my land."

"Not as Master Knox "

"Master Knox! Master Knox! What does he know of ruling? And what
does he know that fits him for this office to which he feels called? He
loves Scotland, yes, but there needs to be more than that! I am called
by blood to my throne."

"He feels called by God."

"To a throne?" Her voice was sharp. "I am called by God, too. So how
can we both be called to the same station by the same God?"

"He does not aspire to your throne," James said gently.

"No, he merely takes it upon himself to prescribe how I sit upon it!
"Pray you, look this way!" "Move your head so!" "

To her surprise, Lord James burst out laughing. "You have a searching
wit," he said.

Just then a large number of Mary's French relatives and guests came
bounding up. The young Guises looked eager to go riding, or hunting,
or hawking. Mary suddenly remembered, with a sinking feeling, how
poorly they tolerated inactivity. But she did not know what could be
offered them at this moment.

"How does one amuse oneself here?" asked Rene, the Marquis d'Elboeuf,
his quick dark eyes dancing.

"Yes, indeed, unless one plays blind man's buff, what can one do in
this fog?" cried his brother Claud, the Duc d'Aumale.

Joining them, the young Mareschal d'Amville and his secretary, the poet
Chastelard, looked perturbed that no sports were in the offing. "What
about our horses?" asked d'Amville. "When will the English return
them?"

"I have sent a messenger to Cecil," said Lord James, "and soon he will
respond."

Brantome, the courtly historian, came strolling up. "What of the
Abbey? Is there anything of interest there?"

"Not to us!" cried the young would-be warriors. "Perhaps we can learn
to play the what is it? The golf. Yes. Can we play it here, in the
fog?"

"No," said James, smiling tightly at their breezy ignorance. "Not
here. Golf is a game that must be played near the sea, on the links
where the grass grows sweet and wild. Tis at St. Andrews, near the
sandy sea cliffs."

"Ah!" said Mary. "Golf! I do long to learn it! And I will journey
to St. Andrews soon, when I set out to see the rest of my kingdom.
I'll take a ... what does Elizabeth call them? A progress." She
laughed at the happy thought of it.

"Oh, so you're minded to do that?" Lord James asked. "So soon?"

"Yes, as soon as possible!"

"But there are other things to be attended to first, and you must have
your ceremonial entry into Edinburgh, and select your Privy Council "

"Yes, I know! I know! But soon! I'm longing to see it all!"

"I see we cannot even shoot on a day like this," d'Aumale said
morosely. "So we might as well go get drunk!" They turned on their
heels and went back inside.

Mary felt embarrassed, but did not want to apologize for them in front
of James. He was looking at her quizzically. She straightened her
back and said to Brantdme and Chastelard, "Maitland and the Marys have
gone up ahead to look at the gardens. We can look at the Abbey along
the way. Pray, let us join them."

The gardens were a sorry sight. They were not well laid out, nor had
they been maintained. Two broad walks, sparsely gravel led
intersected, and where they met, there was a fountain. But it was dry
and it looked as if there had been no water in it all season. There
were struggling beds of flowers, but they looked unhealthy to begin
with and then had been further neglected. The entire design, borrowed
from a monastery garden plan, had been outmoded in France for a good
eighty years.

"O! Has the garden of love withered, then?" Chastelard asked
mockingly. Everyone tittered everyone but Lord James.

"We have been most unsettled for a dozen years," said Maitland.
"Nonetheless, our gardeners have attempted to preserve the plant stocks
so that, when our Queen returned and our country was restored to peace
and prosperity, they could also be restored. Look!" He stepped over
the border and plucked a stunted flower. "It is not dead, merely
waiting. As all of us are.

For our Queen, as I have said, to restore us to peace and prosperity."
He presented Mary with the flower; it was a crimson carnation.

She took it solemnly, as if it were a pledge. She longed to nurture
this poor, broken country and bring it back to life. "Thank you," she
said.

They continued their walk around the palace, finding a greensward there
that could be used for archery.

"We can, perhaps, lay out a course of pall-mall here as well," Mary
told her Marys, who were dutifully trotting along behind her. Like
their mistress, they were finding their native land to be exotic and
almost forgotten.

"I wager there is no jousting in the whole of Scotland," said
Flamina.

"Probably not," said Mary. "But I shall not miss it." When she
thought of jousting, all she would ever see was Henri II clutching at
his helmet, tumbling from his horse in spasms. "There will be other
things here to amuse us."

After the midday meal consisting of unidentifiable bits of meat in a
barley stew the people sat around the room forlornly. Mary decided to
consult with Mary Seton's brother, whom she was minded to appoint
master of her household, about selecting court musicians and poets.

Lord George Seton, whose family had remained staunchly Catholic, could
not hide his delight at having both his sister and his Queen back in
Scotland. He was several years older than they, but still
boyish-looking, with gold hair and searching grey eyes. His family
lands lay near Edinburgh, and it was easy for him to travel there on
short notice. Mary knew him well, for he had come to France several
times over the years.

"Ah, it is so wonderful to see you back here!" he said as he entered
the room. "I used to imagine how you would look here, and I must
confess, my imagination failed me."

Mary laughed and turned round once, holding her arms out. "So, do I
look natural here?"

George Seton nodded gravely. "As natural as heather and hawks."

"I must needs set up my household," she said. "I brought my own
physician, my confessor "

"Thank God!" he said loudly.

" some French servants especially skilled in embroidery and ceremonies,
and my personal attendants. But I would fain bring the Scottish poets
and musicians to court."

George Seton looked bewildered. "But there are none."

"None?"

"None of any note, Your Majesty."

"But that is ... that is impossible! No poets?"

"Some few, perhaps, could be rounded up." He shifted from one foot to
the other. "At St. Andrews University, perhaps. The truth is that
our only poetry these days comes from the songs in the Borders, all
about killing and lamenting and so on." He paused, thinking hard.
"There's Alexander Scott," he finally remembered.

"But he's so old!" He had been at court with James V. "And there are
other so-called poets who dare not publish their names, for their verse
is lewd, calculated to appeal to the bestial wits of men deep in their
cups."

Mary could not help realizing how she had always taken the refined
poets thronging the court for granted in France. "And what of painters
and sculptors?" she continued gamely.

"None, Your Majesty." When she kept looking at him, he said, "You must
remember, we have been at war. These niceties had to go by the board.
And what little remained, the Reformers have done away with. Music and
dancing are now frowned upon by the Kirk."

Chastelard was looking even more forlorn. "What do you do in the
evenings, then?" he asked plaintively.

"Why, we go to sleep," George replied.

The Marys all burst into laughter. Then Mary Seton explained, "We are
not laughing at you, just at the answer."

"This must all be remedied," said Mary. "I am sure there must be young
people who would welcome the opportunity to write verse and compose
music, to paint and draw. We must gather them here!"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said George. "Perhaps you should speak to James
Melville about it. He is a courtier of the old school although he is
not very old."