Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (37 page)

"Is that why you did it, then?" Erskine asked. "So that we would
trust you?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Why, you have known me all your life.
Do you not trust me, John Erskine?"

"I meant in matters of state," he said hastily.

"He raises an important point," said Mary. "We must all trust one
another. For we have an important task before us: to restore Scotland
to its lost glory. It will take all our effort, working together."

"And how do you plan to do this? Scotland lost her glory on the
battlefield of Flodden over fifty years ago," said Maitland.

"First, to have an end to wars "

"The Treaty of Edinburgh took care of foreign wars," said Morton, "and
embracing of the Reformed Kirk took care of fighting amongst
ourselves."

"Will you refrain from interrupting me?" asked Mary pointedly. "With
peace in our land, we can once again look beyond our shores. Foreign
ambassadors will be posted here, we will be included in councils
abroad, artists will come, Scots will travel ..." Her voice trailed
off. The men were stony-faced.

"Do you mean that you see greatness only in terms of diplomatic
postings and artistic entertainments?" Bothwell asked quietly.

"Scotland has rejected such fripperies!" said Lord James.

"Yes, it smacks of something Henry VIII would have wanted banquets,
singing minstrels, lovelorn poets!" said Morton. "Or the French."

"I did not mean that," said Mary. "Clearly we must set our house in
order first. That is why I wish you, Lord Bothwell, to take up your
duties as Lieutenant of the Borders and depart immediately. There must
be peace throughout Scotland; there cannot be one area where thieving
and robbery are rampant."

Bothwell looked surprised, but pleased. "Yes, Your Majesty.
Straightway."

"And I am sending Maitland to London to confer with Queen Elizabeth,"
she said. "It is time that our differences were settled."

Lord James looked surprised and confused.

"Then I wish to depart for a small journey around my realm," she said.
"It is time I saw more than just Edinburgh and heard more than John
Knox. I am anxious to see the countryside. Not all of you need
accompany me just you, Lord James, and you, Huntly. And Morton, you
may inform John Knox that I command his presence at Holyrood when I
return."

Morion's beard flapped down as his mouth opened.

"My dearest sovereign and sister," said Lord James, "it is now our
pleasure to invite you to a special banquet. You may tell us if it is
what you have in mind for restoring Scotland's lost glories and
customs."

Now it was Mary who was taken unawares. Her brother was full of
surprises.

The banquet was to be held in the other wing of Holyrood, where
high-ranking courtiers were assigned quarters. Lord James, as acting
regent, had appropriated a suite, and now he saw fit to have the
banquet served in the large, double-ai sled chamber directly beneath
his rooms.

Mary remarked as she changed her clothing, "I have never been a guest
in ny own palace before!"

But Lord George Seton assured her it was quite in order. "It's a
custom here," he said.

The Queen and her ladies took their places at the high table, along
with Lord James, Maitland, and Huntly, and Mary looked around the room
curiously. There was nothing particularly unusual about it, and the
goblets and platters seemed very similar to those in France.

Lord James rose and lifted his hands. "Let us give thanks to the Lord
for having brought our Sovereign Queen safe to her own shores," he
said. All present except Mary's party instantly bowed their heads.
James rumbled on, "And vouchsafe, O Lord Almighty, that she might rule
in wisdom, having a tender care for her people "

"Amen," everyone mumbled. But no one crossed himself.

So this was what they said instead of a welcoming speech! Mary felt
her cheeks flush. Everyone was looking at her. Was she supposed to
lead a prayer?

"I thank you," she merely said.

Lord James nodded, and the servitors began to bring in the food. At
the same time, a small group of musicians appeared at one end of the
hall.

By Mary's side, a lad stood with a silver flagon, ready to pour the
wine into her goblet. She nodded, and noticed what a pinkish colour
the wine was. It glowed like a flower petal through the glass.

The first course, a steaming pot of soup with a peculiar odour, was
presented, and ladled into her personal bowl. There were green
filaments in it, and white knotty lumps. When she tried to bite one of
the lumps, it was spongy and impossible to cut through. The green
threads were slimy. What was this? She attempted to swallow the
mouthful of round objects whole, and they almost got stuck in her
throat.

Lord James, seated next to her, was looking. "Is it not refreshing?"
he asked. "It is cockle stew, with seaweed." Another servit or was
approaching. "Ah, here's the Dunfermline dumplings!"

A pale, bloated, spherical lump lay with its fellows on a platter,
arranged in a pinwheel. Resolutely Mary allowed one to be speared for
her and placed on her platter.

"It needs this sauce," said James, and a boy stepped over with a bowl
of clotted something.

Mary attempted to cut it, and it slithered around her plate, leaving a
watery trail oozing from its innards. She smiled weakly. Just then a
dish of baked lampreys was presented, followed by a gritty, grey mound.
Both were heaped on her platter, covering up the dumpling. Mary poked
at the granular bastion.

"What is this?" she asked James.

" Tis made from pig's liver and caul," he said, smiling. "And here
comes the powsowdie it has a sheep's head in it."

Mary half expected to see an eyeless head peering out over the rim of
the bowl. She suppressed a shudder.

Just then a blast of screeching music jolted her out of her chair. It
rose to a crescendo and then wailed off in a whimper. It sounded like
a supernatural scream.

"The bagpipes," said James. "They are played by squeezing a bag and
sending the air out through the pipes. It has a different sound than
your delicate French come muse which looks similar but has no strength
at all!"

Then some of the other musicians joined in, playing instruments she was
more familiar with, like the shawm, the lute, and the pipe and whistle.
But the bagpipe blasted forth again, drowning them out.

Mary took a sip of her wine and was horrified to find it tasted musty.
She held up the glass and looked at it.

"Beetroot wine, Your Majesty," said Lord James. "As you know, grapes
do not grow here. We must make do."

Suddenly the bagpiper began screeching frantically. A cohort of men
had appeared at the entrance to the hall, and they carried a large
silver platter reverently. Everyone rose from the table. Mary
followed suit. The mysterious object was borne around the room, steam
rising from it.

"The haggis," said Lord James. "Something only true Scotsmen can
appreciate." He paused, before explaining, "It contains the heart,
lungs, and liver of a sheep, boiled in intestine. With suet and
oatmeal, of course."

Of course.

Everyone was looking at the haggis in profound admiration, before being
reseated and taking a helping. A steaming spoonful was put on Mary's
plate, and she took a substantial bite. It was not worse than the
cockles. In fact, it was better, for at least it yielded to teeth.

"Ah, now I know you're a true Scot!" said James.

Only then did Mary look around and notice that all the men were eating
with their own daggers. Evidently they carried them at all times and
used them as they pleased, even at formal banquets. She also noticed
how few of the men seemed to have wives present. Was this a nation of
bachelors? Lord James himself, of course, was not married. But
neither, evidently, was Maitland, or the Earl of Argyll, or Bothwell.
Or young Hamilton, the Earl of Arran. How curious. And these were all
men in their late twenties or early thirties, certainly well old
enough.

After the blood pudding had been passed, it was time for the final
course, of sweets. Mary expected that here, at least, she would be on
familiar ground. But no: along came something that James assured her
was a lard cake charming name and a whisky cake.

Then, as the crumbs were being scraped up, the bagpipe screamed again
and this time flagons and bottles were borne in and several were placed
on each table.

" Tis courtesy of the Earl of Atholl, from his estates in the
Highlands, and from the Earl of Huntly, who also has lands in the
north, that we are privileged to taste this heavenly brew tonight.
Whisky!" Lord James held aloft a bottle of deep brown liquid.

Mary had heard of this strong drink. "Is it what they brew out of
heather?" she asked.

"No," said Huntly. " Tis brewed from the running streams of our
Highland water, and good grain, and has the flavour of peat in it. Tis
unlike anything of this earth."

"What he means is, he plans to drink barrels of it in heaven!" cried
Morton.

"His stuff is fit for hell!" said Argyll. "It is my whisky they drink
in heaven!"

"Compare, then, compare!"

Tiny glasses were filled with a sample of each type. Mary was
surprised how small the glasses were they held so much less than a wine
goblet. She raised one to her lips and sipped. It filled her mouth
with a burning sweetness, deep and compelling, yet searing. It burned
all the way down into her stomach. But the taste it left in the mouth
was comforting, calling for another sip. Its flavour was like nothing
she had ever tasted, and it was so much stronger than wine it seemed
another creature altogether.

She tried the glass of the Earl of Argyll's brew, and immediately
discerned that, beneath the fiery taste, the flavour was slightly
different, deeper, smokier.

After only the two small samples, her head began to feel different
inside. Resolutely she refused any more, partly out of fear. But she
saw the men refilling their glasses without hesitation.

The drinking continued for what seemed a very long time, with the noise
of conversation rising, until a thin woman with reddish braids took her
place at the end of the room. She was holding a harp, but of an
unusual size and shape: it was smoothly curved and could be held
easily. She plucked the strings like a mother caressing her child's
head, and began singing in the clear perfect tones one imagined came
only from angels. Immediately the room hushed.

" TB set my foot in a bottomless ship, Mother lady, mother lady: I'll
set my foot in a bottomless ship, And ye'll never see mair o' me."

" "What wilt thou leave to thy poor wife,

Son Davie, son Davie?" "Grief and sorrow all her life,

And she'll never see mair o' me."