Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (47 page)

My offering, thought Maitland. What is it? A questioning mind that
tries to keep itself unclouded, like a glass of pure water? That is
all I have to offer in service to Scotland.

As the fire died down, the men were still standing, heads bowed. The
heat from the fire had bathed the sides of them facing the flames, and
for a little while the cold had been beaten back. But then Maitland
felt it taking hold of his toes once more, just as Lord James was
saying, "You are welcome to come back to my quarters here."

All of them gladly trooped the short distance between the castle and
the Abbey of St. Andrews, thankful to leave the salty wind, and the
watching eyes of Archbishop Hamilton, behind.

Lord James's possession of the Abbey of St. Andrews was an anomaly; he
had been granted it under the old system, the system of abuses so
criticized by the Reformers. He should have surrendered it, thought
Maitland, but of course he has no intention of rectifying that
particular excess of the old Church. Now, of the Seven Deadly Sins, I
do believe that Brother James is most beset with avarice.. ..

Lord James's home, the Prior's lodging, was spacious and well
appointed, although the truly luxurious furnishings of the Prior had
doubtless been discreetly removed. Lord James welcomed them all,
offered them food and drink, and then waited for most of them to leave,
so that the remaining four could get down to business: the Queen's
business.

They were seated now around the fireplace, which burned brightly in its
grate: Lord James, Maitland, Erskine, and Morton.

"We called her home, and she came," said Lord James. "You were all
there, you all signed the paper inviting her. And I daresay we are
satisfied with the outcome?"

"Well enough," said Erskine, his thin voice enthusiastic. "She has
been better than we had dared to hope."

"Do you mean religiously?" asked Lord James.

"Yes, certainly. Although she herself has not converted and shows no
likelihood of it she has been content to allow our faith to stand
unmolested."

"And she and Knox have reached a standoff," said Morton slowly. He
licked his lips; they were badly chapped.

"Bothwell is gone," said Lord James. "He'll not trouble us any longer.
He's always trouble, because he's unpredictable. And the Hamiltons are
discredited now; the poor old man had to surrender Dumbarton Castle to
the Queen."

"That takes care of nearly everyone who might cross us," said Maitland.
"The next in line to the throne rendered impotent. The
loyal-to-the-crown Borderer with the strong sword arm locked up."

"But there's still one," said Morton. "One big one, who is not of our
persuasion."

"George Gordon, fourth Earl of Huntly," said Lord James. "The
Chancellor of the Realm. And a Catholic."

"A militant one, too," said Erskine. "He's always urging the Queen to
set up the mass again."

"If we are fortunate, then the Cock o' the North, as he likes to call
himself, will crow once too often and offend the Queen. You saw how he
stamped out of the Privy Council at the Bothwell verdict?"

"Please! There was no trial, so there could be no verdict!" Maitland
objected.

"Oh. Yes, of course. But if he refuses to attend Council meetings,
then who knows where it may lead?"

"If he could be crushed, then all opposition to the Congregation would
vanish."

"First he would have to rebel," said Maitland.

"Perhaps he will," said Lord James. "Perhaps he will."

THIRTEEN

The spring came, but only after a seemingly interminable winter ) that
dragged out its footsteps in a trail of snow, ice, dankness and ;
darkness, of winds that dashed the North Sea against the rocks of the
coast. When the first eerily clear, light days came, people burst
outdoors. The light seemed to expand to fill the entire twenty-four
hours, and an otherworldly energy flowed into everyone.

Mary had welcomed the spring, feeling that she was being rewarded for
her difficult first few months in Scotland. She had not questioned her
decision to return, but only her ability to do what she felt called to
do. Things had not gone as she had hoped and planned.

Before she had actually arrived, she would have found it difficult to
understand how the Kirk pervaded even the most personal actions; now
she understood only too well, having felt its grip all around her.

Religion! It was supposed to provide comfort and order in life. Now
the news was that even in France it had turned destructive. Her own
uncle the Duc de Guise had opened fire on a gathering of Huguenots at
Vassy, and twelve hundred had been massacred. Both Catholics and
Protestants then armed themselves, and the war was on.

The last of her high-ranking French entourage had returned to France,
leaving only the household staff she needed for embroidery, cooking,
and her wardrobe. She missed Brantome, but for the rest, it had been a
relief to see them go.

The removal of Bothwell had greatly disturbed her; she had relied on
him more than she had realized. The fall of the House of Hamilton,
although it had enriched her by one magnificent fortress, was not a
thing to be welcomed.

It was now the turn of the Earl of Huntly to be out of sorts. She
understood how he felt, being so outnumbered by the Protestants, but
that was all the more reason to stand at his post. Instead, he seemed
to be absenting himself more and more. And now one of his sons had
been involved in an unseemly brawl and was locked up.

These brawls! Why were there so many of them? The forces of Bothwell
and Hamilton that had almost come to blows over that fracas with the
Craig woman .. . the roistering of Lord John .. . and now this John
Gordon business, with a street fight between Gordon and Lord Ogilvie in
which Ogilvie had been severely wounded.

Thus the three men whom Mary had counted on to help balance the obvious
power of the Lords of the Congregation had failed her or, worse, turned
against her. And after she had tried so hard to be conciliatory!

No one treated Queen Elizabeth thus! She kept all the men in line, and
no one dared to take liberties or presume. How did she manage to
control her large, masculine court?

Mary felt tired. She did not know the answer, only that she was
obviously doing something wrong. Perhaps she would have to marry;
perhaps there would be no other way to assert her dominance over male
courtiers.

Mary was anxious to meet the fabled Queen Elizabeth and see if she
could discern the reasons for her mastery of those who served her.

The only one I control is Riccio! she thought sadly.

The meeting between the two Queens would take place at Nottingham in
only six weeks. Already the passport and safe conduct for Mary's
journey into England had been received, and Bastian Pages, the
revels-master, had written and produced the masque to be performed: the
punishment of Raise Report and Discord by Jupiter at the request of
Prudence and Temperance. Mary had duly dispatched a new portrait of
herself to Elizabeth and received one in exchange.

Now she twisted the "friendship ring" and watched the sun splinter into
different colours inside the diamond as she stood on the links at St.
Andrews, playing golf with Flamina, Beaton, Maitland, Randolph, and
Riccio. Normally she enjoyed it; she loved being near the sea cliffs,
where the grass grew tufted and sweet. The sea was piercingly blue and
the air bracing, and her senses appreciated that in itself.

"Take aim! Take aim!" cried Riccio, as Mary Fleming prepared to
strike her ball with the special crooked stick used in golf.

"Silence, you foreigner!" said Maitland. He pretended to be joking,
but his contempt for the alien who could not seem to understand the
rules of golf was obvious. One must maintain silence during a swing,
but this inane monkey chattered on regardless.

Thack! Flamina's horn-edged club knocked the leather ball but a little
way; it wobbled toward the hole but stopped far short.

Riccio then stepped forward to his own ball and hit it, playing out of
turn. The fact that he managed to get it into the hole made the
affront worse.

"Can you not control him, Your Majesty?" Randolph asked in a silky
tone.

"Riccio, I pray you, mind your courtesy," she said sharply.

The Italian spun on his heel, his satin doublet making a shiny blue
blur. He bowed deeply.

Mary took her turn, swinging her club quickly. The ball flew over a
hillock and disappeared. Riccio rushed off to sight it. Fleming and
Beaton began to giggle, but Randolph and Maitland were not amused.

She looked over at Maitland, who was stroking his neat brown beard.
Lately he and James had been most insistent in discussing the
advantages of a marriage to Don Carlos of Spain for her. Perhaps she
would have to consider it, if

Just then she caught sight of a rider galloping across the sandy hills
and then slowing as he saw them at play. He dismounted and led his
horse over, then allowed him to nibble on the thick, moist grass.

"Melville!" She was delighted; undoubtedly Melville, one of her most
sophisticated courtiers and the one in charge of the meeting with
Elizabeth, brought news of just that.

"Forgive the interruption," he said. "But "

He held out a letter, and suddenly Mary saw that his usually jovial
face was solemn. She opened the letter and quickly knew why.

"It is she cancels the meeting," Mary finally said. She felt as though
a large bull had squared off and kicked her straight in the stomach;
she actually lost her breath.

"It is, then, as the special messenger indicated," said Melville,
shaking his head.

Maitland and Randolph dropped their clubs and came running, alarm
written all over their faces.

"She says she .. . cannot meet with me while the Huguenots are being
killed in France by an army led by the Guises," Mary said slowly.

"Yes, I see. As the champion of the Protestants, she cannot be seen to
meet with a Catholic sovereign at this point," said Randolph.

"But Elizabeth is not religious!" Mary burst out.

"No, she is making the appearance of religion the reason," Maitland
explained patiently.

"Appearance is the important thing, not the reality," Melville chimed
in, as if he were tutoring a backward child.

"No! It is not!" cried Mary. "It should not be!"

The three courtiers and diplomats shrugged, embarrassed.

"It is politics," said Maitland.

With a cry, Mary ran from the links.

Melville sighed. "It is a pity, " he finally said. "Inconvenient
timing. Very bad luck for us. And, oh, yes Huntly's son has escaped
from jail in Edinburgh and fled north. Tell her as soon as you can,"
he asked Maitland. "I will ride on and inform Lord James at St.
Andrews. The Congregation will have to assemble its forces to meet the
Cock o' the North." He stared after Mary's retreating form. "The
Queen has a war on her hands. "