Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (51 page)

"Ah!" Mary was delighted to see the workmen and gardeners coming. They
strode down the path, carrying their shovels and pushing their
wheelbarrows, whistling as they walked.

"Gentlemen!" she said. "Before you in these crates are plants I have
sent for from the gardens of France. There are Persian lilacs "

"They won't grow here," said one workman quickly.

"Too cold," said another.

"We can try planting them on a slope that faces south, and protecting
them a bit," said Mary. "And here are rose gallica, the red rose which
blooms so profusely, and moon flowers which climb up trellises and open
only at night "

The gardeners said, "It will take manure!"

"I am sure there is no shortage of that from the royal stables," said
Mary. "And here, I have sent for sycamore trees." She pointed to the
tallest crates. "I do hope they grow here! The sound of the wind in
them is one of the loveliest sounds on earth."

The men grunted.

Just then several strong young men approached, dressed in studded
leather with gloves and leather caps. They carried whips and clubs.
Leading them was an older man with a pistol, the menagerie-master whom
Mary had appointed.

"Where are the beasts?" asked the man.

Mary pointed toward the cages with bars and air holes. "There."

"What is the variety you have?"

"Two lionesses, a bear cub, a wolf, and a porcupine."

"Lionesses!" The men looked interested. "Adult ones?"

"No, but more than cubs," said Mary. "At least that was what I was
told."

The men approached the cages carefully. "Where will you want these
beasts?"

"In a menagerie here at Holyrood," she said. "Later I will send for
animals for the one at Stirling."

One thing at a time, she thought. One step at a time. Slowly years of
neglect are reversed. The flower beds we laid out last year have
thrived with the native varieties. And the menagerie had to be rebuilt
before animals could be brought; a lioness cannot wait long in a
cage!

The Marys were laughing and examining the plant stocks the gardeners
were unpacking. Some of them looked dead in their straw wrappings. But
that could be deceiving. The French roses, for instance .. .

At the thought of France, a darkness seemed to flit across the clear,
joyous day. Things were no longer light and happy in France. The wars
of religion had wrought much sorrow. The Duc de Guise, her beloved
uncle, had been assassinated by a Huguenot, shot in the back. All the
leaders of both sides had been either killed or captured: Antony of
Navarre killed in battle, Conde of Navarre and Constable Montmorency
captured, before a treaty of sorts was signed.

Chastelard, the poet attached to Montmorency's son, had reappeared in
Scotland, some thought now on a political mission of some sort. But
the fool the stupid pawn! Mary felt wretched remembering his strange
behaviour, hiding under her bed, claiming to be overcome with love it
had ended with his execution. But Lord James had assured her it had
meant to end with hers. The poet had gone to his death quoting Ronsard
and saluting his love for her, "the most cruel princess in the
world."

A spring of killing. Mary prayed that it would be over now, that the
demon of violence had been purged. But she would have to wear mourning
even longer now, in honour of her uncle.

Behind her and on the paths of the still-bare garden, Lord James and
Maitland were looking critically at the gathering.

"More French nonsense," muttered Lord James. "Crates of such things. I
hope she is paying for it out of her French dower revenues, and not
from crown money."

"I am pleased that she labours to improve her home, all the more if she
does it at her own expense," replied Maitland. "Soon she may bring a
husband to share all of it." Seeing Lord James frown, Maitland
continued smoothly, "Clearly our Queen must marry. That is the natural
order of things. But whom? He should be royal. He should, ideally,
be Catholic to please her, but lukewarm in the practice of it to suit
her subjects. It is difficult."

"The ideal candidate, then," said Morton, who had been standing by and
listening, "would be an irreligious Catholic who would consent to
having his son raised Protestant. He should be of royal or noble
blood. He should be of sound mind and body. And, preferably, he
should be a foreigner "

"Quite so," said Maitland.

"And why is that?" persisted Morton.

"So that Scotland is raised into the ranks of the highest councils of
Europe, her prestige increased " began Lord James.

"No one is listening but us," said Morton. "Save that bull's pizzle
for the simpleminded. It's so that she will marry her prince and sail
off for Europe to his court, never to return to Scotland. Then we, the
Lords of the Congregation, can rule as we are meant to do. All in the
name of little James or Robert or Malcolm or whatever she names him."

"Ignacio or Pierre or Ludwig, more like," said Maitland.

"So negotiations are under way with Don Carlos, Charles IX, and the
Archduke Charles?" asked Morton.

Lord James smiled and shrugged. "The mails are slow after the long
winter. And the Queen has not shown herself to be exactly consumed
with interest in the entire issue."

"That puzzles me. She seems to inspire passion in men but have none of
her own," said Morton. "That John Gordon episode. And then the
scandal with the French poet last month." He shook his head. "Both of
them died for their obsession with her."

Maitland shook his head. "Strange business."

"Poor little poet. He was someone's dupe someone who wanted to
dishonour the Queen of Scots. An agent of some sort," said Morton.
"Sent from France."

"Whoever sent him knew the Queen well. She is not circumspect; she is
too free and familiar with everyone. She encouraged him, unknowingly
perhaps, but danced with him, hung on his neck," Lord James remembered.
It had been coquettishly disgusting.

"As she does with that Riccio fellow." Morton frowned with the
impropriety of it all.

"Indeed. Precisely." Lord James nodded. "It is not seemly. And of
late I believe she has been confiding things of a political nature to
him, and seeking his advice."

Morton raised one eyebrow. "Then you should look to it, men, or you
will find yourselves without a position." He looked at Lord James and
Maitland. "I am Chancellor now, in Huntly's place. But the little
Italian may soon be the master of all of us."

"Nonsense!" cried Maitland.

"Is it? How often have you conferred with the Queen in private since
the Chastelard affair?"

Lord James shrugged. "I see no change. She has been upset, naturally,
and "

"And sought solace from her faithful lute player. Yes.
Understandable." Morton snorted; he understood all too well. Sins of
the flesh.

"She is unhappy about the continuing religious wars in France," said
Lord James. "The death of her uncle the Duc de Guise. Orleans, where
Francois died, desecrated by killings and destruction. The forest
where they hunted, now filled with soldiers and artillery ... it
grieves her."

"France is past," snapped Morton.

The cries of astonishment and excitement as the lion cages were opened
drew their attention.

"You must admit she has brought graceful ways to Scotland," said
Maitland.

"Scottish lions," said Lord James. "They are our emblem. They mean
power as well as grace."

"If it is power she wants," said Maitland thoughtfully, "then she
should try to please Elizabeth by marrying to suit her."

A year later, still unmarried, Mary lay prostrate in bed alone. She
had been struck down by a virulent fever, fierce aches in her back and
legs, and chills that shook her so badly that she was mounded under
heaps of covers, even though it was once again May and quite warm. She
called for a fire to be lit in the chamber, and Madame Rallay and
Bourgoing obeyed, even though it made those two indefatigable
caretakers sweat profusely. Mary's teeth were chattering; her lungs
were on fire and she coughed in spasms, but nothing came up.

It had come upon her quite suddenly, while she was going over
dispatches with Riccio promoted now to secretary in charge of her
French correspondence, which was most of it. A quick stabbing pain in
her head, a feeling of heat, of dizziness .. .

"I must stop for a moment," she had said, and made her way unsteadily
to her bedchamber. "I will rest here, just for a while...."

When Riccio peeked in an hour later, he found her asleep, but groaning.
He put his hand to her forehead and found it hot; he summoned
Bourgoing.

During the next few hours she had worsened, baffling Bourgoing, until
he had suddenly said, "I know what it is! It is 'the New Acquaintance'
so called because it is so catching it makes many new acquaintances! I
have heard of it, but never seen it myself."

"Do you mean la influenzal" asked Riccio. "The ailment that comes from
the influence of the stars?"

"Is that what causes it? I had heard it was prevalent in Italy; I have
been told it is making its way north "

"Now, pray, don't blame Italy!" said Riccio with a laugh. "And don't
blame me I didn't bring it!"

"Of course I won't blame you!" said Bourgoing. "What an absurd thing
to say. Do you think everything centers on you?"

"It is not I who think it, but others. It is Riccio who is blamed for
everything these days the high price of grain, the drought, the Queen's
disinterest in Robert Dudley."

"You exaggerate," said Bourgoing. But the Italian had a point.

"No, it is they, the Lords, who exaggerate. They greatly exaggerate my
influence my influenza, ha, ha with the Queen."

Mary gave a groan and both men were instantly beside her. "Riccio, I
am sorry.. . cannot finish the letters now .. . you do it ...
routine...." Her eyes were closing again.

Riccio sighed. "And they are routine," he assured Bourgoing. "A
sympathy letter to Catherine de Medicis on the fifth anniversary of her
widowhood, an inquiry to Her Majesty's ambassador to Paris, Archbishop
Beaton. Such things are all I attend to."

Mary could hear them talking, but it was as if she were a great
distance away, and the voices were echoing in the well of her head. Her
head throbbed with the pulse in her temples; she felt so weak that she
could barely lift her hand to tug at the covers, and her body was one
giant ache. She slept, whirled away, but not into normal sleep. Dreams
of huge dimension seized her, and thoughts began to run like stampeding
animals through her mind.

Dudley. Robert Dudley, Elizabeth's favourite .. . shall I take him, as
she says? She wants me to marry him, her own subject, and hints that
if I do so, then she will recognize, me as her chosen successor.