Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (56 page)

Mary walked to the border of the garden, which looked down at the Firth
of Forth from the very edge of the cliff. A small wall had been built
along the edge to prevent accidents. But it was only waist high and a
person could leap over it easily. Or be pushed.

She pulled her mantle closer and lifted its hood to cover even her hat,
for the wind was fierce. It blew in from the North Sea, whipping
through the funnel made by the firth with its cliffs, and kept blowing,
past Linlithgow and all the way to Stirling, perhaps, where it would
die down, trapped in the rising inland hills.

The sky was grey and blanketed the sun. Across the firth the hills
rose gently toward Edinburgh, but the fog and mist obscured it and Mary
could not see the city. Even as she watched, the fog rolled in from
the North Sea, almost as if it were boiling, and it climbed up the
cliffs and snaked its way into the garden, obediently following the
open gravel paths, getting obstructed in the brown leafless hedges, and
muffling the statue of Cupid, wrapping him in a cloudy mantle. The
garden turned into a smoky sea, with just a few landmarks sticking up
to provide orientation: the cypresses, the top of the sundial, the
tallest topiary sculptures.

I shall be swallowed up, thought Mary, as she saw that even the tower
door was now invisible. She turned to grope her way back, but suddenly
she saw a movement, the only one that had occurred in the garden the
entire time. Something moved in the white mist moved, then stopped.
There was a gleam of metal. But no sound; no sound at all.

She made her way in that direction, keeping to the gravel path, then
following a wide one that went to the very cliff-edge of the garden,
where the movement had fluttered.

The gleam of metal came again, then a clanking sound: metal against
metal.

Standing on the path, looking out toward the water, was a tall man,
swathed in a dark cape. His head was covered, and there was a long
sword hanging from his belt. He grasped its hilt and it clanked
against something metal in his costume, making a low thick sound.

He seemed taller than a mortal man, and his black cloak did not seem to
move with the wind; it hung as if sculpted in stone. He did not move,
either, except for his hand on his sword, and the collar of his mantle
obscured his features.

She came closer, and still he did not move, and made no sound. Beyond
him there was a stirring, and through the mist a pale horse's head
appeared, with eyes the colour of fallen leaves. She approached the
man and touched his arm. He turned and looked at her.

He was pale and his eyes were as cold as the mist and blue-tinged. His
lips were full but looked bloodless, and there was no colour in his
cheeks. He was ageless, his face unlined as in youth, but somehow
graven with all the knowledge of mortality.

She gave a little cry; he blinked and looked uncomfortable.

"I beg your pardon for frightening you," he said. A smile loosened his
lips and his face changed. "I was frightened myself, and waiting here
to pluck up my courage."

His horse curled back its lip and moved; the fog drifted away for a
moment like smoke and revealed a pale animal with an elaborate
saddle.

"What was the deed that required so much courage?" Mary asked. This
young knight seemed an apparition from antiquity, perhaps even from
King

Arthur's time. He fingered his sword a great bejewelled one with long
white fingers.

"To present myself to a fair Queen," he said.

"And why should that affright you so?"

"She did not send for me; I came hither on my father's orders. He told
me he could not leave Dunkeld for a week at least, and therefore I must
go alone to present myself to her. But to presume to just arrive nay,
it sounded better when I was far away."

"Why you are Henry, Lord Darnley," she finally said.

He turned even paler as she threw back her hood.

"O Holy Mother! It is you! You are she! You are oh forgive me,
triple fool that I am!" He grabbed her gloved hand in his white
ungloved one and began kissing it.

"Dear cousin," she said, embarrassed by his embarrassment, "I have long
looked for your coming." She extracted her hand from his cold bony
one. "Fret not. Is this not better than a public meeting? An
exchange of civilities under the eye of all our entourages? We were
both drawn here, to this dead deserted garden, for a reason .. . belike
the same reason."

"Yes. A wish for solitude, for reflection, for privacy." A look of
happiness sent colour into his face and at once roses bloomed in what
had been a winter visage.

"Which is in scant supply for either of us," she said. "One must take
it whenever possible." She motioned to him. "Will you come in now?"

"In a moment. Must we join others so soon? And be engulfed by
them?"

She understood exactly what he meant, even though all the people here
with her at Wemyss were of her choosing, and the people who made her
feel most under scuti ny were missing: Lord James and Maitland and even
the kindly Erskine and Melville.

"If you wish." She smiled at him, seemingly lightly, but actually she
was measuring his height and revelling in the fact that his eyes looked
down on hers something few eyes had ever done. She was used to the
fact that she was taller than almost everyone, did not consciously
think of it, it was so incorporated into her being, as a person on land
does not think of how he balances until he goes to sea.

"Can we see Edinburgh from here?" he asked.

"On a clear day," she said, leading him toward the lookout at the edge
of the garden. "But today the mists obscure it."

Great clouds were blowing along the water, writhing and twirling. Every
few seconds a quick glimpse of the land across the water showed
itself.

"Almost directly across is Leith," she said.

"Edinburgh's port," he said, like a bright schoolboy. He had obviously
memorized it. "And far to the left, at the tip of the landmass, is
Tantallon Castle. Where my uncle the Earl of Morton welcomed my
father."

"He seemed gladdened to be allowed back into Scotland."

"Oh, to come home is a joy beyond words. Is that not what Heaven is?

"Tis said we are not at home upon this earth, being only strangers and
aliens cast out, but eventually we return home if we are privileged to
do so. Just so it is a second joy to return to our earthly home, when
we have been cast out. It is probably the greatest happiness we are
afforded in this life." His face was shining.

"But you were not cast out," she finally said. "You have never been in
Scotland before. You were born in England; you are an English subject
and even first prince of the blood there."

"But Scotland is my ancestral home."

"But what can that mean, precisely? It cannot inform your memories,
your sensibilities. Such things must be grasped on site; they cannot
be passed on like a mysterious vapour."

"Ah! You cannot understand," he said forlornly. "I only know that I
feel Scottish, that there is something in me that always leapt at the
word "Scottish," that thrilled when I would discover that a poem was
written by a Scot or a valiant deed at arms was done by a Scot abroad
or that a hitherto seemingly ordinary person had some Scots blood. At
once he would seem different, elevated. Nay, I cannot explain it."

"I understand." And she did. "I felt the same when I returned to
Scotland. But alas, I found that although the French considered me
Scots, the Scots considered me French. I have all the feelings you
described, but no one would ever ascribe them to me. Even now they
consider me 'foreign," using religion as an excuse to do so. How
absurd are the subterfuges we employ Scotland was Catholic for a
thousand years. She has been Protestant for barely five. Who then is
the better Scot, the more traditional Scot, the truer Scot?"

"Yes! Yes!" he said. "It is the same in England. Our ancestral
religion is suddenly pronounced traitorous. Yet Edward the Confessor
and Henry V professed and defended it. How then can they still be
praised as heroes?"

"By holding two contradictory creeds in their heads at the same time.
Tis most fashionable."

They both laughed.

"Our mutual great-grandfather, Henry VII how simple his world was," she
said. "One faith. Only Europe to take into account. No Protestants.
No New World. No Russia or Turks. He had only the Yorkists and
Lancastrians to settle. We have Protestants, preachers, heathens,
heresies, the common people and their representatives, John Knox "

"We?"

"Yes," she said calmly. "We."

Henry, Lord Darnley, was warmly welcomed into the castle where the
Queen had withdrawn to have a retreat of sorts. It had a holiday air,
a feeling of shoes being replaced by soft slippers and jewel-stiffened
bodices by soft wrappers. Mary often took these retreats, staying in
merchants' houses and dispensing with her servants and even the
trappings of a queen, as a person will shed his clothes to take a
restorative medicinal bath in the curative springs.

The Marys were in holiday spirits, as they treasured these times they
had their mistress away from protocol and strictures. Then they could
pretend to be and could even be, for a precious space simple maidens
together. The nineteen-year-old Damley entered into their midst
easily, himself fleeing from duties and the future, playful and at
ease.

On Valentine's Day there was a private celebration: an old-fashioned
drawing of names for Valentines, singing and dancing. The Great Hall
although it was not a great hall but a small one of Wemyss Castle was
prepared for the event. Red ribbons were threaded in and out of the
wall sconces, and the floor was cleared. Musicians were sent for from
Dun-fermline, as the castle lacked cittern and viol players, and music
was selected.

The ancient legend was that birds chose their mates on this day, and so
must humans. Accordingly two Valentine's baskets were festooned and
all the men's names put in one and all the women's in the other. The
company was to draw names and pair themselves. Accident and nature
would assure the correct pairing.

But human needs intervened. Mary miraculously drew Darnley's name, and
Mary Livingston, John Sempill's. Mary Beaton and Mary Fleming, their
suitors being too much a part of the government to be present at this
retreat, had to content themselves with the sackbut player and the
master of the castle.

Damley slowly unrolled the name he had drawn from the decorated basket.
It said, "Mary Stuart," not "the Queen."

"Do I dare?" he asked.

"Shall I be left matchless on this day?" Mary laughed. " Twould be an
insult." She turned toward him. "Well met, Valentine."

She looked at his handsome face. He was like a knight from a dream, so
straight, so tall, so intelligent, so golden.

They danced. He danced exquisitely. Then he insisted on playing his
lute, and to the astonishment of all, he was expert. Even Riccio,
hugging the corner and sitting out the Valentine's festivity, nodded in
approval. When all was over, Darnley sat before the fire and sang. His
voice, a silky tenor, trod each note with surety and passion.