Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (97 page)

"You know it is ceremonial only! The Lord James is to act as
cupbearer, and he actually has to kneel to present it."

"That should be a new experience for him. He's out of practice at
kneeling and humility."

"And Huntly is to act as carver."

"My brother-in-law is a passable butcher, true. Not good with his head
or anything too complicated, but he wields a dagger well enough, like a
true Highlander."

"Will you do it?" she asked in a small voice.

"Do what?"

"Wear the blue and act as server."

He laughed. "Of course. Did you think I would refuse?"

"I didn't know. I know that stubborn conscience of yours."

"But I must tell you that I will remain outside the chapel for the
actual ceremony."

"Keeping the Earl of Bedford company?"

"Yes. After all, good manners require us to be solicitous of our
guests, does it not?"

"I thought it also required a guest to be polite to his host."

"Unless it interferes with his conscience," said Bothwell solemnly.

At length Damley arrived at Stirling, and took immediately to his
quarters, speaking to no one. His father, the Earl of Lennox, did not
come at all.

Mary was forced to seek her husband out, as she did not want to disturb
him by the gesture of asking him to come to her although, in any normal
circumstances, nothing would be meant by it.

She found Darnley sitting in a window seat, gazing out over the green
far below the castle, a pout on his pretty face. He looked up to see
her.

"So. You've come. What a surprise," he said. He turned away and
pointed below. "What's all that down there?"

She came and stood beside him. "It's the fireworks display." Would
that please or excite him? "It is taking almost six weeks to set up,
it's so elaborate. There are going to be ground displays and
explosions in the air, turning the winter sky white like midsummer."

"How much did it cost?"

"Too much." She smiled. "But is it not a privilege to have our son's
baptism so memorable?"

"Memorable for whom? The Prince will not remember it. And the French
ambassadors will have seen others, and better, in France. And I shan't
see it!"

"Why?" She felt anger taking her over, even though she fought against
it. "It will be impossible to avoid seeing the sky lit up, unless you
are dead drunk. Do you plan to be drunk, disgracing yourself?"

"If I please, I will!" he yelled. He jumped up off the window seat,
went over to his table, where a large and already half empty bottle of
wine stood opened, and poured himself out a huge goblet of it. Then he
bolted it down. "I told you not to ask Queen Elizabeth to be
godmother! But no, you disobeyed me! You always disobey me, for all
your marriage vows!" He poured out another goblet.

"Henry, please, I beg you." She never used "Henry" except in their
calmest, closest moments. She hoped it would appeal to him. "Let us
try to make this a happy occasion."

He made a face at her. Suddenly she noticed, as he was standing in the
direct morning light streaming in the window, that his face had little
red streaks all over it. "We'll see," he said grandly. "It depends on
how you treat me. Treat me with honour, then perhaps. But if you
ignore me for all those others, well ..." He hunched his shoulders and
turned his back.

The ambassadors and their suites began to arrive. The English
contingent alone had eighty persons, and the two French ambassadors
brought nearly as many. All the lords gathered, none stayed away: Lord
James, Maitland, Kirkcaldy of Grange, the Earls of Argyll, Huntly,
Atholl, Mar, Eglinton; the Lords Sempill, Seton, and Fleming, Sir James
Melville. Darnley stayed secluded in his quarters, although reports
reached Mary's ears that from time to time he wandered down into the
town of Stirling to drink at a tavern. In any case, he declined to
attend any of the receptions for the arriving "dignitaries.

From the moment the festivities began, she entered into such a nervous
frame of mind that she felt almost inebriated herself. She was in a
heightened state of sensitivity; she talked and listened to what was
going on immediately around her, but at the same time her ears seemed
to hear other sounds from other rooms. There was another stirring,
another whole set of activities taking place simultaneously, and she
strained to overhear them.

Bothwell she was unable to speak with privately, and Lord James and
Maitland seemed to be observing her very closely.

The baptism was to take place in the early winter dusk of December
seventeenth. At precisely four o'clock, in the fading daylight, the
Prince was borne from his royal chambers by his godparents, and taken
in slow procession between a double row of courtiers holding flaming
torches, across the courtyard to the Chapel Royal. The Catholic nobles
followed, bearing the accoutrements for the ceremony: the Earl of
Atholl carried a long, slender christening-taper of virgin wax, the
Earl of Eglinton carried the salt, and Lord Sempill bore the chrism.
The Bishop of Ross held the laver and basin. Behind them came the
English contingent, the Earl of Bedford holding the great gold font,
followed by the French and then the three nobles with retinues
Bothwell, Huntly, and Lord James.

The procession was met at the door of the chapel by Archbishop Hamilton
and the bishops of Dunkeld and Dunblane, and then it proceeded slowly
to the altar, where the great font was placed with all solemnity upon
its waiting stand and filled with holy water. The baby was totally
immersed in it and given the baptismal names of James and Charles. At
the naming, the heralds proclaimed his name three times to the sound of
trumpets, both inside the chapel and outside, where Bothwell, Argyll,
Lord James, and the Earl of Bedford waited, along with a great crowd of
onlookers. The silver trumpet tones rang out, cutting the air with
their clear, perfect edge.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the organ rang out and a choir burst
into song, and the newly christened baby was conveyed back to his
chambers.

Mary felt only relief. It was over. It had happened, in accordance
with Catholic ritual, as she had hoped it would. No horrible event had
occurred to prevent it.

The rest of the company then paraded back across the courtyard through
the row of flaming torches to the great hall, where a banquet
awaited.

Long ceremonial tables were set, with the Queen to be sitting at the
middle of the highest one, the French ambassador on her right hand, the
English on her left. Monsieur du Croc, representing the Duke of Savoy,
took his place at the farthest end. Darnley's place remained empty.

The heralds, macers, and trumpeters preceded the three Masters of the
Household, then came Lord Seton and the Earl of Argyll, each bearing a
white wand of ceremony; they were followed by the entire company of
guests, all holding white torches, so that the whole hall was lighted
and glowing. As the lords and ladies took their places, servants
stepped forward to take the torches, and remained standing all through
the banquet, holding the flambeaux aloft.

The sounds of the banquet rose as the hall grew warmer and wine goblets
were refilled. The musicians had to play louder, and still were
difficult to hear over the din. From up and down the candlelit tables
people were laughing and there seemed to be no constraints, no
bitterness.

Mary's servers came forward to do their duty: the Earl of Huntly, her
carver, cut thin slices of boar meat and venison with his exquisitely
sharp-honed knife; Lord James, the cupbearer, knelt beside her when
offering her a jewelled goblet filled with sweet dark wine. And
Bothwell, her server, presented her with each dish after it had been
paraded around the hall in its ceremonial trappings. His wide chest,
gleaming in the blue costume she had required him to wear, was a bright
background for the silver platters he carried.

As she helped herself to various dishes, he made remarks in a low voice
that only she could hear "This looks a trifle dried out"; "This smells
like dog meat" and she could hardly keep from laughing out loud.

Down near du Croc was seated Lady Bothwell, wearing a beautiful
headdress with a circlet of pearls.

Lady Bothwell, his wife. After the banquet was over, they would retire
together. Then, sometime later, the candles would be quenched, and
they would be alone together in a bed, in the wing of the palace where
all the guests were staying. They would have to be quiet, else their
neighbours would hear. But Bothwell would know how to keep silent,
and

"I am told this trout comes from Lochleven, where it abounds." Bothwell
was standing beside her, with the decorated platter of poached trout.
"It has a most delicate white flesh. Like a boiled nun's wimple," he
whispered.

During the rest of the banquet, she tried to ignore Damley's
thunderously empty place. She thought the ambassadors would comment on
it and interpret it, but no one alluded to it. Perhaps the fact that
he actually was in the castle sufficed to endorse the baptism. She was
stunned that his presence counted for so little, but heartened, too. He
now had no hold over her; there was nothing he could withhold or
threaten her with.

The second course was brought in, the dainty sweet dishes, wheeled in
on a moving stage attended by a band of musicians. Ahead of them ran a
group of actors costumed as satyrs, clearing a way for the wagon,
twirling their tails. The Earl of Bedford and his assistant, a young
courtier named Sir Christopher Hatton, purported to be shocked. "Is
this what happens to us if we partake of your banquet?" asked Hatton.
"Shall we grow tails?"

As she laughed and answered Sir Christopher, she noticed Lord James and
Bothwell talking earnestly in the back of the hall, next to one of the
fireplaces. It surprised her; what would be of such mutual concern to
them?

After the banquet, and the elaborate masque designed by Bastian
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her French master of the household, it was very late. The Lords and
their ladies, the entire company, left the hall and went yawning to
bed.

Mary walked slowly over to the ramparts of the castle, and stood
looking down over the river below, as the guests reeled one by one to
their quarters. It was cold, standing there, but she felt a bit
lightheaded from the heat of the fires, the wine, the music, the
continual need to attend to conversation and make a suitable reply. The
black sky with its hard, bright stars was silent and restorative. A
brisk wind was blowing from the hills, and there was a smell of snow in
the air. Tomorrow, perhaps, it would come, blanketing the countryside
in snow. But the ceremony was over. It was over. Now it could snow
all it liked.

She breathed slowly, letting the cold air soothe her lungs. Gradually
the sound of footsteps on the paving stones ceased around her and she
stood alone.

She was loath to return to her apartments and relive the entire
ceremony with Seton and Flamina, her only remaining Marys. They had
looked radiant, and would relish discussing each detail. But she was
tired of it; she wanted to put it away and not think of it again for a
long, long time. It was over. Excitement, which had flooded and
sustained her, was now draining away, and all she felt was overwhelming
relief, and exhaustion.