Mary Stuart (7 page)

She was, therefore, determined not to pass over this initial outrage to her dignity as Scotland’s ruler. Such presumption must, in her view, be stamped upon from the first. Only too well did she know with whom she had to deal, never doubting for a moment that it was the bearded heretic preaching from his parochial pulpit who had incited the rabble against her. She would take the man personally to task, and that without delay. Mary Stuart, accustomed to instant obedience on the part of the subjects of a French monarch, all-powerful ruler by divine grace, never imagined for a moment that she would meet with contradiction from one of her own subjects, an ordinary burgher living in the capital of her realm. She was prepared for everything in the world but that anyone should openly and boldly venture to oppose her will. John Knox, however, was not only prepared to do so, but eager and joyfully prepared. “Why should the pleasing face of a gentlewoman frighten me?

I have looked in the faces of many angry men, and yet have not been afraid above measure.” His heart bounded within him as with rapid strides he made his way to the palace for this private colloquy. A fight—and in Knox’s opinion, such a fight was in God’s behalf—is the greatest delight the soul of a fanatic can experience. If God Almighty had given crowns to kings, He had endowed His priests and representatives here below with the gift of uttering fiery words and, in addition, the divine right of speaking them. His duty was to defend God’s reign upon earth; nor must he hesitate to use the flail of his wrath to chastise the insubordinate as of yore did Samuel and the judges described in Holy Writ. The scene that ensued was like one taken out of the Old Testament—regal pride confronted sacerdotal pride; it was not one woman fighting one man to gain the upper hand, but two age-old ideas which were engaged for the thousand thousandth time in bitter strife.

Mary Stuart endeavoured to retain her usually unruffled sweetness and to be forbearing. Sincerely wishful to bring about an understanding, she concealed her mortification, for she had at heart to preserve peace in her realm. It was, therefore, with courteous words that she opened the conversation. John Knox, for his part, was resolved to be as implacable as he pleased and to show the “idolatress” that he was not inclined to bow down an inch before the mighty of this world. Silent and gloomy, not as accused but as accuser, he listened to the counts the Queen had against him. Among other items “she charged me with my book” (
The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women
) wherein he challenged a woman’s right to wield authority. This same work had got him into trouble with Elizabeth, the Protestant sovereign, before whose reproaches he had bowed his head with due meekness; now, in the encounter with his own “unpersuaded princess”, he obstinately maintained his privilege to express such opinions as he honestly held. As had been feared, his intolerance seemed bound to mar all, for gradually the conversation took a more caustic turn. Mary showed a “shrewdness beyond her years”, and there was no little acuteness in her reasoning. She asked him point-blank: “Think you that subjects … should resist their princes?” Instead of giving the negative answer she had expected, Knox, a born tactician, evaded the crucial point by lapsing into parable: “A father may be struck with a frenzy, in which he would slay his children. Now, madam, if the children arise, join together, apprehend the father, take the sword from him, bind his hands and keep him in prison till the frenzy be over, think you, madam, that the children do any harm? Even so is it with princes who would murder the children of God that are subject unto them …”

The Queen was nonplussed by so bold an answer, feeling that by such provisos Knox, the theologian, was for countenancing a revolt against her just rights as sovereign. “Well then,” she retorted briskly, “I perceive that my subjects shall obey you and not me, and will do what they list, and not what I command, and so maun I be subject to them, and not they to me!” This was precisely what Knox had meant, but he was too cautious to say so outright, seeing that Lord James Stuart was present at the interview. Evasively he replied: “God forbid that ever I take upon me to command any to obey me, or set subjects at liberty to do what pleaseth them. My travail is that both princes and subjects may obey God … He craves of kings that they be as foster-fathers and queens as nursing mothers to his Church.” The Queen, sorely vexed by the reformer’s persistent ambiguity, made sharp rejoinder: “But ye are not the Church that I will nourish. I will defend the Church of Rome, for I think it is the true Church of God.”

Blow swiftly followed upon blow. The point had been reached where understanding between a zealous Catholic and a fanatical Protestant, one who “ruleth the roost” and of whom “all men stand in fear”, was impossible. With the rough manners begotten of unceasing controversy and polemic, he retorted: “Your will, madam, is no reason; neither doth your thought make that Roman harlot to be the true and immaculate spouse of Jesus Christ.” And when Mary rebuked him for the use of such words, and pleaded conscience, Master John retaliated provocatively: “Conscience, madam, requires knowledge, and I fear that right knowledge ye have none.” Thus the first interview, instead of bringing reconciliation, only served to make the antagonism between the two more pronounced. “In communication with her I espied such craft as I have not found in such age. Since, hath the court been dead to me and I to it.” Mary had been made to realise that there were limits to her royal power. With head erect, Knox left the audience chamber, proud and pleased at having defied majesty. The young Queen, on the contrary, felt discomfited, knowing that her overtures had received a rebuff. She recognised her own impotence, and gave way to her bitterness of soul in a passion of tears. Nor were these the last she was to weep. Soon she was forced to recognise that power was not a thing inherited once and for all, but had to be fought for in persistent struggle and amid constantly renewed humiliations.

F
OR THREE YEARS AFTER SHE ASSUMED
the reins of government Mary's life was fairly quiet and uneventful. Fate had decreed from the outset that the great happenings of her life were to be concentrated into swift, short episodes, and it is this peculiarity which has always made such appeal to the dramatic instincts of playwrights. Lord James Stuart, now Earl of Moray, and Maitland of Lethington were the real rulers, while Mary acted as figurehead, and this division of forces proved of the utmost advantage to all concerned. Both Moray and Lethington governed wisely and prudently. Mary, too, admirably played the part assigned her. Endowed by nature with beauty and charm, a mistress of the arts of chivalry, virile in her audacity, intrepid as a horsewoman, dextrous in archery and pall-mall, an ardent lover of fowling and the chase, she won all hearts by the grace of her appearance. The commonalty of Edinburgh gazed fondly and proudly on this daughter of the Stuarts when, of a morning, she rode forth with a falcon perched upon her uplifted wrist, surrounded by her gaily dressed court, and returning each salutation with a friendly and joyous smile. Something limpid, something cheerful, something touching and romantic, a ray of youth and beauty, had come like sunshine into this austere and gloomy land with the advent of its girlish Queen. A nation's love is quickly captured by a ruler who is both young and handsome. The lords were more beguiled by what was manly in her composition; she would gallop for hours at a stretch without showing undue fatigue, far in advance of her followers. Just as her gentleness and her kindhearted ways were backed by a latent and invincible pride, so did the lithe, slim, soft, thistledown body, though feminine in its curves, mask a frame of iron, incapable of weariness. No exercise seemed too hard for her endurance; and once, as she rode in a foray, the swordsmen beside her overheard their lady wishing she were a man “to know what life it was to lie all night in the fields.” When Moray marched against the clan of the Huntlys in the north, she declared it her will to go with him, sword at her side and pistols in her belt. She gloried in risk and adventure, and whatever she undertook to do she entered into with her whole soul and body, brought to it all the passion her resolute nature was capable of feeling. But in spite of her manlike courage, her huntsman's simplicity, her warlike valiance and hardihood, when closeted in the apartments of her palace she showed herself a ruler both astute and cool-headed; in the midst of her gay court she would be the gayest of the party, pleasant and familiar in her small world. In her juvenile person the ideals of her epoch seemed to be conjoined—courage with lightheartedness, strength with gentleness. A last ray of the setting sun from the days of troubadour and knight illuminated the misty chill of this northern clime as Mary moved sprightly and gay among its shadows made all the deeper by the gloomy teachings of the Reformation.

Never had the romantic figure of this girl-wife and girl-widow shone more radiantly than in the first years of her third decade, but here, likewise, her triumphs came too early, for she did not understand that they were indeed triumphs, and she therefore failed to make the best use of her advantage. Her inner life had not yet been fully awakened; the woman in her did not yet know what were the claims her blood might make on her; her proper, her deepest self was still unformed and undeveloped. Not until roused by excitement and passion would it reveal its true essence. But the first years of her sojourn in Scotland were a period of indifference and waiting, an aimless, happy-go-lucky passage of time, a preparation for eventualities, without the inner will guessing what it was awaiting or whom. Resembling as it did the taking of a deep breath before great exertion, it was a moment of stagnation, a dead point in her life. For Mary Stuart, having as a maid experienced what it was like to be Queen of one of the mightiest realms in Europe, was not concerned about remaining the ruler of so poor, so small, so out-of-the-way a land as Scotland. Not for this had she returned. Wider ambitions floated before her mind. The crown of Scotland was nothing better than a makeshift which might lead to the winning of a more dazzling one. They err vastly who maintain that Mary Stuart's highest aim was to rule over the heritage her father had left her, in tranquillity and peace and wisdom. To equip her with so small an ambition is to minimise her spiritual and intellectual greatness; for, young though she was, she was already dominated by an untamable and unbridled will-to-power. She who at seventeen had been wedded to a king of France in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, who in the Louvre had been acclaimed as the sovereign lady of millions of subjects, could not rest content with governing a few dozen unruly clodhoppers going by the title of earl or laird, together with a few hundred thousand worthy shepherds and fisherfolk. It is fallacious to ascribe patriotic and nationalistic feelings to a woman who had no such feelings at all. Indeed, these sentiments were only unearthed some centuries after Mary's death! The princes of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries—with the possible exception of Mary's great rival Elizabeth—were not in the habit of considering their peoples, but aimed solely at acquiring personal power. Kingdoms were stitched together and rent asunder as though they had been clothes; states were formed by wars and marriages, and not by any self-determination on the part of the nations concerned. No sentimental motive influenced the creation of such realms. Mary in her day was quite prepared to exchange Scotland's crown for a Spanish, an English, a French or any other available one; no qualm would have assailed her conscience as to the honourability of her conduct in the matter, no tear would have dimmed her eye as she bade farewell to the woods and lakes and romantic castles of her homeland, for her impassioned ambition had led her invariably to look upon her Scottish throne as no more than a jumping-off place to higher and better awards. She knew that by inheritance she had been called to the position of ruler, that her beauty and breeding and culture made her worthy to occupy any throne in Europe; and just as other women of her tender years are wont to dream of immeasurable love, so did she dream but one dream—the dream of immeasurable power.

It was for these reasons that she left the responsibility of government in Moray's and in Lethington's hands, without feeling any jealousy or resentment, and without any interested participation. She allowed the two men to do what they thought wise and advantageous for the country without let or hindrance from her. What did she care about the destinies of this pitiful little realm, she who had so long worn a crown and had so early learnt to expect the acknowledgment of her royal majesty? Among the hundreds of letters she left behind we hardly find a reference to the welfare of her subjects, or a mention of Scotland's rise to a higher position among the world powers. In this she differed notably from her neighbour Elizabeth, who was constantly and earnestly occupied with ways and means for raising her beloved England's status. The administration of her possessions, their aggrandisement, their improvement (one of the most important points in the sphere of politics), did not occupy Mary Stuart's mind. She could defend what was hers, but she could not make it secure. Only when her rights were threatened, when her pride was challenged, only when an alien will set itself up in opposition to her own, would she awaken, combative and irate. Only in supreme moments did this woman prove great and dangerous; at other times she remained an average woman, showing nothing but indifference to what went on around her.

During this comparatively peaceful time, the enmity of her English rival was in abeyance; for whenever the impetuous heart of Mary Queen of Scots was beating tranquilly for a space, Elizabeth too was quiescent. One of the most conspicuous political merits of the daughter of the Tudors was her realism, her willingness to face facts, her disinclination to resist the inevitable. She had done everything in her power to prevent the return of Mary Stuart to Scotland. Now, when the return had taken place, Elizabeth would not waste energy in fighting against actualities, preferring to live on amicable terms so long as she could not sweep her cousin out of her path. One of the strongest positive qualities of Elizabeth's wayward and arbitrary character was that, from motives of prudence and economy, she had a dislike for war, was averse to forcible measures and irrevocable decisions. Her calculating mind made her seek to gain her ends by negotiation. As soon as it was certain that Mary would return to Scotland, James Stuart urged Elizabeth, in moving terms, to enter into an honest friendship with her cousin. “You be … both Queens in the flower of your ages … Your sex will not permit you to advance your glory by war and bloodshed, but in that of a peaceful reign. Neither of you is ignorant from what root the contrary affection proceeds … I wish to God the Queen my sovereign lady had never by any advice taken in head to pretend interest or acclaim any title to Your Majesty's realm, for then I am fully persuaded you would have been and continued as dear friends as you be tender cousins—but now since on her part something hath been thought of it … I fear that unless the root may be removed, it shall ever breed unkindness betwixt you. Your Majesty cannot yield, and she may on the other part think of it hard, being so nigh of the blood of England, to be made a stranger from it! If any mid way could be picked out to remove this difference to both your contentments, then it is like we could have a perpetual quietness …”

Elizabeth was not slow to take the hint. As nothing more than Queen of Scotland, and under the guidance of the Queen of England's pensioner James Stuart, Mary was for the time being less dangerous than she would have been as Queen of both France and Scotland. Why not swear a truce although in her heart she remained hostile? A brisk correspondence between the pair was soon in progress, in which each of the “dear sisters” expressed the most cordial sentiments upon sheets of long-suffering paper. One who reads these epistles today might well believe that nowhere in the world can there have been more affectionate kinswomen than the two cousins. Mary sent Elizabeth a diamond ring; the English Queen reciprocated with a still more valuable trinket; before the world, and before the audience of their own selves, they played the comedy of family love. Mary wrote: “Above all things I desire to see my good sister,” and declared her determination to break the alliance with France, for she appreciated Elizabeth's goodwill “more than all the uncles in the world”. In response, Elizabeth, in the large, formal handwriting which she kept in reserve for important occasions, gave Mary extravagantly worded assurances of fondness and fidelity. But as soon as the question of a binding agreement arose, and a personal meeting loomed nigh, both the correspondents grew cautious and evasive. The negotiations which had been proceeding so long were still at a deadlock. Mary Stuart would not sign the treaty of Edinburgh recognising Elizabeth's position until Elizabeth had accorded the succession to Mary—but to Elizabeth this would have been tantamount (so she thought) to signing her own death warrant. Neither would waive a particle of the rights they severally claimed; so, in the long run, the flowery phrases they interchanged barely concealed the unbridgeable chasm. As Genghis Khan resolutely declared: “There cannot be two suns in the sky or two Khans on the earth.” One of the women must give way, Elizabeth Tudor or Mary Stuart. Both realised this, and both were awaiting the appointed hour. But since the hour had not yet struck, why should they not enjoy a period of truce? The truce would be brief. When mistrust is ineradicable, a reason will soon be found for giving it vent in action.

In these years the young Queen had many minor troubles: she was often bored by affairs of state, more and more did she feel out of her element among these hard-fisted and quarrelsome nobles, and she was continually harassed by implacable churchmen and wily intriguers. At such hours she took refuge, imaginatively, in France, which she continued to regard as her true home. Since she could not leave Scotland, she had established a Little France for herself in the palace of Holy-rood, a tiny corner of the world where, withdrawn from inquisitive eyes, she could follow her most heartfelt inclinations. It was her Trianon. In the round tower of Holyrood she had her rooms equipped after the French model, with Gobelins brought from Paris, Turkey carpets, ornate beds and other furnishings, pictures in gilt frames, her finely bound books—Erasmus, Rabelais, Ariosto, Ronsard. Here they talked French and lived French. In the evening, by the light of flickering candles, music was performed, round games were played, verses were read aloud and madrigals were sung. For the first time, at this miniature court, were staged on the western side of the North Sea and the Channel those masques which were subsequently to attain their highest blossoming in the English theatre. Dancing would continue till long after midnight. In one of the masques,
The Purpose,
Mary appeared as a young man, wearing black silk breeches, while Chastelard wore a woman's gown—a sight which would certainly have aroused the fury of John Knox!

Puritans, zealots and mutinous warriors had not the entry to these scenes of merriment. Vainly did the Calvinist preacher, his beard swinging like a pendulum, rail in St Giles' pulpit against these “souparis” and “dansaris”. Here is an extract from one of his sermons: “Princes are more exercised in fiddling and flinging than in reading or hearing of God's most blessed Word … Musicians and flatterers, these corrupters of youth, please them better than do men old and wise” (of whom is our self-righteous friend thinking?) “who desire with their salutary exhortations to tame some of that pride which is our common and sinful heritage.” But the members of this young and gay circle had little desire for the “salutary exhortations” of the “killjoy”. The four Marys, and a few noblemen whose tastes had been moulded in the French court, found it agreeable, in rooms which (for the day) were well warmed and well lit, to forget the gloom of this austere and tragical country. More than all was Queen Mary herself gladdened at being able to lay aside the cloak of majesty, and to become a cheerful young woman among companions of her own age and her own way of thinking.