The Wild Queen (21 page)

I have no wife as yet.
Though Bothwell had said he was pledged to Anna Throndssen, those few words returned to me over and over, giving me the foolish hope there might be more such intimate moments between us. But why would I wish for such a thing? Lord Bothwell was an earl, but he was not of sufficient rank or standing to deserve a place on my list of prospective second husbands. My mind raced on.
If not as husband, then as lover?
I had never considered such a possibility, though the shocking suggestion had reached me more than once while François was still alive that perhaps I
should
take a lover in order to ensure the succession.

As it happened, the terrace where I stood musing overlooked the main entrance to the château. Below me Lord Bothwell and his gentlemen were mounting their horses. As I leaned on the parapet, he turned and looked up in my direction. For a moment we gazed at each other.

I could call down to him,
I thought.
“Wait just a moment,” I could say. “I've thought of something.” And he would race up the stone steps, two at a time, and then...

And then
what?

I raised my hand. Lord Bothwell saluted me. Then he turned, leaped onto his horse, and rode away without a backward glance.

***

The farewells continued. At the end of July, while the court was spending the summer at Saint-Germain, I made my goodbyes to young King Charles, who had been crowned in May. His mother and a number of princes of the blood and members of the nobility were on hand to honor me. My rank as the dowager queen of France and as queen of Scotland meant that I could not be ignored. Queen Catherine behaved cordially, assured that I was indeed leaving and would not inconvenience her much longer by my presence.

My Guise family—uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews—turned out in force for the final four-day fête. After the feasting and music and entertainments ended, I set out with a large retinue for Calais, where the Scottish flotilla awaited me. It was a slow and roundabout journey meant to confuse any English spies who might be watching for me. All went smoothly, save for a crisis with La Flamin. Jean-Luc would not accompany us, and Marie Fleming was furious.

“Perhaps he will join us later,” I said, assuming that Jean-Luc had not been able to leave his commission with the royal guard.

“The devil take him!” she raved. “He has lied to me about everything! He has no royal blood, no money, and no prospects. What he
does
have is a wife and a wee bairn on the way. I am well rid of him.” She tossed her head of fiery curls, and the subject was closed.

***

On the tenth of August we arrived in Calais, where we rested to prepare ourselves for the sea journey that the lord high admiral, the earl of Bothwell, promised me would take only a few days. We would pass through waters heavily patrolled by English ships, and though I had been refused safe passage by the queen of England, I would not be deterred. Had not the lord high admiral assured my safety?

When we boarded our galley under a hazy sun, I was pleased to see at the helm the very same Captain Villegagnon who had brought us to France all those years ago, his face weathered and his hair now streaked with gray. The anchor chain rattled, the sails were hoisted, and our galley moved slowly away from the dock. But before we had left the harbor, one of our smaller ships collided with a fishing boat, which sank quickly. Though the captain immediately dispatched rescuers and I offered generous rewards to all who could save lives, no survivors were found.

“What a terrible omen!” I cried, badly shaken by this unfortunate occurrence.

It was clear that nothing more could be done to save the victims, and Captain Villegagnon gave the order for our ships to continue. This was a deeply distressing start for my voyage. Again I had cause to wonder at the awful events that somehow seemed to follow me and to ask myself if I was somehow responsible.

As my galley sailed northward through the Strait of Dover, I stood on the deck and watched the coastline of France grow smaller and smaller. My courage suddenly deserted me. “Adieu,
ma chère
France.” I sobbed, clinging to the rail. “Adieu! Adieu! I fear that I shall never again return.”

L
EAVING
F
RANCE FOR
S
COTLAND
was only the beginning, the first of the tests I faced as I sought to establish my authority where it had not existed for nineteen years. In those early months my confidence grew and I accomplished a great deal. But I also made some miscalculations and committed a few errors in regard to my fellow Scots and my cousin Queen Elizabeth of England.

For those and other misjudgments, I now pay dearly with my freedom.

THE CAPTAIN ORDERED
the two great galleys to make all speed to avoid the English ships. The slower ships carrying my furniture and tapestries and plate, as well as my gowns and furs, plus additional vessels with more than a hundred mules and horses and their equipage were to follow as they could.

After an ominous start with the sinking of the fishing boat, the voyage could not have been more perfect. The weather presented no problems. Each day, entertainments were arranged and fine feasts prepared for me and my large retinue. Gradually my grief lessened, my optimism was renewed, and I once again believed that I had much to look forward to. A new life was about to begin!

Only five days after leaving Calais, we arrived before dawn at the coast of Scotland. I awakened early, too excited to sleep, and stepped out on deck. The sun had not yet risen, and our galley groped its way slowly up the Firth of Forth through a thick fog. Dressed in a light summer gown and veil of purest white, the proper dress for a widowed queen of France, I shivered in the early-morning chill and asked for a black woolen cloak to be brought.

Captain Villegagnon appeared on deck out of the fog. “We shall soon reach the pier, madame,” he said. “We have arrived in record time!”

The oarsmen brought the galley to the pier in the port city of Leith, and all hands leaped to their duties of docking the great ship. My ladies, their eyes still heavy with sleep, joined me on deck. The pier bustled with activity—commercial ships unloading cargo, fishing vessels fading in and out of the fog that shrouded the harbor—but there was no sign of any officials to greet me.

If I had expected the royal welcome and cheering crowds to which I was surely entitled
—Our queen has come home at last!—I
was due for a disappointment. I, who had since early childhood always been treated with the courtesy due a monarch, arrived in Scotland to discover that no one was expecting me and no preparations had been made.

“Where is everyone?” asked Beaton. “Is no one here to celebrate the arrival of the queen?”

It was a mystery, but I made light of it, and Captain Villegagnon tried to excuse it by explaining that favorable winds had brought us to our destination much earlier than anyone had anticipated. “Then let the people know, by whatever means you have, that their queen is here,” I told him.

The captain bowed and gave an order. Shortly afterward the small cannons mounted on the deck of the galley were fired, making a deafening roar. That caught the attention of the townspeople, and soon residents were flocking to the harbor, excited young boys and girls running ahead followed at a slower pace by their more sedate elders.

A ruddy-faced gentleman named Andrew Lamb appeared, shirttails untucked and cap askew, and made a little speech of welcome in the Scots language, apologizing for the absence of the officials and explaining that since his home overlooked the harbor and he personally had observed the arrival of the royal galley, he had made preparations for us. “My home is ready to receive you, my lady queen,” he said, bowing deeply.

Lamb signaled to his servants to lead out a half a dozen shaggy ponies for my ladies and me, and he invited the others to follow on foot. He led the way up a winding path to a large but plain manor house, where his wife and three maidservants greeted us with shy, flustered smiles. They took us inside and soon made us comfortable in simple surroundings. To my delight, there was a pot of oat porridge bubbling on the hearth, and there was fresh cream from the cow sheltered in a nearby shed. Soon the Four Maries and I had washed and eaten and refreshed ourselves; the young daughters of the household gazed wide-eyed at their royal guest, and the sons were dispatched to inform the mayor and other officials of their queen's arrival.

It was all so ill organized that I could only laugh.

The first to appear was my brother James, accompanied by an escort of Scottish lords. My brother and I greeted each other cordially, and I heard again the explanation for the absence of the proper formal welcome I might reasonably have expected.

“No one thought you would arrive so soon!” he boomed. “Preparations are being made for you at Holyrood Palace, and you will be conveyed there before nightfall.”

By midday the fog had lifted, and the northern sun worked its way through the remaining haze. A fine meal was prepared and served by Mistress Lamb and her neighbors, summoned along with their servants to assist her. The poor woman found herself with a number of unexpected visitors to feed that day, and she rose to the occasion admirably. Her simple, warm-hearted hospitality charmed me, so rather than feeling I had not been accorded the proper respect from my subjects, I was well pleased. The “auld language” was soon rolling off my tongue, haltingly at first, and then with greater ease as the day wore on.

Late in the afternoon my retinue and I were provided with mounts to ride the short distance to my residence just outside the ancient walls of Edinburgh proper. Livingston looked askance at the mount offered to her, a horse sturdy enough to serve as a draft animal. The most accomplished equestrienne of the Four Maries, she was used to a sleek, smooth-gaited palfrey.

“What sorry-looking beasts!” our Lusty muttered in French, assuming that no one would understand. “These mounts would never be allowed to carry a Frenchwoman!”

Her assumption was incorrect; James understood her perfectly. “But each has four legs and a broad back,” he told her in French, “and that is all you should require, Madame Livingston.” He laughed heartily as she blushed furiously.

By the time we left the hospitality of the Lambs on borrowed horses with borrowed saddles and reins, jubilant crowds had gathered all along the route my brother had chosen. My cavalcade reached the High Street, the road extending from Edinburgh Castle at the top all the way down to Holyrood Palace and the old abbey for which the palace had been named at the bottom.

Lord James rode beside me. “Mary,” he said—he was the first to call me again by my Scots name—“if you look up at the house we are now passing, you may see the face of John Knox, the Protestant reformer, scowling down at you.”

That dour preacher had not been able to find a single kind word for my mother at the time of her death—I had heard this from the earl of Bothwell. And when Knox learned of my intent to return to Scotland, he had said, according to the Scottish bishop who visited me in France, “She brings with her only sorrow, dolor, darkness, and impiety.”

Sorrow, dolor, darkness, and impiety indeed! “If John Knox is watching me from his window, I prefer to remain unaware of it,” I told my brother. “I will not give him that satisfaction.”

Smiling and waving, I acknowledged the cheers of my subjects as we passed through the Netherbow Port in the ancient city walls and continued on to Holyrood Palace. At last, I was home!

L
ED BY A DOZEN
S
COTTISH LORDS
, we crossed the iron drawbridge and rode into the forecourt of Holyrood Palace. I leaned forward eagerly in my saddle and absorbed my first sight of it. The sun, still thinly veiled, lent the stone edifice a soft golden glow. For the first time, I would be in my own palace. This was not a château belonging to the French crown. This was mine!

The palace dated back centuries but had been remodeled in its present form by my father for his first wife, Madeleine. I could see at a glance its resemblance to the beautiful châteaux in France. It must have pleased Queen Madeleine, though she had lived here for only forty days before she died. Surrounded by a lush wilderness, Holyrood stood protected from the harsh winds and rains blowing in from the sea by a low mountain covered with greenery. “Called Arthur's Seat,” James explained.

He had forgotten that I had never before been to Edinburgh. My mother, fearful of an English attack and kidnapping, had not brought me here. and would certainly have followed me into the quadrangle had Lord James not called upon his men to form a protective cordon. I turned my horse and faced the crowd. “Good people of Scotland,” I cried, speaking in Scots, “I rejoice to be at home among you!”

They roared back their approval. Lord James helped me to dismount and escorted me to the central entrance. As we stepped inside the quadrangle around which the rooms of the palace were arranged, I was disturbed to see that it was entirely empty. The royal dining room had neither table nor benches. The throne room was bare. No portraits hung in the great gallery. My own furniture—beds, chests, tables, tapestries—were still on ships somewhere at sea. I looked to my brother for an explanation.

“If Queen Elizabeth has not ordered them seized, they should arrive here within a few days,” Lord James assured me. “The horses and mules may take longer.”

“But my mother's furniture—where is that?” I asked.

“Stored away,” my brother offered with a careless shrug.

“Could it not have been removed from storage when you knew that I was coming?” I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice. Where was I to sleep tonight? And what arrangements were being made for the Four Maries, as well as for my servants and staff?