HERE YOU STEP INTO THE FOG
Now, when they had been three days at sea, standing off Flamborough in
England, the wind veered to the southeast, and dropped very soon. They
had to row the ships for lack of meat for the sails to fill themselves;
the face of the world was changed, the sun blotted out. It became chilly,
with a thin rain; there drew over the sea a curtain of soft fog which
wrapped them up as in a winding-sheet, and seemed to clog the muscles
of men’s backs, so that scarcely way could be made. In this white
darkness—for such it literally was—the English took the Earl of Eglinton
in his ship, silently, without a cry to be heard; but in it also they
lost the Queen’s and all the rest of her convoy. Rowing all night and all
next day, sounding as they went in a sea like oil, the Scots company drew
past St. Abb’s, guessed at Dunbar, found and crept under the ghost of the
Bass, came at length with dripping sheets into Leith Road by night, and
so stayed to await the morn. They fired guns every hour; nobody slept on
board.
That night which they began with music, some dancing and playing
forfeits, was one of deathly stillness. The guns made riot by the clock;
but the sea-fog drugged all men’s spirits. The Queen was pensive, and
broke up the circle early. She went to bed, and lay listening, as she
said, to Scotland. As it wore towards dawn she could have heard, if yet
wakeful, great horns blown afar off on the shore, answering her guns,
the voices of men and women, howling, quarrelling, or making merry after
their fashion; steeple bells; sometimes the knocking of oars as unseen
boats rowed about her. Once the sentry on the upper deck challenged: ‘Qui
va là?’ in a shrill voice. There was smothered laughter, but no other
reply. He fired his piece, and there came a great scurry in the water,
which woke the Queen with a start.
‘Was that the English guns? Are we engaged?’
‘No, no, madam; you forget. We are in our own land by now, safe between
the high hills of Scotland. ’Twas some folly of the guard.’
She was told it had gone six o’clock, and insisted on rising. Father
Roche, her confessor, said mass; and after that Mary Seton had a good
tale for her private ear. Monsieur de Bourdeilles, it seems, the merry
gentleman, had held Monsieur de Châtelard embraced against his will under
one blanket all night, to warm himself. This Monsieur de Châtelard, a
poet of some hopefulness, owned himself Queen Mary’s lover, and played
the part with an ardour and disregard of consequence which are denied to
all but his nation. A lover is a lover, whether you admit him or not;
his position, though it be self-chosen, is respectable: but no one could
refuse the merits of this story. Monsieur de Bourdeilles was sent for—a
wise-looking, elderly man.
‘Sieur de Brantôme,’ says the Queen—that was his degree in the world—‘how
did you find the warmth of Monsieur de Châtelard?’
‘Upon my faith, madam,’ says he, ‘your Majesty should know better than I
did whether he is alight or not.’
‘I think that is true,’ said Queen Mary; ‘but now also you will have
learned, as I have, to leave him alone.’
* * * * *
The Grand Prior—a Guise, the Queen’s uncle and a portly man—came in to
see his niece. He reported a wan light spread abroad: one might almost
suppose the sun to be somewhere. If her Majesty extinguished the candles
her Majesty would still be able to see. It was curious. He considered
that a landing might be made, for news of the ships was plainly come
ashore. Numberless small boats, he said, were all about, full of people
spying up at the decks. Curious again: he had been much entertained.
‘You shall show yourself to them, madam, if you will be guided by me,’
says Mary Livingstone. The Grand Prior was not against it.
‘Well,’ says the Queen, ‘let us go, then, to see and be seen.’
One of the maids—Seton, I gather—made an outcry: ‘Oh, ma’am, you will
never go to them in your white weed!’
‘How else, child?’
Seton caught at her hand. ‘Like the bonny Queen Mab—like the Fairy Vivien
that charmed Tamlane out of his five wits. Thus you should go!’
The Queen turned blushing to the Grand Prior.
‘How shall I show myself, good uncle?’
‘My niece, you are fair enough now.’
‘Is it true?’ she said. ‘Then I will be fairer yet. Get me what you will;
make a queen of me. Fleming, you shall choose.’
Mary Fleming, a gentle beauty, considered the case. ‘I shall dress your
Majesty in the white and green,’ she declared, and was gone to get it.
So they dressed her in white and green, with a crown of stars for her
hair, and covered her in a carnation hood against the cold. Then she
was brought out among the four of them to lean on the poop and see the
people. A half-circle of stately, cloaked gentlemen—all French, and
mainly Guises—stood behind; but Monsieur de Châtelard, shaking like a
leaf, sought the prop of a neighbouring shoulder for his arm. It was
modestly low, and belonged to Des-Essars, the new page.
‘My gentle youth,’ said the poet, after thanking him for his services,
‘I am sick because I love. Do you see that smothered goddess? Learn then
that I adore her, and so was able to do even in the abominable arms of
Monsieur de Brantôme.’
‘I also consider her Majesty adorable,’ replied the page with gravity;
‘but I do not care to say so openly.’
‘If your wound be not kept green,’ Monsieur de Châtelard reproved him,
‘if it is covered up, it mortifies, you bleed internally, and you die.’
Des-Essars bowed. ‘Why, yes, sir. There is no difficulty in that.’
‘Far from it, boy—far from it! Exquisite ease, rather.’
‘It is true, sir,’ said Des-Essars. ‘Well! I am ready.’
‘And I, boy, must get ready. Soothsayers have assured me that I shall die
in that lady’s service.’
‘I intend to live in it,’ said Des-Essars; ‘for she chose me to it
herself.’
Monsieur de Châtelard considered this alternative. ‘Your intention is
fine,’ he allowed; ‘but my fate is the more piteous.’
Whether the people knew their Queen or not, they gave little sign
of it. They seemed to her a grudging race, unwilling to allow you
even recognition. She had been highly pleased at first: watched them
curiously, nodded, laughed, kissed her hand to some children—who hid
their faces, as if she had put them to shame. Some pointed at her, some
shook their heads; none saluted her. Most of them looked at the foreign
servants: a great brown Gascon sailor, who leaned half-naked against the
gunwale; a black in a yellow turban; a saucy Savoyard girl with a bare
bosom; and some, nudging others, said, ‘A priest! a priest!’—and one, a
big, wild, red-capped man, stood up in his boat, and pointed, and cried
out loud, ‘To hell with the priest!’ The cold curiosity, the uncouth drab
of the scene, the raw damp—and then this savage burst—did their work
on her. She was sensitive to weather, and quick to read hearts. Being
chilled, her own heart grew heavy. ‘I wish to go away. They stare; there
is no love here,’ she said, and went down the companion, and sat in her
pavilion without speaking. She let Mary Livingstone take her hand. At
that hour, I know, her thought was piercingly of France, and the sun, and
the peasant girls laughing to each other half across the breezy fields.
Barges came to board the Queen’s galley; strong-faced gentlemen, muffled
in cloaks, sat in the stern; all others stood up—even the rowers,
who faced forward like Venetians and pushed rather than pulled the
slow vessels. Running messengers kept her informed of arrivals: the
Provost of Edinburgh was come, the Captain of the Castle, the Lord of
Lethington, Maitland by name, secretary to her mother the late Queen; her
half-brothers, the Lords James and Robert Stuart, and more—all civil, all
with stiff excuses that preparations were so backward. She would see none
but her brothers, and, at the Lord James’ desire, Mr. Secretary Maitland
of Lethington. Him she discerned to be a taut, nervous, greyish man, with
a tired face. She was prepared to like him for her mother’s sake; but
he was on his guard, unaccountably, and she too dispirited to pursue.
Des-Essars, in his _Secret Memoirs_, says that he remembers to have
noticed, young as he was, how this Lethington’s eyes always sought those
of the Lord James before he spoke. ‘Sought,’ he says, ‘but never found
them.’ Sharply observed for a boy of fourteen.
Well, here was a dreary beginning, which must nevertheless be pushed to
some kind of ending. Before noon she was landed—upon a muddy shore, the
sea being at the ebb—without cloth of estate, or tribune, or litter, with
a few halberdiers to make a way for her through a great crowd. She looked
at the ooze and slimy litter. ‘Are we amphibians in Scotland?’ she asked
her cousin D’Elbœuf. His answer was to splash down heroically into the
mess and throw his cloak upon it. ‘Gentlemen,’ he cried out in his own
tongue, ‘make a Queen’s way!’ He had not long to wait. A tragic cry from
Monsieur de Châtelard informed all Leith that he was wading ashore. Fine,
but retarding action! His cloak was added late to a long line of them—all
French: the Marquis’s, the Grand Prior’s, Monsieur D’Amville’s, Monsieur
de Brantôme’s, Monsieur de La Noue’s, many more. There were competitions,
encouraging cries, great enthusiasm. The people jostled each other to get
a view; the Scots lords looked staidly on, but none offered their cloaks.
Thus it was that she touched Scottish soil, as Mr. Secretary remarked
to himself, through a foreign web. A little stone house, indescribably
mean and close, was open to her to rest in while the horses were made
ready. Thither came certain lords—Earls of Argyll and Atholl, Lords
Erskine, Herries, and others—to kiss hands. She allowed it listlessly,
not distinguishing friend from unfriend. All faces seemed alike to her:
wooden, overbold, weathered faces, clumsy carvings of an earlier day,
with watchful, suspicious eyes put in them to make them alive. Her ladies
were with her, and her uncles. The little room was filled to overflowing,
and in and out of the passage-ways elbowed the French gallants shouting
for their grooms. No one was allowed to have any speech with the Queen,
who sat absorbed and unobservant in the packed assembly, a French guard
all about her, with Mary Livingstone kneeling beside her, whispering
French comfort in her ear.
Above the surging and the hum of the shore could be heard the beginnings
of clamour. The press at the doors was so great they could scarcely
bring up the horses; and when the hackbutters beat them back the people
murmured. Monsieur D’Amville’s charger grew restive and backed into
the crowd: they howled at him for a Frenchman, and were not appeased
to discover by the looks of him that he was proud of the fact. There
was much sniffing and spying for priests,—well was it for Father Roche
and his mates that, having been warned, they lay still among the ships,
intending not to land till dusk. How was her Majesty to be got out? It
seemed that she was a prisoner. The Master of the Horse could do nothing
for his horses; the Master of the Household was penned in the doorway.
If it had not been for the Lord James, Queen Mary must have spent the
night on the sea-shore. But the people fell back this way and that when,
bareheaded, he came out of the house. ‘Give way there—make a place,’ he
said, in a voice hardly above the speaking tone; and way and place were
made.
Two or three of the French lords observed him. ‘He has the gestures of a
king, look you.’
‘You are right; and, they tell me, a king’s desires. Do you see that he
measures them with his eye before he speaks, as if to judge what strength
he should use?’
They brought up the horses; the Queen came out. Up a steep, straggling
street, finally, they rode in some kind of broken order, in a lane cut,
as it were, between dumb walls of men and women. Monsieur de Brantôme
remarked to his neighbour that it was for all the world as if travelling
mountebanks were come to town. Very few greeted her, none seemed to
satisfy any feeling but curiosity. They pointed her out to one another.
‘Yonder she goes. See, yonder, in the braw, cramoisy hood!’ ‘See, man,
the bonny long lass!’ ‘I mind,’ said one, ‘to have seen her mother
brought in. Just such another one.’ Some cried, ‘See you, how she arches
her fine neck.’ Others, ‘She hath the eyes of all her folk.’ ‘A dangerous
smiler: a Frenchwoman just.’
She did not hear these things, or did not notice them, being slow to
catch at the Scots tongue. But one wife cried shrilly, ‘God bless that
sweet face!’ and that she recognised, and laughed her glad thanks to the
kindly soul.
Most eyes were drawn to the French princes, and missed her in following
them and their servants. The Grand Prior made them wonder: his
stateliness excused him the abhorred red cross; but chief of them all
seemed Monsieur de Châtelard, very splendid in white satin and high
crimson boots, and a tall feather in his cap. Some thought he was the
Pope’s son, some the Prince of Spain come to marry the Queen; but,
‘Havers, woman, ’tis just her mammet,’ said one in Mary Beaton’s hearing.
The Queen laughed when this was explained to her, and remembered it for
Monsieur de Brantôme. But she only laughed those two times between Leith
shore and Holyroodhouse.
Her spirits mended after dinner. She held an informal court, and set
herself diligently to please and be pleased. She desired the Lord
of Lethington, in the absence of a Lord Chamberlain, to make the
presentations; he was to stand by her side and answer all questions. He
spoke her language with a formal ease which she found agreeable, betrayed
a caustic humour now and again, was far more to her taste than at first.
She saw the old Duke of Châtelherault and his scared son, my Lord of
Arran.
‘Hamiltons, madam,’ said Lethington tersely, and thought he had said
all; but she had to be told that they claimed to stand next in blood to
herself and the throne of Scotland.
‘The blood has been watered, it seems to me,’ she said. ‘One can see
through that old lord.’
‘Madam, that is his greatest grief. He cannot, if he would, conceal his
pretensions.’
‘Explain yourself, sir.’
‘Madam, you can see that he is empty. But he pretends to fulness.’
‘And that white son of his, my Lord of Arran? Does he too pretend to be
full—in the head, for example?’
She embarrassed Mr. Secretary.
Mary Livingstone, at this point, came to her flushed and urgent: ‘Madam,
madam, my good father!’ A jolly gentleman was before her, who, in the
effusion of his loyalty, forgot to kneel. ‘Your knees, my lord, your
knees!’ his daughter whispered; but the fine man replied, ‘No, no, my
bairn. I stand up to fight for the Queen, and she shall e’en see all my
gear.’
Queen Mary, not ceremonious by nature, smiled and was gracious: they
conversed by these signs of the head and mouth, for he had no French.
To go over names would be tedious, and so might have proved to her
Majesty had not Lethington fitted each sharply with a quality. Such a
man was of her Majesty’s religion—my Lord Herries, now; such of Mr.
Knox’s—see that square-browed, frowning Lord of Lindsay. Mr. Knox had
reconciled this honourable man and his wife. It was whispered—this for
her Majesty’s ear!—that all was not well between my Lord of Argyll and
his lady, her Majesty’s half-sister. Would Mr. Knox intervene? At her
Majesty’s desire beyond doubt he would do it. The Duke of Châtelherault
held all the west as appanage of the Hamiltons, except a small territory
round about Glasgow, to which her Majesty’s kinsman Lennox laid claim.
The claim was faint, since the Lennox was in England. It was supposed
that fear of the Hamiltons kept him there; but if her Majesty would be
pleased she could reconcile the two houses.
The Queen blinked her eyes. ‘Reconciliation seems to be your Mr. Knox’s
prerogative. I have not yet learned from you what mine may be.’
‘Yours, madam,’ said Lethington, ‘is the greater, because gentler,
hand—to put it no higher than that! Moreover, the Stuarts of Lennox share
your Majesty’s faith; and Mr. Knox——’
‘Ah,’ cried the Queen, ‘I conceive your Mr. Knox is Antipope!’
Mr. Secretary confessed that some had called him so.
‘And what does my cousin Châtelherault call him?’ she asked.
He explained that the Duke paid him great respect.
‘Let me understand you,’ said Queen Mary. ‘The Duke is master of the
west, and Mr. Knox of the Duke. Who is master of Mr. Knox?’
‘Oh, madam, he will serve your Majesty. I am sure of him.’
She was not so sure: she wondered. Then she found that she was frowning
and pinching her lip, so broke into a new line.
‘Let us take the south, Monsieur de Lethington. Who prevails in those
parts?’
He told her that there were many great men to be considered there: my
Lord Herries, my Lord Hume, the Earl of Bothwell. This name interested
her, but she was careful not to single it out.
‘And is Mr. Knox the master of these?’
‘Not so, madam. My Lord Herries is of the old religion; and my Lord of
Bothwell——’
‘Does he laugh?’
‘I fear, madam, it is a mocking spirit.’
‘Why,’ says she, ‘does he laugh at Mr. Knox?’
Mr. Secretary detected the malice. ‘Alas! your Majesty is pleased to
laugh at her servant.’
‘Well, let us leave M. de Boduel to his laughter. Who rules the north?’
‘The Earl of Huntly is powerful there, madam.’
‘I have had intelligence of him. He is a Catholic. Well, well! And now
you shall tell me, Mr. Secretary, where my own kingdom is.’
‘Oh, madam, it is in the hearts of your people. You have all Scotland at
your feet.’
‘Let us take a case. Have I, for example, your Mr. Knox at my feet?’
‘Surely, madam.’
‘We shall see. I tell you fairly that I do not choose to be at his. He
has written against women, I hear. Is he wed?’
‘Madam, he is twice a widower.’
‘He is severe. But he should be instructed in his theme. He may have
reason. Where is my brother?’
‘The Lord James is at his prayers, madam.’
‘I hope he will remember me there. I see that I shall need advocacy.’
Her head ached, her eyes were stiff with watching. She said her
good-night and retired. At that hour there was a great shouting and
crying in the courtyard, and out of the midst there spired a wild music
of rebecks, fiddles, scrannel-pipes, and a monstrous drum out of tune.
The French lords said, ‘Tenez, on s’amuse!’ and raised their eyebrows.
The Queen shivered over a sea-coal fire. Now at last she remembered all
fair France, saw it in one poignant, long look inwards, and began to cry.
‘I am a fool, a fool—but, oh me! I am wretched,’ she said, and rocked
herself about. The comfort of women—kisses, strokings, mothering arms—was
applied; they put her to bed, and Mary Livingstone sat by her. This young
woman was in high feather, surveyed the prospect with calmness, not at
all afraid. Her father, she said, had put before her the desires of all
those gentry: he had never had such court paid him in his long life. This
it was to be father to a maid of honour. The Duke had taken him apart
before dinner, urging the suit of his son Arran for the Queen’s hand. The
Lord James had spoken of an earldom; Lethington could not see enough of
him. ‘Hey, my lamb,’ she ended, stroking the Queen’s hot face, ‘we will
have them all at your feet ere this time seven days; and a lass in her
teens shall sway wild Scotland!’ The Queen sighed, and snuggled her cheek
into the open hand.
Just as she was dozing off there was to be heard a scurry of feet along
the corridor, the crash of a door admitting a burst of sound—in that, the
shiver of steel on steel, a roar of voices, a loud cry above all, ‘He
hath it! He hath it!’ The Queen started up and held her heart. ‘What do
they want of me? Is it Mr. Knox?’ Livingstone ran into the antechamber
among the huddling women there. Des-Essars came to them bright-eyed to
say it was nothing. It was Monsieur D’Elbœuf fighting young Erskine about
a lady. The duel had been arranged at supper. They had cleared the tables
for the fray.