There was the giant Earl of Bothwell who had hopes of marrying the Queen-Mother. Was he loyal? How could she know who in this assembly of men was her friend? Scotland was a divided country, a wild country of clans. There was not in Scotland that loyalty to the crown which the English and French Kings commanded.
And I, she thought, am a woman—a Frenchwoman—and my child, not yet five, is the Queen of this alien land.
All eyes were on the little girl. What grace! What beauty! It was apparent even at so young an age. Even those hoary old chieftains were moved by the sight of her. How gracefully she stood! How nobly she held her head! She had all the Stuart beauty and that slight touch of something foreign which came from her French ancestors and which could enhance even the Stuart charm.
“God protect her in all she does,” prayed her mother.
She raised her eyes and caught the flashing ones of Lord James Stuart—Stuart eyes, heavy lidded, not unlike Mary’s, beautiful eyes; and the proud tilt of the head denoted ambition. He was a boy yet in his early teens. But ambition smoldered there. Was he thinking even now: Had my father married my mother, I should be sitting in the chair of state and it would be my hand those men would kiss?
“God preserve my daughter from these Scots!” prayed the Queen-Mother.
Now the little Queen stood while the great chieftains came forward to kiss her hand. She smiled at them—at Arran, at Douglas. They looked so kind. Now came Jamie—dear Jamie. Jamie knelt before her but when he lifted his eyes to her face he gave her a secret wink, and she felt the laughter bubble up within her. It was rather funny that tall, handsome Jamie should kneel before his little sister. She knew why of course, for she had demanded to know. It was because although his mother was not the Queen, the King, her father, had also been Jamie’s father. Mary had other brothers and sisters. It was a pity, she had said to her Marys, that their mothers had not been queens, for it would have been fun to have a large family living about her—even though she was so much younger.
Now her mother would not allow her to stay.
“The Queen is very tired,” she said, “and it is time she was abed.”
Mary wanted to stay. She wanted to talk to Jamie, to ask questions about the dead Cardinal.
But although they all kissed her hand and swore to serve her with their lives, they would not let her stay up when she wanted to. She knew she must show no annoyance. A queen did not show her feelings. Her mother had impressed that upon her.
They all stood at attention while she walked out of the apartment to where her governess, Lady Fleming, was waiting for her.
“Our little Queen does not look very pleased with her courtiers,” said Janet Fleming with one of her gay bursts of laughter.
“No, she is not,” retorted Mary. “I wanted to stay and talk to Jamie. He winked when he kissed my hand.”
“Gentlemen winking at you already—and you the Queen!” cried Janet. Mary laughed. She was very fond of her governess who was also her aunt. For one thing red-haired Janet was very beautiful, and, although no longer in her first youth, was as full of fun as her young charge. She was a Stuart, being the natural daughter of Mary’s grandfather; and little Mary Fleming was her daughter. She could be wheedled into letting the Queen have much of her own way, and Mary loved her dearly.
“He is only my brother,” she said.
“And should be thankful for that,” said Janet. “Were he not, it would be an insult to the crown.”
She went on chattering while Mary was prepared for bed; it was all about dancing, clothes, sport and games, and when her mother came to the apartment Mary had temporarily forgotten the grief which Beaton had aroused in her.
The Queen-Mother dismissed all those who were in attendance on the Queen, so Mary knew that she was going to be reprimanded. It was a strange thing to be a queen. In public no one must scold; but it happened often enough in private.
“You have been crying,” accused Marie of Lorraine. “The traces of tears were on your face when you received the lords.”
Fresh tears welled up in Mary’s eyes at the memory. Poor Beaton! She remembered those desperate choking sobs.
“Did your women not wash your face before you came to the audience?”
“Yes, Maman, but it was such a big grief that it would not come off.”
The Queen-Mother softened suddenly and bent to kiss the little face. Mary laughed and her arms went up immediately about her mother’s neck.
The Queen-Mother was somewhat disturbed. Mary was too demonstrative, always too ready to show her feelings. It was a charming trait, but not right, she feared, in a girl of such an exalted position.
“Now,” admonished Marie, “that is enough. Tell me the reason for these tears.”
“Men have stuck knives into Beaton’s uncle.”
So she knew! thought her mother. How could you keep terrible news from children? Mary had good reason to shed tears. Cardinal Beaton, upholder of the Church of Rome in a land full of heretics, had indeed been her friend. Who would protect her now from those ambitious men?
“You loved the Cardinal then, my daughter?”
“No.” Mary was truthful and spoke without thinking of the effect of her words. “I did not much like him. I cried for poor Beaton.”
Her mother smoothed the chestnut hair, so soft yet so thick, which rippled back from the white forehead. Mary would always weep for the wrong reasons.
“I share little Beaton’s grief,” said the Queen-Mother, “for the Cardinal was not only a good man, he was a good friend.”
“Why did they kill him, Maman?”
“Because of Wishart’s death … so they say.”
“Wishart, Maman? Who is he?”
What am I saying? the Queen-Mother asked herself. I forget she is only a baby. I must keep her from these tales of bloodshed and murder as long as I can.
But Mary was all eager curiosity now. She would find out in some way. Behind those deeply set, beautiful eyes there was an alert mind, thirsting for knowledge.
“Wishart was a heretic, my child, and he paid the penalty of heretics.”
“What penalty was that, Maman?”
“The death which is accorded heretics fell to him.”
”Maman… the flames!”
“How do you know these things?”
How did she know? She was not sure. Had one of her Marys whispered it? Had she seen pictures in the religious books? She covered her face with her hands and the tears began to flow from her eyes.
“Mary! Mary, what has come over you? This is no way to behave.”
“I cannot bear it. He was a Scotsman, and they have burned him… they have burned him right up.”
Marie de Guise was alarmed. A little knowledge was so dangerous, and her daughter was so impulsive. What would she say next? She was precocious. How soon before some of these men began to corrupt her faith? They would do everything in their power to turn her into a heretic. It must not be. For the honor of the Guises, for the glory of the Faith itself, it must not be.
“Listen to me, child. This man Wishart met his just reward, but because the Cardinal was a man of the true faith, Wishart’s friends murdered him.”
“Then they did right! I would murder those who burned my friends.”
“A little while ago you were crying for the Cardinal.”
“No, no,” she interrupted. “For dear Beaton.”
The Queen-Mother hesitated by the bedside. How could she explain all that was in her mind to a child of this one’s age? How could she expect this baby mind to understand? Yet she must protect her from the influence of heretics. How did she know what James Stuart whispered to the child when he pretended to frolic with her? How did she know what Arran and Douglas plotted?