The Ballad of the Five Marys Read online

  DONALD SMITH Is the author of two previous historical novels, The English Spy and Between Ourselves. He is also internationally respected for his role in the renaissance of traditional arts, Director of the Scottish Storytelling Centre and an experienced playwright and theatre producer. His non-fiction includes Storytelling Scotland: A Nation in Narrative, God, the Poet and the Devil: Robert Burns and Religion and most recently Arthur’s Seat: Journeys and Evocations, co-authored with Stuart McHardy. A selection of Donald Smith’s narrative and dramatic poetry, A Long Stride Shortens the Road, was published in 2004 to mark the opening of the new Scottish Parliament at Holyrood, and his book on the Scottish independence debate, Freedom and Faith: A Question of Scottish Identity is also published this year. Born in Glasgow to an Irish mother, Donald Smith was a postgraduate student at Edinburgh University’s School of Scottish Studies, where the combined influence of Naomi Mitchison and Hamish Henderson diverted him from academe to the arts. Donald Smith led the final successful campaign for a National Theatre of Scotland, of which he was a founding Director. He has five children and one grandson.

  Praise for Donald Smith’s previous work:

  The English Spy

  Donald Smith is master of the spying game. THE SCOTSMAN

  Smith does a thoroughly good job of conjuring up the Edinburgh of 1706 and the wheeling, dealing and politicking that went on to get the Union through the Scottish Parliament… Anyone interested in the months that saw the birth of modern Britain should enjoy this book. THE SUNDAY HERALD

  Excellent… a vivid sense of time and place. THE HERALD

  The English Spy shows us how this story, like all important stories, is all, and always, in the making. SCOTTISH REVIEW OF BOOKS

  Compelling from the opening sentence to the last word. LIFE AND WORK

  Between Ourselves

  The evocation of atmosphere is superb. THE TABLET

  The raciness of the prose Smith gives to Burns strikes the same tone as Byron… a convincing picture of the Edinburgh of the late eighteenth century. THE SCOTSMAN

  Few of us would try to capture a great artist’s voice in prose, but Burns’ voice here is a convincing one. THE HERALD

  Smith can certainly carry a tale – and who is to say his interpretation does not go close to the heart of a great love story. THE DAILY MAIL

  God, the Poet and the Devil

  As Donald Smith points out in his superb new book, Burns’ belief in God is strong, though at times he is overwhelmed by the mystery of God and the difficulty of finding language to speak of the divine. THE HERALD

  Donald Smith is a superb guide through this territory. LIFE AND WORK

  Beautifully and clearly written I read it at one sitting with joy. RICHARD HOLLOWAY

  Arthur’s Seat: Journeys and Evocations, with Stuart McHardy

  In walking the paths, we somehow write our own meaning and value into the stones themselves, so that they touch us personally. THE SCOTSMAN

  The remarkable guide to Edinburgh’s famous landmark… hidden secrets and long forgotten fables. EDINBURGH EVENING NEWS

  Ballad of the Five Marys

  DONALD SMITH

  Luath Press Limited

  EDINBURGH

  www.luath.co.uk

  First published 2013

  ISBN (print): 978-1-908373-89-2

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-61-8

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  © Donald Smith 2013

  For my mother

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Stewart Succession to the English Throne

  Principal Characters

  The Last Mary

  James Maitland

  Learning to Dance

  James Maitland

  Day Book of the Marys

  Maitland of Lethington

  Maitland of Lethington

  Day Book of the Marys

  Maitland of Lethington

  Mary

  Children of Flodden

  James Maitland

  Sister Beth

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  Sister Beth

  Bothwell

  Sister Beth

  Bothwell

  James Maitland

  Queen of Scots

  Mary

  Mary

  Mary

  Mary

  Mary

  Mary

  Day Book of the Marys

  Mary

  James Melville

  Day Book of the Marys

  Royal Marriage

  Mary

  Day Book of the Marys

  Mary

  Breaking the Kingdom

  Maitland of Lethington

  Bothwell

  Maitland of Lethington

  Sister Beth

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  Maitland of Lethington

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  Bothwell

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  Sister Beth

  John Knox

  Maitland of Lethington

  Bothwell

  Final Reckonings

  James Maitland

  Mary

  Questions for Discussion

  Author’s Note

  THOUGH THIS BOOK enjoys the freedom of fiction, my purpose is to evoke a real person in her time. Who was Mary Queen of Scots? That question has perplexed me since childhood, and I am not alone. So I ask forgiveness if

  I have unwittingly trod on anyone else’s holy ground.

  However, through researching and writing, I have come to distrust the conventional readings of Mary as either a deceitful adulteress or a pious martyr. Both are based on propaganda and deliberate distortions which have remained insidiously influential for centuries.

  I acknowledge my debt to many historians and biographers while exculpating each and all from my end result. Of the older books

  T.F. Henderson’s Mary Queen of Scots: Her Environment and Tragedy is exemplary in its commitment to primary sources, though I do not follow his judgements. Antonia Fraser’s biography, Mary Queen of Scots remains a good psychological guide. More recently John Guy’s My Heart is My Own: The Life of Mary Queen of Scots returns to the sources, particularly the English ones, to shed valuable new light on the evidence against Mary. Rosalind Marshall is one of the few biographers to take a serious look at the four Marys in her Mary Queen of Scots and her Women.

  I also owe a debt in formative years to Fionn MacColla’s historical fiction. MacColla’s work is sadly an unfinished and still largely unrecognised project. To Robert Crawford, I owe an apology for quoting from his fine translations of George Buchanan’s Latin poetry and misattributing them to the Marys.

  I hope he will take that as a roundabout compliment. The full translation of George Buchanan’s ‘Epithalamium’ can be read in Apollos of the North (Edinburgh: Polygon, 2006) edited by Robert Crawford. To Stewart Conn, I owe a huge thank you for much patient listening and acute observation.

  I could not have tackled this work without my wife Alison’s generosity.

  I apologise for organising a trip to modern day Reims before discovering that that the Abbey of St Pierre, along with Marie de Guise’s tomb, had been destroyed during the French Revolution. History goes on happening.

  Stewart Succession to the English Throne

  Principal Characters

  James Maitland, son of Mary Fleming and William Maitland

  Sir William Maitland, Secretary of State for Scotland

  Sir Richard Maitland (James’ grandfather)

  Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland, and, for a time, of France

  Marie de Gu
ise, Mary’s mother and Queen Regent of Scotland

  Mary Fleming, principal lady-in-waiting

  Mary Livingston, lady-in-waiting

  Mary Beaton, lady-in-waiting

  Mary Seton, lady-in-waiting

  James Stewart, Earl of Moray, half-brother to Mary Stewart

  Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, Mary Stewart’s second husband

  James Hepburn, succeeding his father Patrick as Earl of Bothwell, and Mary Stewart’s third husband

  Elizabeth (Beth) Hepburn, Cellarer of Haddington Convent

  John Knox, Protestant Reformer, previously a priest

  Sir William Kirkcaldy, knight and soldier

  Margaret Kirkcaldy, his wife

  Sir James Kirkcaldy, his father, formerly Court Treasurer

  Sir James Balfour, courtier and politician

  Sir David Lindsay, courtier and dramatist

  George Buchanan, scholar and poet

  Sir James Melville, courtier and diplomat

  The Last Mary

  Rheims, 1597

  James Maitland

  ON THE SECOND day the weather continued fine. The road was dry and on each side flat ground stretched as far as the eye could see. There were few travellers but courteous greetings were exchanged as each passerby turned their attention once more to navigating the noonday heat. What did they see in my lonely figure? A gentleman about his own business, French judging by his dress and Picardy accent. No one saw the Scots exile, a Maitland of Lethington loyal to the traditions of his family and kingdom.

  I had gone from Paris to Rheims before and criss-crossed the plains of northern France to Louvain, Flanders and the Dutch cities many times. My business was with Scottish and English exiles, exchanging information, and planning for restoration. Now that cause seemed lost, the hope extinguished. James Stewart was clearly poised to succeed Elizabeth Tudor on the throne of England, uniting the two kingdoms under one Protestant monarch. Mary of Scots had been our last flickering light.

  Why had my ancient country denied the faith of our ancestors and of the civilised world? The nobility of Scotland had bought the Church at the lowest price and sold our nation to the highest bidder. And my own father accepted one part of this bargain, before refusing the other.

  Villages drifted by on both sides but I pressed on, keen to reach Rheims by evening. In Lothian the air is never windless, white cloud drifts even on a summer’s day, and two hours of sun bring one of rain. With a sudden stab of longing, I saw Haddington clustering round the Tyne fords with St Mary’s Lamp rising squarely from the valley floor as if planted there by some giant hand. Beyond the church tower the Lammermuirs are wearing a white shawl of snow. To see Lethington again, even once, and hear the raucous cries of rooks wheeling above the castle gardens to roost in the ash and oak trees planted by my father. He did not live to see them grow through my childhood years.

  I wanted to understand his thoughts and actions. Suddenly that seemed more important than ineffectual pamphlets and secret letters going to and fro between men afraid to speak their mind for fear of arrest and torture. I cannot turn the tide of what now is, but perhaps I could tell the truth of what was and end the lies. Does truth still have power to convict?

  Today I will meet Lady Margaret Kirkcaldy at the Abbey St Pierre in Rheims. Having sought refuge there after her husband’s execution, she is now the Abbess, distinguished by charity and gracious rule. She knew my father and mother, and Queen Mary when she reigned in Scotland. Also living in quiet seclusion at St Pierre is one of my mother’s dearest friends, Mary Seton. She was the last of the four Marys to leave the Queen.

  Through my interviews at the Abbey I hope to complete my enquiries, and then publish an account of those troubled times in Scotland. My first aim was to explain my father’s actions but this has been a harder task than I realised at the outset: other voices demand to be heard as the story has so many tellers. Soon I became aware that, though her name is on every lip, Queen Mary’s own story remains untold. Between hateful propaganda and slanted piety her true feelings and motives have been hidden or distorted.

  By late afternoon the Cathedral of Rheims was rising on the horizon like a Spanish galleon above the waves. Coming into the town, I stopped in the market square to gaze in admiration at the towers which reach to heaven. I led my horse by the bridle past the Cathedral, turned up the Rue St Pierre, and approached the Abbey precincts, grateful for the cooling shade between the high narrow houses.

  Lady Margaret herself greeted me in the guest chambers and ordered refreshment to be brought. She seemed unbowed by age or suffering, fine in skin and feature, and with a steady eye that combined mature beauty with authority in equal measure. I was moved to find myself in the presence of someone who experienced at first hand events that shaped my life, driving my father to his early death and his son into exile.

  When we had exchanged the normal courtesies, I asked her about the news from Scotland.

  ‘I am not closely informed of what is happening at home,’ she responded cautiously.

  ‘King James now rules in alliance with England,’ I probed, aware that her husband had made this alliance his life’s work and then turned against it at the cost of his own life.

  ‘Indeed,’ was her non-committal reply.

  ‘The Earl of Morton was tried and condemned for his part in Darnley’s murder.’ Whether Morton was responsible for the brutal assassination of Mary’s consort or not, he was certainly answerable for the judicial execution of my father and Sir William Kirkcaldy. ‘He denied his guilt to the last.’

  ‘The mills of God, Master Maitland, are slow but sure. Earl Morton showed no mercy to others and has received none. Yet I forgive him and pray for his soul along with all the rest.’

  ‘His principal accuser was Sir James Balfour,’ I prompted, ‘the arch-deceiver became the final instrument of vengeance.’

  ‘It is a sign of our troubled times that such a man should engineer the destruction of many, and yet survive all his victims.’

  It was frustrating to question someone so reluctant to divulge her undoubted knowledge, or even her feelings. I made a last attempt.

  ‘Word has come from England that William Cecil has died in prosperous old age.’

  ‘The ways of God are strange.’

  Lady Margaret was not to be provoked even by the fate of the man who contrived Queen Mary’s end.

  ‘We are enduring a wicked age,’ I replied in similar vein.

  ‘In just such a time our Saviour lived.’

  I resigned myself to failure and changed tack.

  ‘Reverend Mother. I wonder, might I ask you...’

  ‘Yes?’

  I felt her eyes on my face as I struggled to express myself.

  ‘Forgive my curious spirit.’

  ‘You are a historian, I believe,’ she countered with something like amusement in her quizzical look.

  ‘I am trying to write a history. My question is how you, a Protestant, have found peace in this Catholic sanctuary?’

  Lady Margaret smiled for the first time.

  ‘You must understand, Master Maitland, that the Abbey of St Pierre is a community of women, devoted to the service of Christ and living in harmony with one another.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do not grasp my meaning. We live in obedience to the Holy Gospel, and not to kings, or preachers, or even popes.’

  ‘Do you not acknowledge the authority of the Pope?’ I asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Of course I recognise the Holy Father. But the Bishop of Rome has never troubled me in this place, or I him. Now, shall I call Sister Mary?’

  ‘I would be very grateful. Thank you for your help in allowing me to visit,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘I thought long before agreeing. Not least for your mother and father’s sakes. But I must warn you that Sister Mary does not keep well. Her mind sometimes wanders.’

  ‘She is a good age, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘It is not age that tro
ubles her. Sister Mary is haunted by regret and guilt that she was not with the Queen when she was executed.’

  ‘My mother told me she was sent away for the sake of her own health.’

  ‘Mary Seton was the last of the Marys to remain with the Queen. She feels therefore that she should have been there, even sometimes that she was there. I shall fetch the sister and you will see for yourself how she is today.’

  I was left in the wood-panelled room remembering that Mary Stewart had spent her last days in France within these chambers, and that her mother lay buried in the Abbey Church. The evening shadows gathered outside the narrow windows.

  The door opened and Lady Margaret led in a bent, withered dame. I was taken aback to see Mary Seton so decrepit, having in my mind a portrait of her exquisite features framed by smooth raven hair. But as the old woman shuffled forward, I noticed that her white locks were neatly dressed and pinned inside her cowl.

  ‘This is Master James, Sister, William Maitland’s son, James.’

  She turned a vague rheumy eye in my direction.

  Lady Margaret tried again. ‘Mary Fleming’s son, James – he is writing a history of his father’s life and of Queen Mary’s reign.’

  The eye shifted into focus.

  ‘Her Majesty remained calm and undisturbed. When we burst into lamentations she said, “Weep not for me but rejoice, for today you will see Mary Stewart relieved from all her sorrows.”’

  The wavering voice trailed off, but the air around us had become charged with tension. The slight stooped figure seemed to grow in stature and authority.

  ‘Sister, please take some refreshment.’ Lady Margaret poured a few drops of red wine into a glass and added water. ‘Tell James, Sister, about when you last saw Her Majesty, and how you cared for her through her long imprisonment.’

  Mary Seton put down the glass having barely wet her lips.

  ‘It was only with difficulty that we were allowed to attend Her Majesty on the scaffold. A block and a chair were placed there covered by a black cloth.’

  I tried to interrupt. ‘Please, Sister Mary, I don’t need to hear such upsetting details.’