insolvent Scottish inheritance which she could only remember with difficulty.
Her young husband had repeatedly promised to get England for her and to lay it at her feet as the supreme tribute of the love he had been incapable of expressing in a normal way. Mary had dreamed of that entry into London at the head of an army of Frenchmen and loyal English Catholics. In her youth and assurance she spoke of Elizabeth Tudor with contempt; she and her friends made fun of the usurper sitting, as they imagined, so insecurely on her throne. Mary had quartered the English arms and styled herself Queen of England while she lived in the gilded security of France. And then, suddenly, Francis died. She was no longer Queen of France, merely a widow with a hostile mother-in-law, who had made life so uncomfortable that Mary turned with gratitude to Scotland. Scotland might be unknown, but at least she would be Queen in her own right instead of a cypher in the Court where her young brother-in-law Charles was King and the Dowager Queen Catherine deâ Medici enjoyed the power. Mary was naturally courageous. Life had never taught her to be frightened of anything or anyone, or presented her with a problem which her own charm and her familyâs influence could not easily overcome.
After weeks of preparation she was setting out at last, to take possession of her Scottish kingdom so recently torn by civil war and now in the grip of a fierce religious reformation.
Mary was very tall, taller than the Lord Eglinton, who was Bishop of Orkney and a famous sailor, taller than the Lord High Admiral of Scotland, Lord Bothwell, both of whom were escorting their Queen on the voyage and were standing beside her on the windy poop-deck as she looked on France for the last time. She was tall but very slim, with the narrow proportion and delicate bones of a much smaller woman, and the tears she shed accentuated the extreme pallor of her face. It was a strange face with a high forehead and a long, well-bred nose; the hair which curled round her ermine cap was a very dark red, and her slanting eyer were hazel. The face was elfin and yet beautiful; everything about her was expressive, from the sensitive mouth to the movements of her hands when she spoke. Eglinton, who was more of a pirate than a priest, admitted that the Scots had the loveliest woman in Europe as their Queen, and then wondered dourly whether they would appreciate it. It was difficult to be near such a completely feminine creature with her unnatural air of delicacy and her boyish high spirits without being drawn to her. At least as a woman, if not as a Queen. But he could not imagine her as a ruler, sitting in isolation on a throne, symbolizing the Divine law of Kingship to that unruly pack of blackguards who would be waiting for her at Holyrood Palace. Her mother had been as tough as any Border Lord, but the girlâs father was a poet and a dreamer as well as a King, an aesthete who had given his daughter her breeding and her pride as well as this precarious throne which she was so determined to occupy. From personal feelings, Eglinton wished her well but he wouldnât have gambled a weekâs privateering on her chances.
Bothwell watched her without appearing to do so. He was short and very powerfully built, with the bowed legs of a man who had spent more hours on horseback than on foot, and at twenty-three he had an infamous reputation for piracy, Border raiding and personal debauch. He had followed the Queenâs party in the recent war, and done her mother such good service that Mary trusted him implicitly. It was a situation that intrigued and irritated him. He had no respect for women and less for a sovereign who was a woman; it was certain that he felt no pity for the youth and inexperience of the girl he was taking back to. Scotland to face the stormiest country in Europe and to attempt to tame a nobility who were notorious for regicide. He knew enough about Mary and her
Her young husband had repeatedly promised to get England for her and to lay it at her feet as the supreme tribute of the love he had been incapable of expressing in a normal way. Mary had dreamed of that entry into London at the head of an army of Frenchmen and loyal English Catholics. In her youth and assurance she spoke of Elizabeth Tudor with contempt; she and her friends made fun of the usurper sitting, as they imagined, so insecurely on her throne. Mary had quartered the English arms and styled herself Queen of England while she lived in the gilded security of France. And then, suddenly, Francis died. She was no longer Queen of France, merely a widow with a hostile mother-in-law, who had made life so uncomfortable that Mary turned with gratitude to Scotland. Scotland might be unknown, but at least she would be Queen in her own right instead of a cypher in the Court where her young brother-in-law Charles was King and the Dowager Queen Catherine deâ Medici enjoyed the power. Mary was naturally courageous. Life had never taught her to be frightened of anything or anyone, or presented her with a problem which her own charm and her familyâs influence could not easily overcome.
After weeks of preparation she was setting out at last, to take possession of her Scottish kingdom so recently torn by civil war and now in the grip of a fierce religious reformation.
Mary was very tall, taller than the Lord Eglinton, who was Bishop of Orkney and a famous sailor, taller than the Lord High Admiral of Scotland, Lord Bothwell, both of whom were escorting their Queen on the voyage and were standing beside her on the windy poop-deck as she looked on France for the last time. She was tall but very slim, with the narrow proportion and delicate bones of a much smaller woman, and the tears she shed accentuated the extreme pallor of her face. It was a strange face with a high forehead and a long, well-bred nose; the hair which curled round her ermine cap was a very dark red, and her slanting eyer were hazel. The face was elfin and yet beautiful; everything about her was expressive, from the sensitive mouth to the movements of her hands when she spoke. Eglinton, who was more of a pirate than a priest, admitted that the Scots had the loveliest woman in Europe as their Queen, and then wondered dourly whether they would appreciate it. It was difficult to be near such a completely feminine creature with her unnatural air of delicacy and her boyish high spirits without being drawn to her. At least as a woman, if not as a Queen. But he could not imagine her as a ruler, sitting in isolation on a throne, symbolizing the Divine law of Kingship to that unruly pack of blackguards who would be waiting for her at Holyrood Palace. Her mother had been as tough as any Border Lord, but the girlâs father was a poet and a dreamer as well as a King, an aesthete who had given his daughter her breeding and her pride as well as this precarious throne which she was so determined to occupy. From personal feelings, Eglinton wished her well but he wouldnât have gambled a weekâs privateering on her chances.
Bothwell watched her without appearing to do so. He was short and very powerfully built, with the bowed legs of a man who had spent more hours on horseback than on foot, and at twenty-three he had an infamous reputation for piracy, Border raiding and personal debauch. He had followed the Queenâs party in the recent war, and done her mother such good service that Mary trusted him implicitly. It was a situation that intrigued and irritated him. He had no respect for women and less for a sovereign who was a woman; it was certain that he felt no pity for the youth and inexperience of the girl he was taking back to. Scotland to face the stormiest country in Europe and to attempt to tame a nobility who were notorious for regicide. He knew enough about Mary and her
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