FROM THE WINDOWS of Holyroodhouse Mary could look on her capital city. She could see the High Street—the neatest and cleanest in the world—with its stone flags and the channels on either side, made to drain off the rain and filth, and the stone houses with their wooden galleries. There stood the Tolbooth Prison, and as she looked at it she swore none should be incarcerated there during her reign merely for wishing to masque and enjoy laughter; she could see the Lawnmarket and the noble houses and gardens of the Canongate which led to Holyrood.

The great Tron stood in the center of Market Cross, and there were the stocks and pillories. This was the busiest spot in all Edinburgh, and here, during the days which followed the arrival of the Queen, the people gathered to talk of all that her coming would mean. Apprentices from the goldsmiths’ shops in Elphinstone Court, tinsmiths from West Bow, and stallholders from the Lawnmarket all congregated there in Market Cross to discuss the Queen; and when they discussed the Queen they remembered that other who had told them—and the world—that he was her enemy: the man whom they flocked to hear in the Kirk, the man who swayed them with his promises of salvation and—more often—his threats of eternal damnation.

John Knox ruled the Kirk, and the Kirk was ruling Scotland. Preaching armed resistance to the Devil—and the Devil was everyone who did not agree with John Knox—he had on more than one occasion stirred the people of Scotland to rebellion. With his “First Blast against the Monstrous Regiment of Women” he had told the world of his contempt for petticoat government, although now that Elizabeth was on the throne of England and promising to do much good for the cause which was John Knox’s own, he wished that he had been a little more cautious before publishing his “First Blast.” He was a cautious man for all his fire. He believed God spoke through him; he believed he owed it to the world to preserve himself that he might the better do God’s work. For this reason he had often found it necessary to leave Scotland when his person might be in danger. “All in God’s service,” he would say from the safety of England or Geneva. “I take a backseat for the better service of God.”

In his absence his actions might be questioned, but when the people saw again the fanatical figure with the straggling beard streaming over his chest like a Scottish waterfall, and heard his wildly haranguing voice, they were converted once more to their belief not only in the reformed religion but in the sanctity of John Knox.

“Have you heard Knox’s latest sermon?” was the often-repeated question.

They had. They would not have missed it for all the wealth of Holyroodhouse.

Knox was setting himself against the Queen as he had set himself against her mother. He had preached against the Devil’s brood and the congregation of Satan. This included the Queen. Had he not prayed to God to take her mother, declaring to his congregation, when she was smitten with the dropsical complaint which eventually killed her: “Her belly and loathsome legs have begun to swell. Soon God in His wisdom will remove her from this world”? Had he not rejoiced openly in the Kirk when she had died? Had he not laughed with fanatical glee when he had heard of the death of Mary’s husband? “His ear rotted!” cried John Knox. “God wreaked Divine Vengeance on that ear which would not listen to His Truth.”

John Knox was no respecter of queens; he would rail against the new one. He would do his utmost to rouse the people against her; unless she cast aside her religion and took to his, he would work unceasingly for her defeat and death as he had worked for her mothers.

The French in the palace were inclined to laugh at the preacher; but Mary did not laugh. The man alarmed her, although only slightly as yet. She looked to those two statesmen, her brother James and Lord Maitland, to help and guide her in what she had to do, although she reminded them that when she had come home she had made no bargain to change her religion. She was a Catholic and would always be so. She would, she said, try to show this man the way of tolerance.

Lord James nodded. He was determined that his sister should leave the government of the country to him and Maitland. They were Protestants, but of a different kind from Knox. Religion was not the whole meaning of their existences; it was something with which to concern themselves when more important matters were not at issue. Maitland and Lord James, while agreeing that a happier state of affairs might have existed had the Queen adopted the religion of the majority of her subjects, were quite prepared to let her celebrate Mass in her own chapel.

Mary, characteristically, wished now to concentrate on what was pleasant rather than unpleasant. She renewed her acquaintance with two more of her half brothers—John and Robert—handsome, merry boys, slightly older than herself, and she loved them both.

Some of the furnishings had been sent from Leith, and it was a pleasure to set them up in her apartments. The lutes and musical instruments had arrived, so the Court was now enjoying music in the evenings. Mary herself sang and danced under the admiring gaze of many, including d’Amville and Chastelard.

The people of Edinburgh had shown themselves delighted with her youth and beauty. She looked as a queen should; she always had a smile of warm friendliness, and the men whose lives she had saved on the way from Leith to Edinburgh talked of her beauty and wisdom and how, in their belief, she would bring great happiness to her country.

Mary had much to learn of the bitterness and venom which always seemed to attach themselves to religious differences. It did not occur to her that there could be any real reason why she should not continue in her mode of worship, while any of her subjects who wished to follow a different doctrine should do so.

Knox, according to her uncles and d’Amville, was something of a joke, and she did not take him very seriously until her first Sunday in Holyrood Palace. That day she announced her desire to hear Mass in the chapel and, dressed in black velvet and accompanied by her Marys, she was making her way there when she heard the sounds of shouts and screams.

Chastelard came running to her and begged her not to proceed.

“Your Majesty, the mob is at the gates of the Palace itself. They have been inflamed by the man Knox. They swear they will not have the Mass celebrated in their country.”

Mary’s temper—always quick—flared up at once. She had intended to play a tolerant role with her people; she was infuriated that they should attempt to do otherwise with herself.

“The mob!” she cried. “What mob?”

“Knox’s congregation. Listen, I beg of you. They are in an ugly mood.”

“I, too, am in an ugly mood,” retorted Mary; but she listened and heard the cries of “Satan worship! Death to the idolators!”

Flem had caught one of her arms, Seton the other. Mary threw them off angrily, but Chastelard barred her way.

“At the risk of incurring Your Majesty’s displeasure, I cannot allow you to go forward.”

She laid her hand on the young man’s arm and her anger melted a little as she caught the ardor in his eyes, but she was not going to be turned from her anger. She pushed him aside, but even as she started forward, she saw two men bringing back her priest and almoner. There was blood on their faces.

She ran to them in consternation. “What have they done to you?”

The almoner spoke. “It was little, Your Majesty. They wrenched the candlesticks from us and laid about them. But Your Majesty’s brothers were at hand, and Lord James is speaking to the people now.”

She hurried on. Lord James was addressing the crowd which had gathered about the door of the chapel.

The crowd would stand back, he ordered. None should come a step nearer to the chapel on pain of death. He himself, Lord James Stuart, would have any man answer with his life who dared lay hands on the Queen or her servants.

There was a hush as Mary approached.

James said to her: “Say nothing. Go straight into the chapel as though nothing has happened. There must be no trouble now.”

There was something in James’s manner which made her obey him. Trembling with indignation, longing to turn and try to explain to these people why she followed the Church of Rome, yet she obeyed her brother. He seemed so old and wise, standing there, his sword drawn.

He sent Chastelard back to bring the priest and almoner, that they might celebrate Mass in the chapel according to the Queens wishes; and after a while Mary was joined by the priest and the almoner, their bandaged heads still bleeding from their wounds.

Mass was celebrated; but Mary was aware of the mob outside. She knew that, but for the fact that her brother stood there to protect her, the crowd would have burst into the chapel.


SHE SAT WITH her brother in her apartments. Lord Maitland was with them.

She was perusing the proclamation, addressed to the citizens of Edinburgh, which was to be read in Market Cross.

“There,” she said, handing the scroll to James, “now they will understand my meaning. They will see that I do not like this continual strife. I am sure that with care and tolerance I, with my people, shall find a middle way through this fog of heresies and schisms.”

Maitland and Lord James agreed with the wording of the document. It was imperative to Lord James’s ambition that his sister should continue as nominal Queen of Scotland, for the downfall of Mary would mean the downfall of the Stuarts. It was necessary to Maitland that Mary should remain on the throne, for his destiny was interwoven with that of Lord James. They wished for peace, and they knew that the father and mother of war were religious controversy and religious fanaticism.